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Down the Rabbit Hole	By : downloadjones300 Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 3042 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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67 Swarland Avenue, The Narrows, Gotham was by no means a remarkable place. If you were to walk by it in the middle of the day or in the dead of night, you would not stop to look upon, wonder what secrets an old building like that housed or pay it any mind at all. The yard at the back was long overgrown, its tangled web of weeds spread like a jungle covering everything in its path. The large Iron Gate at the front had long since rusted shut, its hinges destroyed by years of neglect and bad weather. It was in this house that 78 year old Mavis Tetch lived out the latter part of her years until she died of heart failure some two months previously. The house an all its contents went to her only surviving relative, her son Jarvis Tetch.

Some fifteen years previously a number of little girls had disappeared, all taken in mysterious circumstances with the only connection to any of the victims being that they were all called Alice, had long blonde hair and were between 11 and 13 years old. Mavis Tetch didn’t much care for all the news coverage that followed all the stories, if these girls were silly enough to be wandering about by themselves then they deserved what was coming to them. Apart from a bit of idle gossip with the neighbours over the disappearances Mavis all but forgot about the girls until in the middle of the night half of Gotham’s police force came crashing threw her door. She had sat for hours in a cold police station begging to see her son who they tried to convince her had been responsible for the abduction of the missing girls. Mavis knew there had been a mistake, it didn’t mean anything that Jarvis was seen talking to Alice Weartherton only a few hours before she disappeared. When Mavis was finally been allowed to see her son he had sobbed and begged her to believe him that he had nothing to do with the little girls’ disappearances. Of course she believed him, she was a good mother and a good mother always stands by her children.

After the incarceration of her son the Gotham police force searched the house from top to bottom, trying to find something, anything that would connect Jarvis Tetch to the disappearances of Alice Weartherton and the eight other little girls that had been reported missing. They found nothing, not a scrap of evidence that proved that any of the girls had ever been near Jarvis Tetch’s house or car. However if they had looked a little closer, dug a little deeper, had a real hard look in the kitchen then maybe they would have found something that they weren’t expecting. If they had noticed that the large wooden china hutch did not stand quite so flush against the kitchen wall. If they had pulled it back they would have found a small door that opened onto a concrete stairway and led down into a dark basement. If they had made it down the staircase and into the basement then they would have found little Alice Weartherton bound and gagged, her blonde hair held back with a wide ribbon wearing a pale blue knee length dress and a white pinafore. Sadly for little Alice Weartherton none of the police officers on duty that day gave any thought to the large piece of furniture standing ominously in the kitchen as they charged throughout the rickety old house, searching in vein for any sign of her. It was two weeks before her fragile body finally gave up and she died alone in the dark with no one to comfort her.

In the years that passed Mavis visited her son every weekend in Arkhams minimum security wing. He was a good boy she reasoned, maybe a little muddled but he was all she had left now. She would always bring him a plate of cookies cut out in the shape of rabbits, hats and hearts. Mavis didn’t quite no why her son would only request these shapes but she did so like to please her son.

Jarvis Tetch had made his way swiftly back to his mothers old house after his visit to the Joker. It wasn’t his intention to stop off and pay the Joker a visit but the opportunity had presented itself and he couldn’t resist. Jarvis still couldn’t get over the texture of the Joker’s curly blonde hair; it sent shivers down his spine. He wondered briefly what it would feel like to repeat the experience in his more usual circumstances but right now his mind was focussed back on his previous mission. He had been worried when he had first seen the Batman heading out of the building with the Joker bundled up in his arms. It seemed however that on this night the Dark Knight had other things on his mind and he was able to slip back into the darkness of the ally way. Jarvis grinned to himself as he headed back towards the Narrows; hopefully Batman would have as much fun with the Joker as he had.

It hadn’t taken him long to find a way into his mother’s old house, the key she always left under the plant pot was still there and he was able to let him himself in at his ease. By the time he had left on his visit to the Joker’s everything had been in order and back to exactly how he had left it. Pulling back the china hutch he made his way down the pitch black staircase, after years of familiarity he no longer needed a flashlight.
The room he entered was flooded with a bright florescent light as he flipped the light switch at the bottom of the staircase. In one corner there was a small iron bed with an old moth eaten mattress and blanket upon which he threw his jacket onto. Moving closer to bed he pulled from beneath it a large iron chest and carefully began to unpack its contents. One large green top hat with black trim, a red and white spotted bow tie, an orange and red checked suit and a green coat were all lovingly set aside on the floor. It didn’t take him long to strip of the clothes he had stolen and pull himself back into his uniform. Moving towards the large dust ridden mirror that hung above the bed he re adjusted the “In This Style 10/6” tag on the side of his hat. Finally he felt complete after so many years in incarceration.

There were only two other items of furniture that held any significance to the Mad Hatter. From floor to ceiling going round on the left hand wall were shelves with row upon row of video tapes, each lined up neatly in a row. There was no discernable difference between the tapes, they were all the same make and had the same white casing. The only thing that would give an observer anything to tell them apart by was a single number on the spine of each of the tapes. The Mad Hatter knew what was on every single one of the tapes, every scene, every word, and every action and kept them in a specific order, only needing to see a single number to know what was on a certain tape. The only exception was a small row of tapes on the top most shelves which housed every film and television version of Alice in Wonderland that had ever been made. These were arranged lovingly in chronological order and the Mad Hatter made a grab for his favourite version of Alice in Wonderland, the 1903 silent film directed by Cecil Hepworth and staring May Clark.

Moving across the room he switched on the old battered television he owned and pushed the tape into the VCR. A warm rush filled his body as heard the familiar music float threw his ears. Even though he had watched the film hundreds of times over, he always got that same indescribable feeling every time he hit the play button.

The Mad Hatter moved over to the only other piece of furniture in the room a large, round, wooden table with a pristine white chintz table cloth placed over it. On the table sat a vast array of tea cups in all shapes, sizes, colours all crammed amongst a dozen or so teapots. There were only two seats at the table one at the head where the Mad Hatter sat and one positioned opposite him, ready and waiting. The Mad Hatter was feverishly re-positioning the items on the table making sure everything was perfect, muttering softly along with the film under his breath;

“All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretense
Our wanderings to guide.

His voice grew louder and more excited as he gripped one of the tea cups, almost crushing it beneath his grip;

“Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers
Plucked in a far-off land”

It was in the basement of this house, in the room behind the china hutch that had not been used in fifteen years, that 12 year old Alice Macintyre now sat bound and gagged, her blonde hair held back with a wide ribbon and wearing a pale blue knee length dress with a white pinafore, her eyes wild and terrified.
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Down the Rabbit Hole