Title: Waking Freddy Krueger

Summary: For Frederick C. Krueger, Hell is Stagnation. Luckily, it only takes one of three things to wake him up: a dream, a name, or a drop of blood. ~ Squint for romantic? subtext. Oneshot.

Rating: M for Implied Sexuality, Violence, Cussage, and Possible Squick Factor.

Disclaimer: I don't own Freddy Krueger. Kind of wish he'd get out of my head.

oOo

Deep in the watery bowels of hell, on a plane of existence that seemed to be made entirely of endless marsh and swamp, the twisted and charred soul of Frederick Charles Krueger waited.

Hell is a curious place. It's different things to different people. Imagine the boy, red-haired and whip-thin, who was given his medicine with a razor strop in the shed behind his foster-father's house. Imagine the animal-eyed child, cornered like a rabid raccoon, taunted by his peers. To this boy, the mockery and abuse of a thousand bloodthirsty demons is too close to his childhood to be an effective eternal torment. For him, such a thing might as well be nostalgia.

No. For Freddy Krueger, Hell is Stagnation.

To be still. To be powerless. To be quiet. Pensive, always on the periphery of some new excitement. Trapped.

Mind-numbingly bored.

He had been a lively man when he'd been flesh and blood. Eager to…experiment, we'll say. How much pressure could you apply to a rabbit's skull before it cracked? What patterns did blood make when it rose to the surface? What types of blades cut flesh most easily? Most slowly? Most painfully?

How easily would a child trust him?

He wasn't an entirely bad man. He'd had a wife whom he supposed he must have loved, once. A daughter of his own, whom he had truly adored—a child who had been taken from him. He'd liked kids, beyond just the delicacy of their fragile bones and flesh. He liked their smiles, the way their eyes lit up with happiness. How easily they were pleased. Once upon a time, it had pulled at something in him for his own lost daughter. His own lost childhood, perhaps. Like a whirlwind, he'd scooped the kids up in his arms. He was their favorite and most energetic playmate.

And if at some point the desire to see their skin had overwhelmed him—the desire to cut through and watch the blood bubble to the surface—well, Freddy had never been very good at controlling his animal impulses.

He'd just been good at hiding them.

The fire at the plant had scorched away whatever gentleness and softness once existed in him, sloughing off humanity in the same manner that it scoured away his hair, his flesh. All that was left was gristle and bone and that burning animal energy: something primal and full of hate. Pain can drive you insane, and when he was lying in a flaming pool of his own melted skin, soupy as candlewax, the dream demons had seized on the last bitter remnants of his soul and they had promised him the world at his fingertips.

The fucking world.

And now here he was, rusting in the idle and festering sore of the cosmos, just…

…waiting.

To be fair, at this point—and time on these other planes is always different than time here, just as time is always different in the moments before death, or during a dream—at this point, so many years later, Freddy didn't know that he was waiting. Didn't know what he was waiting for, either, as a matter of fact. In truth, his scrappy burnt-up soul was as close to asleep as Fred Krueger could ever be. A state of hibernation, perhaps. If he'd been able to think, he might have imagined that he'd rather be on the business end of another gas-bomb explosion, rather than stuck like this.

But he couldn't think, after all: inactivity had reduced him to a wisp of his former glory. Vegetative; rotting.

He was waiting for a window. Or a door. Or a dream.

Or a drop of blood.

oOo

"So this is it," Cathy Courser said, sounding a little awestruck in spite of herself. She swung a handful of bottle-red hair out of her eyes and turned in a circle. "Your big-kid house."

"Haha, Cath. Yes, this is my big-kid house. I'm a grown-up now," her friend said from the front door. Her arms were straining under a huge box. Someone had scrawled on the outside in magic marker:

POTS & PANS

And in smaller letters below:

Savannah Milopileski
1428 Elm Street

"Definitely a fixer-upper," Cathy uttered under her breath.

"I'm right here, ya know," the owner of the box retorted. "And I like it. It's charming. And it's…structurally sound. The only fixing up I have to do is surface-stuff." She put down the box and smeared a wild lock of dark-copper hair out of her eyes with one dusty forearm. "You wouldn't believe what I got this place for."

"Uh, yeah I would," Cathy snorted. "God, it looks like it should be condemned. Creeeepy, Milo. Did someone die here?"

Savannah Milopileski grinned. "A couple of someones, actually. Apparently state law here says that real estate agents have to inform all potential buyers if a location is potentially 'haunted.' This place might be—so I'm told."

Cathy leaned against the countertop and fished a cigarette out of the breast-pocket of her oversized button-down, then lit up. "Shit, Milo. Again I say: creeeeepy."

"Dude," the brunette snapped, her fingers filching the cigarette from Cathy's pursed red lips. She dropped it in the sink. "Not in my new home, Cath."

Cathy pouted. "Fuck, Milo. You're incapable of a little fun, aren't you?"

"Yes," the girl in question answered evenly. "It is, in fact, a serious disability which is sadly ignored by government funding."

The redhead rolled her eyes. "Hardy-har. Laaaame. Look, after we move you in, do you want to go out for drinks or something, kiddo? Unpacking is twice as much fun when you're toasted. Or so I've heard."

"Sure!" Milo responded enthusiastically. Her grin was too bright: she was showing all her teeth. "Maybe we should pre-game first. How about for every box you bring in, you take a shot?" The smiled evaporated abruptly and she stared at her friend with an expression that was clearly unimpressed. Cathy sighed.

"And again with the no-fun," the redhead groused.

Milo sighed and softened, leaning over the kitchen sink. "Look, Cath, if you don't want to help—"

"I do, I do," Cathy protested, raising her hands in mock-surrender. "I do. Just loosen up a bit, okay, Milo?" A hesitant, half-pleading grin. "And to help you with that whole loosening-up thing, I got a new boy I want you to meet next Friday, okay? Two weeks from today."

"Ugh. Cathy. No."

"Ugh. Milo. Yes." Cathy tossed her hair back. "God, you need to get laid and lighten up. We'll all like you a lot more if you stop being such a cranky virgin."

Milo tossed her a sour glare over one shoulder. "Fuck you. My so-called 'virginity' is what would make me last twice as long as you in a horror movie, you prostitute."

Cathy laughed. "Now there's the spunk I know and love," she teased. "Come on, lazybones. Let's go get your freakin' van unpacked."

About twenty-three trips later (seventeen of which were Milo's efforts, and only six thanks to Cathy), the van was unloaded and returned to Springwood's U-Haul facility. The rest of the evening included a rare fast-food outing to Taco Bell and microwavable brownies with champagne that Cathy had brought as a "housewarming present." Milo was sure the bottle would end up in Cathy's liquor stock…if any was left in it at the end of the night. Cathy was on her fourth flute when Milo started cleaning the cupboards and unpacking her kitchen items.

"So then I told Kate, Look, bitch, I'd tell you to take the stick out of your ass but I know it's the only action you're getting—"

"Ow! Geezus," Milo interrupted with a yelp.

"What happened?" Cathy asked, peering over the edge of the counter. "You all right?"

"Crap," the brunette muttered, examining a faint scratch on the back of her hand. No blood, thank goodness. I can't afford tetanus. "There's something back here—shit," she added in a hiss, reaching again. "It's sharp…" She stretched and twisted, and soon she was pulling out a length of rolled fabric what appeared to be the points of knives protruding from one end.

"What is that?" Cathy asked, sounding scandalized and intrigued.

"I don't know," Milo said, her voice hushed. "An old kitchen-knife set left by the previous owners?"

"But why was it there?" Cathy asked.

"Good question," Milo muttered, rising and moving toward the counter. "It was like—tucked up in the pipes. I don't get it," she said, and slowly unraveled the length of fabric on top of the Formica surface.

"Holy shit!" Cathy shrieked, jumping backward.

"Ho. Lee. Shit," Milo agreed, fascinated. In the dirty cloth wrap, there was a flattened fedora, shoddy and worn. And beneath that, grimy and folded, was a workglove sheathed in metal. Long, sharp blades decorated each finger.

"What is it?" Cathy asked, creeping forward slowly to stare. "Do you think it belonged to one of the former owners?" She gulped. "Maybe one of the ones who died?"

"Maybe," Milo said slowly. "I mean, I think it almost has to belong to someone who lived here, but whether or not it was—"

"I mean, what would you even use that for?" Cathy interrupted. "God. It looks like something from a horror movie or something—"

"Again, my questionable virginity wins," Milo murmured, lifting the gloves and running a finger lightly over the flat of the blades. They were dulled with rust and age. She set it down carefully. "Someone worked hard on this," she murmured, her fingers ghosting down the jointed fingers and the palm of the worn leather.

"Christ, Milo, you are so fucking morbid. That thing's scary as hell."

"It's definitely weird," the brunette conceded, then picked up the hat and carefully unfolded it. It was so old and worn that it hadn't even creased where it had been folded. The felt was soft under her fingers. For a moment, she was struck by the odd urge to wear it, to tilt it dangerously low over one eye. "I think you're right, anyway," she said slowly. "I can feel it. I think this must belong to someone who—to someone—"

"—who died," Cathy finished, her lips white with worry. "What are you gonna do with it, Milo?"

She hesitated. "You know, in some cultures, when there's a ghost, they set a place for it at the table. They acknowledge that it has a home there."

"Oh God. Seriously, Milo?"

Milo shrugged. "There's a hat rack by the door, and I was planning on putting the old end-table under it. I'll just put the hat on the rack and the glove on the table."

Cathy pulled a face. "Bitch, that's sick—"

Milo shrugged and let her fingers linger once more on the leather and felt. "It seems like the respectful thing to do."

Cathy huffed. "Fine. But if I catch you talking to something that's not there or, god, setting an extra place at the freakin' table—"

Milo snorted and the redhead fell silent. Then, more tentatively, Cathy asked, "You think you have a ghost, Milo?" Her voice sounded younger than it had in years.

"No," Milo said slowly, thoughtfully. "Not a ghost."

oOo

In the shadowy recesses of hell, the starving soul of Freddy Krueger shifted in its sleep.

oOo

You can only do so much when you're dead. Typically speaking, that is. The body decays (usually), and as the organic matter that comprises the flesh and blood begins to collapse, electrons fire and energy leaks out, hot and sparking on a microscopic level. Matter never disappears, you know. It just changes.

The energy released by the dying cells and collapsing enzymes slowly seeps into the satin and fiberglass of the coffin. Most cemeteries require that the coffin be placed in a cement vault so that the weight of the earth doesn't crush the coffin and create pits in the graveyard; in these cases, the energy emitted by the decaying cells then seeps into the pores of the concrete.

The heat warms the soil. It is absorbed along with minerals and nutrients by roots and worms. It seeps into the trees and flowers. It makes things blossom and grow. Fruits and nuts and seeds sprout and fall, or are eaten by birds; the worm dies and becomes fodder for soft mosses that are nosed through by deer and travelled by snails. You see how this goes.

When this warmth dissipates across the earth, this is Nirvana. The soul returns to everything. The sublime energy is at one with the universe.

Sometimes, something different happens. The fragments of charged electrons coalesce like clouds. The clouds don't so much move as pass an electric charge from atom to atom in the air, the way that marquis letters appear to scroll when in reality, different lightbulbs are simply turning on and off in a strange electronic synchronicity. If a soul has lost something of itself to Nirvana, it may only be a faint wisp of consciousness. It may be a reflection or repetition of its former self, like an echo. But as more energy collects, more memory is retained: an imprint left on the electrons. These atoms remember, you understand. They feel. They choose. They go or they stay.

There are forty-two concrete planes of existence that we currently know of, and two which are ever in flux. These last two are Heaven and Hell, and they are different to each ghost wandering through. Consider them a choose-your-own-adventure story, though one is significantly less enjoyable than the other.

oOo

Frederick Charles Krueger didn't have a choice. Not really. When the fire came and scorched away his flesh, everything good when with it. The combustion of flesh released energy in snaps and flares, burning his skin and his soul like they were fuel. Lost in the smoke, they spiraled out into the orange and soot-colored sky. Perhaps those good parts of him are laced through the underpinnings of the universe now, at one with Nirvana. Perhaps. At any rate, they are out of his reach, and there's no guarantee he would want them back anyway.

What was left was a charred husk, hard and cracked. A mummy-like corpse, crumbling to the touch, melted through and steaming till all that was left was blackened sinew and bone, and a few melted patches of burnt polyester from the striped sweater he'd worn. The people of Springwood had to wait till his body cooled, smoldering in the stain on the cement that had been left by his boiling flesh. Then they moved it, wrapping it in Mrs Grey's sheet and carrying the twisted, gaunt thing out to the trunk of the Lantz family car. They drove it to the junkyard, where they hid it in an abandoned vehicle.

The Thompsons purchased his house. They tore apart the workroom and they threw away the bloodstained pegboard walls. They hid the glove and the hat and the preschool pictures. But let me tell you:

The thin layer of subcutaneous fat that boiled off of Freddy's corpse has been seared into the concrete floor of that boiler room, and it will never go away.
There is soot left on the sheet that the Greys had wrapped around his remains: a smear of coal that they could never get out of the linen.
There is blackened ash staining the sleeve of Donald Thompson's coat, which Nancy wore for years after his death.
A brittle black fingerbone broke off when they pulled Freddy's remains out of the car; Glen Lantz found it a decade later when he was cleaning out the trunk for his dad. Without knowing what it was, he tossed it in the garden, where it sits to this day like a small dark stone.
Charred dust and the flaking remnants of burnt skin were left all over this town, recycled and spun through vacuum cleaners and coughed up by cats and breathed in by its inhabitants.

After all was said and done, Freddy never really left the town at all.

What remained of his body was flung unceremoniously and unkindly in the trunk of a junkyard car, eventually to be buried by trash and refuse. Such disrespect. Hard as rock and petrified wood, as fragile as fulgurites, Frederick C. Krueger's body was unfit to be returned to the earth in any traditional sense. Even the maggots couldn't make a meal of him. Everything: the hatred, the burning-hot energy, the fiery electrons—the door was closed too quickly; too much was trapped. Inside the metal box, his scorched body froze in the winter. It flaked in the heat of the summer. Kids came through and climbed up the pyramid of abandoned rubbish; they smoked weed and felt each other up leaning against the lid of his makeshift coffin. The hardened bones sat silently and without protest, like patient sticks of dynamite.

And the boiler room floor is scarred with melted tissue, and the fingerbone sits in the garden, and the dust motes that Mrs Lane sweeps away from her dead son's picture are really pieces of Krueger's burnt skin, and his hatred remains like a stain on the fabric of the town.

And the glove and the fedora have been found once more, and they are waiting by the door.

oOo

"Five Rules to Surviving Horror Movies," Milo suggested, spooning a mouthful of ice-cream to her lips.

Cathy snorted. "Good one. Uhmmm…. Rule Number Five: never ask the creepy child if they're all right."

Milo laughed. "Okay. Okay. Number Four: punch the monster in the face."

"What?" Cathy shrieked, laughing. "Are you serious?"

"Mm-hm." Milo nodded smugly. "One good solid right hook, my friend. It's gotta at least stun 'em for a second, if only because it's unexpected."

"Oh boy. You're a lunatic. Okay. Number Three," the redhead said. "Avoid elevators, stairwells, and anything else that takes you either up or down from the ground floor."

"Hmmm, my turn," Milo mused, wiggling her toes on the couch. "Rule Number Two: turn on the friggin' lights."

"No kidding. Christ. All right, the ultimate, Number One Rule to Surviving a Horror Movie: Be a Virgin."

Milo nearly choked on her ice-cream. "Ha-freaking-ha. You automatically die by that logic, you raging slutbomb."

Cathy tossed her bottle-red hair and struck a pose, ice-cream spoon raised in the air. "But I'm gonna look damn good doing it, bitch." She plunged the spoon back into the icecream. "God, you know what would be awesome right now? A Kahlua float. Okay," she said, bouncing on the couch. "Okay, I got a good one. Top Five Rules for a Successful Blind Date."

"Ugggh, noooo," Milo groaned. "Are you serious? We are not having this discussion."

"Does that mean you forfeit?" Cathy asked eagerly.

"No," Milo snapped. "That means I appeal to the referee for poor sportsmanship."

"Boo," Cathy pouted. "Spoilsport. It's not gonna get you out of dinner with Alex, though."

"Cath," Milo said reasonably. "I don't do blind dates anymore. Especially not with boys you set me up with. Geez, do you remember Brock Holloway?"

Cathy licked her spoon and wrinkled her nose. "Brock Holloway was a fluke. A…very rich fluke. Do you have any Kahlua?"

"You know I don't. And Brock Holloway was not a fluke," Milo informed her. "Brock Holloway was par for the course." The man in question had surprised her at the door with a beautiful necklace slung with a single, delicate pearl pendant. She'd been uncomfortable with the idea of accepting it, and finally had laughingly agreed to wear it "just for the night." As she was coming back from the restroom at the restaurant, though, she had heard her date telling another gentleman—a friend, she presumed—that when he gave a girl jewelry, he was practically guaranteed pussy. Milo had very calmly taken off the necklace, leaned seductively over his shoulder, and dropped it in his steak tartare. Then she had walked out and hailed a taxi.

He hadn't followed. Men had a tendency leave with their tail between their legs when Savannah Milopileski rejected them.

"Hey," Cathy said, raising her hands in mock surrender. "You could have gotten a lot out of the date, kiddo. It's not my fault you didn't take advantage of it. You could have at least kept the necklace."

Milo snorted and closed her eyes, leaning across the countertop and resting her cheek on it. "Whatever, Cath. You gonna spend the night tonight?"

"I dunno, Milo. You got a creepy-ass house here."

As if in response, something upstairs creaked threateningly, and they both giggled.

"It is a little creepy," Milo agreed. "I've been having these weird dreams, too."

"Hmmm, tell me about 'em, why dontcha?" Cathy teased in a bad Miss-Cleo-impression. "Let me interpret yer dreams for ya, dearie."

Milo snorted. "Nothing I can really remember when I wake up," she said. "Just—my eyes fly open and my heart is pounding and I know it was like a bad trip, but I can't remember what it is."

"Bad trip?" Cathy interjected scornfully. "You don't do drugs."

Milo rolled her eyes. "Okay. Remember that time the docs put me on Vicodin for my kidneys and I was paralyzed on my couch for twelve hours imagining gouging out a witch's eyes with my fingers? Among other things?" Cathy nodded mutely, wide-eyed. "That sort of bad trip."

"Shit, Milo," Cathy said, then laughed nervously. "If you're having dreams like that, of course I don't want to stay here tonight." A pause. "But really, kiddo. What are the dreams like?"

The words were tentative: both curious and afraid. Milo smiled bemusedly. "I honestly don't remember most of them. But…in one, there's a little red-haired kid, and he's got one of those butterfly kits that kids get in school. You know? And all the baby caterpillars spin their cocoons and start doing whatever baby caterpillars do when they transform. And the kid just—demolishes these cocoons. I mean, he steps on them, he shakes them, he rattles them around and throws them against the wall—whatever you can imagine." She sighed and Cathy grimaced.

"Gross and disturbing," the redhead admitted, "but it doesn't sound that bad."

Milo wrinkled her nose. "What I didn't tell you is what ends up coming out of the cocoons."

Cathy leaned forward. "What?"

"Kids," Milo said softly. "Tiny, shriveled little kids, deformed and wounded and twisted. It's—awful."

The taller girl sucked in a breath. "Jesus Christ, kiddo."

"Yeah."

It was enough, Milo supposed. The dream was, as Cathy had put it, "gross and disturbing," but it wasn't the most distressing part of Milo's new sleeping habits.

Worse was the way she imagined the sheets twisting around her in her sleep, gliding sinuously over her curves, tightening around her limbs, spreading her wide across the bed. Worse was the way she liked it. These dreams she would wake from with her heart pounding, yes—but also with dampness in her panties and her nipples aching for attention. Milo was not by any means averse to masturbation—as she had laughingly told Cathy on more than one occasion, she considered herself a "self-sufficient woman"—but the number of vague and formless wet dreams she had having lately was ridiculous.

Especially since they never left her satisfied.

"Anyway," Cathy said smoothly, "Alex will be here to pick you up—"

"Cathy, no—"

"—at about eight on Friday. Oh, shut up. You can protest all you want, but mama knows best, sweetcheeks." A pause, and then a rare glimpse of genuine concern. "Kiddo, I worry about you, locked in here writing all day. It's such a creepy place, and with those dreams now…"

Milo softened. Cathy might not be above using her body to get what she wanted, and was perhaps prone to satiating her every whim regardless of whether it was morally or physically healthful—she might be lazy and manipulative, too—but she was a genuinely good person. Not nice, no, but good. Caring, in her rough way.

"Don't worry about me, Cath. It's not as bad as you think. I get up early every morning and go for walks. I'm working at the coffee-shop from eight till noon, working on the novel from one till four. I'm making friends. I'm eating right, getting sun, getting sleep. I even have my eye on a kitten."

"A kitten isn't a substitute for human company," Cathy said severely. "I wish you'd just go out or something. Have fun."

"The problem is," Milo teased, "that somewhere around eleventh grade you and I diverged completely on what it meant to have fun."

The redhead smiled ruefully and fondled an unlit cigarette. "Seven years later—it's kind of amazing we're still best friends, isn't it?"

"You know it, sugar," Milo said lightly.

Cathy sighed. "Look. I won't beg you to go bar-hopping with me anytime soon if you just promise to go on one date a week."

A corner of Milo's mouth curled. "Once every two weeks," she bargained, "and if I find a guy I want to ask out, you have to stop setting me up."

Cathy raised a perfectly-arched brow. "Once every two weeks," Cathy agreed, "but I pick the guys till you find your Mystery Man. And I have to meet Mister Perfect first, so I know he's real."

Milo grinned. "Deal," she said firmly, and thrust out a hand to shake on it.

Cathy smirked and mimed spitting on her own palm before slapping it against Milo's in a crushing grip. "Done. Now, bitch, since you are sadly out of Kahlua—"

"I never have Kahlua."

"—and since I bought all the champagne last time—"

"You drank all the champagne, too."

"— I think you owe me something good. Or at least something that tastes good, even if it's technically shit. Myers Dark? Baileys? Tequila Rose?"

Milo laughed and fished a handful of tens out of her pocket. "Here," she said, tossing it at the redhead. "Don't spend it all—bring me back the change."

A mock-salute. "Aye-aye, captain. I'll be back in ten."

Milo walked her to the door, and Cathy stopped short at the sight of the fedora hanging there. "Christ," the redhead hissed. "This thing still creeps me out." She cast a disparaging glance at the little three-legged endtable propped against the wall beneath it. The glove rested on it like some sort of huge mechanical insect. "And that thing, too? How do you grab your keys without stabbing yourself?"

Milo shrugged. "I'm kind of growing fond of them," she confessed mildly. "They look well-worn."

Cathy snorted. "Yeah, but not exactly homey, if you know what I mean." She opened the door. "See you in a few, kiddo."

Milo leaned out after her. "Since you're drinking tonight, does that mean you're sleeping over?" She grinned and teased, "You can help me tomorrow. I'm painting the kitchen—" She made a dramatic, visionary gesture "—yellow."

Cathy turned, walking backward down the sidewalk to her car, and rolled her eyes. "I guess," she said dramatically, as though to say you owe me. She brandished a finger. "If you wake me up with one of your bizarro dreams, though, I won't be held accountable for my actions."

Milo watched her pull out of the driveway, then slowly closed the door. The fedora shivered on its hook, caught by the breeze. She lifted her hand, letting it ghost over the felt: hesitant, a lover's touch. She shivered.

Cathy would have been adamant about more dates and bar nights and everything else if she knew the truth. Milo liked the hat and glove because they belonged there, because it felt like they were waiting for their owner.

Like someone was coming home.

oOo

While Freddy slept—or approximated it—he dreamed.

Or approximated it.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. It's true. Time is always different in your head. As the bullet passes through your skull, or the oxygen stops filtering in and the brain cells die, random synapses fire. Neurons connect, and then the connection is severed. That pocket of memory is pushed unceremoniously into this one, like dominoes.

Here is your wedding day. Here is the day you learned how to ride your bike. Here is your first time trick-or-treating, your tenth anniversary, college graduation, the birth of your child. Here is your mother scolding you for interrupting her on the phone. That one day in high school when you dropped your tray in the cafeteria, or the day your puppy accidentally hung itself on its choke-chain in the kennel. There's no rhyme or reason, and maybe that's the reason why it's most like life after all.

For Freddy Krueger, the final moments were like this:

He was trying to hold the door closed while parents rallied. He protested. His cheeks were wet with tears. He kept thinking of how much he loved those kids, and his own daughter, and if he didn't say it aloud he was still at least a little sorry about the animal he kept inside himself (inside except when he had to let it out).

The bottle broke the window. The gas lit; the fire flared. The tears on his cheeks evaporated in streamers of steam. His lips were cracked and parched. There was pain—so much pain it could drive a man crazy. He searched frantically for a way out, a way that wouldn't bring him face-to-face with the angry hoard. His lungs rasped; his throat splintered. The heat stung his eyes till he couldn't see; his face was swollen and when he touched it, he could feel the blisters. The polyester and wool fibers of his sweater caught fire, melting onto his skin. He stumbled and his muscles cramped, curling into themselves as they fought the blaze. The world went dark and he lifted a mangled hand to his face: he could feel the slickness where his eyes had melted in rivers. He crawled; he tried to find fresh air.

His body rebelled against his mind, drawing into a fetal position against his will. It was the muscles again, contracting, trying to hide from the heat like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. His face split open and oozed along one cheek; his fingers formed claws, the tendons shrinking as any moisture still in his body evaporated. Any pain he'd felt was gone now: his nerve-endings had been demolished.

And then it happened: the brain cells winking out, synapses firing and dying like city lights in an electrical storm. Medicine administered in the shed, the children taunting, the stolen daughter, the treacherous wife. The class pet smashed, the mother in her asylum. The razor strop.

And maybe the dream demons weren't real. He hadn't seen them since then, after all. Maybe they were just another fragmented figment of a desperate, dying brain that was trying to cling to life: the firing of some random neuron that, like a nightmare, created a series of monsters that were willing to bargain.

In the end, it didn't really matter. All that mattered was that he was still there. The essence of him, scattered over Springwood like an incoming storm, seeping in through all the cracks.

All that was left was how much he hated them, in every molecule embedded in Springwood.

Dormant now, he dozed. Lashing through his mind like a dream, or like the moments before death, he watched himself perish again and again: the boiler-room blaze. The eruption of all his carefully-collected souls. The pipe-bomb.

The pipe-bomb had been the beginning of the end. Apparently, even he couldn't survive the force of a daughter's righteous anger. And if perhaps he might have been able to gather the strength to return to Springwood, where all of his remains awaited him, the possibility was snatched away with coming of Hypnocil.

Fucking modern pharmaceuticals.

Being trapped here, in a hell of his own making, had been monotonous and dull. It had taken an eternity to come up with a plan, to begin to take action.

Jason Vorhees had already been sleeping. Or at least, doing whatever it is that the dead do. And so Freddy, weakened by a lack of fear and starving for souls, had been able to slip in. Twist things up. Begin anew.

That whole decapitation-thing had thrown a wrench in the plans.

At first, when things didn't go quite as intended, Freddy wasn't quite so discouraged. Losing one's body was an inconvenience, to be sure, but Freddy had managed in more difficult situations before. What he hadn't anticipated, however, was that Jason would return to hell with his severed head in tow. And furthermore: that this development might pose an even larger conflict when it came to setting things in motion once more. Apparently, being only a head was, in fact, a handicap. Freddy had tried to think of a way around it: it wasn't real, after all. Not tangible. Hell was just another kind of dreaming.

He'd been so assured of his own abilities. Cocky, even. But time had passed, and he'd grown frustrated, and then desperate, and then desolate. And finally—and this was when he'd truly understood the horrors of hell—finally, resigned.

He'd never been resigned before. He hadn't even recognized the feeling of it at first.

And then, like Jason before him, he'd let his mind wander, lost in the abyss of stagnation and swamp. Like the moments before death, like nightmares and dreams, he flashed through different scenes both real and imagined. Sometimes he dreamed he seeped into someone's brain and Got Them Good. Sometimes he dreamed himself young again, a child in scenes that weren't really from his life, or were bizarre twistings of his own experiences. Sometimes he dreamed he was successful in his endeavors, and free. Sometimes he relived all those other defeats: his daughter. His Nancy. His children. His inability to accomplish anything in this godforsaken landscape. His hunger.

If he could just get one person to remember his story, his name. If he could just get into one dream, or get one drop of blood—

He could get Out.

oOo

And then he dreamed her: lissome, copper-haired, with dark eyes of an indiscernible color and starlike lashes. She was pretty enough for a virgin (or as close as one could get to a virgin these days, for Chrissake). Her hair was tied back and secured again with a headband, a few wild locks framing her face, and she was practically swimming in a rumpled t-shirt, too large and sliding down one pale shoulder that he wanted desperately to slice. She was wielding a paintbrush, and he thought he almost recognized the kitchen she was standing in, her bare feet clinging to the middle-rung of a stepladder. She had a smudge of paint on her cheek: yellow, like the sun had broken through.

In his dream, she hung his hat by the door.

He startled in his sleep, shifting. If he'd been alive, he might have opened his eyes briefly, or rolled over. As it was, all the other thoughts left: thoughts of Katherine, of the Thompsons, of Jason.

Fuck. He wanted to cut her.

Only her.

oOo

"Let me at least walk you to the door," Alex said, a reckless little grin on his face. He was wheedling. She hated it when they wheedled. "C'mon, Savannah."

She clenched her jaw. "Milo," she said between her teeth. "It's Milo."

He shrugged and laughed. "That's a guy's name," he teased. "And I don't call chicks by their last names."

But you call them "chicks."

She sighed. To be honest, he'd been nothing but charming all evening, and she didn't know why she was being such a jerk. It was possible that she was displacing her irritation for Cathy on him, which was unfair. But there was something about him that had her on edge—the way he sidled up beside her whenever he could, a certain curl to the corner of his mouth which seemed strangely arrogant in a way that she couldn't put her finger on.

Unfair, she told herself. You're overreacting.

"Okay," she said, dredging up a faint smile. "Okay. You can walk me to the door—but that's all," she added firmly. "I have work tomorrow morning. And I'm not one for inviting someone in on the first date anyway."

He grinned again and she shifted uncomfortably, turning away to open the door and get out before he could see her grimace. She hoped he didn't try to kiss her. Cathy had once explained the sly, condescending twist of head that offered a man her cheek instead of her mouth, but Milo had never been one for subtleties. If he tried to put his lips on hers (or God forbid, his tongue down her throat), she'd have to push him gently away and tell him she wasn't interested, thanks.

She hugged herself as she got out of the car, deterring him from trying to hold her hand or take her arm. At the door, she immediately set about to unlocking it and, with a quick thank-you-dinner-was-nice-the-movie-was-great, she slipped in.

And the door didn't close. He'd slapped his hand against it and she looked up at him, surprised. He was chuckling, that recklessly friendly look still smeared on his face. "You're kidding, right?" he said. "Not even a little kiss goodnight?"

"Nope," she managed lightly. "I don't kiss on the first date."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the smile was still there. "Then when are we having the second?" he asked jovially. It sounded forced.

She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against the doorframe, no longer trying to force the door closed but just holding it there, against his hand. "Look," she said. "I should have said something before. I'm not really interested in seeing anyone right now. Well, ever, really. And it's not your fault, but blind dates make me really uncomfortable in general, so I've been on edge all night."

His face relaxed. "Let me come in then," he urged. "I'll take the edge off."

She tried not to choke. How do you make things clear without being a bitch? "I'm really flattered," she said slowly, "that you're attracted to me. Honored, even. But I'm not interested in pursuing things any further. It really was a great date, but I don't think we're a good match."

The storm clouds gathered on his brow again. He took a step away and turned around and she fought the urge to apologize. There's no reason to be sorry, she told herself. If she said he was, he would take it as encouragement. She began to close the door gently.

"No," he said roughly, turning back around with his next step and storming toward the door. She barely had time to brace herself before he shoved against the front door—hard. It slammed back, scraping over the top of her sandaled foot. She gasped at the sudden heat that flared there but ignored it, pressing against the door instead.

"Dammit," she muttered under her breath, fighting a hysterical urge to yell or scream for help. She gritted her teeth. No sense wasting breath now on such a worthless gesture. She leaned against the door, planting her feet. The sandal-heels skittered back on the hardwood floor and she knew she was fighting a losing battle. "Alex," she said, her voice low and calm, soothing. "You don't want to do this. It's breaking and entering—"

"Fuck you, bitch," he snarled. "You owe me. I would've settled for a kiss, but you're being such a stubborn cunt—"

"—and if you do anything else, it's assault," she continued smoothly. "Battery." She wouldn't say the R word—not yet. If he hadn't thought of it, she wouldn't put it in his mind. Her eyes flickered around the room. The umbrella stand was almost within reach. If he pushed her far enough, she could grab one, use it as a club. There was pepper spray in her purse, but the likelihood of getting it out without stunning him first was next to nothing. "If you go now—"

He crashed against the door with his shoulder and she fell back, mentally cursing her heels. Her head slammed against the wall next to the fedora—just a foot from the hook in the wall; she thought dazedly that she was lucky—and she staggered against the endtable, then to the floor. She struggled to shake the sudden haze from her eyes.

He was on her, kicking the door closed with one heel while he pressed forward, his hands at her waist, dragging her onto her back as his mouth sought hers.

"Get off," she said, her voice quiet.

"The nicer you are, the better chance you have that I'll let you go," he said nastily, and his mouth slid from the corner of her lips down to her throat as she turned her head. Something glistened in the faint light from the streetlamp that filtered through the window. She forced her eyes to focus, one hand shoving at his face even as he made his way down into the collar of her dress.

"Stop it," she said again, trying to inject as much icy calmness into her voice as possible even as she made out the shape. Her mouth felt numb. Her head felt numb. The glove. It must have fallen off the endtable. She twisted her other hand out from where he had it pinned against her hip, stretching for it across the floor. His mouth closed on her nipple through her shirt and bra, and her vision swam again. She gagged, stretched further. Her fingers ghosted against the worn leather and she reached—just a bit more—and her fingers pinched, dragged it closer. She fisted the glove in her hand; the metal plating cut into her skin but she didn't notice.

"Last warning," she said softly. "Get off of me."

He chuckled against her and ground his hips against hers, and she sucked in a breath before plunging the four blades downward.

He bellowed like a wounded animal, rearing back from her, his gaze moving from her to his chest and back again. She'd gotten him as well as she could with her bad positioning: four deep, close-set gouges across his shoulder and collarbone. If she'd had more strength or a better angle, she would have gotten his jugular and he'd be bleeding out on her floor right now. As it was, he could only see the tail ends of his wounds, but his shirt was seeping through with red.

"You should get to the hospital," she advised, dragging herself into a sitting position against the wall. The glove was still clenched in her hand, the claws extending from her small fist like a handful of steak knives. "You'll need stitches."

He moved toward her, his right hand raised to his left shoulder in preparation to backhand her.

"Try it," she invited. "I'm not letting go of this thing, and the next jab's going in your eye." She was slumped, and she was tired and bleary-eyed, but when he looked at her hand he could see that it was steady, her grip strong and sure.

She smiled toothily. "I have excellent aim."

He moved slowly to his feet, one hand pressed to the weeping wound, and opened the door.

"This isn't over," he said over his shoulder, glaring. Milo fought back the urge to make a nasty comment, but only met his eyes squarely with raised brows. She didn't move after the door closed, sitting silently, listening. If she heard the doorknob turn—if she heard anything—she would be ready.

His car started up on the driveway and rolled slowly down to the street. She hesitated, then crawled to the door, the glove still tight in her grip. She reached up to lock it. She would double-check all the windows and doors, she decided, and call the police—just as soon as she bandaged up her head. Scratch that; she would call Cathy before the police. Cathy would make sure she wasn't concussed or anything. She'd spend the night devotedly, and just make jibes about being owed booze afterward.

Milo leaned against the wall for support as she dragged herself to her feet. Sudden burning lanced up her leg and she looked down only to realize the bastard had torn off two of her toenails and scraped her foot raw with the door. The sandal was ruined, the leather straps torn and soaked with blood.

She'd need to bandage that, too.

She clutched the glove to her chest and thanked God for whatever morbid impulse had prompted her to set it by the door. The impression that it belonged to someone—that it was waiting for someone—had been the furthest thing from her mind when she grabbed it. Now, as the adrenaline seeped from her system and left her shaky and cold, the feeling came flooding back, stronger than ever. She leaned down to pick up the fedora and crushed that to her chest as well. The worn felt and the bloody blades pressed against her bare skin hungrily.

She shivered, and Alex's blood dripped down her sternum, into her cleavage.

oOo

Somewhere in the swampy, stagnant depths of hell, Frederick Charles Krueger opened his eyes. He sat up—whole now—and licked his lips, and tasted blood, and smiled. He tipped his fedora low over his eyes and flexed his clawed fingers. Time to get moving. Someone was waiting for him, after all.

"Honey," he purred. "I'm home."

oOo

A point of clarification: THIS IS A ONE-SHOT. A lot of people have added it to their Story Alerts, which is flattering and appreciated, but I feel bad because this is all the storymonsters wrote.
We now return to your original program:

This is another what-the-fuck piece written on a whim.
I should probably just stick to writing one-shots, because I'm decent at those. When I try to write things that are longer, I fail to finish them (or, more often, I have five hundred plot points and a conclusion, but nothing to connect them). I refuse to post something I don't finish, and even the novel-length fics I've completed just aren't as decent as the one-shots or double-shots.

Long story short: I have serious commitment issues.

I don't know how this story ends. I imagine Freddy killing Cathy as she spends the night, and then Alex, and then toying with Milo. I have no idea how long he'll mess with her, or how it will end (Blood and gore? Dirty dream-sex? Who knows?) so feel free to, yanno, choose-your-own-adventure. Geez, could someone please write a fanfic that's actually CYOA? (If you decide to have dirty dream-sex, click Chapter 5. If you decide to die horrifically, click Chapter 7.)

I tried to make this as classic-horror-movie-style as the storymonsters would allow. Hence the spunky virgin, boozehound/slutbag friend, and the rabid stock-character horndog boy. It was kind of fun, and I hope I managed "classic" without stepping into "boringly typical." The virgin commentary was a subtle (or not-so-subtle) jibe at classic horror movie mechanics. Also, I think I need to focus on a new fandom, because I am starting to disturb myself. These NOES one-shots (moreso than the Fearless drabbles, which don't really distress me) are coming way too easily.

Additional Disclaimers:
1. Tweaks to bits of the timeline and original story (eg, the Freddy vs. Jason bit).
2. I don't know what the laws are in Springwood, but I know that some states do require real estate agencies to let prospective buyers know when a house is supposedly "haunted."
3. Clearly, I don't own choose-your-own-adventure. If you don't know what that is—ask. I will tell you, but only after informing you that you clearly did not grow up in the US during the 80s/90s.
4. Some of the science-stuff in here is legit. Other stuff, I just completely made up. For example…
Fact: matter is converted into energy during the decomposition process.
Not Fact: energy conversion = Nirvana.
Fact: when a person dies by fire (not smoke), they do in fact curl into a fetal position or "pugilistic attitude."
Not Fact: I have no idea how that feels (obviously), and I don't really know how the subcutaneous fat reacts to those kinds of temperatures. I made that bit up.
If you have a question about the veracity of a statement or speculation, drop me a line and I will tell you.