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The Dream Trap	By : Flynnparadox Category: M through R > Nightmare on Elm Street Views: 2545 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own A Nightmare on Elm Street, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter Three: His Name Was Freddy
1
It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning and, though Bobby was surrounded by a veritable army of others in church, he felt incredibly alone. He didn't get any sleep the night before, only occasionally dozing before forcing himself awake. He didn't want to dream anymore, didn't want to see that shadowy figure standing behind Coach, seeming to control him. In the very witching hour of night, what Jill had suggested - that they were dreaming of the same creep - didn't seem so absurd, seemed logical, in fact. Why had he dismissed it so yesterday?
He tried to concetrate on what the pastor was saying from the pulpit. He was a good man and was not part of the fire-and-brimstone brigade that had become so common as of late.
"But the Lord forgives," the pastor said. "Let's not forget that. Let's keep it forefront in our minds, in our hearts. Forgiveness is the very lifeblood of the body of Christ. It runs through every vein in His body." He paused for effect. "And it runs through every one of our veins, as well...if we let it."
He paused again, took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose. He put them back on.
"Every one of us, that is, except one," he continued. "Bobby Garfield sits with us here today but he is not one of us. He is a snake in the Garden."
Bobby, alarmed, looked around. Everyone was staring at him.
"That's right," the pastor continued, "look at him. Judge him. Mark him for what he really is: an absolute, unforgiving, filthy piece of fucking dog shit. Can I get an amen?"
"Amen!" everyone in the church except for Bobby said.
"I said, 'Can I get an amen?'," the pastor repeated.
"Amen!" they all repeated.
Bobby looked around again, saw nothing but daggers from everyone else's gaze. He returned his own gaze to the pastor, but the man had changed. His face and hands were horribly burned.
"This fucking whore right here," he said, "will not forgive a fellow teammate for being black. Can you believe that? Won't forgive Riley Reynolds for simply being better than he is. In everything! Football, studies, pussy-chasing, what have you."
"Amen!" an eldery woman near Bobby said.
"That's right, sister," the pastor said. "Sing it! This boy knows that he's merely second-best but can't admit it to himself, let alone anyone else!"
The pastor got down from his pulpit, walked the short flight of steps down into the audience. He approached Bobby, who felt himself sinking back into his pew.
"He's a fake!" the pastor said.
He pointed a clawed finger at Bobby as he came closer.
"A charlatan!"
He reached Bobby and grabbed hold of him by the collar, using his non-gloved hand. He flashed his razor claws at him with the other.
"And I say we all band together and rip him limb from limb."
Bobby screamed.
And woke himself up. Now, everyone really was looking at him. Even the pastor, who was still up on his pulpit, normal-looking once again. It had been a dream but, boy, did it seem real.
"Everything okay, son?" the pastor asked.
Bobby stood up, shaking his head. His mother and father looked up at him like he was insane. And perhaps he was. How would he know?
"I..." he said.
"Sit down, dear," his mother said.
"I..."
"Sit your ass down, son," his father said.
"I can't do this anymore," Bobby said.
He strode out of his pew, walked down the aisle and left the building. He sat on the stairs outside the building, wishing he had a cigarette. He had quit a year ago to really try and concentrate on training, trying to be better at the sport he had chosen. He looked up at the church, which towered over him like some building out of a German Expressionist horror film.
To his surprise, it wasn't his parents who came out to check on him. It wasn't the pastor, nor Coach. It was Riley.
He came out of the church cautiously, sat down next to Bobby even more cautiously. He looked around, as if he wanted to make sure no one was watching them. Satisfied, he looked at Bobby.
"Look," he said, "just cause I don't like you, doesn't mean I want to see any harm come to you. Do I think you can do better out there on the field? Yes. Do I think that gorgeous girl of yours would find herself much happier in my arms? Hell, yes. But she ain't mine. And you're on the team, even if I don't want you there. Which means, I and everyone else on that team need you at one hundred percent. Not fifty percent. Fuck, not even at ninety-nine percent. Understand?"
Bobby nodded.
"Okay," Riley said. "Now, what is it? Drugs? PCP, what?"
Bobby shook his head.
"No, man," he said. "I don't touch that shit."
"Then what is it?" Riley demanded.
"I just... I can't sleep."
Riley looked at him, confused.
"I keep having these dreams," Bobby said. "There's this guy standing behind Coach. Wears this dirty red and green sweater, hat and has these claws."
Riley stood up all of a sudden. He pointed an accusing finger at Bobby.
"Look," he said, "I don't know what Eric told you about me or my dreams but I made it clear that was private! Hear? This is not fucking funny."
"Wait, you--" Bobby said.
"Shut up, man. All I know is that you better be tip-top out there tomorrow morning at practice. Anything else, I'll come at you like a brick fucking wall."
He stormed off, going back into the church, leaving Bobby alone on the steps. Bobby, beginning to put the pieces together, sat for a moment longer. Then he got up and ran off, looking for a pay phone. Jill never went to church. And he had to speak to her.
Right now.
2
"Whoa," Jill said, holding the phone next to her head like it was the only thing keeping her up. "Slow down. Now, what are you talking about?"
"Riley!" Bobby said on the other end of the line.
"Riley?" Jill asked.
She hadn't had any sleep the night before and was just laying in her bed when Bobby called. Her mind wasn't processing things the way it used to, it seemed.
"Yes, Riley," Bobby said. "He's dreaming about the same guy that you and I are."
"So you believe me now," Jill said.
"Yes! Yes, okay, I do. This guy's real!"
"So, I tell you the exact same thing and you write me off like a flighty bitch but Riley says it and suddenly it all makes sense to you? What the fuck?"
"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry. I was an asshole. But listen to me now: I believe you."
"Okay, that's a start."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So what do we do now?" Bobby asked.
"We need to find out if anyone else is dreaming about him," Jill said.
"Right. What do you need from me?"
"Talk to your friends, find out who's not sleeping and why."
"How am I gonna make that sound natural?"
"I don't know, you were in a couple school plays, act."
"I was a terrible actor. They just wanted me for my looks."
"I know, why do you think I'm with you?"
"Funny."
"I try."
"Okay," Bobby said. "Fine, I'll do what I can. What are you gonna do?"
"What I do best," Jill said.
"What's that?"
"Go to the library and read."
"Sure. Sounds like you." Voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Doesn't it?"
"I still prefer your job over mine."
"Pick me up from the library around...say, two?"
"Okay."
"Oh, and Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
He was silent and Jill got a little nervous. More than a little, a lot. Then:
"I love you, too," he said.
"Bye," Jill said.
"Goodbye."
The line went dead. Jill ran into the bathroom - throwing her clothes off as she did - to take a quick shower before rushing to grab a bus to the library.
3
Gale's bedroom was plastered with posters, mostly music, a few movies. Joan Jett shared space with the Alan Parsons Project, Iron Maiden's Eddie looked over Barbara Steel, Alice Cooper butted up against Siouxsie and the Banshees, Kiss made room for Vincent Price. Clothes were strewn all over the place. Gale herself sat in a corner of the room, knees up to her nose, arms crossed over her legs. The previous night had been Hell: extended periods of watching shitty, late night TV broken up by bouts of unwanted sleep filled with increasingly terrifying dreams. It was now the middle of the day, a little before noon and she had done nothing today but stay in her room, trying not to sleep.
Finally, she decided to get up and head downstairs. Exiting her room, she walked onto the landing and started down the stairs. She could see her parents in the dining room, preparing lunch.
"Hi, honey," her mother said as she emerged onto the ground floor.
"Hello, dear," her father said.
"Hi," Gale said.
"Going to win that scholarship to a top Ivy League school like we've both been hoping?" her mother said.
"What?"
"A football scholarship, perhaps?" her father said.
"Have both of you lost your minds?"
"Well, that's what boys do, don't they?" Mom said. "They make their parents proud."
"They do manly things!" Dad said.
She just noticed that they were dressed like 50s TV parents, like "Leave It To Beaver" or something. Her father was smoking a pipe and wore a sweater vest. He puffed on the pipe and smiled.
"I'm not a boy," Gale said.
"Sure you are, sport!" Dad said. "Did you not get enough sleep last night? Run too many laps in Phys Ed?"
"How's Tiffany, dear?" Mom said. "Oh, she is such a doll! You are one lucky young man."
"How do you know about Tiffany? You haven't met her."
"Of course we have, dear. You brought her by before you two went to the Sock Hop last year."
"And Homecoming," Dad said, gesturing with his pipe.
"Oh, yes, Homecoming! You said you two had such a good time! That is nice."
"I'm losing my mind," Gale said and rubbed her eyes.
"Did you forget something, dear?" Mom asked.
"What are you talking about?"
Then she looked down and saw that she was wearing nothing but a tank top and men's underwear, again like something out of a sitcom. That was when she heard the laugh track, just like in a 50s TV sitcom. She covered her breasts - quite visible through the thin white cotton - and the audience laughed louder.
"Hey, sport," Dad said. "Could you head downstairs and check the furnace for me? You know how my back is these days."
He turned and rubbed his back so that she - and, presumably, the audience - could see. A large knife was stuck in the base of his spine.
"Oh, I see the problem, dear," Mom said.
She grabbed hold of the knife and pulled it out. Blood sprayed like a fountain from his wound, covering the table, Mom, the floor and the walls. Mom and Dad didn't seem to notice.
"Oh, this has your name on it, dear," Mom said, looking at the knife.
She turned the knife so that Gale could see it. On the handle, scratched into the wood was a name: Gale.
"Oh, my back doesn't feel well, either," Mom said, gently putting the knife on the dining room table.
She turned and there was a knife sticking out of her back, as well. Dad saw it and his eyes lit up.
"Let me get that, honey," he said.
He grabbed it and pulled it out. But he pulled it upwards first, tearing open her whole back in the process. Her ribs snapped open, spine ripped apart, lungs sliced wide. Blood and viscera pumped out of her, covering Dad entirely. Mom fell over backwards, her destroyed back hitting a chair at the dining room table with a horrible crack. The smile never left her face.
The studio audience was losing it by this point. Gale was terrified.
Dad took another puff of his pipe as he calmly started stabbing Mom repeatedly in the face with the knife, slicing off her skin and breaking every bone in her head. He nodded cheerily to Gale.
"Better get to work on that furnace, sport," he said.
The studio audience surged to a crescendo of laughter and then the lights dimmed, signalling a commercial break. When they came back up, Dad was on the ground next to Mom, quite dead.
Gale felt she had no choice but to continue with this mad play so she headed towards the door off the kitchen that led to the basement. She opened it, peered down the dark staircase.
Red light came from somewhere down there and steam rose up the staircase. And she could hear laughter down there.
"No," she said. "No, I deny it. I deny it! You hear me?!"
"Gale," a voice called from down there. "Gale, are you a girl or a boy? Or are you both?!"
Wicked, evil laughter.
"Fuck you!" Gale said. "I said I deny it!"
All of a sudden, the red light disappeared and the steam dissipated. A moment later, water began to fill the basement and reached about a quarter of the way up the stairs. The water sloshed and rose up and down, back and forth. Slowly, someone emerged from the water. A lovely young woman with dark hair, with one shocking streak of grey running through it like lightning. She was naked. Gale had never seen her before but here, dripping wet, she was so inviting, so alive.
Cautiously, she walked down the stairs. The girl's arms were held out to her, beckoning her closer. Gale reached the water and it felt like Heaven. She embraced the woman, kissed her and they slowly descended into the water.
The two of them danced deep under water and Gale realized that they were no longer confined to the cramped space of the basement stairs but were in a large pool, a natural one, somewhere out in the wild. The two girls danced, kissed, touched, turned upside down and right side up again.
The dark-haired woman took Gale in an embrace once again and they held each other tight. Then the woman whispered into Gale's ear:
"His name was Freddy," she said. "Tell Jill."
And Gale woke up, still in her room, surrounded by strewn clothes. She looked around, disoriented.
"What the Hell was that?" she said.
4
Ann sat on the curb, reading Teen Beat, trying to avoid the looks of anyone who happened to be passing by. The curb in question was outside a Check Cashing place, an unsavory little building downtown. She looked up from the article on Johnny Depp she had been reading and shot a glance over her shoulder, into the building. Inside, her father was arguing with the employee behind the desk. She couldn't hear them but it didn't matter. It was always the same thing: he was trying to cash a bad check and the clerk was having none of it. It was so embarrassing.
She was about to return to her magazine when she saw someone else leaning against the building, someone she knew. Steph Harwood nursed a cigarette and shot paranoid glances around. She was looking for someone.
"Steph?" Ann said.
Steph whipped her head around, eyes full of fear. Ann had never seen the young woman like this. She was usually so confident, so sure of herself.
"Hi," Steph finally said.
"Haven't seen you in a while," Ann said. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. No, nothing. Haven't been doing anything."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
She finished her cigarette, pitched it away, produced another. Her hands were shaking as she tried to light it. Her cigarette lighter didn't seem to be working.
"Shit," she said. "Must be out. Do you have a light?"
"Sorry," Ann said.
"Damn." She looked disgusted, defeated, tired, paranoid, all at the same time. "Do you think everything, our lives and stuff...do you think we can change any of that? Or do you think it's all set up for us? Like destiny or something. What I mean is...can we change anything?"
"I...I don't know. What got you thinking like this, Steph?"
Steph shook her head, looked away. The next building over was a bar that Ann knew was frequented by airline stewardesses and pilots. Her father would sometimes try to pick up a stewardess or two there and always either be kicked out or come home alone. A particularly attractive dark-haired stewardess wearing a maroon outfit - Sue, her nametag read - walked out of the bar, more than a little tipsy. She would have been from Ashe Airlines, the only major airline in the small airport in town.
"What happened to you?" Ann said.
She got up, folded her magazine and tucked it under her arm, approached Steph. Cautiously, she extended a hand and put it on Steph's shoulder. The other woman wiped away a tear, then changed, her vulnerability gone, replaced by a harshness, an anger.
"No," she said, "what happened to you? We were best friends when we were in theater together, remember? You were a Freshman and I was a Sophomore. Then you found Track, and I didn't see you around anymore. You're the one that something happened to, not me!"
"What's your problem?" Ann said.
"I don't have a problem."
"I'm just trying to help you."
"I just haven't been sleeping lately, that's all."
"Me, neither. Now what's wrong?"
"I...I can't..."
"Babe!"
Both girls turned to regard Drake, who sauntered around the corner, a six-pack in hand. He looked at the two of them, smiled.
"Wow, babe," he said, "trying to hook me up with a threeway? You shouldn't have."
"Let's go," Steph said, sighed.
"Steph," Ann said.
"Fuck off," Steph said.
Drake laughed and he and Steph left, heading for their car. Ann watched them go, confused, upset. After a moment, her father finally left the Check Cashing place and they left, heading home.
5
Jill wasn't getting very far at the library. She looked up things, cross-referenced indexes, scoured the card catalog, fished through the microfilm but just couldn't find anything more than references to hideous, mysterious crimes on Elm Street. It was almost as if something were working against her, fighting her. Perhaps it was the town itself, wanting to hide its unsavory past.
Currently, she was sitting on one of the long, sturdy wooden tables in the rough center of the library. There was no one else around. She kept nodding off while reading. The words all started to blend together. She found her mind wandering, drifting to some place hidden, some place dangerous.
A little girl, dressed all in white, ran by Jill and disappeared into the stacks. Jill got up. She felt like she had to follow the girl.
At first, she couldn't find her. All the rows looked the same and seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, she found the little girl jumping rope with two other girls, also dressed in white. They sang a jumprope song - one that was oddly familiar to Jill - but she had found them in the middle of the song:
"Five, six, grab your crucifix,
Seven, eight, better stay up late,
Nine, ten, never sleep again."
Why was that familiar? Had she sung it when she was a little girl? That would make sense. But it seemed so long ago now.
"Girls?" Jill said.
Two of the girls scattered, leaving only the one who Jill had seen earlier. Jill approached her but the little girl stopped her, one hand outstretched.
"What?" Jill asked.
"Quiet," the little girl said.
"Why?"
"Because he can hear us."
"Who?"
"Him."
She pointed down a connecting hallway of books. Jill looked down it and saw a figure standing at the end of the hallway. There he was, the boogeyman. He was still in shadow, still hard to see, but he was here, this close to her.
He laughed that evil, sadistic laugh. Jill turned to the little girl - wanting to save her - but it was too late. The little girl's stomach was already torn open, her guts spilling out onto the floor in front of her.
"Go!" the little girl said.
Jill turned and ran.
It was impossible. All the stacks looked the same, they all stretched out into infinity. Some of them led to other places: a vast boiler room, a room filled nasty, hanging chains, a pool of glittering water, a sun-baked desert crawling with scorpions, a basement stacked high with rotting bodies, what looked like an East Coast summer camp, a thousand-foot drop. All nightmares, all accessible from this maze.
The boogeyman was close, she could hear him nearby, could feel him hot on her heels. She turned a corner and it was as though luck was on her side: she saw herself, asleep at one of the tables in the library. She pushed herself to go faster.
She felt a sharp pain at her back just as she reached herself. At the table, she jolted awake. The pain in her back was still there. She looked down and turned a little, saw one shallow but long cut in her shirt. Blood dripped from it.
Digging in her purse, she found some kleenex and gingerly applied it to the wound. So, she could be hurt in the dream. Great. That meant that she could be killed in the dream, any of them could.
All of a sudden, she realized that someone was standing over her. For a moment, she was alarmed but when she looked up she saw it was Gale.
"How the Hell did you know I was here?" Jill asked.
"I don't know," Gale said. "It just felt right. Are you okay? How did you hurt yourself?"
"In the dream."
"Shit. That can happen?"
"Apparently."
"This is gonna sound weird..."
"Shoot."
"I have a message for you."
"Yeah?"
"His name was Freddy. Mean anything?"
It all came back to Jill. The whole jumprope song.
"One, two, Freddy's coming for you," she said.
"What?" Gale said, still standing over her.
"That old jumprope song we used to sing."
"So what?"
"Don't you get it? It was based on something. An urban legend, a boogeyman! But it was based on something real! Freddy. Now we have a name, a first name, at least. That's gonna make it easier to find some info. How did you know that I needed help?"
"You wouldn't believe me. I can help you out here, though."
"Okay."
"But we're gonna need these."
Dramatically, Gale slammed down a bottle of pills on the table. "STAY AWAKE!" the bottle read.
"Stole 'em from my parents," she said.
"You've been waiting to do that, haven't you?" Jill said. "Slam those down on the table?"
"Yeah, I thought it'd be cool."
"Oh, it was. But we're going to need a lot more of those."
"I know. We'll pick some up after we leave here."
"Then let's get to work. Bobby will be by around two."
"Let's go."
They got to work.
6
They decided to all meet at the drive-in movie theater on the edge of town. They took two vehicles: Gale's convertible and Bobby's truck. The drive-in wasn't very busy on a Sunday night and few cars were parked at this particular screen. It was dark and the first feature - Critters - had already started. They parked the vehicles close together so they could sit both in the bed of the truck, tailgate open, and inside Gale's car, top down. Their intention was to talk, not to watch the movies but they wanted a public place, some place where they could just drive away if something were to happen unexpectedly.
They numbered five: Jill, Bobby, Gale, Eric and Stanley. Bobby had tried to convince Riley to come but he wasn't having any of it.
Jill, Eric and Bobby sat in the bed of the truck, while Gale and Stanley sat in Gale's car just below them. Jill led the discussion.
"His name was -- is Freddy Krueger," she said.
She slammed down xeroxed copies of newspaper clippings and pages from true crime books and magazines. A collection of documents held together by a paperclip.
"He was a child killer," Gale said.
"I think I've heard of him," Eric said.
"You should," Jill said. "Elm Street - our street - was his hunting ground. I know that I thought he was an urban legend, a boogeyman made up to scare little boys and girls into obeying their parents."
"Yeah," Stanley said, "Behave or Freddy will get you in your sleep."
"That's fucked up," Eric said.
"No shit," Bobby said. "Especially since he can get us in our dreams."
"What?" Eric said. "Come on."
"Eric," Jill said, "we've all established that we've dreamed about the same guy."
"Okay, well some pyshic connection between all of us? Fine, I can buy that. But we can get hurt in our dreams - killed, even? No way. That's bullshit."
Jill turned and lifted up her shirt. Eric put up both of his hands.
"Look," he said, "Jill, I like you and all, but you don't have to show me some skin or--"
He saw the cut in her back. He shut up.
"Me, too," Stanley said.
He took off his shoe and showed the rest of them his foot. Everyone got a good look.
"Fuck," Eric said. "No way. How is this possible? Could you have just forgotten what really happened to you?"
"There was nothing that could have cut me like that," Jill said. "Especially not sitting down at a table in the library."
"Yeah," Stanley said. "And none of my tapes were broken. That only happened in the dream."
"This is nuts," Eric said.
"It's true," Gale said. "Look at this."
She stood up in her car, leaned into the bed of the truck, shuffled through the documents and found a newspaper clipping. She handed it to him.
"Nancy Thompson," she said. "She claimed that some kind of dream demon was killing her friends."
"And she went to a nuthouse," Eric said. "So what?"
"She wasn't there long," Gale said. "She got out, went to college. Just graduated. Major: psychology."
Eric shook his head while Gale sat back down in her car. Jill, frustrated, grabbed hold of Eric's hand.
"You remember Jesse Walsh, don't you Eric?" she said.
"Course," Eric said.
"He said almost the same thing. AND HE LIVED IN NANCY'S HOUSE! How much more proof do you need?!"
"Okay, say I believe you. Say I just go with it. What can we do about it? Huh? What?"
There was a moment of silence. Jill looked spent.
"See?" Eric said. "We got nothing."
"But we have to try," Stanley said. "Like you said, Nancy survived. She overcame him. So it can be done."
"But we don't know how she did it," Eric said.
"Has anyone tried to talk to Nancy herself?" Bobby said.
"I have," Gale said. "Can't get to her. I know what school she went to. It's out of state. But it's not like they just give out numbers. And I checked phone books. Her number's not listed."
"And I tried to get a hold of her dad," Jill said. "He used to be a lieutenant in the police department. Now he's a drunk who only occasionally shows up for work as a security guard. He won't talk to anyone. Just hangs up the phone."
"What a prick," Eric said.
"You're not kidding," Jill said.
A strong, fit girl went running by. She was doing laps around the drive-in theater. Jill recognized her. She was a Sophmore, rising up through the ranks in track. What was her name? Chris? Was it Chris Gordon?
Jill looked at Gale, saw that she was watching Chris run by with wistful eyes. Gale caught her look. Jill raised her eyebrows. Her unspoken question was obvious to Gale:
"Was that this 'Chris' you were talking about?!"
Gale shrugged and Jill's jaw dropped. She recovered a moment later and shot her best friend a "We'll talk about this later" look. Stanley caught everything but the rest of them didn't notice anything out of the ordinary.
"We're missing something," Jill said. "Some piece of information that eludes us."
"Something strange happened in my last dream," Gale said.
"What?" Eric asked.
"I was able to...push him away. Get rid of his world somehow. I changed it into something else."
"What did you change it into?" Jill said.
"Water. A pool or something. I don't know. Don't know if I can do it again."
"Well, that's great," Eric said. "Some water. Fantastic."
"It's a Hell of a lot more than any of us have been able to do," Jill said. "Fuck, I can almost always change my dreams but not these ones. It's like I'm trapped. Eric, I know you can change your dreams. So, how 'bout it? Have you been able to do anything? Change something?"
"No," Eric said after a moment.
"Then maybe Gale has something that we don't. I don't know what it is, if we can use it, but I do know that it's something, at least."
They were silent again. They had come to a lull in the conversation, all of them too tired to delve further into the information that they had collected. Some of them watched the movie for a little bit, got some laughs. Jill stared at Gale, confused and slightly threatened by the silent revelation that had just occured a few minutes ago. Gale herself mainly ignored Jill's looks. She kept glancing over her shoulder at the fence around the drive-in. A few minutes later, Jill knew why.
"Here she comes," Gale said.
She got out of her car and ran over to the fence. On the other side of it, a girl came rolling towards the theater. She was on a skateboard. When she got to the fence, she took off the headphones she was wearing and Jill recognized her: it was Tiffany, who lived down the street.
Gale found the spot in the fence that had been pried open some years back - never fixed - and helped Tiffany through. The two girls walked to the truck, Tiffany with the skateboard under one arm. She got into the car and unslung the backpack she wore, opening it up.
"Everyone, this is Tiffany Violet," Gale said.
Tiffany looked up from her backpack and gave them all a slight nod, returned to rummaging. Jill spread her hands in a "What's she doing here?" gesture. Gale shrugged. But Eric said what everyone was thinking:
"What the fuck is she doing here?" he said.
"She's my friend," Gale said.
"Since when?" Jill asked.
"Yesterday."
Stanley nodded while the rest of them looked confused. He patted Gale on the shoulder while Tiffany wasn't looking, gave her a thumbs up.
"Do you really think she should be here?" Bobby asked.
"She lives on the same street as the rest of us do," Gale said.
"You're all talking about me like I'm not here," Tiffany said.
"Sorry," Jill said.
"Whatever," Tiffany said.
Finally, she found what she was looking for. She pulled it out of her backpack with a satisfied little sigh and tossed it up into the bed of the truck. Jill picked it up.
It was a little magazine, black & white, xeroxed and held together with large staples. There was a blurry picture of a rather ordinary-looking man on the cover. The title read:
MAN OF YOUR DREAMS
"What is this?" Eric said, looking over Jill's shoulder.
"It's a zine," Tiffany said.
"What?" Bobby said.
"Like a punk zine or sci-fi zine," Tiffany explained. "You know, like something kids or teenage fans make. But it's about Freddy."
"Where did you find this?" Jill said, thumbing through the pages.
"At this little bookshop I go to sometimes. It's downtown. I've found a couple issues there over the last few months. I don't know who's making them but there's some interesting things there. I decided to bring the ice cream truck issue."
"Ice cream truck?" Stanley said.
He got out of Gale's car and climbed into the bed of the truck. He looked over Jill's shoulder as well, reading silently.
By now, the second feature - House - had started after a brief "Let's all go to the lobby" interlude. The creepy soundtrack to the film scored their discussion.
"It's like children's drawings," Tiffany said, "and snatches of homework assignments, like 'What I did on my summer vacation' kind of stuff, but really twisted. Some old pictures and one newspaper article. The connection is the ice cream truck. They all say that Freddy used to use an ice cream truck to pick up his victims."
"I didn't find that anywhere," Jill said.
"It's not in any of the official paperwork, except that newspaper article, so I don't know if it's true or not. But Freddy's sort of a boogeyman, right?"
"Right," Eric said.
"Well, what if it doesn't matter what he was before he died? What if it only matters what we make of him? The horror show that we turn him into with our fears. These kids thought that ice cream trucks were kinda creepy, had dreams about them and most of them are dead now. So Freddy has an ice cream truck that he can use in the dreams now."
"So you believe Jill here?" Eric said. "You think she's on to something?"
"Oh, yeah," Tiffany said. "I've been having dreams about him, too."
Eric was silent.
"We got everybody these," Jill said after a moment.
She and Gale handed out the Stay Awake pills, two bottles for everyone. Eric looked at his, shook his head.
"Take these whenever you feel tired," Jill said.
"Make coffee and cigarettes your friend," Gale said.
"Caffeine, soda," Jill said. "Sugar, candy. Go nuts. Stay awake. Going to sleep means death."
"I can't believe this," Eric said. "I can't believe I'm buying all this. But I am."
They talked all the way through the second feature, and kept talking while the first feature started up again, late into the night.
All they could decide on was that they were probably all fucked.
7
The next day - Monday morning, early. Bobby tried to concentrate on football practice, tried to stay awake, no matter what. He sucked on the field, incurring the wrath of Riley, who rode him on every mistake, every little screw-up.
"Garfield!" Coach screamed after a particularly bad throw Bobby had attempted went horribly wrong. "What the Hell do you call that?! Are you throwing daisies out there instead of pigskin?! Jesus H Christ, boy, get your head in the game!"
Bobby sat out a play, on the bench, head in his hands. He slapped himself in the face several times, took a swig of Gatorade. Had to stay awake. Had to.
"Garfield, you're up!" Coach called him back in the game.
Bobby got up from the bench, ran out into the field, assumed the position. Several of his teammates started laughing. He looked around, nervous.
"Garfield, what the Hell is the matter with you?!" Coach called. "Forget your uniform?!"
He looked down, saw that he was naked. Shit, he was dreaming. He was asleep! How could he wake himself up?
Then he saw him.
The man standing behind Coach, a hand on his shoulder. Freddy. He decided to continue on with the play. Maybe he'd wake up if he got hit - hard - by Riley or someone blocking him.
The ball was hiked to him and he went back to throw it. But it didn't feel right. Something was wrong with it. It felt squishy. He looked at it and saw that it was a literal pig skin: a football made out of the skin of a recently dead pig and stitched together haphazardly.
And it was leaking.
Blood poured out of the stitches, covering his hand and travelling down his arm. Oh, God, let this dream end. Why hadn't he been tackled by now?
He looked up and saw that everyone on the field was just standing and watching him. Riley took off his helmet and shook his head, remained silent. Bobby felt the football in his hand crush and watched as it came apart, guts spilling out of it. That was when he saw that the skin of the ball had a face on it.
It was Jill's face.
Not pig skin, then. Human skin.
He dropped it in disgust, screamed, backed away from it. Someone yelled, "Fumble!" and there was suddenly a pile-up of beefy football players on top of the disgusting ball. He shook his head, continued backing up.
That was when the ground gave out under him. It was like quicksand. The grass under his feet grabbed him, pulled him under. He grasped at the ground, tyring to hold on, but it was no good. He was pulled under entirely.
There was utter blackness for a few moments, then he felt ground - no, strike that, floor. He felt floor. He was on his knees on some kind of floor.
He got up, looked around. Light slowly faded in and he saw that he was in the locker room off the football field. Time had advanced. All of the other players were showering after practice. Now, his nudity wasn't an issue, so that was something, at least.
He tried to act naturally, walked into the shower, grabbed a bar of soap on the way. He stood under a showerhead, cleaned himself off. But something wasn't righ here, either. The water didn't feel right. It was heavy somehow. He cupped some of it in his hand, tasted it.
Sweat.
Pure sweat was showering down on him. He spit it out immediately and stepped back from the showerhead. Everyone else looked at him, shook their heads.
Slowly, everyone else faded out of existance, leaving only himself and Riley. The other young man seemed unaware of Bobby and simply showered, cleaning himself off. Bobby saw that Riley had a huge penis, much larger than his own. It was embarrassing. Bobby looked away. He felt inadequate in every way.
No, he thought. He had to face this.
He looked up, at Riley, but the other young man was gone. In his place was the man, himself.
Freddy Krueger, in all his glory.
It was all there: the fedora, the dirty red and green sweater, the hobo pants, the glove with razors on four fingers. He was horribly burned and - somehow even in the harsh light of the locker room - shrouded in shadow.
Bobby turned to run but Krueger was there, too. He grabbed Bobby's face with his non-gloved hand, wagged a razored finger reproachfully at him.
"No, no, no," Krueger said. "You're not going anywhere, musclehead."
Bobby kicked him in the stomach - a hard, powerful kick. Krueger let go of him. Bobby ran, deeper into the locker room, which now seemed to be row upon endless row of lockers.
How far could they possibly go? His question was answered when he saw the sun rising above a row of lockers in the far distance.
"Shit," he said.
He kept running. After a few moments, he couldn't hear Krueger behind him anymore. He had lost him.
That was when the boogeyman popped out of a locker just ahead of him, caught him again. As the boogeyman emerged from the locker, footballs fell out of the locker with him - hundreds of them, thousands of them - all of them made out of human skin, all of them with screaming faces stamped on them.
Krueger laughed, grabbed one of the footballs and forced Bobby's mouth open.
"Open wide!" he said.
And - impossibly - he stuffed the football down Bobby's throat. Bobby could feel the football forcing his windpipe open, cutting off his air, breaking his collarbone as it traveled further down his body. Laughing, Freddy grabbed another ball and shoved it down the boy's throat. And another.
And another.
And another.
Soon, Bobby was practically bursting with footballs. His face was blue, veins enlarged, gasping for air. His eyes were bleeding.
His final thoughts were of Jill. How he had failed her.
He never woke up.
On the football field, his body fell off the bench he had been sitting on, asleep, and hit the ground. A crowd was around him almost immediately. Riley pushed everyone else aside, administered mouth to mouth, tried as hard as he could to save him.
But it was no good.
Freddy had him now.
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The Dream Trap