Bitter Vengeance

by Quiet thief

A mother's love knows no bounds....read the inside please, and let me know what you think...thanks

Title: Bitter Vengeance

Author: Quiet thief

Rating: PG-13 (may become R, eventually)

Author's note: Read and review please! Thank you!

Summary: A mother from one of Krueger's victims calls upon a spirit to revenge her child's untimely death. However, this spirit has ideas of its own!

Disclaimer: Why the hell would I be writing this if I owned Krueger…wouldn't I be lying around on some random beach drinking non-alcoholic margaritas? Krueger belongs to New Line Cinema and Wes Craven…I own squat. The songs incorporated belong to their owners as well.

Springwood, Ohio

The storm howled outside, blasting its power upon the quiet suburbs; lightening and thunder crackled and rolled across the dark sky predicting prophecies that no one wanted to hear. Another, the thunder would roar, another is being taken. The lightening lit the way, targeting the house where the young boy, Cody Market, was being repeatedly slashed and stabbed by an invisible force. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. An invisible hand shushed his screams and his body could hardly thrash about; outside the lightening lit up the place where all was going horribly wrong. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. The boy let out a cry as the wind picked up speed and beat itself against the windowpane, screaming to be let in and create more havoc. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. The boy thrashed when the weight from his body would let him, but there was nothing that the boy could do but give into the horror; so he did, he let the horror become the victor and he the defeated. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. His dark, red blood trickled from the white sheets and down towards the hard wood floor, creating a puddle of abomination. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. The boy's body went limp and his dark eyes rolled themselves behind his head; death had claimed him, but his soul was claimed by another. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. His hand dropped from his body and his mouth remained only slightly open, giving off another lingering breath. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. Another, roared the thunder, another is being taken. Another is being taken, another is being taken, another is being taken, another is being taken, another is being taken, roared the almighty thunder. And the lightening simply lit up the house of horrors for all to see.

Judy woke up with a start, feeling her heart jump into her throat and beating rapidly. Her house was quiet, too quiet, and immediately her motherly instincts kicked in. There was the missing sound of breathing; a sound that could only be fine-tuned during maternity. The house with its unnatural quietness beckoned the frightened mother to get out of bed and rush towards her child's side. A breeze swept Judy aside, pushing itself through the long, dark corridor; it chilled the bones of the frightened mother as well as chilling the interior of the house. The light from the lightening showed through a semicircle window, casting an uneasy feel as though the house was anticipating something. It felt as though it were holding its breath, waiting to shout surprise. Outside, things tapped along the exterior portions of the house; they whispered dark, inhuman things in the shadow's refuge and storm's raging temper; they spoke of evil, vile things; they spoke of him.

She crept along, holding her fears within. Her brain begged of her to go back to sleep, while her heart pleaded for her not to give up. Something was wrong and the heart did not lie about its own gut feelings. Her hands shook when they reached her son's doorknob, and slowly, they turned and pushed the door away from the threshold. The room was moving with dancing macabre shadows, but her son lay in the bed, dreaming deeply. Too deeply, she thought; she commanded her feet to move forward, and they knew that they should not. Come on, she scolded, come on. Just move! Let me see my baby. They refused; they outwardly refused. Come on damn it! Come on, she screamed; but her mechanics blatantly refused. She saw, with her deep brown eyes, that her boy was too pale for words. Her boy's chest would not move up and down in the fashion of normal breathing; her boy's hand lay limply off of the bed, dripping with deep red blood. Oh My GOD, her brain screamed. Her heart sunk and her hand made its way to her mouth, hoping that it could stop Judy's stomach convulsions. But the bile pushed its way past her hand-sentry and flowed freely towards the floor, intermixing with her son's blood. Oh MY GOD, screamed her mind. OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD…

The police were not as helpful as she would have liked them to be. Most of them stood around, holding cups of coffee, speaking in low, monotonous voices. A few offered her some coffee, but when she refused they simply left her where she sat. A whisper here and a look there confirmed her fears that they not only did not care about her unfortunate circumstance, but that they felt that their presence was not needed. I bet they think that I did it, she thought viciously. I bet they think I killed my little boy; that's what it is. I bet that they will find a way to plant evidence against my favor and make it seem as though this was all my fault. And that damn storm is not helping my case at all. Cody, dear sweet Cody, who did this to you? Who killed you, my sweet and precious Cody? She turned her head when she heard the voice of the coroner describe the scene as "supernaturally sound" and as "fitting his description". So, they have an idea on who did this. Tell me; I'll kill the fucking bastard who did this! Tell ME! She kept her mouth shut for the better part of the investigation, hoping to catch more oddities in random conversations. There; there, those two…a glove holding four blades. There! Burnt and scarred! There! Red and green sweater! There…!" Her shoulder was tapped and she missed the last part of the conversation being held by a new officer and his elder. She turned her towards the officer who held out a steaming hot mug of coffee and asked if he could ask some questions. She obliged and readied herself for anything from hello to so, how did it feel to kill your own flesh and blood?

He offered a friendly, non-threatening smile and began with the simple formalities of hello and my name is bullshit. She winced when he began, but answered everything he asked in a sorrowful, heart-wrenching tone. Her name was Judy Market, she had only one child (now and forever to be deceased), her husband was away on business, the house alarm was always turned on at night, and with the raging storm outside, she had heard nothing. He nodded with approval and seemed moved by the way she felt. He offered her his condolences; she retorted with a non-thanking response and turned away. The paramedics brought her son down in the black body bag and tried to remain as careful as they could, but when they hit the corner wall, she hit the roof. Her hysterics were uncontrollable and the police found themselves torn apart; a few held her down, speaking in careful tones, but she would have none of it. I'll kill the fucking bastard that did this! I swear I'll kill the fucking bastard that did this! I'll rip him apart, she screamed. Finally, a young, training paramedic grabbed a tranquilizer from the truck and handed over to an elderly cop who had quite enough years with these types of scenes. When the siren died down in the background, amidst the thunderous voice of the storm, he jabbed her right arm, hitting the correct vein, quickly sending her to a fitful slumber.

The police spoke in hushed tones; especially the elder ones. "It has to be him; there cannot be any better an explanation; he's come back again." A few of the officers nodded in agreement, while the rest were busy staring off into space. A pack had been made never to speak his name in their quiet neighborhood. By speaking his name only meant that you acknowledged his presence and to acknowledge his presence only meant that others would be forced to acknowledge him as well, until everyone remembered and no one bothered to sleep. Coffee would become man's best friend; Hypnocil would rule the shelves of the local pharmacy once again; every teenager and child would have a prescription. Even the adults; nothing about this had to get out. Nothing. "It has to be him…didn't you see those long, jagged cuts. Four of them in a row! Nothing like that could be natural. The abomination is back. Shit, now we have to pump everyone with drugs again. Shit, shit, shit, shit." A low murmur from everyone else was the only agreement needed. "That bastard…that bastard is supposed to be dead! We killed him! Most of us here helped with the planning. Fuck, Donald planned the entire thing out himself!" Another murmur was used as a form of agreement. "With Donald dead and his daughter gone…what the hell are we supposed to do now? How the hell are we going to fight this now?"

A low voice answered the question raised. "Forget…forget this ever happened. We'll find someone else to pin this on. Then we'll forget it ever happened."

Another voice, more menacing, spoke with a determined purpose. "Blame the mother…after all, wouldn't that be easier? Instead of word spreading around that a dead serial killer has come back from the grave, we'll just arrest the mother. End of story and end of him."

A pack was made never to speak his name. And with a mix of self-anger and pride in their hearts, they all gave into the suggestion. One by one they fell and crumbled into the sea of terror.

He stood inside his boiler room, laughing his little maniacal laugh. His blades gleamed with appeasement as dark red blood dripped from their tips. His dusty brown fedora sat on the floor; with a quick swipe, it was back in its rightful place, donning the third degree burned head of the man whose name could not be mentioned. His feet turned around, dancing with glee at the thought that they were remembering him, slowly, his evil deeds were encompassing their minds. They would remember and that was all he really needed. His blades tapped along the metal pipes, hitting them in a certain succinct rhythm. His red and green sweater held some of Cody's blood; but to him it was only a souvenir, a little reminder of the power he still held. He would always hold. Nothing, nothing those damn mortals could do would force him from his throne of darkness and maliciousness. If he wanted to kill the sons of those who murdered him then damn it he would do so; if he wanted to molest and kill the daughters of those who murdered him then damn it he would do so. If they refused to believe in his power, then he would make them believe in it all over again. He held power! He would show them that he held power! He would make them remember!

She landed on the floor with a thud; the hissing sound of angry steam entered her ear; the sound of metal scratching upon metal caused her to sit up and widen her eyes to her surroundings. Everything looked distorted, but she knew actually where she was. The infamous boiler room that held the infamous child killer; she stood up quickly and wondered how the hell she ended up in the place where the children cried and sobbed for their parents. She was not a child. She was an adult; as far as the legends went, he only killed children. That's it! That bastard killed Cody! That's it! She scanned her surroundings with watchful eyes and wondered if perhaps, this was part of her imagination. After all, he was dead. Dead and gone; nothing could bring him back. Unless the other part of the legend was true. Unless someone on Elm Street remembered his murder spree, remembered his power, remembered his face.

Someone remembered his horrifying face. Someone on Elm Street remembered.

Forest floor of the Catskills

The trees loomed over the deer, which seemed frozen in time. Its eyes widened with fear and a front foot lightly touched the ground in front of it; it pawed the cold earth and waited for a reaction from the still, horrifying night. Everything was quiet, everything was still and the night waited for the ominous chase between life and death; the deer moved quickly in stiff movements, as though a greater being held a remote and made the poor creature move in slow, jerked motions. A crow flew out of the brush and cawed at the deer, taunting and teasing the poor frightened beast; the black messenger of death waited to see what kind of death would be dealt to the deer: would it be quick or would it be agonizingly long. The deer's ears moved, facing every direction, waiting for a sound of terror to leap out so it could leap away and into safety. The crow cawed again in a laughing manner, just as a bully's henchmen might tease and taunt a weakling. The swift, supernatural wind picked up and right away the deer ran; the crow followed cawing out directions to the spirit that hungered for blood. The deer leaped to and fro, attempting to outrun anything and everything. Wolves would catch hold of the scent of fear and follow for scraps; the crow and its family would loom over and pick at its bones until the morning rose; but it was the hungry, god-like spirit that wandered the woods that frightened the deer most of all. It had yellowed, aged eyes, dark, mangled hair, and sharp, jagged teeth that had ripped apart both beast and man. It was lean and fast, too fast for the human eye to catch. It was the perfect predator. Though, when the deer headed elsewhere during the winter, it took another shape, one that the deer had not seen; it took a change when it wanted human bone, human flesh, and human blood. The deer moved forward, the crow continued to follow with ease.

The spirit found the deer leaping over fallen trees, large rocks, and overgrown roots. It was fast, swift and undoubtedly fearful of it, which pleased it enormously. The look of pure, unadulterated terror in its eyes was amusing to the spirit. With the quietness of the owl's wing, it took flight after the prey, hardly caring whether or not the crow lost sight of it. The smell of fear was all that truly mattered. The spirit's yellowed eyes narrowed when its prey made a quick turn towards the left; it was a strategy that was hardly becoming of any deer. It followed in pursuit, allowing a big enough gap to give the deer a sense of false hope and accomplishment. The spirit snarled like the wild thing it was and charged forward, using its complete energy to overpower the frightened prey. It snapped it teeth into the soft flesh in the neck and with the ease of an expert, broke the bones within the neck, killing the deer instantly. The crow cawed loudly, protesting that the kill was too easy and that the death was much too merciful. The spirit snarled in reply with a bloodied muzzle. Its jagged teeth, serrated on the edges, tore through the warm, guzzling flesh with ease. The deer's spirit left the body and floated towards the heavens; this spirit did not need the souls of its kills, it only wanted the taste of blood and the hunt for blood. The crow continued to annoy the spirit, which had devoured the stomach contents and had begun to gnaw ferociously near the chest cavity. The crow protested that the kill was too easy and ended much too swiftly; the spirit smirked with amusement, underneath the dripping meat and warm blood. It was amused by the aggressiveness of its companion and amused at the thought of killing the damn annoying pest within one leap and one snap; but it resisted. The crow had a purpose, just as the spirit had its own. In the world where life and death were the only rules to live by, it was easy to see why the crow lived. Amusement, without the form of hunting and killing, was rare; the crow was therefore amusing, but soon it would be amusing the spirit's ever-insatiable hunger for flesh. And sadly, the crow understood that.

The spirit finished its meal quickly, leaving a few scraps for the dogs and other scavengers; it watched with joy as the wolves and crows bickered over which parts belong to whom. A snap here, a vicious insult there, all in the language that humans long ago lost for a world of technology; it was there, in that guttural, vulgar language that lay life and death. There was nothing like the wilds, nothing like the forest floor, and there was nothing like the spirit that lived in the woods in the Catskills. Nothing like the spirit that some called the wendigo. Yes, there was nothing like a wendigo.

The crow cawed loudly and fluttered up towards a branch that allowed it to look over the cleanly picked bones; the spirit leaped up next to it, blood dripping down its muzzle. It growled loudly scarring even the most vicious of wolves, which were feeding upon the legs and head of the deer. Its blank eyes were dull, but still held that state of utter panic. The small, red tongue hung out of his mouth as though it was trying to lick up the last remaining stubble of grass. The bones were picked cleaned, nothing but a fluorescent, ghostly pale color showed. It was a beautiful kill. An absolutely beautiful kill.

The yellow-eyed, silent stalker walked its woods, appeased with its meal sitting inside its stomach. It cleaned its face off before the blood could mat its long, dark hair and dark, shaggy fur. Besides, the corpse would be found the next day; bumbling hunters loved to share a good campfire story about a huge, demonic beast that roamed the woods. Hell they might want to go so far as claiming to have seen it in action. The spirit gave out a short, hoarse laugh that sounded very much like a cough; hunters that had indeed seen it were killed immediately. But the stories that came back into the woods intrigued the spirit. Sometimes it would transform into a more pleasing form, just to hear clips and pieces of these tall tales. How close some of these hunters came to actually describing it surprised even the spirit; even though, the actual height was exaggerated greatly. But that was the least of their worries; for the most part, they only had to worry about being caught unaware and without much protection. Its teeth and long, deadly claws were the only things that truly scared humans; its eyes could see into their wicked souls and visit their sinful pasts. Then, it would laugh and devour. Laugh and devour them in large pieces.

The crow cawed a bit more before flying off into the night to taunt and tease another weakling. The spirit was glad that it left; sometimes it became too annoyed with the crow and would readily snap at the bird, its stained teeth showing with pure ferocity. With its sharp eyes, it watched the forest floor and sky, hunting for another round. This time it hoped to come across a moronic hunter; there was something about human flesh and blood that was just tastier than animal. And the hunt was better too.

The old man near that owned the lodge heard the long exaggerated tale too many times to count on both hands and feet. John Logger, a local hunter with a reputation as bad as his lies, was re-telling his adventure with the wendigo creature. "It was this big!" he exclaimed to a bunch of skittish newcomers and vacationers. "And its teeth were jagged and serrated. Every piece of it rank with the scent of death; its yellow eyes stared deeply into my soul and it could count all the evil deeds I had performed in my lifetime. Well, as soon as it took a step forward, I ran for my life, screaming at the top of my lungs! No way was this Devil going to catch me! I dodged fallen trees and random stumps; I crossed over small streams and fell down quite a few times. I was lucky, because I not only smelled like deer and not like myself, but it had a bad limp from when my friend, God rest his soul, shot at it." Eyes from his listeners widened with surprise and anticipation. The only non-participant was the owner, who cast serious glances over at his gullible customers. "When it runs, it's silent. Almost as though it could fly, because it will snatch you up in an instant. Many a good hunters have died out there in these woods, not because of the wildlife, but because of the damn Devil; we're like cattle to it, cattle that it can round of up and pick off." He made a motion with his hands that startled the deep listeners. "Gotta be careful here, in the Catskills; the dead deer are the least of your worries. It's when you hear the scraping against your window; then you know it has found you and has picked you as its next big meal. It will find you no matter where you run; it will even follow you home if it has to. It will kill you in the security of your home. Just when your eyes begin to close, then you will see it, with its large gaping jaws open and ready to swallow. Ready to swallow you whole." John looked to his right and noticed a small boy shiver with fear and gave him a reassuring grin. "Don't worry kiddo," he began, "the wendigo will eat you up very, very quickly." He snapped his teeth together and the kid bustled out from where his was and hurried over to the safety of his mother's arms. She, the mother, gave John a narrowed look that read fuck off, but he simply shrugged it off. He was used to the audience member that hated his guts; after all, most of his town hated him. One gets used to it after a while.

Jess, the owner of the lodge, stood behind the bar and stifled a hardy laugh when the mother gave his worst customer the look. It never got old; never, especially when John deserved it. His stories were getting bolder and bolder each and every day; the beast became bigger, the teeth became longer, the claws became sharper, the ferocity was more intense, and its power defied all logic. Yes, it was just another tale tall used to scare off visitors. Hell, even he defied some logic. His silver ponytail was not at all what most "outsiders" considered normal; the ruggedness of the wild made sure that a Super Cuts was the bottom of his priority list. His steely green eyes watched everything, including the cloaked figure sitting at the end of the bar, hidden underneath the shadows. Jess sighed loudly when the child stuck his meager little tongue out at John and then went about to follow his mother everywhere. John shrugged again, unaffected by the treatment. The cloaked figure coughed gruffly then went back to his drink of pure whiskey. Jess wiped down the bar with a torn rag and waited for John to move his ass over to a stool to discuss his failed attempted to scare off anyone. Eventually, the repeated ritual came to life.

John sat down and ordered his usual, gulping most of it down in one sig. Jess shook his head and advised him against doing that, while John smirk, asked for another one, and did it again. Both men could not hold back a good laugh and they did not attempt too that evening. "Boy Jess," began John, wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve, "I say, these outsiders are getting guts of iron now. No good campfire story will scare the crap out of them. Soon, we'll be overrun by them and their damn 'better than thou' ways. The wildness will be gone before I die!" Jess looked over his shoulder and watched as the little boy clung to his mother. "That boy will become a corporate snake before he ever becomes a true man. If he ever becomes a man!" John slunk down and waited for a response. Any response; one was needed to keep the game going.

John smirked and poured him one more glass. "If you kept all your damn stories to yourself or if you told them better than maybe I would care about your damn opinion. My great-great grandfather built this place and I refuse to see you place it in the ground. Give me the spending population and I'll never want again!" He took the bottle away from John and gave him a good-old fashion Ha-ha-ha look. "If the bar stays, John, your good times will continue to roll."

John looked at Jess, smiled and replied in a very gentlemanly way. "I hate you."

"I hate you too, man. I hate you too."

The spirit found the old lodge to be a pleasure. It provided a sense of false security to the visitors that came out of the city, fresh and weak blood and flesh. It snarled at nothing in particular before leaping out of the tree and landing very, very softy onto the ground below. The smell of fresh, untainted blood was driving the spirit crazy with blind rage. Its voice sounded like dry, crack leaves rustling together in the fall; it spoke in a low, dangerous tone. "Fresh meat. Fresh, fresh, fresh meat…a child's dream, a parents' fear, and fresh, fresh meat." It walked strangely towards the lodge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the innocent flesh it smelled. If anything could catch a single sight of it, the child could because children always knew that real monsters did exist. It was the parents who were mistaken. It swept quickly across the land, as though it glided on an owl's wings, and hid from the sight of normal men. The child rested his head on his mother's lap, sleeping soundly despite the terrifying story. His dark hair and fine curls made it hard for the spirit to stay hidden. It always had a sick fascination with twisting and pulling the curls out of little boys' heads. It shuffled its feet, watching the boy breathe in and out, in and out, in and out. It opened its teeth and bit down upon the glass causing a slight screeching sound; it was not enough to alarm anyone, but enough to leave a large scratch mark on the window. It was enough to serve as a warning. It was enough to warn the boy that true danger was near and waiting especially for him.

Night grew darker and darker, covering the land with its eerie-ness and supernatural frights; the spirit hung in dark shadows, still smelling the scent of the boy and going mad with ecstasy. It gnashed and gnawed its teeth together in frustration, wanting badly to break down the door and kill all the people inside; that was what made it different from its other relatives: it thought and planned out a strategy when it came to bloody mortals! Humans would notice if certain people never came back home, military action would take place and another damn hunt would begin, ceasing only when the hunt succeeded in killing a fool-hardy spirit. Then the cover-ups would begin, but the overly exaggerated and overly needed magazines would pick up on the importance of the witch hunt and categorize it as another "end of the world" scenario. The spirit growled with anger and need, but it waited and planned. The crow was not useful in this situation so it stay back in the forest; it figured that the crow, a messenger of death, would warn the human fools and that they would make an escape in the light. Not that a morning flight would help any of the fools, it just made it harder to disguise the fact that, yes, a "Wendigo or Witigo or Witiko or Wee-Tee-Go" did live in the woods. And, yes, it did kill and eat over hundreds and hundreds of humans over the eternity of years it lived.

It plotted when the night grew silent and still. It plotted and convinced the night to go along with the plan. It plotted to destroy life.

The boy foreign deep sleep when his over-protective mother came in to kiss him goodnight. It was something that he was growing used to and something that his mother would never figure out. The night was still and silent, not a single creature stirred and not a single creature spoke. His mind wandered to the deep pits of his imagination and there he thought of all the things that the animals spoke of. His mind always favored the crafty, devilish fox; it was the fox that could bring about the most mischief, but also have the simplest solutions to any problem. The fox in his newest scenario heard that the swift rabbit was plotting a revolt against the predators of the forest, hoping to overthrow them in a single blow. Kill the wolves first since they were by far the fastest and the most intelligence of the predators in the forest. They also had the most endurance, which rivaled the swiftness of the rabbit. So, it was up to the fox to think of a solution to the rabbit problem, which was rather simple really. He told the wolves to leave for a month's time and he told the other smaller predators to hunt in other lands for the same time being. Eventually the herbivores would come to understand that the rabbits had the biggest appetites; food would be rare to find. The fox was correct in his assessment; when the wolves came back, the rabbits fled. They were ousted and the wolves had their own harvest. If anything, the boy felt that his imagination was logical and that punishment was dealt where it should be; his large eyes watched the shadows dance upon the walls, teasing him with all their might. The shadows always knew; the shadows always knew when weakness could be exploited. He crawled under the covers more and more, waiting for sleep to overcome him. He waited, just as he always had.

The spirit found the window that lead to the boy's room; peeking inside, it saw the breathing patter of its meal. Normal, everything was normal, which was bad. If his breathing was normal then that meant that the child was still awake and it hated to kill children when they were awake…it meant a messier job. It preferred to have a clean kill and stun the living onlookers. Especially the parents; how it loved to pop their little, superficial bubble. A life for a life after all; a life for a life.

He popped his head out from under the covers and watched the shadows dance frantically about; his eyes followed their strange, theatrical movements and for a sudden, unexplained moment, he saw the white, glistening teeth.

The spirit moved silently underneath the window, pacing back and forth with fuming anger. Its intended victim would not sleep and this was first for the forest spirit. Never before had it seen a human child refuse sleep with such ease. It was as though the boy had been trained. But still, the night was young, very young, and it had an eternity.

He hid once again under the covers and shook with fear. Something wicked was out there, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Something was out there, waiting. Always and forever waiting for the perfect time to kill. He could feel its breath upon the back of his neck; it was warm and moist. He could feel its white, gleaming teeth sink into his soft, exposed flesh and tear savagely. He could feel his screams rise in his throat, but he gulped them back down again. It was waiting outside, waiting to claw up his flawless, innocent body. It was waiting to crush his pumping heart; it was waiting to swallow up his pathetic screams. It was waiting, always waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting…

The spirit rolled out its grotesque pink tongue and tasted the air for a catch of the boy's scent. When it finally found a particle, it savored the succulent taste. It was like catching a snowflake; it melted and dribbled down its throat. Its body ached for more than just a measly taste; its body wanted to drink and lap up the sweet/sour blood. It wanted and needed and yearned. Its yellow eyes scanned the room quickly and found that everything was to its advantage, including the fact that the mother locked the door leading into the room. That was absolutely delicious. Truly, this was a moment that it savored; when the onlookers would help death with its nightly duties only to wonder why death had such an easy time. The window was perfect, all it needed was a crack; a crack would provide enough room to sink in and sink back out. Its jaws would silence the screams, it claws would rip apart the flesh with ease; the boy was waiting there, always waiting. Tonight, he would no longer be waiting. He would discover that the dark did indeed have teeth. It would bite back.

The boy closed his eyes and felt the dream world take in; it was cradling his fragile body, rocking him into a restful slumber. But he did hear his window creak open a bit. Just a little bit…

It slipped in undetected, which was fortunate, because the warm beating heart was driving it mad. Rage, need, ecstasy and blindness were driving it onward; there was no fear within its cold, icy heart. There is nothing to fear when one is considered nearly immortal and when easy prey does not realize or see a definite weakness. Its yellow eyes searched and found the large lump in the middle of the bed. Its heightened sense of smell could find the smell of blood flowing within the boy's neck. And experience told it where the vulnerable neck lay. Hidden underneath blankets, covered by a trembling hand lay the weak point of its prey. It licked its lips and crawled forward, hidden by numerous shadows; the bed was there, unprotected, as always. It has waited and waited. It left a message. Jess should have seen it by now; but it was too late. It touched the bottom of the bed and sniffed the air one last time. When not a single frightened cry entered its ears, it struck with pure, unadulterated ferocity.

The boy opened his eyes once as soon as the heavy weight pressed itself down upon his fragile body. But before he could cry out to his mother, his throat was torn by a single large claw; then he felt his life slip away, as the creature sucked and drank the warm, tender, delicious, untainted, pure…

Springwood, Ohio

Judy woke up feeling rather dizzy; she was unable to stand for fear that her legs would give out and caused her body to crash onto her hardwood floor. Her vision was blurry, but she was able to pick out a single form walking steadily towards her. "Oh, my baby," she began, "I had the most horrific dream that you were taken from me and that…" She began to notice that the form was growing bigger with each step it took, much too large to be her own offspring. "Cody? What's wrong dear? What's wrong with you?" She rubbed her eyes furiously and waited for the random colored dots to fade. They left and in their place stood a rather tall police officer, shaking his head maliciously.

"Cody, ain't here anymore…you ought to know that bitch!"

She drew in a breath and held it there for a moment, unable to grasp the concept of what the rude officer just told her. "What are you still doing in my house?" she asked with only a tint of anger in her voice. "What aren't you doing your job?"

"We did," was all the reply she received before he turned on his heel and walked away. She shook her head again and finally other sounds entered her ears. Phones, many phones, were ringing, operators were talking loudly, and officers were whispering amongst themselves. And there she was, being held in a rather public cell where the officers could plainly see her and laugh.

"Where's my boy?" she cried out; her hand reached for the door and missed it by inches, causing her balance to fail miserably. "Where is my Cody? Dammit! Answer me!" She watched with complete horror as the officers began to mimic her desperate cries; each one would scrunch up their face and mock her in a high-pitch squeak. It was a revolting sight to behold and an operator, young, stuck her tongue out at the jesters. One stuck his tongue back at her when she turned away and motioned for his friends to continue on with the masquerade.

"Where is my boy!" she cried out, louder than even she anticipated. The room was silent, with the exceptions of the ever-pesky phones; a rather rugged cop walked over to the holding cell, needle in hand and a fire in his eye. "Ma'am," he began with his tone hitting danger levels. "Ma'am, we finished our jobs…your boy is dead. And you're the only one who knows what happened. We questioned, you denied. And now, after 8 hours of peace and quiet from you, you ask us why we aren't doing our job? Lady, why didn't you do yours and being a fucking mother to your child?" He leaned in dangerously close, only the bars separated mother and mercenary. "Forensics found your prints all over his body, Ma'am" he sneered, leaning in closer and closer, "which leaves us to believe that our job is over." He pulled away and let his words sink into Judy's heart. "Come on, boys!" he bellowed loudly for everyone to hear, "let's leave her be!"

She stared at the officers, who threw her dirty looks as they walked out into the dangerous world of Springwood, Ohio. Something did not make any sense. They looked to her as if she…no it could not be possible! She loved Cody with all of her heart. There was something amidst. There was something controlling the scene; and then she remembered. Suddenly poked and nagged at her subconscious, hoping to push it up towards the surface. "What about Fred Krueger?"

An officer turned around, a look of amazement was plastered all over his young face. "Ma'am?" he questioned ready to hear what she had to say; however, the older cop with the fire in his eyes placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head with a distinct no. He nodded and let the older officer turn him away from her.

She tried harder. "He killed Cody, didn't he?" Her eyes widened, when she noticed his eyes for a split second look towards the ground. "He killed him…there's the proof in your eyes. I know that bastard killed my beloved boy! DAMMIT LISTEN TO ME! DON'T YOU DARE TURN YOUR BACKS ON ME!" She gripped the cell bars and screamed, "FRED KRUEGER KILLED MY CHILD AND YOU SICK BASTARDS WANT TO PEG THIS ON ME! HOW DARE YOU NOT FACE THE TRUTH! HOW DARE YOU NOT FACE THE REAL CULPRIT! HOW DARE YOU PLACE CODY'S BLOOD ON MY HANDS! HOW DARE YOU LET KRUEGER GET AWAY WITH MURDER! AGAIN!"

"Forget her; she's just a rambling murderess."

He watched, impressed by the strength she. In fact, it took a lot to impress Krueger; he narrowed his steel-blue eyes and let his blades dance across the metal pipes within the boiler room; they clicked and clacked impatiently. They were already dried and eagerly awaiting for more. "Soon," he muttered, "soon their blood will flow freely and fill the streets. Soon, they will become my children; they will be mine to cradle, to hold, to torture. Yes, "he hissed, "they will love me and I shall rule over them. I shall have their respect, their admiration, their fear, and their obedience. I shall have them forever and forever and forever." He smirked to himself, waiting for another Elm brat to drift to sleep. "Yes, my dears, soon you shall all be mine."

Judy waited in the cell, watching as officers and operators weaved in and out. She had already asked to speak to her attorney, but the public phone was being used by a local drug dealer who looked old enough to be starting his senior year in highschool. She did not dare to use it afterwards. The throbbing pain in her arm was dulling as each hour past and she wondered briefly about it for a while, but it was not something that she wished to dwell on. Right now, all she wanted to do was call her husband and her attorney; right now all she wanted to do was wake up from this horrible nightmare. The young operator pushed herself way from her desk and sighed heavily; it was break time and she seemed ready for one.

She was young, perhaps a 22 year-old; she rubbed her temple with slow, thoughtful strokes. "What a day," she mumbled under her breath. "What a day." Her golden locks fell in front of her sea-blue eyes, which had been staring at paperwork all day. Her ears were also ringing from the numerous phone calls she had received on her shift alone. Her hands moved from her temples and ran harshly through her hair. "Argh!" she cried out, though only Judy heard it. "This sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks, THIS SUCKS!" She stood up, watched the papers with such disdain that it was amazing that she did not light them up on fire. "Just disappear," she hissed, waving her hands in the air. But they stayed there, mocking her, taunting her, pressuring her. "Please," she begged, "please, please, please just disappear! Please!! " A few people watched her, snickering at her childish-antics, but she hardly seemed to notice or care. Judy lowered her eyes, but listened as the young girl tried to bribe her work with promises of …well, nothing important. "Please go away…be finished, be finished now! I'm gonna count to three and if you aren't finished by then, well…no more Miss Nice Girl!" She counted and nothing happened; well, nothing good. "Grrrrrrrrr…" she growled.

Paul Sandstone was looking at the mother very closely, so afraid that if he missed any significant mood swings that he might lose his job. There were some certain personality dips he learned to watch during his training days and he felt that now, he could only heighten up these instincts. But, the mother was not giving anything that would make her seem, well…unworthy in his eyes. She looked like a beaten woman, dark and alone, in a place fit for the scum of the earth…sure, she was not in a state penitentiary, but for all she knew, she should have been. Her husband was gone, her child was really gone and she was in Hell's holding cell. He wanted to do something, anything that would help comfort the trembling woman, but that would not suit over well with the bosses. But could a cup of coffee really hurt?

He looked over a Lila Tucker and sighed. The young operator had caused enough mischief the other day to get her booted into boot camp, but none of the guys had the heart to reprimand her. Besides, most of them thought it was amusing that she could be so theatrical in an environment where people acted best with violence and bloodshed. She wasn't at all a stunning beauty, it was just her outrageous personality that allured many to her. Sure she had the hair, eyes, and almost perfect body, but if it was not for her infectious personality, no one would have really taken notice; and if they did it would be for the wrong reason. Paul shook his head when he watched her leave her work in mid-crisis and wished that he could perform the same damn trick. But alas, the boys would not have thought it was humorous to have one of their best having temper tantrums. They would have kicked him off the force and that would have been the end. This work was his life and no way in hell was he going to let it go…but could some coffee hurt the poor woman?

Lila got up and left, leaving Paul to wonder some more, this time without any distractions. His head was swirling with many thoughts all at once; ever since he joined this force, there was feeling that they were hiding something. He could see it in their eyes; there was a longing to put the past in a dark trunk, hidden away from the world's sight. He never really questioned it, but it was on his mind constantly; it gnawed on his conscience and teased his head.

Judy sat in the cell and hardly bothered to look up anymore. The cops knew something and they refused to say a word; she felt their lies rolling off of their backs every time they walked by. Whispers surrounded her; whispers about a long ago man; whispers about a long ago man who delighted in killing…children.

He would lure them with candy, ice cream, and promises of a good time.

He promised to be their friend.

He was the Son of a Hundred Maniacs.

He took them into the boiler room and let the hissing steam direct his inhuman intentions.

There he would play with them; he especially enjoyed playing with the little girls.

Into the boiler room he would lead them; the steam would hiss and snarl at their innocent faces.

He had claws.

Knives for fingers!

He would slash at them, tear their porcelain skin apart and drink up their screams.

How he would play with them!

He loved to touch their sweet curls.

He enjoyed touching their sweet faces.

He loved little girls.

And sometimes, he loved little boys.

Judy screamed.

"Yes bitch, scream for your pathetic son." He found his next intended victim amidst a dream involving a school dance. "Can't we have anything original?" he asked to no one in particular. "What the hell kind of fucking dream is this? Can't anyone be fucking original? Give me something that won't make me gag. Stupid bitch and her lame-ass prince fucking charming." He watched as the dark-haired girl was being swept off of her feet by the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Prince Charming. He had a dazzling smile and whispered the most precious of things in her ear.

Eve 6 played in the background.

So denied

So I lied

Are you the now or never kind?

In a day

And a day love, love

I'm gonna be gone for good again

Are you willing to be had?

Are you cool with just tonight?

Here's a toast

To all those who hear me all too well

Here's to the nights we felt alive

Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry

Here's to goodbye

Tomorrow's gonna come too soon

She sighed as he leaned in, kissing the side of her neck.

Put your name

On the line

Along with a place and time

Wanna stay

Not to go

I wanna ditch the logical

Here's a toast

To all those who hear me all too well

Here's to the nights we felt alive

Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry

Here's to goodbye

Tomorrow's gonna come too soon

All my time is frozen in motion

Can't I stay an hour or two or more

Don't let me let you go

Prince Charming nuzzled into her neck, taking in her apple scent; he muttered other words that fell upon her heart like a snow. They were fresh, wonderful, honest words; they were words that only she knew and only she could understand.

Here's to the nights we felt alive

Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry

Here's to goodbye

Tomorrow's gonna come too soon

Here's to the nights we felt alive

Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry

Here's to goodbye

Tomorrow's gonna come too soon

"May I cut in?"

Quickly, Prince Charming's head was lopped off and his body fell to the floor with a loud thud. "Such a tantalizing princess we have here." Freddy kicked the body away and listened as his newest victim screamed for her life. "So sweet, my little princess," he growled lustfully. "So sweet. Your screams are music to my ears." He held his blades high and his eyes already answered the question why: because she fell asleep; because she was in his territory; because he liked what he saw.

The forest floor of the Catskills Mountains

Jess knew immediately what had happened when the mother screamed early in the morning. He saw the scratch marks too late. He should have known that its hunger was fresh and alive when they arrived. The boy was just too tantalizing a meal to ignore. He was plump from the privileged life and as John said, he would have grown up to become a corporate snake. Now, he would not grow up at all. It came and went like the wind, leaving terror and blood in its evil wake. Apparently, the deer it normally hunted were becoming un-flavorful; the boy's blood had been drained. Nothing was left; not a single drop of blood. It must have tasted rather sweet. He continued to wipe down the bar; there was nothing he could do. The parents would have to flee and they would have another funeral…they could not take the body back. To take the body back would mean to bring the spirit out of the woods; it would follow its kill to new hunting grounds. In 1982, it happened. Too many people died. Many people covered it up. And the dead were brought back and buried; they were always buried somewhere secluded and always unmarked. Then, they had to forget. They had to forget the victims. They could not give it any fear to feed upon. None whatsoever, for fear was like a rich dessert to it; once it tasted its divine flavor, succulent in texture, and over-powering in fragrance, it would want more and more and more.

John walked in and sat down; he winced when the mother screamed again. "Boy, she's the loudest one yet." He took up the offered water that Jess put down and drank it. "So, will it be today or tomorrow?"

Jess grunted, " Tomorrow." The door upstairs slammed loudly and another scream reverberated all the way down to the lower part of the lodge. "You should scram John; she might expect you."

"Yeah, yeah…who hasn't yet?" He finished his water and made his way towards the door; by the time it closed, the mother, red-faced and teary-eyed, screamed at Jess to call the cops. "Someone's killed my baby!"

It watched with yellowed eyes as John left the lodge, shaking his head bitterly. Silently, it slithered its way over to him, to get a better look at his disappointed face. "It was a delicious kill," it whispered to no one in particular. "The boy's blood was so sweet; so innocent he was. Now he'll remain that way now and forever more." Its yellow eyes followed John's movements and widened when John leaned forwards and began to dry heave; his stomach tried to empty out whatever lay in its bottom, but all that came was water and bile, a disgusting combination. It watched, fascinated by John's reaction. It was always fascinated by human emotions, since it never had any; since, it never wanted to experience joy or sorrow or anger. It killed to eat. To survive; nothing more and nothing less was expected from it. And last night, it ate upon the sleeping boy.

John knew that it was watching him; he felt its presence and wondered if it dared to show itself after its little performance. Sometimes, it would walk out of the forest, disguised and speak in human tongue; it would ask about the kill, ask how it was discovered, and why they did not understand that nature governed them all. Nature was the master of the land; after all, was it not they who came up with survival of the fittest? It made sure that it was fit to survive the ever-changing world, which discarded the ancient, frightening environment with ease. John finished his reaction and wiped off the liquid that stuck to his chin with his already dirty sleeve. It would ask, but it would not ask now. It was much too early in the game to be asking questions. Waiting, that was the game now; waiting the storm out.

The mother could not be comforted by any words and the father had to be restrained until the local back-county cops came to knock sense into his head. The locals each looked at each other and wondered why it chose to strike that one particular boy; usually, it would feast upon the deer or it would strike one of their own, but now, it tasted a child's blood and flesh. They would now have to set up the curfew for an earlier time and begin to cleanse each and every house of bad karma; the unused church would be packed again and this time, children would be under strict guidance and watchful eyes. Tempers were bound to fly and words were bound to hurt and maim. People were bound to feel their pride slip away into the empty void that became their hell. It was back and now, it was ready to attack their own kindred.

The father boisterously declared that he would personally see to it that the lodge would be sued until every nail was in his hands. Jess sighed and continued to wipe down the bar, knowing that his words of condolences would fall upon deaf ears. The mother was just as loud, stating that she knew who did it. "It was that no good, loud-mouthed storyteller. He did it! He planted those horrible ideas into my boy's head and corrupted him. Now look! My poor boy is dead and gone! Dead and gone! Dead and gone!" She collapsed into a state of new tears and shook off the hands that held her down. "He did it! He did it! He did it!"

It changed when it heard the mother's voice and a sense of overwhelming pride and curiosity made it come out to investigate. It's voice changed from harsh, dry leaves in the late autumn to the sound of smooth, rich honey. The guise it took was unmistakingly innocent and pure; it made sure that only Jess and John would recognize it; only they and no one else. It walked in with the wind to its back and immediately tried to look down heartened for the poor mother's sake, but some things even a great actor could not do. It smirked, but hid it away from the mother's sight. Jess however, saw it and instantaneously knew what had walked in. A criminal always comes back to the scene of the crime and it was no exception to that rule. The mother looked up once and hardly noticed the new presence that entered; for all she could tell, the draft in the room became a few degrees cooler. The father did not even bother to raise his head from his hands and simply shuddered in recognition to the environment. It was pleased with what it saw and understood what had happened just by watching the humans dance around the subject of death. Apparently, losses are easier to endure when one has a target to strike at. It watched intrigued with the emotions seeping out and cascading downward towards the ground; all of this was coming out of the pores of the mortals. This was truly, entertainment.

The town's only doctors sedated the parents and wheeled them off to the hospital where they would become so drugged up that they would have little to no memory of what happened. Only when the drugs would wear off would they tell them a new story about their son; he ran away into the woods, some wild animal maimed him, or he was hit in a hunting accident after becoming lost on one of the tours. Made up stories were the best to swallow; the body would be too gruesome for the parents to see and then, they would hold a private funeral. Family at this point would be contacted, but the funeral would be over and down with before any of them arrived to aid in their grief. Prayers would be said, the preacher would offer words of comfort and after, the memory would fade. And hopefully, they would never return.

Jess placed a hand on the figure in guise and gripped the illusionary shoulder; the grip was hard, too hard, and the presence began to snarl under its breath. It still had the control, more control than Jess could ever wish to own. Jess loosened up his grip, but not his intent. He felt that it had over-stayed its welcome and he was ready to take it outside, let it loose in his huge backyard, and let it attack and feast upon another skittish deer. It moved and snarled softly. It was stronger, more powerful, but it was not about to start anything. It was easier to let the meals come to it, easier to let them come to it and be slaughtered underneath the bloated pale moon. Jess forced it to move outside and it obeyed, it was the way of survival. It survived for so long; it would continue to do so.

Jess led it outside and muttered random, unintelligible curses at it. It transformed again and laughed bitterly. "Do you really think," it hissed in the human tongue, "that they cared for that boy? They left no guard, no watching eye over their most precious of things! They were careless fools who deserved what they got! And that boy of theirs would have ended up just like them; slow, ignorant to the world that they came from, and he would have had no respect for the woods themselves. Or the people who lived here." It looked at Jess and hissed in delight. "Oh, you honestly thought that he would have been okay with the people living here, earning living, surviving with whatever they can get their hands on! Surely, you are not that stupid." It blinked its yellow eyes and seethed. "Oh, you are. Man of Men you are stupid; you are just another part of your pathetic race. You stay for memories that no longer favor you. You stay to protect them. Let me free, I belong to the wind. Let me kill you once and for all."

"And John would hunt you down; you're all immortal except for that stony, icy heart of yours. And he is an excellent marksman. In your flight, he would hit you, and you would be dead before you hit the ground. I would not chance his skills for the fun of it."

"Then why keep me? Or are you afraid."

"I am afraid that by killing you, I would be killing something more important in my life. I keep you as a keepsake to look on whenever I feel the need to."

It sneered. "You keep dead memories…you humans are such pathetic fools. Keep me if you wish. But one day, I shall tear you down; I shall strip your flesh away from your bones and feast upon your blood. Yes, keep me; keep your death, foolish mortal."

Jess grabbed its hair and pulled. "Go, you wicked thing! Flee back into the darkness that gave birth to you! You have caused enough damage…you've seen the consequences to your actions…now, leave them be!" He let go and watched as it narrowed its yellow eyes at him, angry and vengeful. "I may regret keeping you, but for the time being you're the one thing I have left. Maybe, when I finally realize it, then I shall kill you myself."

"Never!" it cried. "Never, shall you touch me again!"

John walked out from around the corner and stared down at his feet. "I know what you're going through, Jess, really I do, but you have to let this go…you've been carrying this for far too long. You're eyes tell me everything. It's no longer normal, Jess. You must let this go." He stayed at an arm's length from Jess; each man had their own reasons for staying in an area that was desperate to get them in any way, shape, or form. Each man wanted what death took from them and so, they stayed. "I don't think it was ever normal." John watched the dark, foreboding woods and shuddered. "You must let it go; then you must kill it. It's not a keepsake. It's a demon. Destroy it, Jess…end this madness."

"Have they been sedated?"

John replied in an empty voice, one full of sorrow and disappointment. "Yes. The story is that the boy wandered outside and a bear was in the vicinity. The boy wanted to play with the bear and the bear wanted an easy dinner. End of fucking story."

"And the other guests?"

"Are too stupid to realize the truth. However, Richard is going to conjure up some of those helpful little pills to make sure that they remain in a stupor."

"Good. Good. Everything is being kept under control."

John sighed heavily and placed a heavy hand on Jess' shoulder. "You can't play this game for long, Jess. Sooner or later, someone is going to discover what is out there, hunt it down and kill it. You have to let go of what it once was. You have to stop this madness. Only you can let go of this; it's your past. Let the innocent have a future."

"Where's the future for my daughter, John?"

Richard Looms was sitting on the floor, next to the fireplace. His guitar in hand waited anxiously; the few paying customers there heard about the accident, but after a hardy (and free) breakfast consisting of pancakes, eggs, toast, home-made waffles and bacon, they seemingly forgot about the murder and simply went about enjoying their time at the lodge. Richard shuddered to think about what he had done; it reminded him so much of home. Drugging people up just so they would not remember the worst of life. Hell, he left home just to discover that he could never leave the legacy that his father and his goons set up. He hated it; he hated everything about it. His guitar whined, wanting to ease his pain.

Go on and close the curtains

Cause all we need is candlelight

You and me and a bottle of wine

Going to hold you tonight

Well we know I'm going away

And how I wish…wish it weren't so

So take this wine and drink with me

Let's delay our misery

Save tonight

And fight the break of dawn

Come tomorrow

Tomorrow I'll be gone

It ain't easy to say goodbye

Darling please don't start to cry

'Cause girl you know I've got to go

Lord I wish it wasn't so

Save tonight

And fight the break of dawn

Come tomorrow

Tomorrow I'll be gone

Tomorrow comes to take me away

I wish that I…that I could stay

Girl you know I got to go

Lord I wish it wasn't so

Save tonight

And fight the break of dawn

Come tomorrow

Tomorrow I'll be gone

Save tonight

And fight the break of dawn

Come tomorrow

Tomorrow I'll be gone

He stopped and wiped his brow; he hardly noticed the blonde watching him so intently; he hardly noticed her moving towards him. However, he did notice the slap across his face. And he did hear her hiss "bastard" before walking away, towards the exit and into the shining light of the sun. He rubbed his wounded cheek and watched as her skirt swayed from side to side and immediately registered what had happened. "Oh my God, Sam!" He laid the guitar down on the floor and rushed out to catch, before she disappeared on him again.

Samantha Ice walked briskly towards her car; her heels hit the ground in an agreeable rhythmic pattern. Her blonde hair shone in the sun's light; her curls bounced lightly. "I can't believe it, that arrogant, over-stuffed, pompous jerk. He sits there like he's the king of the world and I have to go hunt him down. I work at this relationship and he runs it into the ground. Oh, and he'll have some lovely excuse to back him up…never show any real, honest proof. He probably excepts that I run back into his arms…well, fuck that!" Her car sparkled in the sunlight, waiting patiently for her to start it up and drive it back to the city where it belonged. It hated the driving trails, hated the dirt, hated the birds and bees; it just hated nature in general. The sporty car wanted to glisten in the city and it was calling its mistress back, begging that she start it up and leave the wilderness behind. "And to think that I was willing to give up the city for this! To think that I was willing to get married! To think that, that jerk would be the one that I would be coming home to!" She pulled out her keys from her skirt pocket and began to unlock the door when she heard him clearly shouting random apologizes. "Too fucking late Richard." She yanked open the driver side door and placed one foot in. He screamed that he was stupid, that the timing was just bad, that work was keeping him. She placed her other foot inside the car and was ready to pull the door closed.

"Samantha," he gasped, "please don't go. Please. Let me explain. Please, let me at least do that." He grabbed her shoulder and she shrugged it off. "I packed us a great picnic; all of your favorites in fact and I found a really great waterfall and grassy area and please stay. Let me make this up to you." He watched as her chest rose and fell. "I planned out the entire day. Please stay, let me make it up to you."

She turned to him, totally un-effected by his words. "You constantly do this, Richard. Last week, the week before that…and so on and so on. I can't have this anymore. I refuse to have this anymore. I can do so much better than this. You and your damn business!" She closed the door, hardly giving Richard enough time to pull back his hand. With the key in the ignition, the engine running smoothly, she backed out and began her journey home, back into the city where the world of the supernatural was traded in for the world of technology.

"But I planned out the entire day," he muttered as the dust kicked up from the laughing, gleeful car. "I remembered Sam…this time I actually remembered."

Samantha Ice was a reporter for New York's newest magazine only known as Topic, and already she had proven to be quite the contender in the mass communication field. That was how she met Richard. The article was about quiet get-aways and she had gotten quite a quote from him; that scintillating night of "discussion" was a reporter's dream. Things that interested her also interested him. Art of the Renaissance and Baroque, politics (though they both voted differently, but the debates brought about much more in the passion section), movies that involved thinking (the Red Violin being one of her favorites, his being Orpheus), and music (both being in the closet fans of Metallica, Queen, and hell, even Aerosmith).

That first night was one of the few memories she wanted to keep; it was one of the very few that brought her true happiness. He had touched her in a way that brought her to her knees, that her lovers could never do. He touched her hair, her hands, and he wowed her by being both gentle and controlling at the same time. He amazed her that night, a rarity. A real rarity; her other choices held little imagination when they took her. It was all about duty. And sometimes her demanding nature brought her mornings of bruises and occasionally a black eye. But he was different. He was so wonderfully different.

Unfortunately, the two-and-a-half year romance was dwindling down and she knew it, though it did surprise her that such a thing lasted for as long as it had. It just felt too perfect. Fate did not work like that. It never did unless it wanted to drop a huge bomb.

And boy, did that bomb drop.

Richard could do nothing. The car was out of his sight before he realized that he needed to breathe. She was gone; this was the last straw. His job of protecting these people and it had taken her, the only normalcy he had left. Taking a step backward, he immediately felt its presence and in his head he could hear it laughing in triumph. "FUCK YOU!" he screamed into the air. "FUCK YOU! NOW I HAVE NOTHING! NOTHING!" Falling to his knees he did not weep, but expressed his anger bitterly. "Now I have nothing. Nothing at all. And it is all because of him…we should have killed when we had the chance."

Springwood, Ohio

Krueger licked the blood from his blades. The dark-haired girl's face was no longer recognizable; in fact, it was no longer on her skull. Well, small chucks of flesh remained where they should, while the rest lay in a rotting, bloody pile beside the body. Her eye sockets were so dark without their hazel tenants, one of which Freddy had lost when it fell off of the catwalk. He still had the other one to add to his growing collection. A hobby really, something he had started after taking Lori's baby blues. This time he let the bitch escape, he wanted her to suffer. He wanted to see her suffer in her dreams. He entered them when he was bored and watched as she re-lived every moment of his glory. But his mind was on the dead, decaying girl by his side. "So delicious. Ah the taste of tainted blood. The true taste of a born slut." Taking his bladed right hand, he drew thin wounds over her breasts, watching with glee as the blood came slowly towards the surface. "Oh, how I love the little piggies scream! Oh, how I love to ravage their little bodies."