A/N: I'm literally obsessed with this movie, so I decided to write about it. The storyline takes place after that of My Soul To Take, although I brought Aunt May back to life and I don't own any of the characters in this chapter, though there might be some new ones in later chapters that I will have to claim as my own. I'm planning on making it a chapter story, though if it doesn't get reviews I'm obviously not going to update, though I'll probably still write just for the enjoyment of it. That is all, folks. Enjoy.
Bug Hellerman awoke in a cold sweat, blood pounding in his ears. He sat up. Tonight was not unusual for him; he often woke up after the same old dream nowadays, never finishing it, never finding out how it ended.
Bug sighed and walked over to his open window. Rain was pouring in heavy, clear drops onto his window sill. Lightning flashed somewhere in the distance. He slammed the window shut tight and closed the floor-length curtains.
He sat back down and glanced around his bedroom; boxes were still scattered everywhere, the walls were half-painted, and pictures and posters were strung up at random all around the room. Bug was taking his time settling in, even though it had been nearly a year since the move. This house was different and a lot smaller than the one he had moved out of. It was cartilaginous and obscure, like it could fall apart at your fingertips at any given moment. The atmosphere was almost always glum, but then again, that could just be because of the memories and reminder of why the family of three lived in this house. The disturbed pain Bug felt roughly everyday - a bizarre kind, the kind you only feel when you lose something important, the kind that's like a puncturing wound - was enough to make someone want to move not only onto a different city block, but into a different state where you could be anonymous, where no one would know your story, and where you weren't celebrated as a hero. But Bug continued to fake being their hero; he faked it everyday, and he faked it good.
Six faces of the Riverton Seven swam through his mind yet again. He didn't like dreaming about them. He especially didn't like the part consisting of black shadow of a hand grasping the hilt of a blade that always appeared, and always flashed in an unknown source of light for a split-second, so that Bug could make out one word: vengeance - the Ripper's knife. The dream always ended with a voice, a rather suppressed and husky one, uttering the same words that seemed to be intercepted at the close, though Bug could never quite make out what they were.
He tried and tried to convince himself that he was psychologically dreaming about the Ripper, and that it all had to do with flashbacks and memories, but couldn't be considerably sure, and something inside of him had its doubts.
He's coming, Bug, Penelope's voice echoed in his head.
Jesus? He grinned at how idiotically he had responded to her so many months ago.
If we should be so lucky, she had told him.
You got that right, Bug thought as he glanced at the clock above his bedroom door. It was almost 5:00am, and after a moment's decision, he decided he'd better catch a few more hours of sleep before awakening again to go to school.
Bug lie back on the bed, listening to the beating of raindrops, and soon enough, drifted off into a deep and dream-free sleep.