Missing Pages.
After Heather reads Wes' new script and her son has fallen asleep, at the very back she finds a few extra loose pages and reads. It's leads to her real life demise.
"Fade to black – Credits role." Heather finished. Slowly she craned her neck to see if her son Dylan had yet fallen asleep on her lap – he had. Putting the script aside and she stood to her feet. Did I really just read all of this? I just read the happenings that have happened in the last few days. So strange, she thought.
Trying not to wake Dylan, she changed him into clean pyjamas. Both of them were dirty after a long fight in Freddy's world. A terrible world, a world that Heather feared. But that place would not exist any more. Freddy was dead and gone. Dead. Dead. Dead. She herself was dirty and once she tucked her son up in bed where he was safe, she raced up stairs and stripped off her grubby pyjamas. Deciding to go shower, she wrapped her bath robe around herself and made her way into the bathroom.
The hot water felt good on her rough skin. It cascaded down from the shower head onto her dead looking hair. Moving her hand down her side and over her hips, she massaged her thigh. She found a lump on the skin and looked down. Thankfully it was only a little cut which was already healing, it was surrounded with dry blood. Taking the soap, she rubbed around the wound until all the blood had washed away and the area was clean. Heather was exhausted, she thought about hitting the hay after this but she didn't want to sleep. Could I ever get back to sleep at all after what me and my son just went through?
Yes, you could Heather.
Yes.
Because, Freddy's dead.
The bastard is gone and he is never coming back. She repeated those words in her head, "Freddy's dead". Giving herself a little reassuring smile, she finished washing her body and shampooing and rinsing her hair.
Stepping out, she almost slipped and fell but caught herself on the sink behind her. God I'm tired, she reminded. A cup of coffee would clear that up though. I want to keep an eye on my son.
And that's exactly what she done, while waiting for the kettle to boil she stood in the doorway of Dylan's bedroom. Watching him peacefully sleep. Smiling, she walked inside and yanked down the Venetian blinds. Running a hand through his bushy brown hair and giving him a peck on the forehead, the sound of the kettle screaming to an end travelled through the house.
Dashing into the kitchen, she grabbed a cup, put the roasted coffee beans in the cup and poured in the boiling water. Bringing it to her mouth she took a sip and burned her mouth.
"Ah! Shit!" Heather exclaimed and set down the mug. Taking a glass cup, she ran cold water into it and took a sip of that. It cooled her mouth down instantly and standing for a while in the large silent house, waited for the coffee to cool down a little. Once it did, she trudged up the stairs lazily and into her room. Crossing over to the dresser, she sat down the mug and took out a teal sweater, blue jeans, clean underwear and pair of white socks.
She sang to herself as she dressed. Trying to collect herself after the terrifying events she had been through the last couple of days. Her husband dying, the babysitter dying, and even she and her son almost dying. But is Freddy really dead?
No Heather, don't let those thoughts come into your head.
He's fucking dead.
She slammed her hand down on the dresser almost knocking the mug over. Her arm throbbed and when looking at it, she remembered the still sore cuts on her arm.
Turning around to head back down stairs, something on the bed caught her eye.
A script.
Sitting down on the bed, she opened it up and saw on the first page, "Wes Craven's New Nightmare". And the small message at the bottom that Wes had written himself.
This is the script I've just read. What is it doing up here? Last I remember it was down stairs in Dylan's room, she recalled.
Thinking that she must have put it up here without thinking, she shook the thought off and lifted the script. She was going to through it in the trash.
Walking down the stairs, a few white pages fell from the script. She looked down and picked them up and scanned them.
The words on it were unfamiliar.
"Hmmm . . . where'd these come from?" She asked herself aloud. Taking a seat on the bottom step she began reading. As she read on her mouth opened more and more until it was in a full O of horror.
"This is sick!" She protested, throwing down the pages beside her. She raced to the phone in the kitchen and picked it up. Punching in a number, she held onto the receiver with tight hands.
"Hello?" Wes Craven's voice ringed in her ear.
Heather didn't seem to hear him. Her eyes twitched, she was disgusted at what she read.
"Hello, is anyone there? Kevin? Harvey?" He asked.
"Oh, Wes. I just found a few pages at the back of your script and I'm totally outraged at what I read. How could you?" She screamed down the receiver.
"What . . . Heather? I didn't write any other pages. What are you going on about?" Wes asked concerned.
Heather's face dropped and her heart seemed to stop. Who wrote them then? Freddy? No. It couldn't have been Freddy, no . . .
Then, she realized something terrible. Freddy is not dead. The only thing that can kill him forever is if . . .
"Oh, oh my God." Heather gasped and slammed down the phone.