Chapter One: In the Age of the Consecrated Demon. . . .

It's hot.

It's too hot, so hot it's making exposed skin blister and peel and sweat is dripping into his eyes. And everything hurts, every inch of his body, like he's one giant bruise. Especially when super-heated steam bursts from rusty pipes that groan and creak and echo with laughter that makes his blood run cold.

Howie thinks he might die tonight.

The idea is enough to keep him moving, keep him running through a labyrinth of pipes while He keeps searching. It's a game, a horrible cruel game, one which Howie has no intention of losing. Not tonight. Not any other night.

He's too young to die.

"Run, run, little rabbit," He coos. "I'm coming to get you! I'm coming for you, Howie."

And that voice makes his heart pound faster, harder, and Howie keeps moving because if he doesn't he's dead. Because that voice belongs to a monster who will skin him without hesitation. And his legs feel like they're filled with lead, mouth stuffed with cotton. Everything hurts and he's scared (no, terrified) and he doesn't want to die tonight. He doesn't want to die.

Doesn't. Want. To. Die.

Oh, God, please, NO!

NO! NO! NO! NO!

Pain explodes in Howie's left arm and he screams, hitting the metal grating beneath his feet with a crash, boom, rattle. He looms above him, mottled with burns and razors glinting on fingers, a smile curving beef-jerky lips. The air smells like overheated moisture and charred meat and there are girls screaming somewhere, voices echoing along the metal-coated walls.

Blood keeps running over his fingers, hot and sticky, but he can't seem to wake up.

He wants to wake up now.

Please, God, wake up! WAKE UP!

WAKE UP!

Freddy tilts his head to the side and grins and Howie wants to scream some more. But he can't because his throat feels like it's been stuffed with sandpaper and nails and he's so freaking scared. Sparks fly from the pipes as razor-knives run along their rusty surface. And he's trying to scramble backwards but his arm won't work quite right and everything hurts.

"What's the matter kiddo?" That voice sounds like death, like Satan. "It's just your old pal Freddy!"

Wake up wake up, oh God, PLEASE wake up!

"I'm gonna make you bleed you little fuck."

Howie finally manages to find a voice and screams as the knives flash down. He's going to die and he knows it and he's scared.

Gonna die. . .

Can't die. . .

Please no. . .

Howie sat bolt upright in bed, panting heavily and sobbing as he thrashed about within his sheets. Dark blue eyes glanced around in panic. But there was no boiler room, no pipes or steam or blistering heat. No burnt man with razor fingers and a demon voice. Sunlight peeked through the curtains of his bedroom and the alarm clock next to his bed glared 7:00 in bright red letters.

Everything was normal.

Just a nightmare.

The little third-grader sat frozen in terror for a long moment, muscles locked as he fought to control the urge to scream. Sweat had matted his hair to his head in knots, plastering his pajamas to him. Every inch of his body ached like he'd run a marathon. Finally, after holding his breath, Howie sagged with exhaustion and slowly moved to get out of bed.

Pain lanced up his left arm with every movement he made, screaming at him as he moved to gather his clothes for the day. Howie barely glanced down at the offending limb; however, his motions were careful and sluggish.

His Dad would get really angry if he bled all over the carpet.

Very quietly, Howie made his way into the hallway with his clothes bundled in the crook of his right arm, the left held out away from him while crimson dried along the shredded edges of his pajama shirt. The third grader didn't hesitate to shut and lock the bathroom door, silently panicking while staring at his damaged sleep-wear. These were his favorite pajamas, Iron Man patterned, and now they were ruined. Tears pooled in the little boy's eyes.

Then he caught sight of the unfamiliar kid staring at him from the mirror.

Burns littered his arms, welted and weeping horrendously in giant packets of liquid. Bruises covered every inch of him in varying shades of color, mottling the left side of his face and angrily swelling around a split in his lip. Old lacerations along his back and shoulders had scabbed over, crusting. But the worst wound by far was the freshest one. Three deep gashes bit into the flesh of his upper arm, edges slightly torn and oozing crimson. If he were being honest or rational, Howie would admit that it needed stitches and tell his Dad what was going on.

But he wasn't going to do that, not now or ever

Because Freddy seemed even angrier than usual last night, dark eyes burning and grin nasty. And he was sure that telling Dad or Mom or anyone would end up with him being thrown in the loony bin. They would medicate him, tell him to go to sleep, and then there would only be Freddy and red light and steam. Who would keep Freddy from killing anyone else?

So Howie just pulled out the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet, wrapped the deep gashes in thick gauze, and moved about trying to get ready for the day.

It was cold out, as November days usually were, so a cable-knit sweater wasn't completely out of place.

(even if it rubbed against all his burns and his cuts and everything hurt but no one could figure Him out, not now not ever)

And his jeans weren't out of place either, especially since they hid the bruises and burns along his skinny legs so well. He couldn't really do anything about the bruises on his face or the split lip, though, except pray to God that no one noticed. But deep in his heart Howie knew that prayer was futile.

Mrs. Jeepers noticed everything.

"Howie, bud, I'm going to work!" his dad called. "Your breakfast is on the table, and Eddie's grandma will be by in fifteen minutes to walk you to school."

Howie swallowed thickly, throat filled with sandpaper. "Okay, Dad. I'll see you tonight!"

He heard the garage door close decisively, followed by the sound of his dad's car pulling out and onto the street. Slowly, Howie left the bathroom and shuffled down the hall. He shoved a gray beanie down onto his head as he went, covering his freshly combed hair to distract from the bruises on his face.

Everything hurt

If he'd known sleeping would ever be this painful, he would've learned how to just stay awake forever.

By the time Eddie's grandmother showed up at the front door, Howie had managed to choke down his breakfast – two pieces of toast and some Lucky Charms – and put on shoes. He felt awful, like someone had literally beaten him with a pipe.

But he managed to put on a smile for his best friend and the nice old woman who liked to bake cookies for him and his friends. Because that's what good little puppets did. They hid their pain from the world and didn't try to tell anyone.

Good little puppets survived to die another night.

Thankfully, Eddie's grandma had really bad eyesight, so she didn't notice how exhausted the little third-grader was. And Eddie was the least observant person in the history of the universe so there was no chance of detection on that end of the spectrum. Honestly, the only person Howie was really worried about noticing the bruises and the tired purple bags under his eyes was his teacher. Because Mrs. Jeepers noticed everything, and frankly he didn't understand how that was possible, but he was too tired to argue with it.

Everything would be okay if he kept his head down.

So Howie trudged to school in the cold and attempted to bite back screams as wool scrubbed against his open wounds, sending lightning bolts of pain shooting through every inch of him. It hurt. Why did everything have to hurt?

(Because that's what Freddy wants, and really, who are you to argue against that, little boy? Little nothing? Worthless.)

Eddie's grandmother dropped them off at the playground about fifteen minutes before the bell rang, leaving them with a smile and a kiss for her redheaded troublemaker. And Howie, for one terrifying moment, felt absolute rage swell up inside his chest. He wanted to scream. Wanted to throw fists and hit this sweet little old lady with her terrible eyesight and warm chocolate chip cookies. Because she didn't understand, didn't know. She was too stupid to figure out he was hurting, just like every other freaking adult in Bailey City. Just like his dad. Like his mom (not that his mom would notice anything, too wrapped up in her new husband and shiny Howie-free life).

And it wasn't fair.

Nothing was freaking fair and he hated everything.

Instead Howie forced a smile on his face and tried to keep up a conversation that at least faked normalcy. And then the bell rang. Eddie groaned loudly, complaining about how school was no fun, too many rules and too much learning and that wasn't a world he wanted to prank in. The girls hadn't met them out front that day. They must've been sick.

(or dead, little failure, can you save them? The answer is no, you little fucker!)

Howie wanted to smack his best friend in the mouth with a shovel, wanted to with every fiber of his tiny abused being. Instead he forced a laugh, a smile, and said that things could be worse – they could've been dying or sick or stuck with Mrs. Deedee again.

(Or you could be stuck in a boiler room hot steam sharp knives and a voice like gargled nails on sandpaper that says 'I'm coming for you' each and every night. Oh, wait, that's actually happening.)

They trudged up to the building and entered through doors that needed oiling at the time they were put in. When Eddie pulled one open, it groaned, the sound familiar and grating and enough to make Howie's breathing quicken and his shoulders tense hard enough to hurt. Of course, everything already hurt, but this hurt was sharper, more intense. But it was just a door, not knives on pipe, and Howie forced his body to relax before following Eddie into the blessedly warm building.

It wasn't hot in Bailey Elementary, not like in his dreams, and Howie tried to calm down enough to function. Which didn't work because, you know, one didn't simply calm down when their very lives were at stake but whatever.

He didn't need to relax anyway.

Mrs. Jeepers was standing by the door as she usually was in the mornings, greeting students with an amicable half smile while that stupid brooch gleamed smugly at her throat. She looked pretty, hair curled and falling loose around her shoulders. Black, which their vampiric teacher's normal color to wear, was apparently not on the clothing menu today. Her dress was a deep shade of green, almost the same color as her eyes, and it drew his tired gaze like a magnet. Color was good.

Because color drew your attention and drawing your attention meant you couldn't fall asleep.

But Howie knew for certain that he didn't want to get her attention – well, anymore than usual, because when you were friends with Eddie teachers noticed you – so he kept his gaze squarely on his dirty sneakers as he walked.

Eddie strutted passed Mrs. Jeepers as per the norm, throwing out a good morning as he passed. Mrs. Jeepers rolled her eyes (very slightly) at his antics before looking at him. It was everything Howie could do not to cower under the weight of those bright green eyes.

"Good morning, Howie," Mrs. Jeepers purred.

Her accent never failed to send a shiver down Howie's spine, and the little boy mumbled a tired "good morning" in return before taking his seat. The burns on his back protested loudly upon meeting his chair; however, Howie couldn't really make himself care at that point.

He was too busy trying not to hyperventilate or fall asleep or succumb to the panic attack creeping up at the back of his mind.

Howie took a risk and glanced up at his teacher while she stood in the doorway. What he saw made his heart do a back-flip into his throat. She was frowning gently, green eyes trained on him as one hand went up to that freaking brooch. That must've been a habit or something, because she did it constantly, and only now that he was exhausted and paranoid did Howie notice its frequency.

Holy crap, she noticed.

She noticed.

And Howie had wanted an adult to notice this morning. Really he did. But adults noticing things meant adults questioning things, and questions lead to answers – truthful answers if Mrs. Jeepers was involved because one did not simply lie to a vampire and get away with it – and those answers would only lead to more questions. And those questions would end up with him doped up on meds in the loony bin somewhere. Then Freddy would come and kill him and everything would be over.

Howie had seen the movies, so he knew that was true.

The little boy ducked his head back down and tried to keep his breathing under control. Just until recess, he mentally coached. Just keep cool until recess and she won't say anything and you'll be fine.

Just until recess.

(you're screwed, brat, so fuckin' screwed and I'm gonna enjoy killing you when they throw you in the wacky shack. We'll have so much fun playing. Won't it be wonderful Howie?)

Just until recess. . . .

After a long morning of learning about pronouns and multiplication tables, Howie watched anxiously as Mrs. Jeepers stood from her position behind her desk. He sighed, fingers shaking and palms sweating while every inch of his body ached. Because it was after Math, and he'd kept his head down all morning because that's what good little puppets did. So she probably hadn't given him a second thought. Which meant they were going to recess.

He'd made it.

Foot jiggling beneath his desk, Howie watched through bruised blue eyes as Mrs. Jeepers surveyed the room. Everyone was silent, even Eddie, because no one wanted to lose recess on the one rain-free day they'd had in the last two weeks. Silence meant a happy teacher and a happy teacher meant getting out faster. The second hand on the clock seemed to mock him, ticking slower.

Tick. Tick. . Tick. . . Tick. . . .

Idly, trying to distract himself, Howie looked to the door. Only he really wished he hadn't because the person looming, tall and thin with slicked-back inky hair, made his skin itch furiously with anxiety. Mr. Drake wasn't someone he would ever want to meet in a dark ally. Or on a sunny day. Because he was freaking creepy, all dark eyes and sharp eye-teeth; however, freaking creepy didn't equate to danger and there were more important people for Howie to fear nowadays.

But Mr. Drake was the school counselor.

And counselors talked to the troubled kids, the kids who had problems.

Oh, Christ, did she notice that much?

Howie darted his gaze back to Mrs. Jeepers and the blue eyes were surrounded by a ring of white as they held on to seemingly endless green orbs. Her expression didn't change – it never did unless she smiled – but the little boy could see something in the spiraling pit of green. No no no no no. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not now. He was a good puppet and he didn't tell so why was this happening!?

Mrs. Jeepers cleared her throat. "Class, it is time for recess. Please line up quietly and Mr. Drake will escort you to the playground. I have some business to take care of here."

Everyone stood from their chairs without a word, Howie included. They lined up in front of Mr. Drake, some even cowering before the tall figure framed in the exit. But the only thing Howie could see was how the counselor kept making pointed glances at him before looking back at Mrs. Jeepers. And how his pretty teacher actually sighed and mouthed something that he couldn't understand. His hands were shaking and his palms were sweating and everything and hurt and, God, why was it always her?

A light touch to the back of his sweater caused Howie to flinch noticeably. Part of it was pain, some was fear, and the rest was shock at how warm Mrs. Jeepers hands actually were. They were so white he'd always assumed they would be ice-cold. But they were warm and solid, and the touch wasn't nearly as rough as what he was used to by his own mother.

"Not you, Howie," Mrs. Jeepers murmured. "You and I are going to talk for a moment. Then you'll be free to go to recess."

The others followed Mr. Drake out the door and Howie shrieked internally because everything was crashing down around him.

(I'm gonna gut you like a fish tonight, kid. Just wait. It'll be fun in Hell.)

"Howie, sit down please."

Numbly, the little boy followed orders. But he refused to look at those eyes anymore, focusing on anything else. The wall, his shoes, the second hand on the clock, anything but those accusing green pits that would suck him in and never let him go again. And he was so tired. The sound of his sneaker bouncing off the dirty white tile floor was the only sound for a long moment.

Then Mrs. Jeepers sighed again and Howie knew he was royally screwed.

"Howie, please look at me," Mrs. Jeepers coaxed. "You aren't in trouble."

Everything hurt and he didn't want to look at her, not yet, because that would mean having to answer things. But he was just a good little puppet so Howie did as he was told. Slowly, the little boy looked up into her eyes. All he could see was green. Green green green and it was frightening because she saw him. Mrs. Jeepers was the first adult to see through the mask.

He was so done.

Mrs. Jeepers crouched down in front of him, oddly graceful for someone in four-inch heels, and Howie wanted to scream until his throat split. There was concern on her face and in her eyes and she couldn't care, not yet. Caring could get him killed and he didn't want to die yet.

So the little boy kept everything inside, lock and key in the vault of terror, and looked at her blankly. The panic was there and it was screaming (you're gonna die gonna die gonna die!) but put in a place where no one could reach. Like when Dad put the cookies in the jar on top of the refrigerator.

"Howie, is everything alright?" Mrs. Jeepers asked quietly. "You've been acting odd all morning."

(don't say a word you little bitch little nothing I'll gut her just like I'll gut you!)

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Jeepers," Howie responded. His voice sounded weak and raspy, like he'd swallowed sandpaper. "I'm just a little tired. And I think I might be getting a cold."

A single eyebrow crept upwards on her pale forehead, and the third-grader knew that she didn't believe him. Which was a bit frustrating because that last part he said wasn't exactly a lie, just not the whole truth.

"You're lying, little one." It wasn't a question. "Now, are you going to tell me what's really giving you all these bruises?"

For a moment, Howie said nothing. He wanted a different option, like lying again and going on with the lie like nothing ever happened. At least then he might have a chance to survive. But that wasn't happening, not in a million years, not with her looking at him like that. So Howie chose another option.

He stayed silent.

Mrs. Jeepers sighed again. "Howie, these bruises aren't normal. And don't think I haven't noticed your split lip, young man. I must report this either way, so you may as well tell me who is doing this to you."

That caught Howie's attention. The little boy stiffened dramatically, head whipping up to stare his teacher in the eye.

"Don't!" he nearly shouted. "You can't tell anyone!"

His outburst rang on the air, startling both of them, and Howie wished he could just stuff the words back in his mouth and swallow them. Tears welled up in exhausted blue eyes. His hands were trembling hard enough it felt like they would fall off. He looked back down at his feet and tried to keep from hyperventilating while the world tilted on its axis and shattered like glass in his ears.

"Howie, sweetheart, what's going on?" Mrs. Jeepers coaxed. "Who is hurting you?"

Oh no. Oh no no no no no, this couldn't be happening. Not now, not ever, not when there was so much at stake. Howie was a good little puppet and good little puppets didn't let anyone know that Freddy lived in their heads. It wasn't until the room began spinning and everything became blurry at the edges did Howie realize that he must have been having a panic attack. Oh, well, that just made everything so much better, didn't it?

Hands trembling and palms sweating while his head shook violently back and forth. Everything hurt. Couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but beg to a God that wouldn't listen for everything to just fade away and get back to normal. The wolves were howling trying to warn him but he couldn't hear over the sound of his heartbeat pounding away in his eardrums.

(run run run, little rabbit, Freddy's coming so you'd better be quiet or I'll tear you apart at the seams)

"Howie, sweetheart, you need to breathe. Come on, take deep breaths."

Who was talking? Was it Mrs. Jeepers? He hadn't realized how pretty her voice was until now, all low and lilting at the edges with her Transylvanian accent. There were cool hands on his face, stroking gently over bruises, and the touch forced him to look at his teacher. Her eyes were so green, all different shades of emerald wrapped into two circular orbs.

"Breathe, Howie," she coaxed, voice low and soothing and quiet in the very very loud space of his head.

And one didn't just ignore an order from Mrs. Jeepers so Howie tried to do as he was told. Very slowly, his breathing began to even out, ragged around the edges while tears swelled in his own eyes. This wasn't supposed to happen. What the heck, why wouldn't God just listen? Why couldn't life just be normal for once?

Why?

It took a while, a fairly long while, but Howie finally managed to stop hyperventilating. The static behind his eyes cleared, leaving hot tears that burned down his cheeks while his teacher tried to calm him down a little bit more. She looked so concerned. And it felt good to have someone care, to have someone notice after so long of no one seeing anything despite reassurances that they loved him. But this could get her killed.

Howie wouldn't be able to survive if he caused the death of his teacher, even if she was a vampire.

"Howie, sweetheart, you need to tell me what's going on."

Somehow, the little boy with the broken body and scarred mind found the strength to protect someone other than himself. "I can't tell you. He'll kill us both."

Mrs. Jeepers looked thoroughly startled by his declaration. Her pale face blanched further, and she reached up to cup his cheeks. "Who said he would kill you, Howie? I promise, he won't be able to touch you if you tell who it is."

Vehement and terrified and so freaking tired he could shriek, Howie shook his head sadly. "I can't, Mrs. Jeepers. You wouldn't believe me anyway, and he would kill us both if I told."

Her expression went taut with cold fury and fear, but it wasn't directed at him. The cool hands which had cupped his cheeks only moments before dropped from his face, only to rest on his shoulders. At the touch, Howie's panic started creeping back in. Ice water in his veins that hissed and crackled like poison upon contact with nerve endings. Because she was too close to the cuts, entirely too close, and everything hurt. Blood would seep through the sweater and she would know even more and that would lead to bad things.

Jesus, it hurt.

"Howie, tell me who is doing this," Mrs. Jeepers ordered. "This needs to stop."

More tears fell over bruised cheeks. Oh, God, it hurt so bad and he could feel blood seeping through his bandages. Pretty soon it would seep through his sweater and then everything would be so over. He couldn't let this happen.

"I can't!" Howie sobbed. "You would think I'm crazy and then he'll kill me when they throw me in the loony bin! He'll kill you, too, 'cause he said he'd kill anyone I told about him. I don't want anyone else to die because of me!"

The hand on his left shoulder squeezed ever so lightly. Pain exploded up his arm, causing the tears to flow faster and a strangled cry to escape the little boy's lips. Mrs. Jeepers looked simultaneously terrified and confused at his reaction. Then she caught sight of blood seeping through scratchy wool.

Everything came crashing down.

"Howie, what happened to your shoulder?" she questioned. "You're bleeding."

Oh no. . .

OH NO. . .

(you're so fucking dead kid)

No one was supposed to find out, no one. Not his parents, not his friends. And especially not his pretty vampire teacher, with her bright green eyes and her expressions that told him you're not alone. But Freddy was watching. He was always freaking watching.

Mrs. Jeepers was going to end up dead and it was all his fault because he couldn't keep one stupid secret.

(she's fucking dead too)

Traitorous tears leaked over the little boy's cheekbones, and Howie tried to be brave. Be a good little puppet and don't let the sleeve come up and you don't let people care for. Run run run because the wolves were coming, cursing loudly, and there was nothing rabbit-puppets could do except tip-toe through the snow and pray to a God that wouldn't listen. What was he going to do?

Before he could blink or breathe or do anything other than high-key panic, Mrs. Jeepers was rolling up his sleeve with that "I-will-not-take-any-more-nonsense" look in her eyes. And she was gasping as weeping burns and ugly purple-red-green-yellow bruises came to light with each inch of receding scratchy wool. And blood was oozing down over the damaged flesh from the soaked bandage he had placed on the wounds earlier that morning. It hurt, of course, because it always hurt nowadays because that's just the way it was.

But that didn't mean Howie was numb to the fact that his teacher was crying. Because she was, crystalline drops of salt-water gathering in her long eyelashes as she looked at what Freddy had done to his arms. Her fingers were cool, touch gentle, and guilt slapped the little boy straight in the heart as he watched her try to hold everything together. For him. She was holding it together for him because this had happened and she didn't know WHO or WHY and the thought that she was confused just like him.

Finally, the sleeve was all the way up. And Mrs. Jeepers was pulling the soaked bandage away from his torn flesh as gentle as possible, eyes wide with horror and fury and sadness. And it hurt, badly, but Howie was desperate to make her NOT ask questions. To make her walk away before Freddy realized and went to kill her.

"Jesus," Mrs. Jeepers breathed, "Howie, sweetheart, who did this to you?"

"It's really not that bad," the little boy whispered. "Honest. I'm fine. Please don't cry. I'm fine."

It was then that Mrs. Jeepers did something which shocked him to the core. She gently pulled his sleeve back down, covering the three massive gash-wounds as tenderly as she could, before pulling him to his feet and staring at him with those freaking eyes. Which were still filled with tears, but there was ice behind them, a frozen tundra of sheer fury that would have frozen Freddy's boiler-room hell over had the chance arose. But, again, Howie never felt threatened, not at all. Unsettled, oh yes. But never threatened.

"You are not 'fine', you silly boy," Mrs. Jeepers chastised gently. "But I am going to make sure whoever is doing this never does this again. That is a promise."

With that, she pulled him into a hug, minding his wounds but holding him firmly all the same. And Howie broke at the feeling, burrowing deep into a curtain of thick red hair that smelled like mint and rosemary. His hands clutched tightly at the fabric of her green dress, tears and broken sobs escaping him as her long fingers brushed over the top of his scalp. And he was so tired, in so much pain, and all he wanted was someone to tell him it was going to be okay.

And here was Mrs. Jeepers, saying just that even though she didn't really KNOW what was going on, that her caring could get her killed. Which was frightening, terrifying, because he didn't want anyone to die, not over him.

God, he was so tired.

"Shush, copil," Mrs. Jeepers cooed at him. "It's okay. You're okay."

(no you're not kid, you're fucked and she's going down with you)

Howie just wanted to sleep.