DISCLAIMER: Still don't own anything except for Frankie and anyone you don't know.
Authors Note: So now we are going into the movie proper. And because I'm wanting to not recreate every single thing we know happened in the movie, I'm starting this after the death of Chris. Cause really…she was boring (sorry Chris fans, if there are such things.) And also I thought Jesse's death was perfect and can't be improved upon. This is testament to JEH and his awesome creepy factor.
So we're starting there. I'm taking parts of the film and new parts I've made and mixing them together to make my own yummy drink (so to speak.) I'm curious as to what you think of this so let me know if you like it.
IMPORTANT THING IS IMPORTANT: CHECK OUT MY PROFILE WHERE I HAVE ADDED ARTWORK BY THE TALENTED MADDARLIKE WHO CREATED A PORTRAIT OF FREDDY AND FRANKIE! PREBURN! YAY FOR TALENT FAR GREATER THAN MINE! THANK YOU !
Chapter 7
13 Years and 3 Nightmares later…
Quentin Smith was tired. Only that didn't really do how he was feeling justice. He was to the breaking point of exhaustion and his eyes felt as though cotton soaked in alcohol had been shoved into them and left there. He was on night number three of staying awake, and he was nearing the bottom of his prescription bottle, and had gone through two boxes of Red Bull. The eight cans sat atop his desk like dead soldiers who'd lost the battle. He could relate.
Quentin rubbed his eyes and groaned. He needed to stay awake because there was no way he could let Nancy down. Jesse was in jail and Chris was dead. Dean was dead. And no one else really knew what was going on but Quentin. He drank a last swallow of liquid caffeine and added another solider to the line up, then leaned back in his chair, running shaking fingers through his already messy hair.
The man with the knives for fingers…the man who seemed familiar…Quentin's brow furrowed as he tried to picture the scarred and burned face in his mind. It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, to ponder the nightmare that had plagued him over the last few nights when he was this tired. It was like asking the guy to come right into his brain so he could cut it open and scoop it out. But Quentin needed to do something. He had to do something because Nancy needed him. He wasn't a hero, but he would try his best to keep her safe.
Quentin didn't know he'd fallen asleep in his chair, thinking about Nancy's big dark eyes until he felt the chill night wind on his face. He opened his own eyes and found himself not sitting in his chair back in his bedroom, but swinging back and forth on an old rusty swing set. It was dark and it was so cold his breath frosted in front of him. It was snowing…but as Quentin held out his hand, he realized it wasn't snow, but ash.
He stood, peering at the slowly growing pile of grey powder in his palm and then glanced up at the jungle gym nearby. There were figures there. Children sized figures climbing on different parts of the many metal bars. But they weren't children anymore…they were smoldering shapes, glowing cinders cracking through their smiling faces. He could hear them laughing and as the night wind stirred through the play yard it blew through their charred bodies, disintegrating them into the pieces that were billowing about and landing on his clothes, his hand, his skin.
Quentin backed away horrified from the sight, gasping in terror trying to wipe away the flakes of ash that were covering him. He kept backing up not noticing where he was going until it was too late and he slammed into something hard. When he turned he found himself no longer on the playground but in a steam filled room full of pipes and gauges, an eerie orange glow illuminating the spaces between. It was humid, and the air smelled of heat and rust. His skin immediately grew sweaty, a combination of the temperature and fear.
"Where…what…what the hell…" He muttered looking around with wide eyes. His Bauhaus t-shirt was sticking to his skin. "Why are you doing this?" He cried out, knowing that the man would be there. He was always there.
The screeching of knives on metal pierced his brain as if the sound itself was the very blades creating it. He winced, covering his ears futilely. The sound was in his brain, it was everywhere because this was all happening in his mind. Logic…he had to think logically. This was only a dream. He couldn't die here, because he had to be there for Nancy.
"And why is that Quentin?" A rough voice asked from behind him. A familiar voice…
The boy turned and he saw the man standing there. Burned, skin a patchwork of red melted flesh. One hand wore the glove, the source of the screeching noise. His hard blue eyes stared into him.
"Wha…what?" Quentin stammered, trying to will himself to stay calm, and losing the battle.
"You have to be there for Nancy?" The man gave him a glare. "Why? Does Quentin have a little crush?" He laughed, mockingly, a sneer on his thin lips.
Quentin didn't answer him. Instead he turned, survival instinct overtaking his previous idea of staying calm as this was only a dream, and tried to run away. He managed to make it about three feet before he was grabbed from behind and thrown hard into a row of pipes. He could feel the heat of them burning through his jacket, but the more concerning thing was the gloved hand holding onto his throat.
"I asked," the burned mans voice was a loud growl now, his face inches from Quentin's. "Do you have a little crush?" He emphasized the last part by squeezing Quentin's throat, to the point that black spots formed in his vision. He couldn't breathe and that meant he couldn't answer the question even if he wanted to.
"You think you deserve her?" The man asked him less loudly this time, still not letting go. "You think you can save her? You can't even save yourself." He slammed him against the pipes again, and Quentin felt blood trickling down the back of his shirt. Pain radiated from the wound as he felt his skin start to blister beneath his clothes.
The man's face got closer, and Quentin could see the startling blue of his eyes were tinged with red. "You're lying to yourself kid." He told him, and then his gaze narrowed, lips frowning. "But then I guess that's something your good at, isn't it?"
He dropped him then, and Quentin fell to the floor gasping, desperate for air. He looked up to see the man raising the glove to strike him. But before he could Quentin heard a noise. It was a tinny, musical tone and Quentin had never been happier to hear it in his life. As the glove swept down Quentin Smith disappeared. When he awoke to the ringing of his cell phone he thought for sure he could hear the sound of a man bellowing in rage.
Quentin's head throbbed, but he answered the cell phone anyway. It was Nancy, and she sounded worried. He told her he'd come over right away as he reached around to find out what it was that was making his shirt feel so wet. His fingertips came away sticky with blood.
Nancy Thompson's house was a few blocks away from Quentin's. He'd moved onto Elm Street around the same time she had, towards the beginning of 8th grade. It had always been a quiet street, until lately. Ever since Jesse had appeared in her room, covered in blood and telling her it wasn't his…every little noise seemed so loud.
When Quentin arrived he looked paler than usual, which was saying a lot. He had the pasty white skin of the type of guy who stayed indoors, either playing video games, playing music, or just not wanting to be around most people. But the dark circles under his eyes told the story. He seemed even more out of it than just lack of sleep as he took a seat on the downstairs couch, gratefully accepting the cup of coffee she handed him along with the bottle of Excedrin he'd asked for.
"Headache?" Nancy asked in her low voice, taking a sip from her mug as she drew her black jean clad legs under herself next to him.
Quentin popped the bottle cap off with practiced ease one handed and shook four pills into his mouth, then took a drink of coffee to wash them down. The caffeine would hopefully help with the pain too, besides keeping him awake. "Yeah, you could say that." The head wound had stopped bleeding thankfully, but he still felt like someone had hit him in the skull with a two by four.
"I don't get it Quentin." She said at last, eyes staring at the off white colored fabric of her couch. "Jesse loved Chris...he seemed so scared. He…he sounded like Dean. I heard Chris talking to Dean before he killed himself…and he was talking about how he was too scared to sleep."
Quentin sipped at his coffee. "I know Nancy…"
"It's happening to you too isn't it?" She asked him, those big eyes staring at him over the steam coming up out of the mug. The image reminded him too much of the boiler room for his taste.
He wasn't blind. He could tell she was having the same problems he was, that they all were. Quentin wasn't the only one with tired eyes. "Yeah, it happened right when you called. I think you calling me actually saved my life."
Nancy's hands shook slightly. She placed the mug of coffee on an end table and drew her legs up even closer; as if afraid a hand would shoot out from beneath the couch and grab her. "Quentin why? There's got to be a reason…why us?" She whispered the words, glancing up the stairs towards where her mother was. "And why now?"
Quentin took another sip of coffee and sighed. He was so tired. His record for staying awake was four days, and by then he was so out of it he'd passed out and woke up twenty four later feeling like he'd ran a marathon. There was no way he could survive a full day sleeping. "What have you dreamed Nancy?" He asked her, trying to gauge where she was in the danger scheme of things.
Nancy smoothed her hair behind her ears then rubbed her eyes. "Just places, shapes. I see kids. There's a screeching sound. And then I hear a voice. I know it…but it seems…distorted." Her head fell back onto the couch. "The kids….the kids seem familiar too. And they keep singing this song…Jesse heard it too."
Quentin drank down the last of the coffee. "He's getting closer to you." He said under his breath, more to himself than to Nancy. Quentin looked back up at her, "What's the song?"
"It's a nursery rhyme I think. But it doesn't answer why Quentin." Nancy turned and looked at him. "Maybe if we can answer that, we can stop him."
"What's the song Nancy?" He asked her again.
She sighed. "1…2…Freddy's coming for you." Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper. She didn't want to say it aloud, because maybe somehow it would channel him into being in front of her.
"3…4 better lock your door." Quentin finished the first line. Nancy's eyes widened. "I couldn't remember his name Nancy…"
"And now you do." Her voice shook. Somehow that made it worse, that he knew the man in the sweaters name. It was another hold he had on him.
Quentin placed his empty cup on the table next to him. "We have to figure out who he is."
Nancy nodded, and they both agreed to meet up the next day to start solving the mystery of who Freddy was. Quentin left to pick up another box of Red Bulls before retuning home.
Nancy Thompson decided that five minutes was a safe amount of time to rest her eyes. Five minutes wouldn't be enough time for someone to kill her. So she slipped into her bathtub and relaxed, setting her alarm to wake her on her cell phone.
It worked perfectly. She felt better after her bath and then dried her hair. Staring at her reflection in the mirror she realized the lack of sleep was causing her to look just as pale as Quentin. Her eyes looked back at her, darker than before, and haunted.
She turned and opened the door to her bedroom, and stepped into a quiet landscape of snow. Nancy's breath quickened as she realized she was dreaming...and her bare feet grew cold as they crunched in the accumulated snowflakes on her bedroom floor.
When she turned back towards the bathroom she found herself standing in front of an old abandoned school building. The sign out front creaked in the slight breeze. The place looked familiar, like a faded photograph. She wiped some of the snow away from the sign, trying to read it. There was a B followed by an A. She glanced over to the right and saw a wooden archway leading to an overgrown and very dead garden. Her brows furrowed.
The sounds of children laughing were echoed in the breeze. Nancy stepped along the short path to the entrance to the school, feet now numb from cold. But she had to know…this was too specific not to be important. As her hand reached out to the doorknob she heard the voice behind her, and she knew…Freddy had finally found her.
"Little Nancy….all grown up." The rough voice spoke, followed by the swishing noise of metal on metal.
She turned and saw him. His face was in the shadows of his hat, but it was still obviously burned, but his eyes shone, blue and hard…staring.
"Who are you?" She managed to say, her voice surprisingly steady.
He was standing next to her then, the scent of smoke clinging to him like a blanket. "You don't remember…none of you do. But you must, you were my number one. My helper…" the blades of his glove run down her arm. "My little Judas, my little Nancy." The fingers wrap around her fist.
"You're just a nightmare…just a dream." She manages to say, trying not to stare now that he's so close and she can see the truly horrific scaring of his face. She can see the icy blue eyes peering out at her from a face disfigured by heat so intense that he's been melted like a candle. The artist in her can't help but think the contrast is beautiful in a twisted way, but she doesn't' acknowledge the random thought. She's too focused on trying not to die.
"That's right…no one can prove I was ever here." He laughs, a mirthless gravely noise. "That was always the plan though…" His hand tightens on hers and Nancy feels the blades prick her forearm slightly.
"I…set my alarm." She says, praying it would just go off and wondering why it hadn't yet.
He laughs again, and the fingers of his other hand clamp around her chin forcing her to look at him. She's going to see what they did…they all will before they die for it. But not her…not yet anyway. "Yes you did…" And he smiles, his mouth twisting in a wry grin. "In your dream." He sees the terror flash in her eyes as she realizes he's right.
His little Judas is scared…she was never a stupid child, that was for certain. He thinks about Quentin and the fact that he loves her. He could see in his mind the pining thoughts for his dark eyed goddess. Quentin didn't know what real love was or true suffering. The two were so closely tied…but Freddy knew. He knew all too well. And he'd teach all of his little Judas's about suffering before he was done.
But Nancy was special…she was always his little helper. His little Picasso, he remembered her pink cheeks covered in paint while they both would draw pictures of the flowers he'd just planted in the garden. She was talented, even back then…and even more talented in lying. She'd be his little helper once more, helping him to create a masterpiece out of the blood of Springwoods liars, drawn with nightmares and screams.
She was shaking, and he saw tears starting to form in the corners of her eyes. It made a memory of his flicker to life…of a girl in his arms held like this only far more tenderly. His grip loosened just a bit as he paused, and pain of a different sort than what he was always feeling slid past his cold gaze. But the memory fed the rage, a reminder of more things that he'd lost thanks to them. He growled, pushing it back in the fire that still burned within him, that had given birth to the creature he now was.
Freddy leaned close to her ear and growled, blades going a bit deeper into her arm. "Now Little Judas…go fetch."
Nancy jerked awake to the sound of her phone ringing. It wasn't the alarm but a call coming through, from Quentin. She answered, gasping. "I saw him…I saw Freddy."
On the other end of the phone Quentin slumped down, waiting for the shock of what she'd told him to wear off. Then he said the words that caused Nancy to go quiet. "Jesse's dead."
