Chapter 2: Bogeyman, Interrupted
Mike did everything he could to convince his parents that he really was ready (and willing) to go to bed, and that he didn't need any sleeping pills. After washing his face and hands, brushing his teeth, and putting on his pajamas, he climbed into bed. His parents kissed him goodnight, and turned off the lights. Then came the hard part . . . .
Mike struggled to lie motionless in his bed, breathing steadily, without falling asleep. He could still see the clock on his nightstand, thanks to its luminous hands and numbers, and after twenty minutes had passed, he could hear his parents opening his door to look in on him, and then closing the door a few moments, later.
It was all that Mike could do to remain silently in his bed, knowing that his mom and dad would likely check in on him once again, within the hour. Almost forty minutes later, Mike was proven right when he again heard the door open once more. This time, it was minutes before he heard it close, again. But he felt a cold wash of relief when he heard his mother say, "I think he's finally asleep, dear."
"We'll check on him in about fifteen minutes, to be sure," replied his father before closing the door. In what would be the longest fifteen minutes of his life, Mike finally heard the door open once more, and heard his parents both breathe an audible sigh of relief.
"Maybe Mike's nightmares are finally over," whispered his mother.
"I hope so," said his father. "I don't know about you, but I could do with a full night's sleep, myself."
"But what if –"
"If Mike wakes up, we'll deal with it, then. Let's go to bed." Then Mike heard the door close.
Mike decided to wait at least ten more minutes before quietly getting out of bed. It was a warm night out, so mike slipped on some jeans and his sneakers, keeping his light pajama top on. He thought about checking in on his mom and dad before slipping out, just to be sure they really were asleep, but decided against it. Taking a deep breath, Michael Joel Wasserman gently opened his window, and slipped out into the night. Jumping on his bike, he rode hard and fast to the Rexall a few blocks away.
As soon as Mike got there, he saw the Rolls-Royce in the parking lot, sitting back from the other parked cars. A boy that he assumed was Travis was waiving to him to come over. With a final burst of speed, Mike covered the distance in less than two heartbeats, laying a patch with his back wheel as he slammed on his coaster-brake. Though the open window, Travis said, "Took you long enough, Mike! I was beginning to think that you weren't going to show!"
Mike blinked. The voice unmistakably belonged to Travis Cook. But everything else about Travis looked . . . different. Not that Mike could see too much. Travis was dressed in an astronaut's costume with an expensive-looking store-bought plastic space helmet, complete with a backpack and a clear faceplate, including a 'microphone' that completely covered his mouth.
It seemed like a lifetime ago, but Mike remembered when he and Travis would pretend to be astronauts on the moon at a nearby subdivision development where the ground had been broken. They would play in homemade space helmets made of papier-mâché shaped over blown-up balloons, wearing 'space suits' made of old, silver painted long underwear and backpacks made of cardboard boxes.
But after a while, they decided to save these outfits for Halloween. If nothing else, they were way too hot to wear in the summertime.
Though night had fallen hours ago, the residual heat of the day held on, and Mike knew it had to be in the eighties, at least. He also felt sticky in the humid evening air. But Travis not only seemed comfortable in his astronaut's costume, Mike could almost feel cold radiating from him as he came closer.
"Hey, Mike," said Travis. "It's good to see you, again. You were about the only thing I liked about Springwood, before Mr. Manx rescued me."
"Who's Mr. Manx?"
"Come in and I'll tell you all about him," said Mike. "Go around to the passenger's side."
"But aren't you already – " Mike stopped when he saw that Travis was sitting behind the car's steering wheel, and blinked. "Oh . . . ."
"It's a British car, Mike," said Travis by way of explanation. "Like the ones you see in "James Bond" movies, or on TV in "The Avengers," with John Steed and Emma Peel."
Mike set the kickstand on his bike, and went around the front of the car, stopping for a moment to notice the iconic Rolls-Royce grille and the odd license plate reading, "NOS4A2," before coming around to the passenger's door. Before he could reach for the handle, the door opened for him, and closed on its own when he climbed in.
"Pretty groovy car, huh?" said Travis. Mike nodded, noticing that as Travis spoke, his helmet vented cold mist through the helmet's 'microphone.'
"Yeah . . . ," said Mike. "That space suit . . . ?"
"My very first gift the day I came to Christmasland, Mike! It's way better than the ones we made, by far!" Then turning serious, Travis said, "I'm glad you came, Mike. Mr. Manx says that none of the other kids Freddy Krueger is stalking have fallen asleep - yet. But if we don't move quickly, Freddy will get more, or he might lose patience and kill Katie Walton, outright. And if he does that, he'll be stronger than he is, now . . . ."
Mike blinked. How did Travis know about Katie? He didn't remember telling him about her when they spoke on the phone, earlier. Mike was about to ask, but before he could, Travis gave his friend an open, cold bottle of Coca Cola. "You must be hot, after that ride, Mike. Besides, the soda will help you stay awake."
Mike nodded and took the drink gratefully from his friend, taking a big swallow.
"I still can't believe that it was Mr. Krueger who was killing all the kids, Mike," said Travis conversationally. "I mean, I went to the same school that his daughter Kathryn went to, and all – not that I was friends with her . . . ."
Mike had so many questions, but before he could ask, Travis offered a partial answer to one of them on his own. "I guess everybody thinks that Krueger got me – or that my dad and mom got me, and are trying to blame my disappearance on "The Springwood Slasher!"
"Frankly, I hope that my dad and mom get busted, and get The Chair for my "murder," for the way they treated me."
Mike took another drink and said, "Your dad I get. But your mom was always nice to me –"
"Oh, she never hit me, or anything," admitted Travis. "But she sure wasn't much help when dad wailed on me with his fists – or with his belt. She never once tried to stop him, or get me away from him while he was away at work. And Mr. Manx says that that makes her just as bad as my dad, if not worse!"
Mike wanted to ask Travis why he thought that, but instead asked, "Alright, who is this "Mr. Manx" you keep talking about?"
"Oh, he runs Christmasland!" said Travis enthusiastically. "Once - sometimes twice - a year, Mr. Manx rescues a child who is being abused or neglected and takes them to Christmasland to be safe and happy! It's the best, most wonderful place ever; even better than Disneyland!
"In Christmasland, every day is Christmas Day! Every night is Christmas Eve! And unhappiness there is against the law! But nobody there can ever be unhappy, even if they tried!
"You get presents every morning! There are rides and games and all the candy, chocolate and hot cocoa you can eat!"
As Travis talked, Mike felt himself sinking into the comfortable seat of the exotic car, which felt more comfortable than his own bed. Mike shook his head quickly, and said, "I almost felt like I was falling asleep."
"Oh, you are asleep, Mike," said Travis matter-of-factly. "You've been asleep ever since you took your second drink of soda." Again, Travis used his serious voice. "I'm sorry that I had to trick you, Mike. But we need you to fall asleep so we could capture Krueger. So Mr. Manx had me, well . . . give you something . . . ."
Mike took a closer look at his Coke, and noticed something floating at the bottom of the bottle. "T-Travis . . . ? You slipped me a Mickey?!"
"Mr. Manx told me to," said Travis apologetically. "We had to do it. It's the only way this is going to work! But don't worry, Mike. It'll be all over, soon, once we've trapped Krueger."
Mike struggled to open the door, but it would not budge. "Let me out, Travis! Please . . . !"
"You'll be let out, soon, Mike. I promise!"
Before Mike could say anything else, he heard a familiar, growling voice coming from behind him. "How sweet . . . Kosher meat!" Turning slowly, Mike saw the burned form of Freddy Krueger sitting casually in the back seat.
"Hello Mike. Did you really think that you could escape me by sleeping somewhere else, you little piggy . . . ?"
"You're MARKED, kid! No matter where you or the other little piggies of Springwood fall asleep, I'll find you all!"
Travis burst out laughing. "Hey, look at him, Mike! He's bare-ass necked! And look at his pecker! It looks like a hot dog that's been left on the grille for too long! Jeez, I can't believe that you, me and the other kids were all ever afraid of him . . . !"
The monster rounded to Travis, and said, "I know you, too. You're the Cook's son. My little girl Kathryn goes to Catholic School with you! But you were always hanging out with the little Kike kid, here. I was just about to get you both before the cops came and arrested me!"
Travis flipped both of his middle fingers to Krueger. "You want me, booger-man? Here I am. You just try and get me and Michael! Here we are! C'mon! Just try it, you burned-faced sucker! I dare ya! I double-dog dare ya!"
"Wait your turn, kid," grunted Krueger. He then turned to Mike, drew back his arm with the Glove, and said, "Now, you DIE!" Aiming his blades for Mile's throat, Krueger thrust his arm forward over the front seat, roaring with rage . . . .
. . . a roar that quickly turned to a howl of pain. Mike gasped. Freddy Krueger's arm looked cut off at the elbow, just before going over the front seat, though the stump was a solid grey, with no trace of blood. But Mike quickly realized that this was not why Krueger was howling.
Now Travis was laughing uncontrollably, and pointed for Mike to look. "Dig it! Krueger just skewered himself!" Peering over the front seat, Mike saw that Krueger's Glove arm was actually 'growing,' (there was no other word Mike could think of to describe what he saw,) out of the back seat, and the knives on the fearsome Glove were sticking into Krueger's back up to the fingertips.
Krueger pulled his arm back, and his Glove hand 'sunk' back into the seat as it reappeared on his right arm. The monster examined his arm and Glove, flexing his fingers and the blades on them, before once again trying to cut Mike. This time, Krueger attempted to cut Mike with a slashing motion, and ended up slashing his own back with his blades as they once more 'grew' out of the back seat cushion. Again, Krueger roared with a mixture of agony and frustration.
Again, Travis burst out laughing. Now Krueger tried to get both boys by reaching over the front seat wildly, only to watch both of his hands and arms vanish the moment they passed over the back of the front seat, screaming with rage as he did so, and screaming with pain as he once more cut himself.
Then the driver's door opened, and Travis casually slid out, going around to the passenger's side to open the door for Mike, who immediately scampered out. "See, Mike? I told you that you could trust us and that there was nothing to worry about!
"I'm really sorry that I had to trick you. But Mr. Manx said that it was the only way to trap Krueger."
Realizing that he was starting to sound like a broken record, Mike said, "Who is this Mr. Manx you keep talking about, Travis?"
Just as Mike spoke, a young, dark-haired man wearing an old-fashioned chauffer's uniform slid effortlessly into the driver's seat, and said, "I am. Charles Talent Manx, III; at your service!
"And you must be Michael Joel Wasserman! Travis has told me so much about you! And may I say that it seems I've come not a moment too soon! Without my timely intervention, I suspect that you and the other children of Springwood wouldn't have been able to stay awake too much longer!
"But never fear - you and the other children of Springwood may sleep safely, now! Where we're taking Mr. Krueger, he'll never bother you or any other child ever again!
"In fact, I daresay that young Katie Walton should be waking up from her coma in short order, as well, now that I have severed Mr. Krueger's link to his hideous inscape!" Mr. Manx then turned to the flailing, trapped bogeyman in the back seat, and quipped, "Isn't that right, Mr. Frederick Charles Krueger . . . ?"
The sound of his name made Krueger stop and stare closely at Mr. Manx. Krueger regarded him for a moment, before saying, "I-it can't be . . . . YOU!"
Mr. Manx tipped his chauffer's cap and nodded, "Very good. I see that you do remember me." He then turned to Travis and Michael, who were standing outside of the car at the open front passengers' door, shook his head sadly, and said, "You know, boys, the last time I saw Mr. Krueger here, he was about your age, and in desperate need of being rescued . . . .
"Alas, I had only been – shall we say – "in the trade," for a little over nine years when I first saw young Fredrick Charles Krueger in the Graveyard of What Might Be. I offer no excuses for my failure, but do claim a certain degree of . . . inexperience by way of an explanation.
"Of all the sad children in need of rescuing, I had never seen a child in such dire straits as him. Born the child of rape, the son of one hundred maniacs, I saw a grim future not just for him, but for any child who had the misfortune to cross paths with him, should he be allowed to reach adulthood. It's a well-known fact that abused children often become abusers, themselves . . . .
"Oh, how I tried and tried to convince young Freddy to come with me to Christmasland, where he could have dwelled forever as a young innocent. But alas, I was still new to my calling, and was unprepared for his outright – and at times, violent - refusal.
"Eventually, after enduring so much frustration, I felt that I had no choice but to abandon my efforts. You may throw a drowning person a rope, but you cannot make them take hold of it, is that not so?
"And so, I concentrated on rescuing the children that I could, and not those that I could not. That said, I've improved on my techniques over the years, and even acquired the odd-assistant, or two, to aid me in my sacred duties. Still, my unique failure with Freddy Krueger is all on me. I cannot help but think that if I had only tried a little bit harder, then nineteen innocent children might still be alive, today."
Krueger replied, "You think I'm stupid, Manx? I know a kiddie-fiddler when I see one! Yeah, my life was bad. But going with you would have been jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire!"
"Which is apparently what you did, eventually," replied Manx dryly, "courtesy of the parents of Springwood.
"But, though I cannot change the past, I can still bring you to Christmasland, now."
Travis said, "Uh, Mr. Manx? I was just wondering . . . Can Michael come with us, too? He's my Best Friend before I came to Christmasland!"
"Uh, Travis? Christmasland . . . ? I'm Jewish, remember . . . ?"
"No matter, there," said Mr. Manx with an affable smile. "All children are welcome in Christmasland. But I am only able to bring one, occasionally two, there every year. And this year, I already have a second child in mind, Travis. This little 'side trip' to belatedly collect Mr. Krueger is a special circumstance.
"More to the point, I needs must prioritize who I rescue, and when I last checked, I did not see Michael Joel Wasserman in the Graveyard of What Might Be.
"You do seem to have the odd set of halfway good parents, Michael." Manx then shook his head, sighed, and added, "Even though they don't allow you to watch "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer," or "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," on TV. It's so sad that you had to go to Travis' house, just to see them . . . .
"However, the same may not be said for poor, young Paul Caslon, whose life is truly a tragic tale of abuse and neglect. But no fear. We shall attend to Paul just as soon as our current task involving Mr. Krueger is completed . . . .
"And now, Travis, would you kindly say your final goodbyes to Michael, here?"
Travis sighed, and more cold mist leaked from his toy space helmet. "I guess this is it, Mike. We had a lot of fun, together. You were a friend to me when nobody else would be. But don't worry. I've got LOTS of new friends in Christmasland, and I'll never be alone, ever again!"
"T-take care of yourself, man," said Michael softly. Instinctively, both boys moved to take each other's hand for one last shake, stopping only when Mr. Manx barked, "NO, boys!" It occurred to Mike that though Manx's order was urgent, it was given more as a warning than out of displeasure, and both boys, abashed, immediately stopped.
"Now, it's time," said Mr. Manx with a tone of finality. "Please climb in, Travis. We've a long drive ahead of us, and Freddy Krueger's presence in Christmasland is long overdue."
Moments later, Michael waved goodbye and watched as the Rolls-Royce with the "NOS4A2" license plates pulled out of the Rexall parking lot, and disappeared down the road.
Michael Wasserman was able to slip back into his bedroom undetected by his sleeping parents. Not bothering to remove his jeans, he kicked off his sneakers, and climbed into bed, sleeping soundly for the first time in over a week, and didn't awaken until nearly noon the next day.
And Michael wasn't alone. The other children of Springwood also slept in late, much to the relief of their worried parents. Even Katie Walton woke from her coma that night, remembering nothing of her ordeal.
Slowly, life in the town of Springwood, Ohio, returned to normal.
In the back seat of Charlie Manx's 1938 Rolls-Royce Wraith, Fredrick Charles Krueger slept and dreamt of a twisted version of a Christmas theme park filled with little children, and smiled, thinking of what he'd do with them and to them with Mr. Manx, once he got there . . . .
Freddy reflected that he had been right about Mr. Manx sharing his own peccadilloes. But by going to Christmasland now, he'd be the one inflicting the pain and humiliation on the children there, instead of being among the recipients, had he gone with Manx as a child.
In the front seat, Charles Talent Manx, III, and Travis Cook sang Christmas Songs together as they drove on the St. Nick Parkway to their destination: Christmasland.