Chapter four—Michael

            Well, this is a rare sight, thought Kai sarcastically. Tara's in a bad mood. I've never seen this before.

            As it was, Michael and Tara were not the greatest of friends at the time. There were fighting the fight they fought perhaps weekly, only this time it was much worse. Naturally, as he hated Tara, Kai was only too complied to side with Michael. And maybe they still did love each other, actually, Kai was positive they still did, but at the time they felt sickened with despisation. Of course, the fight was over something nonsensical and stupid…then again, had it not been, would they have fought at all? Kai didn't think so…Tara wasn't smart enough to have fought over something useful (not that anything was), or at least, something intelligent. Hell, Kai didn't know what Michael saw in her. He really didn't.

            "Oh, fuck you, Michael!" Tara yelled angrily, storming away in her anger. Boy, she thought she had gotten him good, she really did.

            "Fuck me? I wish you could all fuck me! I wish I could fuck you too, but that's not going to happen, now is it, Tara?" Michael retaliated. Oh yeah, he was pissed. You didn't want to get Michael pissed, either; as nice a guy he normally was, he had a quick temper and could be quick to say irrational comments if provoked.

            Now it was Tara's turn to be in shock. Not that Michael ever was, but Tara definitely was speechless, causing the next words to escape her mouth to be simple, yet more powerful than nearly and more complex, intricate insult. Tara was lucky, in her own little sense, that these words were so simple, because Kai doubted she would have been able to string along anything better. "I hate you, Michael. I hate you," she began to leave.

            "Oh, cry me a fucking river, Tara! Go to hell!" Michael finished. Tara ran off crying. "I swear, man, if it had been a normal fight, I wouldn't have gotten so pissed. But it was about a stupid paper I was supposed to have helped her on!"

            "You're better off without her, man," Kai said, trying to help Michael feel better, or at least, calm down. Sure wasn't working.

            "Yeah…I guess so," Michael slumped down, obviously not convinced.

            "Besides, she's a complete moron and—" Kai paused as he saw a long face on Michael. It was new, really; it was the first time that Kai really saw how much Michael cared about her. "I don't want to trash talk her. I'll just…I'll just let you be," he said, also leaving.

            "No, don't go!" Michael said, as if he'd be lonely or something. "Don't leave me, you're my best friend, I need you for just friggen once. Stay…just a little while."

            Kai nodded. "Alright."

            "Kai, I've got tot tell you something," Michael said, a bit softly.

            "Yeah?"

            "These dreams you were talking about. I've been having them, too. I know what you're talking about. But, well, you know Tara, she hates it when I side with you…and I didn't want her to think I was completely nuts or something. But I think…I think he's trying to kill me," Michael gulped. Wow, and Kai had thought Michael fearless. But of course, was there really such a thing? Surely no one could be genuinely fearless…everyone had their own little quirks…even Freddy.

            Now, this was a thought. If only Kai knew a bit more…and for that, he needed Taryn. Or Jennifer. Or Sheila, or whoever was left. Hell, Kai had the feeling that the whole baseball team knew…but how? How could so many people know without Kai being informed until just recently? Was he really that clueless, that naïve?

            No…it's because he's back. And these kids, whoever the hell they were, they probably all knew each other. And that's how the stories got around.

            "Listen, Michael," Kai began. "This bastard got Hallie. Now he's after me, he's after you. We've gotta do something," Kai paused, thinking. Suddenly, and idea struck him. "Hey, you remember the stories of the Lantz kid, and his friends and how his girlfriend watched him die?"

            "Yeah, Glen."

            I did not just hear that.

            "What about him?" Michael continued, intrigued.

            "I think Freddy got him—got them."

            "Kai, he's not real," Michael argued.

            "What? But you were just— "

            "No, he's not." Yup, his defenses had risen. He was Mister Tough Guy yet again. "It's probably just a coincidence I dreamed about him, maybe just cause I heard you talking about him."

            "Michael…what the hell are you talking about, you moron? You know he's real; you saw him. You Goddamn admitted it, don't you go saying you didn't," Kai said, his temper rising, but still wanting to stay calm.

            "No, Kai, he's not real," Michael repeated, trying to prove a point, but not really succeeding, only continuing at making Kai even angrier. "You know what? I've got it! We're both crazy, that's it. This is unfucking real, no chance in hell," Michael argued.

            Kai continued reasoning but eventually gave up, "You know what, forget it. Just forget it," he said, storming out. "Just watch your fucking back."

            He left. After all, who cared about Tara, now?

            Michael was in hell, seriously. Tara hated him. Now Kai probably hated him. And Damian, well, Damian wouldn't argue, that's for sure. But Damian wouldn't help, either, because all he'd do is agree. Worst of it, he was having nightmares. But no…Stop it, Mike, he told himself. Dreams can't hurt you.

            Michael trembled a bit and gripped the computer desk in his room, trying to think. He was crazy, surely he was.

            "Tara…" Michael sighed depressingly. He knew the thing, he would give her a call, send her some flowers, anything, everything! Whatever; he just missed her.

            Picking up the phone (one of the most difficult things ever at the time), he dialed quickly without noticing the misdialed seven in contrast to a four. Yet he waited.

            "Augh! Augh!" the screams of a beaten woman sounded, intriguing Michael to listen further, his heart pounding.

            Tara!

            The screams, the brutal beating continued. Alas, it was not Tara, thank God. Michael slammed down the phone in horror. I'll never make that mistake again, he thought, laughing nervously in relief.

            He panted, not redialing until he was calmed down. Finally, he took a deep breath and carefully dialed, "Calm down, Michael, you're a friggen nervous wreck," he told himself.

            One ring, no answer. Two rings, the same. Actually, Michael was near hanging up when finally someone answered. Too bad he didn't.

            "She's outside fucking the pool boy, Mikey. Try again next lifetime," the voice snarled, turning into a hysterical laugh. And the SCREECHING, oh, that horrible screeching!

            Michael pulled the phone off his ear, holding it in front of him, staring as if trying to figure what could possibly have gone wrong. Suddenly, from the floor, he felt the phone cord emerge to wrap around his leg, tugging him, nearly clawing to bring him down.

            "Help! Please help!"

            "—Michael, Michael…" he heard. It was his mother. ""Michael, wake up!"

            He bolted up, turning to realize he had fallen asleep at his computer desk. "Oh…Mama…I guess I fell asleep.

            His mother, Elena, nodded, "I guess so. Honey, you were screaming, are you alright?" she asked, with a genuine look of worry on her face.

            "Oh yeah, I'm fine, Mama. No te preocupes," he told her. Mainly at home, all Michael and his mother spoke to each other was Spanish. His father, however, Mexican born but raised in America, spoke little as a result of no practice. By his name, Michael, people rarely believed him Hispanic, but he was teased often. And boy, did he hate it. He hated the racism against his family, a wealth enough family always being ridiculed and told that they "must have robbed a bank or something." So many words of disgust. As if all Mexicans were shit, were poor, the lowest of the low; that's how they treated him. He was disgusted that nowadays, even with people making such a big deal about racism, they still practiced it behind their own backs.

            "Bueno, sueña bien, mi amor. Te quiero," his mother said, leaving the room.

            Michael stared once again at the phone, demonic as it had been. But of course, it made no move, just lying motionless, as if taunting him. Come and get me, Michael, I'd take ya, it said to him. Well, not really, but he could imagine it.

            Michael flopped onto his bed. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. Not tonight. Not tomorrow, or the day after that, or any time remotely soon. But he had hockey, he needed his rest…actually, what he needed was hockey. Get his mind off all this madness, or something.

            SLAP!

            Michael hit the puck fast and hard, slamming it all the way across the ice rink. It cleanly hit the net, bouncing off and pulling a stop soon enough. Finally, Michael was at peace with himself; at least for a little while, anyway. He was all alone and he was playing hockey. What more could he want, here and now?

            He glanced at the clock, but it was pointless. The timer only worked for games, not actual time. Oh well, he wouldn't stay too long. He continued taking his shots from different angles, different distance, not missing a single one. Definitely, when he had something on his mind, he played ten times faster, worked ten times harder, was ten times more brutal. He could just feel the power coming from him, and he liked it.

            "Hey there, little Michael!" the cruel voice, same as he had heard on the phone and in the dreams, called. "Having FUN?"

            It was him; it had to be. Michael spun around, searching for Freddy, as Kai had called him. "Where the hell are you?" he said, yelling but not finding anything. Not really wanting to find anything was more like it.

            Suddenly, he heard pounding from the stands behind the glass, and booing as if there were millions of viewers instead of none. And, yes, there they were! Thousands of people, all watching him, eyes on Michael. But there was something wrong with them….something odd. They didn't look as lively as real people; they were a little more animated.

            Finally, Michael spotted him—Freddy. He was as usual, pounding on the glass, "More blood, more blood to the game!" Freddy smiled viciously. "Look, I brought the whole crew with me! Even Hallie's here!" He pulled out a figure from next to him. "See?"

            It was Hallie—or what was left of Hallie. The figure was too mutilated, too brutal to be Hallie, once beautiful, so young and so full of life. Blood leaked from the corpse's neck; the eyes were open but glassy; there was no life to it. It was horrible.

            Michael was so petrified he nearly missed hearing the buzzer. Time out.