Shadow Play
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Author's Note
I attribute this to my sudden fascination with the character of Freddy Krueger. Ah… I've just seen the entire series for the first time these past two weeks. I'm only a neophyte to Freddy fandom; I apologize for my inexperience.
Likely a one-shot.
Rated R for graphic violence and possibly some offensive language.
Fred Krueger is the brainchild of Wes Craven and the property of New Line Cinema.
Enjoy.
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It might have been evening.
The moisture in the air became thick enough to project an ominous presence of its own – a presence that sidled in abreast the quiet buildings and brushed their cold façades with deep shadows and evil tidings.
Thunderheads roared.
Crack
A spray of red-orange sparks whisked down a tall concrete smokestack and scattered across the fractured asphalt.
As if on cue, the black sky split and bled its weighty clouds out over the derelict scene.
The silver strands raced to the earth, eagerly seeking flesh to sting and abuse in their numbing intensity.
Soft rain never fell on the dreamscape.
A shadow – far deeper than its companions – flew briskly alongside the empty monoliths, throwing up a light mist as skinny raindrops slammed into its deceptively solid mass. It moved along with a meandering, playful eloquence, seeming to rather enjoy the ringing static and harsh drenching offered by the sudden downpour. After several moments of this, upon reaching the far end of the building, the shape melted from sight in a whisper of sliding metal.
Below, an electric groan filled the complex's vast boiler room as heavy orange light spilled over a single, rickety work table and onto the enclosure's corroded jungle of pipes, platforms, and catwalks, causing most shadows to retreat swiftly into the embrace of the room's deep corners.
One, however, lingered – a black blotch drooping calmly from among the piping on the high ceiling.
Whoosh
A smaller shape had detached itself, tumbling end over end before plunking loudly onto the table's marred surface and spewing a cloud of gray dust and rainwater into the otherwise immobile atmosphere. The dull sound faded swiftly while the filth found new purchase on the damp crown and brim of the fallen object – a dilapidated felt hat.
"Shit." The raw growl snapped through the ensuing silence from overhead.
From beneath the room's sole furnishing, a small figure uttered a muffled cry and bolted clumsily for the nearest set of stairs, slamming its head into the table's sharp edge as it emerged and causing the dingy fedora to roll belly-up onto the floor. The figure crawled to its feet and clutched its bruised scalp with one hand, pumping its legs in desperation. Pausing at the base of the stairs, it seemed to teeter and flail about for a rail before plowing on. A metallic thunder followed at its heels as it ascended the steps, complementing its pained whimper nicely and assuring the predator of an uncomplicated hunt.
The lone shadow shifted and swept after its tiny quarry.
The boy crested the narrow staircase. In the light, that's what the formerly faceless figure became – a small boy with tousled hair the color of salt sprinkled over pepper. Even here, provided with good visibility, the child appeared hesitant and clumsy; it was easily dismissed by his pursuer as fear coupled with the inherent stupidity of children.
The shadow loomed directly over its prey.
plop
A drop of liquid splashed over the bridge of the boy's tiny, freckled nose, racing over the hump of cartilage and down his cheek like a teardrop. He lifted a finger to the moisture.
plop
He cocked his head toward the sound.
And waited.
…
FWOOSH
Dark shapes opened behind the shadow as it plummeted, throwing a torrent of icy water over the platform. Talons flashed in the high light like a raptor from a clear sky.
The boy cried out pitifully and made a single backward step, his long bangs clinging to the mingled perspiration and rainwater shining on his upturned face.
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Fred Krueger landed with a dark laugh, bent over one knee atop the thin stretch of hopelessly rusted railing that curved two feet from his toe and ran the length of the stairs, his arms flung wide and his scarred head bowed, his soft dark trench coat pooled about his heels and draped over the bar.
He rose and stood there a moment, deriving a small dose of satisfaction at the way the thin metal vibrated and swayed beneath his boots' thick soles before he stepped off with a metallic clang to alight toe to toe with the little boy.
The child fell back quickly, now in real danger of tumbling back down the precarious stairway at his rear and denying the stalker of nightmares his much-anticipated reward.
"Hey, Danny."
The boy cringed away from the unearthly voice, but Freddy's left arm shot out and he grasped a handful of the child's white nightshirt to ensure the brat could not escape with a merciful death. He pulled him close.
"What's the matter, Danny?"
He yanked the kid into the air abruptly and chuckled at the thrashing limbs and squeals of protest, swinging the weight hanging from his fist like a pendulum as he stepped up to the tall railing.
"Ever had one of those falling dreams?"
His burden continued to struggle pathetically.
Freddy shrugged exaggeratedly, hoisted the whimpering bundle over the side, and relinquished his hold. He lingered with his scorched belly pressed against the cold steel for a moment before dissolving back into the shadows and reappearing on the cracked concrete below, a malicious grin dominating his upturned face while the boy plummeted and crashed feet-first in a heap between his boots. He cast his shaded eyes downward and kneeled over the small body.
It stirred – a ripple of an eyelid.
Nothing vital broken just yet.
Mmm.
A bolt of anticipation snapped up the demon's lean frame, teasing the pit of his stomach and exciting a flow of saliva under his tongue. Silently, he divested himself of the heavy jacket – pulling his arms through and allowing it to roll off his shoulders and whisper down the length of his spine. The faded stripes of the Slasher's threadbare sweater – complementary colors of red and green – appeared to glow in the orange light.
"Don't give me that shit. You're already asleep, kid."
The round, dark eyes flew open, staring straight ahead, clearly not focused on Freddy. The child's breathing remained relatively steady.
Not focused…
…On Freddy
Rising irritation promptly spoiled Krueger's euphoria.
He uncurled and lifted the plated knuckles of his right hand from their resting place against his thigh.
Shhing
The gleaming razor quartet sang brilliantly as he fanned and flexed his fingers beside the boy's skull.
This retrieved the coveted attention – the boy's head snapped around to confront the sound.
"Who—who's there…?" Daniel's pulse leapt marginally and his voice squeaked like an indignant rat, but he did not struggle when he turned toward the madman's claws – a sight so emphatically promising of pain.
Squeal, pig.
Where was the rush of fear?
The Nightmare King slid the flat of one blade under the boy's chin, causing him to shiver and try to lift his hand… perhaps seeking the cold steel caressing his jaw. Krueger ignored it; the child's surreal behavior had pulled something loose – a lost memory? Further speculation was interrupted.
Hm…?
The brat's tiny fingers were stretched out. They writhed centimeters from the horribly scarred flesh of his captor's face.
Momentarily struck off balance by a weighty revelation, Freddy could only glare uselessly.
Blind.
The kid was blind as a fucking bat.
And Freddy hadn't known...
…He had been absolutely oblivious up to this point.
A reminder of his present vulnerability, his depression of power – a knife to his exposed gut. It was a real turnoff.
The lasting, infectious terror of decades past was not likely to come again.
Why?
No one had nightmares anymore. The doors to thousands of dreams had been locked to the hungering demon.
He'd eventually grown tired of waiting for an explanation.
They've forgotten.
He'd killed what he could; he'd survived.
It won't last.
This kid's arrival on the dreamscape had led Freddy into the clutches of a rare mood. He was young and would certainly awaken the fear in his parents and friends. Freddy fear, after all, was an epidemic held in check by a very fragile vaccine – memory, or lack thereof. Only a tiny prick was required to stimulate those strange little cells concerned with the retention of memory, to remind them of an old terror. From there, alarm would ripple over the surface of Springwood's collective memory.
Whether or not the boy could see his own death was really irrelevant. The mutilated body would do the trick.
Someone had to remember.
He pulled himself forcefully from his reverie to cast his ice-hard gaze over the silent child. Its breast rose and fell with a regular motion.
The paper-thin tips of Freddy's precious, precious blades had dipped against the stained concrete during his brief bout of inattention. Spreading his fingers marginally, he drew them across the floor, eliciting long wails of protest and red-orange sparks from the smooth surface until they arrived at the child's bony hip.
The head-splitting sound caused the boy's face to contort in agony, and his hands flew immediately to cup his throbbing ears.
The blades, the squealing, the blind creature sprawled beneath his ready hands…
The old memory snapped into focus, and the abnormally silent bogeyman was briefly reminded of distant high school biology…
The teacher had toted in a covered, sloshing white pail that reeked of formaldehyde. Curiosity rippled through the crowded classroom. Some students shuddered while others leaned forward and craned their necks, positioning themselves for a better view of the container. They probably expected frogs; the frog dissection had been infamous among tenth graders. Freddy sat in the back with his arms crossed over his narrow chest, disinterested.
But then the balding little man calmly popped open the green cover and plunged his bony hand into its stinking contents.
A sleek, pink little bundle of flesh emerged from that bucket.
It was no frog.
It was a fetal pig – a creature torn from its butchered mother's womb; a creature never subjected to that first welcoming light of life.
Freddy felt a strange sort of kinship to the limp fetus as he pinned it to the spongy blue lining of his tray. Perhaps it was only in the instinctual knowledge that he had also missed out on such a thing. The circumstances of his birth had been dark as well.
What the fuck is wrong with this world?
Freddy ripped into the child's nightshirt with his left hand, scattering silver buttons.
He'd picked up the tools anyway. Like everyone else, he'd cut the pig.
The blades skimmed serenely over the pale stomach flesh – a soft plane puckered and twitching with goose bumps.
The rubbery, pink skin had parted easily; even beneath the exasperatingly dull edge of the classroom scalpel.
Why did this seem so familiar?
Muddy brown blood had run over his fingers.
A piercing shriek dissolved Freddy's concentration. His blades had begun to catch the skin, producing a thin wound that wept a delicate trail of crimson.
The boy had been screaming. His entire frame vibrated with the sound.
"Does everyone cut you, pig?" the scarred demon muttered. Infrequent sobs began to edge into the child's screams.
Freddy dipped his chin, withdrawing the long razors with a flick and placing his gloved palm flat against the shuddering diaphragm. Cool flesh pressed into his fingertips around the holes in the ragged leather.
"I'm not a fan of trends."
Suddenly, his bladed fingers drew together as they stretched behind his head, elbow bent and quivering with the sleek tension of a strung crossbow.
Fire-raw cables of sinew and tendon released, and Freddy's bundled razors plunged into the soft tissue stretched between either side of the boy's jaw, cleanly splitting the thrashing pink tongue and pinning it to the bony palate of the mouth's roof.
Both the shriek and Freddy's nauseating spell of introspection gurgled into a foamy red oblivion around his claws.
He tilted his head and snapped them open, causing the mandible to expand and the pulpy skin to tear. Shortly, the jawboneshattered with a warm spray and fell away at odd angles, leaving the face a pit of gore and the monster's talons raised and deeply stained in its wake.
Fucking glorious.
He began to cackle then, and a warm, metallic-sweet droplet slid from the hooked tip of his nose and splashed onto his lower lip.
From between his black lips a vile, intent tongue raced to snap it up before curling at the corner of his mouth and around his chin in search of more.
After a moment, his attention began to shift back toward the faceless carcass. Freddy reached out for a wrist as he lowered his mouth to the supple ridge of cartilage curling out from its ear, the hollow of which had become choked with running blood. He maneuvered the still palm so that it rested against the deep contours of his own grossly twisted cheek and murmured, "How's the dark treating you, Danny?"
A/N – Many of the lines following the "blind" revelation were written when I'd planned on a longer story. I've left them in case I decide to post the rest as a separate chapter.