Disclaimer: And once again, I do not own Edward Scissorhands. I do not own A Nightmare on Elm Street.
Chapter II: Painting the Picture
Freddy Kruger was not one to procrastinate when he had plans in mind. Oh no. He got right to work, continually keeping his garish watch on Edward, on every detail hidden within his environment. It appeared that the man lived in a castle of some sort, hidden away from society. Upon closer examination, he saw that the town settled below was known as Suburbia. However, he was unable to deduct what state it made its home, providing more difficulty for the child killer. It was as if a shield were placed upon the information, as if some outside being didn't want him to know.
Damn it. Freddy, even with his surreal abilities, could not find what he sought; the name of the state. This was frustrating for him, as he wouldn't be able to get to Edward with his lack of knowledge of the name; for all he knew, there could be an endless myriad of Suburbias, one in each state.
His patience was certainly not his best quality, among other traits. At the moment, its flow was running short, to the point of a drought. But he would not give up on his quest; he was not one for idleness. If ever there was a decent quality about Freddy Kruger, it would be his solid determination, his ability to see things through to the end.
Stretching mildly, he decided to think out the rest of his scheme, for there was still much to think about, still much left to do. Living in the dream realm held many chances and opportunity, and yet it handicapped Freddy as well. He was limited to the minds of Springwood; he was restricted from travel into and about reality. He would need help from a resident, though he knew it would not be easy, or willing to withdraw. And so he would do what he did best; manipulate the human mind.
He bore a smirk at that thought, pondering the collection within his weaponry of torture. This led to thought of adolescences, and whether any remained in the town. Over the years, years past the Jason fiasco, Freddy, revived once more by those who had gifted him with the dream realm, again began to decrease the population of teenagers and young children. He had spawned once again a barren landscape, a populace of little over 1,000 adults.
The town had been drained, and had lost its school systems, and government. Because of the weight of these loses, Springwood was no longer considered a town, only an empty ghost of civilization. And thus, the only attraction the town held was for the homeless and the poor, for the houses were skeletons of the past, something taboo among the native townspeople.
This is what drove Freddy's longing for excitement, he had never wanted to murder the older generation of Springwood unless necessary; most would eventually end up in suicides clutch anyway. Boredom held such a hold on him, he craved the teenage blood he once hunted; they were so complex, so unique from the rest of the human race. They lacked the wisdom of the experienced, and yet they were over flown with more curiosity than young children. Caught between the crossroads of child and adulthood, emotion thickened their blood. So easily induced, and yet so headstrong at the same time.
With the downfall of the child and teenage population, Freddy had been kept restless in his nightmare world, eager for Death to come into his good graces once more.
Annoyed that he had so easily been stolen from his priorities, Freddy engaged once more in his activities, out of tune with the new opportunity coming into his gloved grasp…
~*~*~*
It was somewhat of a nice house; Brigid Belen would give it that as a compliment. It was the only decent comment she had for it. The adolescent stood there, wondering why in the hell that of all the places, her dad and she had to move to Springwood. She was familiar with the town's back-story, how it was supposedly dominated by a nightmare demon, an ex-child murderer/molester; she had lived in the town next door most of her life, she knew the fables well. But her parents' separation had given her the choice between her mother and father, forever altering her once normal lifestyle.
And so she had chosen her father, and he was the one forced to leave the house. Even after the divorce, he would still bend over backwards for his ex-wife. It angered Brigid to no end; her mother was a bitch, no doubt about it.
Placing her thoughts of the past in the dust, she continued her observations of her new neighborhood, taking note of the lingering unease settled upon the place. She came to her new mailbox, dented and unhinged, lifelessly hanging as if caught by the gallows. A flash of ashen silver caught her wandering glance, and Brigid obediently followed her intrigue, to see that the numbers: 1428 on a plate, fallen among the rest of the litter cluttering the yard.
The numbers stuck against her mind, familiar with it, as if she had heard them before. 1428 Elm Street. Why does it sound so familiar? Lost in confusion and déjà vu, Brigid struggled with the origin of the address.
It was sudden, the icy grip on her lungs, smothering her contentment, screaming at her to go back, before it was too late. You're just being paranoid. There is nothing at all wrong with this place. She tried desperately to drown the fear consuming what remained of her breathing, but it was unwilling to die that easily. Maybe I should go for a walk. Brigid thought, in between shallow gasps, anxious for oxygen and tranquility, trying to find something to distract her.
"Honey, are you all right?" Jack Belen rushed over to his only daughter; worry melting from every word spoken as her screaming breathes came to his attention.
"Dad, I'm fine." Brigid's voice came out hoarse, worn out from the effort to intake air and speak at the same time. "I think I'll take a walk." Her father just gave her the look of doubt, one that questioned the quality of her health.
"Are you sure you're ok?" He asked again, troubled by the clammy edge to her face, the deathly paleness of her skin. She nodded, eager to rid of the sudden feeling of nausea. "Alright." He reluctantly agreed to let her go. "And when you get back, I want you to rest, understand?"
"Yep!" She called back to him over her shoulder as she walked away into the distance. It was a nice gesture on her dad's part, but it only aroused old pity for him. Maybe Brigid was being overly cynical, but it seemed to her that her father was too gullible, too trusting of others. Not that it didn't have its benefits, but it saddened her to think it was most likely the reason her mother married him.
Not wanting to think about her mother or her wicked ways, or even her father for that matter, Brigid attempted to clear her mind, like the family therapist taught her. The family therapist. She sniggered, thinking of it. Going had been her father's idea, inspired by his constant battles against Maria, her mother. The first visit, the therapist had started off with breathing and meditation exercises, under the illusion that it would encourage the Belens to "talk openly about the stress building within the family walls" as the therapist, Dr. Sara, had put it.
That was laughable, considering within moments into the relaxation, Brigid's parents started arguing and had managed to get to the point of yelling within two minutes, with Brigid herself cutting the remainder of the session. They never committed to a second appointment.
Kicking the various clutter upon the abandoned street, Brigid continued her walk, her fright gone for the moment. The flashback to the therapeutic methods just happened to be therapy in of its self, clearing her mind of its previous chaotic daze.
Leaving Elm Street, all the while paying no heed to her father's request, she found herself traveling upon shattered pavement, a main street in desperate need of repairs. As she let her gaze roam freely, she found it being tugged in the direction of a man, tucked away between the alleyways of two buildings.
From his outer appearance, she could deduct that he made his home within the streets' friendly corners; he wore a simple faded denim overcoat, one patched with abuse and fringed with hardships and short comings. He wore a hat, simply colored black, and his feet bore no shelter. Although she had never been exactly rich herself, Brigid couldn't prevent the tint of disgust from glazing over her eyes, interpreting from his appearance a drug dealer, or some other form of a black market merchant. Sure, she was somewhat poor, but she had never been exposed to poverty at this drastic of an extremity.
As if he felt her curious glance, he directed his sight upwards, meeting hers at rather awkward crossroads. It surprised, even disturbed her, to see the taint of amazement shape-shift so quickly to alarm in his eyes. As she stood motionless against the ruined landscape of the town, she was startled to find him approaching. Ambivalence debated against her common sense, which was telling her to get the hell out of there. She was surprised to find herself in the same place, unmoved, unwilling to leave.
Within minutes he had arrived, standing in front of her. He placed one hand, caked with layers of wandering and poverty, upon her cheek, sending off alarms in Brigid's mind. Certainly, the first thought summoned to mind of the gesture was not one of friendliness, and quickly she removed the hand, as one would brush off a bothersome insect.
"It's been so long." The man spoke, his voice no more powerful than a whisper. "So long since I last saw a child." His grin held a Cheshire cat quality about it; it was made to be friendly, but instead came off as a mark of foreshadow, one that smirked upon her, knowing of her future.
His smile fell to a frown, as he placed a hard grip upon her arms. "Please, do yourself a favor and leave. Leave this hell and never come back." His tone was as desperate as his situation was, as he clenched his grip upon Brigid.
"Why? Why should I leave?" She questioned, frightened by the man's quirky behavior, trapped within his hold, hardly allowing a breath to escape. The presence of the homeless man had awakened her sleeping trepidation once more from its deep slumber.
"He'll find you. He'll find you, and come for you." He fluttered his hand back up to her cheek, stroking it as if she were his own child. "Please, for the sake of your life you must get out of here."
"Who? Who will get me?" Brigid again removed his hand, annoyed with the lack of information given to her. But she was distracted from his answer, as the piercing of numerous stares cut into her; everyone was watching. Rotating herself around, Brigid found that she was the attention of their focus, caught within the eye of the storm. Why are they all looking at me? As soon as the words evolved from the vacant hollows of her thoughts, it hit her. Because I'm the only teenager. This contemplation tumbled over, creating a domino effect of thoughts, leading to one name: Freddy Kruger.
She remembered, from all the stories told, that this was his town; the refuge of Freddy. In incoming waves of memory, Brigid recalled to the fact that he had once lived here, upon a quaint street. Elm Street…She came to realize, the very street she was now living on. And it was at that moment that the fallen plate of numbers reemerged from the depths of her fear, haunting her dying opulence with its superfluous truth: 1428 Elm Street…
Every word of every tale spoken wove itself into her, bringing to life what she now knew to be true: She was living in the house of Freddy Krueger…
3, 4, Better lock your door…