2 comments/  17023 views/  5 favorites

A Nightmare Reborn: FVJ 02

By: bluefox07



A NIGHTMARE REBORN

FREDDY vs. JASON 2

BASED UPON CHARACTERS CREATED BY:

WES CRAVEN: A Nightmare on Elm Street

VICTOR MILLER: Friday the 13th

JOHN CARPENTER: Halloween

STEPHEN KING: It

VICTOR SALVA: Jeepers Creepers

KEVIN WILLIAMSON: Scream

CLIVE BARKER: Candyman

ALFRED HITCHCOCK: Psycho

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANTS:

Sean Renaud

Tessa Alexander

Miriam Belle

Tina Bartolome

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

"What you're about to read is a monster of a story. I don't think anyone could make it through in one sitting...

The response to "A Nightmare Reborn" was so positive that I decided to give in to what many of the readers who followed the story wanted. This "Author's Cut," for lack of a better term, is really the way the story was meant to be. Some of the sex scenes have been edited down or cut completely to make room for scenes that didn't make the original publishing. There's some new stuff, mostly character development, that I really wanted to have put back in.

As with all my stories, there's bound to be some typos and for that I can only apologize. But, what you're about to read is my first real effort at writing a story. To all the readers who took the time to read it and critique the work, I thank you. To Sean and Tessa, you two were the fuel that helped the fires stay alive. To Cyn, Miriam and new editor Tina, your input and support was essential. And to Daniellekitten, thank you for your kind words, support and helping to expose the story on the message board with a review.

The story takes place after the events of 'Freddy vs. Jason' but before 'New Nightmare' and 'Jason X.'"

* * *

"What are these monsters if not dark reflections of ourselves? Know yourself, and you will know your enemy." --Dr. Matthew Loomis

* * *

CHAPTER 1

"RETURN TO CRYSTAL LAKE"

Thursday, May 12th 2005

Camp Crystal Lake

"What was the name of this place again?" Cheryl Willick asked as she settled back against the faux-leather covering of the passenger side seat. She ran a hand through her curly black hair, still uncertain she wanted her first time with Teddy to be here. She was twenty-one now, and she had waited so long for just the right guy. She wanted just the right place too. 

"It was called Forest Green for awhile back in 1985, but it's mostly known as Crystal Lake. There used to be a summer camp here," Teddy Revell explained as he turned off the ignition. The engine died down and all was quiet, save for their anticipation and the passing of an almost tangible sexual tension.

"And you picked this place because?" she looked doubtfully out at the weathered campground around them. Burned out cabins and overgrowth creeping in from the forest gave the place an eerie quality of desolation that made Cheryl uncomfortable. She nodded to the fiery pink sunset lighting up the flat, placid surface of the lake, "I mean the view is beautiful and all, but come on Teddy."

"No on ever comes up here. That's why it's perfect. We're miles away from anyone."

"Looks like the kind of place psychos might hide out," she commented dryly and shivered, "Maybe that's why no one ever comes up here."

"Actually," Teddy laughed, leaning over and putting his arm around her as subtly as a horny college freshman could manage, "The guy who told me about this place said it was cursed."

Cheryl looked at him. "Cursed?"

"Spooky, eh?"

"Cursed with what?"

"All he would say is that this was a bad place, and that we shouldn't go here no matter what."

"And so naturally, you picked this place," she rolled her eyes, "This is a road trip; you could have picked somewhere else. I liked the last stop just fine."

"A motel in Cincinnati is not my idea of romance," Teddy frowned. The windows were beginning to fog up from their breath, steadily growing opaque patches of condensation that crawled up the panes of glass.

"We could have seen the WKRP radio tower," Cheryl said.

"No," Teddy shook his head and leaned his broad, muscular frame back against the driver's seat, "That tower doesn't exist. WKRP isn't a real radio station."

"No shit?" Cheryl asked sarcastically and gently punched his chest.

"Come on," Teddy pulled her close, looking at her with his trademark big brown puppy dog eyes "This is nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," she smiled and slid her hand down to his crotch. She rubbed him gently through his khakis, feeling the stony length contained within. Apparently Teddy was ready, willing and able. But then, so was she.

"I like that," he commented softly as Cheryl rubbed him back and forth.

"I thought you would," she smiled and kissed him. Teddy returned the kiss fully and slipped his tongue past her lips into the hot depths of her mouth. Cheryl never stopped rubbing him as they began kissing passionately, their tongues rolling wetly together. Teddy ran his hands through her thick hair as she encouraged his already healthy erection.

Cheryl paused to remove her jacket and Teddy immediately pulled on the bottom of her t-shirt. The Mickey Mouse shirt was tight across her considerable bust line, her breasts causing the famous mouse's head to warp and balloon out. Teddy pulled it up as Cheryl raised her arms above her head, allowing it to pass off easily. Her creamy breasts were full and round in her black lacy bra, the nipples hard and pointed in the flimsy fabric. Teddy rubbed the sensitive nubs back and forth with his fingers as he suckled on her neck.

"Maybe I should lose this?" Cheryl asked innocently as she reached behind and unclasped the three small hooks. The straps fell away and with one motion she removed her bra. Teddy watched as her large, milky breasts hung free. Her erect nipples stood out prominently, framed by small dark areolas, waiting to be sucked on. Cheryl placed her bra on the dashboard and gave a secret smile of acquiescence.

Teddy wasted no time and immediately set to work on her tits. He cupped them gently and began licking, flicking her nipples with his tongue. Cheryl murmured her approval and leaned forward, her hands playing with his silky brown hair. Her heart was pounding in her chest, a sultry rhythm that she hoped would be every bit as strong and electrifying as the pace of their lovemaking. She felt a familiar wetness growing within her sex, becoming hot and slick and causing an unbelievable friction every time she moved.

Teddy's hand found it's way down to her pants, past the waistband and under the elastic of her panties. His strong fingers worked their way down to her slit, shaven bare and swollen. Cheryl gasped a little as he stimulated her clit, coaxing it out to a growing hardness. She undid his pants, fumbling with the zipper for a moment and then yanking the fly down with a loud *zip* sound. His cock was sticking up past the waistband of his blue boxers, and she slid the underwear down to release his member. Teddy lifted his hips up to allow his pants and shorts an easier slide. 

"You're so hard," she whispered in his ear. It felt thick and hot in her small hands, the veins throbbing against her skin. She began to stroke up and down his shaft.

Teddy finally worked his way out of his pants, pushing them down to his ankles along with his boxers as Cheryl gave him the most intense hand job he had ever known. He undid the buttons of her jeans and feverishly pushed them off. His hands followed the curve of her shapely ass as he removed her pants. His thumbs hooked her panties and pulled them along too. 

He felt like he might cum right then and there as he felt her naked body, starting at the crest of her ass and up the sides to her breasts. After a few moments, he returned his attention to her cunt and gently inserted two fingers into her impossible tight pussy. Teddy had never been with a virgin before, and the narrow fit of her sex sent a shiver up his body. He couldn't wait to put his cock into her.

"Oh God," she whispered as Teddy fingered her. Her hips were beginning to ride and anticipate his motions, slowly moving to his speed. Teddy continued to suckle on her tits as he worked his fingers in and out, paying extra attention to her clit. Cheryl braced herself as well as she could in the seat, on her knees and legs parted enough to give him access to her sex. A sweet musky scent was filling the car. The windows were now completely fogged over, the last hints of the sunset coloring the rapidly approaching night.

"Yes," she moaned, pressing her breasts into his face, losing herself in the moment. If he was this good at simply fingering her, how great would he be at the actual act?

"You feel so fucking-"

Teddy's compliment was interrupted as the car suddenly shook and seemed to jump upwards. Cheryl hit her head hard on the roof hard and cringed. Teddy's fingers stabbed painfully into her vagina as the car finished its jump and slammed down on its shocks. She cried out in pain and recoiled, her hands slapping to her sex. Teddy sat back, eyes wide and scared as his finger wetly grasped the steering wheel.

"Fuck, are you okay?" he shouted, his voice apologetic. He looked down at her hands and asked, "Oh shit, are you okay?"

"No," she breathed and shook her head, her face squinted with pain and hand protectively over her crotch, "Hurts like hell."

"What the fuck was that?" Teddy growled, looking around the fogged-over windows. As if in response to his question, a large shadow passed the passenger side of the car in the waning sunlight. Both of them sat there, watching the hulking figure move by like some silent leviathan. A horrific stench of decay filtered into the car through the vents. A long moment of silence filled the musky air of the interior as Cheryl was torn between the pain in her crotch and the fear threatening to grip her throat.

Finally, Teddy said, "Lock your door."

Cheryl locked it and started getting dressed, her fingers fumbling for her shirt and bra. She was dimly aware that she was beginning to tremble. "Who is it?"

"Probably some local asshole trying to mess with us," Teddy ventured as he pulled his pants back on, his voice laced with a furious growl. "I'm gonna talk to him."

"Teddy!" Her hand pistoned out and grabbed his forearm as he buttoned his jeans, "No you're not. That was a huge shadow. Just start the car and let's go."

Teddy thought for a moment, looking at the keys in the ignition. He hated being made to look bad, let alone being made to look bad in front of his girl. He wanted to go pound the shit out of this guy for ruining their moment, and he almost did. But then he took a breath and put his hand on Cheryl's arm. He looked at her beautiful face and her killer body as she put her bra back on. Teddy knew that he loved her, and if there was some lunatic out there, was it really worth it to risk everything for being harassed?

Teddy smiled. Cheryl was worth staying alive for.

"You're right," Teddy agreed and made to start the car. A loud popping sound reported from the rear of the drivers' side, startling them both again. Slowly, the entire car began leaning to one side as the left rear tire deflated. Teddy listened with awe as the hissing sound of air escaping his tire filled the night.

"Mother fucker," Teddy looked in the rearview mirror, his mouth gaped open. The large shadow moved behind them, and then off to the left. "Asshole popped my tire."

Cheryl looked over her shoulder, face pinched and white with worry. "We'll ride the rim," she said, "Let's just go."

"We are not riding the rim," Teddy said flatly, becoming angry and annoyed as he reached for the door handle. "I'm just going to talk to the guy and fix the tire."

"No, Teddy," she pleaded.

"Just stay here, okay?"

"I don't think he wants to talk."

"Cheryl..."

"Teddy!"

"It's nothing I can't handle," he said.

"Please?" she appealed to him, "Let's just go."

"Babe," he gripped her shoulders gently, "It's probably some drunk asshole redneck who thinks he owns the place looking for a fight. He's probably pissing on my bumper right now."

Cheryl wasn't convinced.

"If things get hairy, we'll get the hell out of here, okay?"

"Shit," Cheryl shook her head and sat back in her seat.

The door opened and Teddy put one foot out into the night. He looked at her as he started to get out of the car. "I'll be right back."

'Famous last words,' she thought absently.

"Hello?" Teddy called out to the mystery man, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Then there was the hiss of metal slicing through the air and a sudden spray of blood. Cheryl felt the hot liquid explode over her face and shirtless body, spattering her and turning the interior of the car red. She looked over and saw Teddy shaking violently, his arms spasming and legs kicking spastically. A long machete was lodged in his skull, splitting his head like a piece of fresh greenwood clear down to his chin. His eyes rolled wetly in their sockets as blood and a thick, vile clear liquid spurted from the fatal wound, drenching him. His hands batted at the steering wheel as the blade buried itself.

"Oh my God! Teddy!" she shrieked and then felt the air in her lungs grow icy cold. 

Beyond Teddy's dying body stood a tall, impossibly large figure. The man must have been over seven feet tall, for all she could see of him were his upper legs clad in dirty, worn pants and the massive black-gloved hand that wielded the handle of the weapon. Powerful, thick fingers held the machete with an iron grip, and when the attacker pulled the blade free of her boyfriend's head, he appeared to have wasted no energy doing it. It simply came out with a sick, squelching sound.

Teddy sat upright for a moment as the dripping instrument withdrew from his skull. Cheryl could see his brain, cleaved and separated into a cross-section. His broken head fell away to both sides, his halved neck unable to support the uneven weight. He tipped over onto her, the contents of his head spilling and splashing out across her naked lap. Cheryl let loose a scream so primal it caused every bird within three miles to flee. She fumbled with the lock on her door, trying to shove Teddy's corpse away from her.

"Open up!" she screamed at the lock and gave it a mighty pull. 

The lock disengaged with a well oiled *pop* and the door released. No sooner than she had the door open did the figure lurch into view from behind the car. She made to run and was cut off as the long machete found its mark in her shoulder, embedding nearly a foot down her torso. She tried to scream, but found she had no air. The attacker pulled the blade out and she was yanked backwards. Cold mud soaked her back as her life's blood spilled out of her body and mingled with the puddles of stagnant water.

She looked up and saw the huge man standing over her, his blade raised high, paused for a moment. From behind a battered and stained white hockey mask two cold eyes regarded her with dead impartiality. Her killer cocked his head to one side in predatorial yet thoughtful consideration. She tried to utter a plea of mercy, but saw no more as the machete came swooping down, ending her pain.

***

Friday, May 13th, 2005

Camp Crystal Lake

A quiet mist floated over the glassy black waters of Crystal Lake. The thick plumes of ground-level clouds seemed to be standing still, as though waiting for something to happen. The fog was unwilling to lazily curl through the trees and skeletal cabins that surrounded the lonely lake as it normally did. It simply hung there, suspended by a supernatural power that refused to allow the natural progression of movement to continue forward. It was as if though nature herself were being made to wait somehow, restrained by forces unseen. 

But that had always been the case here. The power and beauty of the natural world ended under the rotting entrance to Camp Crystal Lake.

It was true that one could walk the shores of this lake, explore the neglected and moss-eaten cabins and still hear echoes of the many happy memories that had once defined the camp before the dark times. If one did not linger too long, the original purpose and intent of the place could be felt and even longed for. But more than a few minutes of walking this desolate place was like marking yourself for death. For death, it seemed, had staked a claim over the waters of this lake and the land that surrounded it. Even over the people who came here. Camp Crystal Lake was never a good place to be, no matter what time of the year it was. 

Especially today.

Dr. John Bilk knew this as he cautiously stepped out of his Jeep Cherokee, zipped up his red jacket and pulled his blue knit cap down firmly over his scalp. His boots sunk into the bloated mud and grass of what used to be the lawn separating the dock from the main grounds of camp. The door closed with muted slam that produced no echo, the headlights still burning brightly, cutting through the soupy fog for a moment then shutting down.

"Why are we here again?" he asked, looking to the driver's side of the jeep.

"Because if you want to understand a man, you have to see where he lives," Mary Stilfreeze smiled as she closed the passenger side door.

John scratched his closely trimmed brown beard thoughtfully as he looked out over the water, "And why would you want to understand this guy any better than the world already does?"

"Jason Voorhees is an enigma," Mary explained as they walked across the lawn, the ground sucking at their boots with long, needful slurps. She pulled her camera out of her backpack and uncapped the lens. "He's been a mystery ever since he drowned here back in '57."

"The man's a psycho, Mary," John mussed, "And he would have to be like sixty years old by now. Enigma isn't the word I'd use. Bullshit is more like it."

Mary's bright blue eyes turned to him, shocked. "How can you say that?"

"I don't believe for a minute it's the same guy who did all the killing back in the eighties, that's all."

"Why not?" she asked incredulously.

"First off, his mother was the one who committed the initial murders in'58 and then again in '80, right?" he asked, feeling a chill tickle up his spine, "Sure, we know it was Jason behind the sprees in '82 and '84, but who's to say someone didn't start copycatting Jason after he died?"

"He didn't die, John."

"He was buried at the Eternal Peace Cemetery in 1984," John shook his head, "The body was buried."

"And was exhumed the next year," Mary corrected him noticing a set of fresh tire tracks in the mud. She thought that was odd as she followed the progression of the tracks and said, "Don't forget that."

"Remember the ambulance driver who masqueraded around in a hockey mask and killed those kids in '87? What about him? He was a copycat."

"Roy Burns," Mary conceded, "But he was confirmed dead after that incident, and his grave remains untouched..."

"Okay," John countered, "Lets say Mr. Voorhees somehow survived being killed and buried, and let's say he was the genuine article that did all the hacking in '88, '93, and that incident aboard the cruise ship in '94. The FBI blew him away later that month when they finally tracked him down back here at Crystal Lake. I mean they literally shot him to pieces."

"In some of the footnotes to that report," Mary smiled, "People claimed Jason's spirit was able to jump from person to person, keeping him alive."

"God, you make The X-Files sound like the six o'clock news... It's all bullshit," John laughed. He looked over and saw the burnt out hollows of the cabins. He pointed, "Is that where it all happened?"

Mary brushed her long blonde hair out of her face. "Yep. According to the two survivors, Jason and Krueger started their fight in the rec room. A fire burnt out most of the cabins and other structures. The locals didn't mind seeing it burn, either. County government had shut down the camp permanently after the '88 incident, but still tried to cash in on this being the site of the Voorhees murders. In fact, until what happened here two years ago, the town manager had been hoping to rebuild and open the site again someday," she said and snapped a photo of the blackened framework. She looked at the wreckage with a clear sense of awe and then turned to the shoreline. She motioned to the dock, "But it all ended there."


A Nightmare Reborn: FVJ 02



"Those kids made a hell of a mess. It's amazing they didn't blow themselves up too in the process," John remarked as he looked around and then to his right. Where there had once been a propane tank near the water's edge was a large crater, scorched deep into the earth. The plants had started growing back, a few green sprouts here and there, but the trees caught in the blast were still singed and barren facing ground zero. Bits and pieces of construction equipment, smaller propane tanks and scaffolding were littered all over the place. Apparently, no one had bothered to clean up after the dust settled.

"No kidding," Mary continued snapping shots of the wreckage as they walked on, "But it could have been worse. Only two kids died here that night, both victims of Jason and Krueger."

"Yeah," John agreed, "And over thirty wiped out between what the copycat did on Elm Street, Westin Hills and that kegger out at the corn field."

"Wasn't a copycat..."

"Okay, Voorhees," John said, "Whoever he was, he did a lot of damage."

"It wasn't just Voorhees, John. You know that."

John picked up several smooth stones and started skipping them on the lake as they neared the shore. He looked at Mary and laughed. "Hey, I'll believe Jason Voorhees is sixty and still kicking ass before I believe that Freddy Krueger is anywhere but hell. The good citizens of Springwood made sure of that."

"And the fact that there are over fifty reports of him being in Springwood since his death in 1970 make no never mind to you?"

"Mass hysteria," John replied, "Or mass delusions."

"Why did I invite you along on this expedition?" Mary frowned.

"I'm the voice of reason," he smiled and pulled her to him, holding her as the mist began to curl and sweep around their feet unnoticed. 

Mary pressed her body against him and laughed. "You have a one track mind, Dr. Bilk," she said playfully.

"We could be back at the hotel, in bed, naked and exploring each other instead of this God-forsaken place," he ran his hands down to her ass, squeezing her cheeks through the rough denim material.

"That sounds nice," she smiled and kissed him, "But no."

"We could watch a scary movie from the comfort of a bed instead of living one out here in the sticks."

"Work first, play later," she licked his lips and kissed him, "Besides, you know the rules."

"Rules?" he sighed as they continued towards the dock. "What rules?"

She raised a curious brow, "If you ever want to get in my pants again, you'll play by the rules."

"That's what I like about you, Mary. Always keep our sex life simple and stress free."

"Whatever," Mary laughed and rolled her eyes, continuing to snap pictures. The wood that composed the dock was old and waterlogged. Their boots didn't so much strike against it as they seemed to sink in as far as the grain would allow. She explained, "Just think of it as verbal foreplay for the scholarly."

"I didn't know we eggheads had any foreplay," he grunted.

"Look at these tire tracks," she pointed back at the shoreline, now almost totally lost in the fog, "You see those?" 

John squinted. "Yeah... it looks like someone drove into the lake."

"That's weird," Mary said, "The tracks look fresh too."

John offered, "Maybe someone launched a boat?"

Somewhere beyond the swirling canvas of thick fog, a branch snapped and echoed through the morning air.

John immediately froze. "You hear that?"

Mary nodded unconcerned. "Yes I did."

He looked at her, his eyes wide, "And the fact that we're at Camp Crystal Lake with strange noises means nothing?"

"But honey," she patted his face, "You said Jason was dead."

John stood back, reasserting himself. "I know. I know."

"Relax," she squeezed his hand, "You've got your gun right?"

John felt for the handle of the revolver in his coat pocket. The cold steel was heavy and reassuring in his hand as he looked around. The fog was now coiling and rolling like a nest of large, fat phantom snakes. It seemed to be reaching out for them and surrounding them with insidious precision. John could feel his heart pounding out of irrational fear, and he knew in that moment they should've left. But for whatever reason, he said nothing.

"This fog is seriously freaky," Mary commented.

"They never found the copycat, sorry, Jason or the guy he was fighting," John remarked quietly, straining to listen for more sounds.

"Freddy Krueger," Mary corrected.

"Shit, Mary," John shrugged, "Freddy Krueger or Freddy Mercury, who gives a fuck? What I'm saying is there were no bodies."

"You're changing your mind on Voorhees?" Mary asked slyly, kneeling down and touching the flat surface of the water. She could only see a few feet beyond her own nose, but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the cold, black and secretive liquid. The surface was completely smooth, like glass.

"Maybe," he said and glanced back at the cabins, "Or maybe I don't want to bump into a copycat. It is Friday the 13th today, you know."

"Yes it is," Mary frowned, still looking at the water.

"Most killers are really nostalgic about this shit," he said, "Voorhees always seemed to attack on or around Friday the 13th. It's a psycho-serial killer prerequisite, babe. Remember the Haddonfield murders in Illinois? That fucker always did his shit on Halloween..."

"The water," she said, her voice suddenly quiet.

"What about it?"

"Well," she stood up straight and looked around blindly. Fog that hung so motionlessly now curled around them to where she couldn't see more than ten feet away. "The fog is starting to move, like there's a wind. But the water isn't rippling."

John peered through the soupy mist and saw the waters' surface, glassy and still. He said, "So?"

"Do you feel any wind?"

"No," John frowned, "No I don't."

"If there is a wind blowing to stir up the mist like this, shouldn't the water be moving too? Shouldn't we feel it?"

Mary tried to peer past the dense mist that was closing in on them. 

"We need to go," John whispered.

"Don't be a pussy," Mary replied.

"The only pussy here is yours," he shook his head, "And this cock is gonna walk."

"John, relax-"

Then the dock suddenly shook, scaring them and causing a brief sensation of off balanced vertigo. Mary steadied herself as something heavy stepped onto the old wood construct with them. The chains coupling the platforms together shook and rattled as heavy footsteps slowly and methodically marched towards them. John felt his heart almost stop completely as he listened to the sound of hard rubber soles digging into the rotting wood. He looked over at Mary, unsure of what to say. His mouth had gone dry and his throat tight with fear. His heart hammered in his chest as he put one hand on her shoulder and pulled her close again.

"Were you expecting anyone?" he whispered.

"No," she shook her head, her voice betraying her confidence.

"What do we do?"

Mary licked her lips. "Say hello?"

John listened to the approaching steps, slow and heavy. "I don't think so. I don't like this."

"Well what would you like?"

"I'm 43," he whispered, "I'd like to make 44." 

"Hello?" she called out.

The footsteps stopped for a moment, and then resumed. Whoever it was, their mystery guest was getting closer. More unnerving than the sounds of the person approaching them was the lack of vision. All they could see were rolling volumes of white fog, so close now that when John held his hand out in front of him, it was faded and nearly hidden. The dock shook as footstep after footstep sent tremors through the aging structure.

A foul odor caught Mary's attention. She nearly gagged as the stench of rot and infection began circling them as heavily as the fog. Something smelled of death just a few feet away, something large and something that was still very much alive. John covered his mouth and nose, eyes watering from the smell as the footsteps became louder, more real to him. They seemed to reverberate through the fog and echo for an impossibly long time as the two scientists stood paralyzed on the dock. 

He hadn't believed that Jason Voorhees could still be alive after all these years, still able to kill. When he had heard about the massacre in Springwood in 2003 and the official belief that Voorhees was to blame, he was skeptical. Only his love for and professional relationship with Mary had brought him out here to investigate the possibility of the killer still being alive. He had no real interest in proving the infamous killer was here, let alone still living. It was a ridiculous notion to him, a secret disgust that he withheld from Mary. 

Profiling these monsters was her job, her passion. He could not bring himself to outwardly debunk her belief that men like Fred Krueger, Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees had found someway to cheat death. They had been killed, in one form or another, and in John Bilk's book, when you're dead you're dead. Krueger had been burned to death, Voorhees was either drowned or blown away by the FBI and Myers had his head chopped off. It was simple mathematics, the mathematics of life. As a psychologist, John held to those equations like a man in the ocean holds to his life preserver.

There were a lot of strange things in this world, but maniacs who attacked you in your dreams and invincible knife-wielding psychos didn't exist save for what Hollywood slopped on the movie screens. 

Another footstep jarred John back to reality, and as much as he wanted to believe that Jason Voorhees was dead, he found himself beginning to shake. Mary noticed this, and squeezed his arm.

"Let's back up a little," she whispered and nudged him back, "We should have a few more feet of dock..."

John nodded. 

He craned his neck around to see behind his back only to find a wall of milky white fog. They could fall off into the water if they weren't careful, and the prospect of swimming in Crystal Lake didn't appeal to him in the slightest. He grasped Mary's hand tightly and turned with her as they felt their way slowly to the edge of the dock. Behind them, the footsteps sounded as if they were no more than a few feet behind them. The smell was unbearable, and Mary felt certain she was going to throw-up her breakfast.

"We have to slip into the water," Mary whispered, her face becoming a faded out white ghost as the fog enveloped them.

"No," John said.

"If this is Voorhees, he won't get in the water," she reasoned, "He has a fear of water."

"That's a fucking urban legend," he hissed back, "And he's afraid of drowning, not water."

Another heavy footstep sounded out, and also the sound of labored breathing.

"What if it's not him?" John asked, the tip of his boots feeling for the rapidly approaching edge.

"We'll be safer in the water than here-" Mary said, and then was cut off. 

John heard a brief whistling sound of metal cutting though air and then a thick thud. He thought for sure something had happened to Mary. In his mind, he could see her having been cut in two by a rusty blade. He knew the sound of metal cutting though air. He opened his mouth the call her name, and then realized something was wrong.

"I think..." he grunted and then knew. 

He registered a moment of pain in his back and then felt nothing else. His spinal column severed as a mammoth machete blade punctured his back, pushed through his midsection and exploded out the front of his jacket. Blood erupted from his mouth in a silent scream as he went limp, his head falling back and lolling like a broken marionette might. 

"John?" Mary watched, her eyes wide with terror as John rose into the air, bleeding and dying. 

The mist rolling around John began to clear just enough for her to see a huge shape behind him. Mary forced her self to look at the shape, to lay her eyes on the man she already knew in her heart was there. She had to know if it was him or not. If it was he, then she was already dead. The mist briefly thinned out in skeletal wisps and revealed a muddy, bloodstained hockey mask. Four long blade marks cut deeply across the expressionless facade. The mask was fastened to a misshapen head that sat atop a hulking seven to eight foot frame, powerful and horribly real. 

With a flip of his powerful wrist, Jason Voorhees whipped the convulsing body of Dr. John Bilk into the placid waters of Crystal Lake, where he joined the ranks of the killer's dead. John landed in the filthy water with a splash, and Jason cocked his misshapen head, coolly regarding Mary with an impassive dead stare.

Mary screamed and jumped from the dock just as the machete sliced past her head. The camera fell from her hands and dropped into the depths of the lake. The freezing water jolted her body, feeling like a thousand pins jabbing into her skin as she sank into the lake. With frantic determination, she forced herself upwards towards the surface. 

As she ascended, she began swimming away from the dock. Through the distorted surface, she could see hulking mass of Jason looking down into the water, waiting for her. She looked off to her left and saw something floating lazily. She didn't need to look any longer than a second. John's body was slowly being dragged down by the weight of his thick heavy clothes in a billowing crimson cloud.

Beyond him, in the shadows made by a drop-off, she saw a yellow car resting nose first in the soft, muddy bottom. It was a Volkswagen Beetle, embedded up to the doors in the slope of the lake bottom. She realized that this was the car that had made the tire tracks on the shore. Someone had driven into the lake. Or perhaps been pushed into the lake?

'The gun!' she remembered suddenly, and quickly struggled to reach her lover's corpse. Her lungs were beginning to burn as she grabbed his jacket and pulled him to her. His face was frozen, mouth open and contorted into his final scream of pain, eyes wide and glassy. She felt in the pocket and found the butt of the revolver. She yanked it out and shoved off him for extra gain. 

'I'm so sorry John,' she thought. With all her strength, she swam as far away as she could and finally broke the surface.

Her lungs filled with the harsh, crisp air as she came up. She gasped, her skin immediately attacked by a new cold as she surfaced. She opened her eyes and looked for the dock, trying to get her bearings. She could see nothing, and was overwhelmed by disorientation as she kicked off her boots and began to tread water. As the morning sun broke over the trees, shadows filtered into the fog creating a bizarre display of moving shapes and confusion. 

Mary treaded the water, tears burning her eyes as the fog started to succumb to the morning. Rays of sunlight burned the thick mist away, allowing more and more of a view around her. She jumped as movement to the left caught her eye. A crow flew past the massive silhouette of Jason Voorhees, still standing on the dock, silent and unmoving. The crow cawed and cackled as it arced into the air, fading away into the mist and sunlight. She wasn't certain, but she felt as if thought even through the curling fog Voorhees could see her.

Mary pulled the gun out of the water and took aim at Jason, her hands shaking badly as she tried to stay above water. Her fingers were as numb as her toes as she tried to line the barrel of the gun up to her attacker. She squeezed the trigger and fired. The deafening blast stabbed her ears and rang throughout Crystal Lake. The figure on the dock remained where he was, unmoved and unafraid. She knew she had missed and took aim again.

This time, her shot found its target. She saw Jason jerk to the left as an audible *smack* sounded off and a spray of red blood misted from his shoulder in the fog, illuminated by the sunlight. Still, the killer remained standing.

She fired again, and tagged his leg.

She fired again, this time catching him in the chest (at least, that's what she assumed as he jerked backwards slightly when the bullet hit).

She was preparing to fire her fourth round when something beneath her moved. She reflexively jerked upward and the gun fell from her grasp. It landed in the water with a splash and was gone. She screamed and desperately tried to grab it before it sank out of reach, but no avail. Her reflexes were slow and clumsy as she tried to move in the icy water. It was like a bad dream, a nightmare from her childhood where she couldn't move fast enough. 

She felt her eyes becoming heavy and weak as she fought against the cold. Mary looked around her, the black calm waters of Crystal Lake growing more and more visible as the fog burned away. She could even see the shoreline now, and the forest beyond. She turned back to the dock and saw Jason still standing there. 

His clothes were tattered and dirty, his hand clenched around the machete. Mary could see bright red blood dripping from the blade in fat droplets to the cracked white painted wood of the dock. The skin visible at the sides of the mask was gray and bloated, the bald scalp dotted with a few long, stringy strands of hair that had caught the morning light. 

He stood there, waiting for her. 

And why not? 

Jason had all the time the world.

Something brushed by her again, and she instinctively kicked with her legs at it. She was horrified to find her feet slam into something meaty and very much alive. Mary cried out and tried to turn, to swim away. Something broke out of the water in front of her, as though it had been shot from a cannon. A hand reached out for her, the skin eaten away and angry red muscles flexing beneath. 

She thought it might be a man when she saw the red and green sweater covering the basic shape of a torso. But there was no head. A ragged, gored stump was all that remained of the neck. It was missing its right arm as well, yet this did nothing to slow it down as its remaining hand grasped her neck, squeezed tightly and pushed her down with all its weight.

Mary screamed and choked on the icy water as the living corpse took her to the depths of the lake. She briefly heard a voice in her head as she felt something cold and purely evil pass into her head like the essence of a rapist to his victim. She convulsed once, and then twice as things went slowly dark.

"You're mine, bitch," a deep, guttural voice echoed in her mind.

Mary Stilfreeze jerked once more as she and her attacker went limp and floated at the muddy bottom of the lake.

"You're the way home," it laughed in the darkness.

***

From the dock, Jason waited silently for the woman to resurface, but knew she would not. The dark man was in the lake, the one in his dreams. Jason could not comprehend how the dark man could be in there still, but like an animal can sense a natural disaster coming long before the actual event, he knew that the dark man, the dream killer was not finished yet. He would return, and when he did, the fight would resume.

Jason's dull eyes flashed with anger. 

The dream killer was a trespasser, as the woman and her man had been. As the kids the night before had been. These were scared grounds, even hallowed grounds and were precious to Jason. They were all he had left of his mother who had loved and protected him so. They were his home, and because he had so little, and because so much had been taken from him here, he would defend it from all trespassers. Jason could never find the words to express this, but on the concept he was perfectly clear.

Jason turned and slowly walked back to the shoreline, his one-track mind focused on the dark man and the one name he could remember from their last meeting. The name burned in his mind and fueled his unbridled rage, finally a focusing point for fifty years of retribution.

That name was "Freddy."

***

New York City, New York

Lori Campbell-Rollins lay in her bed, spooning closely with her husband Will. She ran her hands over his broad, muscular shoulders and looked to the green LED display of her bedside clock. It was one in the morning, and she still had not been able to go to sleep. In fact, she hadn't been able to really sleep since May two years ago. Her nightmares had come to life and tried to kill her, along with everyone else in her life. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see his burnt face, the horrific scars and purely hateful white eyes glaring at her.




A Nightmare Reborn: FVJ 02



Freddy Krueger had tried to take her, and she had escaped. So it seemed, anyway. 

She had finally stopped crying about three months ago. The crying had been an everyday occurrence for her, an inevitable side effect of remembering friends long since gone. It was unfair that they should have met their end the way they did, and Lori hated that asshole Krueger every minute of every day. It had all happened so fast that now, in retrospect, it felt like something out of a relentlessly paced horror movie. No matter how much she hated Krueger, she felt there was a part of her that hated herself even more for what had happened. 

First Trey had been killed in her own house, stabbed and folded up in a bed so that his back snapped backwards. Blake was cleaved in two a few hours later at his home along with his dad. Even now, Lori still felt a pang of personal guilt over Blake. He had only shown up that night to get to close to her. Lori hadn't been interested, and now she felt she might have been a little mean about it. She wished she hadn't. It wouldn't have changed how she felt, but it might have given her a little peace later.

Mark Davis, who had only been interested in helping Will find her and then getting them out of town, was slashed and burned in his sleep. She could remember the look on his face, those blue eyes wide as he smashed against the window separating her and Will from him. Freddy had burned his message to the world in Mark's back, officially announcing his return. Then Gibb was killed at the party out at the old cornfield... and then Freeburg, Linderman and finally Kia. 

'Kia,' she thought weakly.

Lori forced the thoughts out her mind as she felt the despair rising again inside her, the fear that Freddy Krueger would return one night and take her. Sometimes she would see him in the shadows of her apartment, sometimes as a ghostly apparition in the mirror of the bathroom as she brushed her teeth before bed. Her mind could not accept that Krueger would just leave her and Will alone. "Happily ever after" just didn't seem to be a realistic expectation, at least not in her world. 

New York was the furthest away from Springwood she and Will could have gotten on their then limited means. Taking a job as an accountant and trying to raise a family with her husband was the most direct defiance of her fear she could imagine. But for all the success in her job, and for all the good things she and Will shared together, her heart would not let her rest. Freddy was out there somewhere still. And if he didn't get her, then Jason Voorhees would.

'Stop it,' her mind whispered.

She had watched them die, Krueger and Jason. Her therapist reminded her of that every time she saw him. She had seen Freddy lose his head that night on the dock by her own hand, using Jason's machete. She had watched Jason drown, disappearing into the murky depths of Crystal Lake, sinking like a huge boulder. She and Will both walked away from camp grounds clinging to the hope that maybe this time, surely this time evil could be put away for good. She wanted to desperately move on with her life, to be happy with Will and to put the horror of that week behind her forever. 

Mostly, she just wanted to forget. If she couldn't remember the pain, then she couldn't be ruled by the fear. But how do you forget something like that?

"Babe?" Will asked, his voice heavy with sleep, "What's wrong?"

"Can't sleep," she sighed, kissing his shoulder blade. His body was warm against her bare breasts and stomach. He felt so safe to her, and she supposed that she had known that about him since they first met. That was why she waited so long for him. She knew he would come back to her. Will would always protect her, always stand by her when others ran.

"Bad dreams again?" he rolled over and faced her, his dark eyes trying to focus on her.

"Not yet," Lori replied and tried to smile, "The night is young."

"Let it go," he slid his hand over her bare hip, "We can't let this be a part of our lives forever."

"I know," she nodded, propping herself up on her arm, her thick blonde hair falling loosely at her shoulders. She wondered how Will dealt with it so much better than she ever could? She sighed, "I think it's getting better, right? We moved from Springwood to New York, that's a good start... lots of miles in between..."

"Yep," Will nodded, and then asked, "You been taking your hypnocil?"

Lori smiled. "Yes, Dr. Rollins," she laughed, wedging her smooth thigh between his legs, "Every night."

"Then there's no way Freddy can get to you," Will reassured her, "Besides, you chopped the fuckers head off. I don't think he's gonna recover from that."

"He's been killed before, Will," she reminded him.

"Lori," Will put a finger to her lips, "Let it go."

Will positioned himself closer to her and kissed her gently on her full, rosy lips. Lori murmured against him slightly as she pulled him close, her hands grasping his firm ass as his hardening member pressed against her belly. Their tongues slid sensually around each other, caressing and stimulating. Their kissing grew more frantic as Will cupped her large breasts began massaging them, his thumbs rubbing her hard, pink nipples. Lori moaned into his ear as Will necked on her, licking and kissing and suckling.

"You going to help me focus on other things?" she breathed, sliding her hand down his trim torso, over his stomach and to the base of his cock. She grasped his thick shaft in one hand and began slowly stroking back and forth along his seven-inch length.

"Absolutely," Will smiled, thoroughly enjoying the hand job.

"And what would you recommend, Dr. Rollins?" she laughed, a lusty need permeating her voice as her sex grew warm and delightfully wet.

"A healthy dose of me," he replied as seriously as he could. They both started laughing as Lori continued stroking his cock.

"Are you taken orally?" she looked at him innocently.

"Orally, vaginally, rectally" he smiled, "Any way you please."

Lori smiled and pushed him back on the bed. She shoved the blankets away and began kissing down his chest, dragging her tongue over his body, licking and nibbling on his nipples as her hands caressed his neck and face. She made sure to drag her heavy, full breasts over his naked body as she descended him. She planted hot, wet kisses with every inch of skin she covered. His cock slid between her tits, and she pushed them together, briefly tit-fucking him. Will smiled and ran his large hands through her hair as the soft flesh rubbed against his throbbing member.

"God, Lori," Will groaned as she worked her breasts on him a moment more and resumed her course. She finally brought her lips to his swollen, purple head and started licking. She grasped his shaft and pulled his cock upright, standing it straight up in the air like some phallic monument. She flicked the sensitive head with her tongue and alternated blowing on him. She massaged his scrotum, gently kneading his testicles, preparing them for the finale of her oral adventure. His cock slid into her mouth and she began sucking on him, rolling her tongue over and under and around him.

Will's breathing was heavy and fast as she began bobbing up and down on his shaft, slurping and sucking. His fingers laced through her hair as she worked him over, his nipples going hard and his muscles pulling tight as she summoned the orgasm from his body. Periodically, she would uncouple from his now fully rigid cock and suck one of his balls into her mouth, and then the other before returning. 

Lori's hands slid up Will's body, feeling every inch of him and committing him to memory as she had done hundreds of times before with him. Each time was like the first for her, and each time she wanted to make sure she missed nothing. She felt the scar on his back side, puckered and bold from Jason's blade. It was the companion wound to the set of scars on her chest from Freddy's razor-tipped glove. It was not only a permanent mark, but also a symbol of their shared experience.

Wills hips bucked slightly, and she knew he was close. She began sucking faster on him, deep throating him as his cock went rigid like steel in her mouth. She pulled back a little and felt the spurts of cum erupt in her mouth. Will hissed and tensed up as his load exploded, salty and sweet. 

She pulled her mouth off him with a satisfyingly wet *pop* as he ejaculated his always healthy load of semen on her face, neck and breasts. Will released a primal groan as he rode the orgasm to its conclusion. Lori knew exactly how to keep him from getting tired, and sat up on her knees.

"You liked that?" she whispered as Will opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"Oh yeah," he laughed and watched her cup her left breast. She brought it towards her face as she lowered her head, her eyes fixed on Will. She licked the gobs of semen off her tit, from around her sensitive nipple and swallowed it. Will could only watch, thoroughly engrossed in her teasing of him.

"Ready for more?" she cocked her brow as she massaged her breasts.

"Are you kidding?" Will laughed and pulled her to him.

Then, something happened that she would never forget. A cold chill seized her spine and arced through her like electricity. She gasped and tensed up, her muscles frozen. Lori's mouth opened and closed as though she couldn't breathe, her nipple suddenly hard like two chips of ice. Will's expression changed from lust to fear as she stared helplessly at him with her wide, blue eyes. 

"Lori?" Will squeezed her arms, "Lori what's wrong, baby?"

Lori's eyes clouded over, rolling back into her head and she was overcome with images, memories that were not her own. They flashed in front of her so fast they blurred, and she could only make out glimpses of what she was seeing. 

She saw a bed explode with blood, a fiery boiler room... a black boy in a junkyard with a white dog... a woman on a ceiling being torn to pieces... a naked man in a locker room tied to the shower heads... and then a woman in a lake, trying to swim in her clothes, shooting at a figure in the mist... and on and on. Lori tried to speak, but could only shake in her husband's arms. A wet gurgle escaped her open mouth as her body began to convulse.

Will turned Lori on her back and was reaching for the phone when her hand pistoned out and grabbed him by the wrist hard. Her eyes seemed to roll like loose balls in their sockets until finally they returned to normal, her deep blue corneas wide and suddenly bloodshot. She stared at him blankly for a moment, her convulsions stopped and her body quiet. 

Will felt a fear rising within him he hadn't known since his stay at Westin Hills, the night he had seen the news report about the killing at Lori's house two years ago. He knew then there was nothing he could do. He was locked away, accused of being crazy for having seen what he thought was Lori's father murdering her mother. In the end, it had been Krueger who planted the image in his mind. It was because of his contact with Krueger, like every other child at Westin Hills who had seen the madman, that he had been locked away. He had been quarantined, and separated from Lori. He had been desperate to protect her, but couldn't. 

That same desperation reached out for him now as he looked down at his wife, uncertain of what to do and scared to death.

"Lori?" he slowly tried to pull his hand away, but her grip was like a vice, "Baby?"

"One... two," Lori began singing, her voice far off and distant as she stared at him, "Freddy's coming for you... three four, better lock your door..."

"Lori, stop," Will winced at the pain in his arm as her grip tightened.

"Five six, get a crucifix..." she giggled insanely, her breasts jiggling as blood began to weep from her tear ducts.

"Lori, what's wrong?"

"Seven eight better stay up late..."

"Lori!" Will shouted, "Snap out of it!"

"Nine ten..." she laughed and then squeezed his wrist so tight Will thought the bones were going to shatter. She grabbed his neck with her free hand and jerked him down to her so that her lips pressed against his ear lobe. Will struggled to breathe as Lori whispered in a deep, guttural voice that was not her own, but that of the dream killer himself, "...Freddy's back again."

"Lori!" Will cried and jerked himself up. He then did something he never thought he would ever have to do. He slapped her hard with his free hand. The sound echoed through their bedroom, and Lori immediately came to, her eyes frantically darting about the room. Bloody tears were swelling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks in pink trails as she looked at Will, shocked.

"Baby, I'm sorry," he pulled her to him and hugged her tightly, "Jesus what happened to you?"

"What happened?" she demanded, her voice shaking and choked with fear.

Will was silent for a moment before he spoke. Any hope he had of leaving Springwood, Krueger and nightmares behind would be dashed forever if he told her the truth. He sat her up and stroked her face, tenderly caressing the red welt on her cheek and wiping away her blood. He closed his eyes, "You were singing that fucking song."

"What?" she asked.

"The song the kids used to sing about Freddy, remember?"

"No," she shook her head, though she knew that song by heart. She could still remember the first time she had heard the song in her dreams. She had seen little girls in white dresses jumping rope and singing the ghostly chestnut as both a warning and a calling card. Lori looked at him, "No no."

"You said Freddy was back, but it wasn't your voice," Will looked at her with as much love and understanding as he had, but could not hide his fear. "It was his."

"Krueger," she whispered.

In her mind, she could hear him laughing at her, taunting her.

***

In the blackness of the world that lies beyond ours, a place where life and death meet in a rolling void, Freddy Krueger smiled to himself. He had reached out and found her finally, after such a long and strenuous search. It had taxed every fiber of his murderous being to engage the quest. Following his defeat at Crystal Lake, he had stewed in his own impotent rage and frustrations as perditions flames seared his flesh once more.

He hated Lori almost as much as he hated his own mother.

He knew he was powerful, but he wasn't all-powerful. His hopes in finding her were fueled by the belief that while he wasn't the cock of the walk yet, that didn't mean things couldn't change. The endeavor had been painful and frustrating, equal to the torment of his first death at the hands of the good righteous parents of Springwood. They took his life and they took his daughter from him, so he took the lives of their children as payment in full.

Only the score could never be settled.

He was filled with far too much hate, far too much unbridled evil for such a simple act of retribution. He wanted more. As before, he needed a way back, and the bitch at the lake, Mary, was the perfect way out. She would be his vessel and in accomplishing that task Freddy was confident. But Lori? She was the wild card and he would allow for no surprises this time. So he had summoned all his power and rage, focusing on her and searching the ends of reality for her.

She had gotten older, which had hidden her from him. Like magic, dreams are most effective to those who believe. When people grew up, they stopped believing in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and the Boogeyman. Most of them anyway. That's why the children were easier to prey upon. They have such innocent belief in the fantastic. Freddy also knew that the little bitch was probably taking the drug that numbed dreams to dull shadows of what they might have been, making it impossible for him to enter her mind that way. And for a while, it seemed to be a hopeless search.

But, he hadn't counted on her being so afraid of him. Lori's fear of him had been like a beacon, a fire lit on the beach so he might better be able to see her through the smoke and brimstone of Hell's fiery ocean. He found it ironic that had she only left him and the memory of Springwood behind, she would have been safe from him. How unfortunate for her and incredibly fortunate for him that such a strong woman should be so filled with fear. She was like the Dream Master had been, slow to understand and even slower to learn from the mistakes of those before her. Freddy laughed in the vast expanse as others passed by him.

The link to her mind had been held long enough to make his point, to goose her a little. He wanted her to know that he hadn't forgotten about her. He had spent plenty of time in Hell thinking about her and plotting his revenge. Freddy wanted her as badly as he wanted to free himself of Springwood in favor of sweeter meat. This time, he would be careful and cautious. This time it would be perfect.

Freddy closed his eyes and focused.

CHAPTER 2

"THE THINGS THAT LAY BEYOND"

At first, Mary Stilfreeze wasn't sure where she was. 

The stinging cold water of the lake had been biting at her flesh mere moments ago, unrelenting and painfully all encompassing. She remembered the water sucking into her throat and then her lungs, as she finally could no longer hold off the impulse to breathe. She had choked and drowned in the lake, surrounded by enemies and horribly alone. 

She even remembered the fat, red drops of blood dripping off the machete...

"Jason!" she screamed and sat up. 

Mary clenched her fists and found she was holding onto a sheet, dry and safe. In fact, it was one of her red satin sheets she had bought a year ago, smooth and comforting on her naked skin. Mary flipped the covers back and was amazed to find she was no longer wet or drowning. Indeed, there was no sign she ever had been anywhere but her bed in the last twelve hours. A frantic look around the room revealed no hockey-masked killer and certainly no headless corpses grabbing her from depths of the Crystal Lake. 

"What the hell?" she whispered to herself, looking around the empty room.

Bright morning sunlight poured through the windows. Mary stood up and walked over to the shafts of illumination. She stretched her hand out to the light and felt the soft heat. She smiled.

"A dream," she sighed, "Jesus save me, what a dream."

She ran a hand through her long, blonde hair and shuffled over to the bureau. She stopped for a moment to look at herself in the mirror attached the ancient oak dresser, turning herself slightly. Her breasts were pert and athletic, the nipples still at rigid attention from the nightmare she had just been subjected to. She cupped them for a moment, trying to warm them up. But the sensation of her fingers against the sensitive buds only caused an electric sexual tingle to spark deep inside her.

She heard the shower running down the hall, and smiled to herself. John would be in there, naked and wet. She walked down the hall, her bare feet sliding against the hardwood and echoing slightly in the narrow passage. The water was pounding hard and steam lazily rolled out from the open bathroom doorway. She stood there for a moment, admiring the blurred form of his body behind the opaque glass of the shower door. 

She had met John a few years ago when she hosted a symposium on serial killers at Windsor College in California. She had always admired his work and had long been an admirer of his theories and ideas of what made serial killers tick. Serial killers had fascinated Mary since her childhood and she had felt a certain connection to John Bilk from the moment she read his published findings on the Haddonfield murders. But when they had met in person, Mary discovered that her appreciation of John ran much deeper than simple professional admiration.

It also transcended the fact that she was married at the time.

They were in bed together four hours after first meeting, fucking like there was no tomorrow. Mary had always found that odd, as she never had been so sexually aggressive or forthright before in her thirty-nine years of life. But John had been irresistible and she discovered that she could be wild and uninhibited with him. And since she was unable to have children, their sex had been reckless, careless and absolutely wonderful. It was so unlike the routine and predictable sexual exercises she and her husband had shared for so many years. In ten years of marriage, he'd never once brought her to an orgasm once with his cock. John managed it in the first five minutes.




A Nightmare Reborn: FVJ 02



John turned in the shower, and Mary noticed that his hand was working hard, back and forth near his crotch. She heard some barely audible moans and realized that he was masturbating. Mary smiled broadly and allowed herself to enjoy watching him jerk off. John had the biggest cock she had ever seen, crowning out at ten inches long and thick enough to stretch her out within an inch of her life every time they fucked. She felt herself becoming more aroused as she watched him work towards his climax.

Her nipples were erect and in desperate need of John's touch, of his hands and mouth. She walked over to the shower door and pressed her body against the glass. It was both cold and warm at the same time, the vibrations from the pelting water on the other side enticing her skin.

"John," she whispered, "You need any help?"

No answer. John sped up his jerking motions, as if in some kind of response to her question.

She smiled. "Is that a yes?"

No answer.

Mary frowned. 

John wasn't one for cute little games when it came to sex, at least since she had known him. He was always direct and vocal about his wants and desires. Mary ran her fingers over the glass and decided to play along. She could play just as hard to get as he could, if not harder. 

She smiled devilishly and tapped the glass.

"I guess you don't want me to suck you off, then?" she sighed, still keeping her breasts pressed against the glass. John made no effort to turn around. She continued, "I suppose I can just go back to bed and let you finish up by yourself... you seem to be so experienced at flying solo..."

No answer.

The steam in the shower room was now turning into a thick fog. She felt a cold shudder run up her spine and she felt a sudden sense of déjà vu.

"John," she slapped the glass impatiently, "Look, you want to fuck or not?"

No answer.

"John?"

Now she was getting a little pissed off.

"John," she shook her head and tried to open the glass door. It wouldn't open. Mary pulled on the handle and then she tugged on it. 

"Open the door, John," she said, jiggling the handle. 

Still no answer. 

The fleshy blur of John's naked body was still by the glass enclosure, furiously working himself over.

"John, goddamit!" she yelled and slapped her hand against the glass carefully again, yet forcefully enough to make it vibrate.

Mary suddenly became aware that the temperature in the bathroom had dropped. It had dropped from a steaming shower to a frigid chill. She hugged her breasts to her body, arms crossed and tensed.

"John, what-" she had meant to finish speaking, but she saw something that she couldn't quite believe at first. 

In the blurry world of the glass door, she saw John still feverishly jerking off. She saw his body stiffen and his head throw back, as he always did when he orgasmed. But instead of seeing a blur of white semen, a dark fluid spurted out. Mary jumped back, shocked. 

John turned so his body was facing the glass separation. Blood erupted onto the glass and ran down slowly. The water from the shower at first began rinsing the blood away, and then Mary realized that the water itself was running dark. The spray turned crimson as John stood there, motionless in a downpour of blood.

"No," she croaked, taking a step back. The steam of the shower was still billowing, becoming cold and harsh like the mist she had seen at Crystal Lake.

"It was a dream," she whispered to herself.

There was a thud as John slumped against the shower stall. His face pressed against the glass, smearing the bloody water around. It seemed that his eyes were gone; only two dark sockets were looking at her through the distorted glass. She could see blood spilling from the open holes in thick, almost black trails down his face. It pooled against the glass for a moment and then found another route down, slowly trickling and being redirected by his face and the glass.

"No no no no no," she shook her head, chanting the simple word over and over.

"What's the matter?" a gurgling voice called from the shower. 

Mary's voice hitched silently in her throat.

"Don't you want me, Mary?" the voice asked. It sounded like John, but his lips were not moving. They were pressed into the glass separation.

Mary tried to make her legs work, to start moving and carry her right the fuck out of the bathroom. But they were frozen in place, unwilling to obey.

The voice chuckled, gurgling and seeping with malice. It was no longer John's voice she heard. It was someone completely different.

"Are you trying to piss me off, Mary?" the voice hissed. 

John's hand came up and slapped against the shower wall hard, his fingers spread out wide. Only when his fingers hit the glass, she heard a series of metallic scratches. Mary cautiously leaned in close and saw the distorted image of four, long metal blades slowly extending from John's fingertips. She knew they were metal because as they reached out, the glass squealed and shrieked against their edges. Her chest was heaving now, her lungs rapidly carrying her towards hyperventilation.

John's body began to move, the razor-tipped hand still flat against the glass.

"Not real," Mary shook her head, repeating her words with all the intensity of a child clapping her hands together to save a dying fairy. "Not real, not real, not real..."

The glass bowed outward for a moment and then shattered to the floor, scattering and sliding to every corner of the bathroom. The bloody water spilled out in a wave, washing across the floor and soaking Mary's bare feet and legs. Standing in the mist of the red shower was John, naked and very clearly dead. She could see a long, ugly wound from the base of his neck down to his left pectoral. When he moved, his entire torso seemed to slide along that deep cut. She frantically realized that if he were to get moving too much he might just split into two separate pieces.

The dead man laughed

Mary was wheezing now. 

John's eyes were gone, about that she had been right. His face was smeared red while the gaping eye sockets regarded her quietly. She could see a wet, spongy blackness in those holes, devoid of humanity and yet filled with horrific amusement. He still had his right hand up, and she saw that he indeed had sprouted four long, metal blades from his fingers. They glistened in the harsh bathroom lighting, looking as real and as deadly as the set of knives she kept in the kitchen.

"Now that I have your attention," John gurgled. 

His face began to change, dripping like hot wax. His entire form morphed and melted together as he stepped out of the shower. Mary's body had committed mutiny against her. She couldn't move, or even hardly breathe for that matter. Her lungs were only able to suck in quick, shallow breaths. Her hands trembled at her sides, shaking violently as the thing that was once John approached her.

It was only a few feet away now.

Where there had once been the illusion of skin on his torso there was now fibrous cloth forming. A ribbed sweater surfaced from the swirling liquid mass of its body. Red and green stripes quickly streaked across the surface, at first brilliant in color and then fading to an aged, dusty tint. Mary could actually smell mothballs as the fabric of the sweater became real, loose threads and all. Dirty brown work pants, probably something a blue-collar utilitarian might have worn to his job slowly appeared and covered the legs. Boots, sturdy and black appeared from nowhere and covered the creature's feet.

It kept its right hand in the air, blades poised as if for a strike. The bubbling mass of flesh covering the hand textured out to thick leather. The grease-stained glove hardened and became real. Metal attachments to the glove emerged from the leather and settled into place quickly, joining with the gleaming blades.

She could smell a horrendous stink on it, some sort of vile carrion that made her stomach flip over. From the running mass of its face came another countenance. Burned and twisted flesh coalesced and hardened into features. Large patches of the ruined skin were gone, revealing strong, angry red muscle beneath. The mouth was filled with rotted brown teeth, the lips drawn back in a gruesome parody of a smile. She tried to look away, but found her eyes frozen and held by the monster's yellow corneas.

"What's the matter?" it asked again and chuckled softly, the deep feral voice dripping with fascinated sarcasm.

"Who are you?" she managed, her legs beginning to shake badly.

"I'm the stuff nightmares are made of, bitch," the man scraped his claws at her menacingly with a vicious flip of his wrist. His voice seemed to echo throughout her mind as he talked.

"Krueger," she whispered, "Freddy Krueger."

"The one and only," he bowed irreverently. As he straightened himself out, he pulled a beaten brown fedora out from behind his back. He elegantly whipped the hat out and shook a plume of dust from it. Freddy never took his eyes off her as he slowly put the hat on and pulled it snug. 

Mary nearly pissed herself as he mockingly tipped it to her.

"What do you want?" she asked, surprised to find her voice choking.

"What everyone wants," he walked calmly towards her, "What everyone should have. I want to live."

"You're dead," she said, eyes wide with fear as Freddy circled her. He was like a shark swimming in for the kill, taking his time and enjoying every moment.

"Death doesn't mean shit to me," he said and ran his blades gently over her bare shoulder. She shivered as the cool metal tickled across her flesh and raised gooesbumps. "I want my children back..."

"This isn't real," she shook her head insistently. "Not real."

"Oh?" Freddy laughed and waved his hand like a magician getting ready to show his next trick to the unbelieving masses. "Isn't it?"

Mary felt a sudden hot wetness around her toes, then followed by the sensation of something cold and scaly sliding over to tops of her bare feet. She could hear something writhing below her, making small splashes in the bloody liquid. A long muscular tail wrapped around her leg from the ankle to mid thigh in one smooth motion. She commanded her eyes not to look down, not to look and see what Freddy had conjured up for her. She knew that this had to be a dream and that dreams only had as much power as you give them. 

But she also knew that she was on the verge of a breakdown, and that right now she didn't have the discipline to balance a check book let alone fight off Krueger.

Mary cried as her eyes looked down anyway.

Tangles dark slimy snakes were slithering below her in a boiling pool of blood. Large bubbles formed and exploded with sick popping sounds as her feet disappeared beneath the squirming mass of serpents. Small wiry snakes were trying to work their way up her leg as the large ones wrapped themselves around her calves and knees, slowly gaining ground. One of the bigger ones, a boa constrictor maybe, was lifting its blood soaked head up and looking at her with icy black eyes. The mouth opened to reveal huge wicked fangs. 

It hissed.

"Oh shit," she whimpered. Her stomach turned again, threatening to heave everything she had ever eaten up in one volley.

"What is reality?" Freddy asked rhetorically as the boa wrapped itself around her leg, "A dream can be just real as anything else."

"Please don't hurt me," she begged, all of her courage and rationale fleeing her. All of her training and experience, all her knowledge about killers like Krueger meant nothing now. She had prepared herself to deal with the things other people couldn't her whole life and yet here she was at the moment of truth utterly afraid and unable to move. She was pleading for her life from a dead man.

"Hurt you?" Freddy bellowed, throwing his head back and guffawing a hearty series of laughs, "Why no, doctor. I need you alive. You and I have a lot to do."

"Why?" she asked, tears flooding her cheeks. The boa was up around her inner thigh now, pulling tight.

Freddy stood in front of her and got right in her face. His horrible breath singed her nose and he snapped his bare hand to her cheek, caressing her, "I almost had it all and I fucked it up. You see, I couldn't control him and that was my mistake. I underestimated him. I thought I could muzzle him... but this time, I don't plan to control him..."

"Who?" she cried, her chest hitching with each sob as the boa's head grazed her naked crotch and left a slimy trail across her labia.

"Jason," he sneered, "That asshole is the fucking Energizer Bunny. But then you already know that, don't you? So this time, I'm going to play it smart and prepare myself... with your help."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to," Freddy reassured her and suddenly sliced her left cheek with one sharp finger. She shrieked as the razor blade cut her flesh open. Freddy grasped her face hard and squeezed, his grip as powerful as the boa on her leg. "When you wake up, you'll need to remember who you belong to..."

Freddy cut her again, extending his first wound sideways. From the top of the cut he pulled back towards her ear and stopped short.

"You belong to me now," Freddy said and made another smaller cut below the second one, forming a bloody "F" on her left cheek. He regarded her thoughtfully as he studied his handiwork like a master artist would his prized canvas.

"Please no..." she sobbed. The snake was pressing its snout against her moist sex now. The tickling of a forked tongue pushed her to the breaking point, the edge of a deep chasm.

"Sorry," Freddy shrugged, "But I gotta get inside..."

She screamed as it pushed inside her, its cold wet body invading her and painfully stretching her out with its passage. Slippery scales pulled and poked at her inner membrane.

"It's just a trouser snake," Freddy smiled and laughed.

"Please!"

"Bring him to me, Mary," Freddy bellowed, "Bring him here!"

"Who?! I don't understand what you want!"

Freddy laughed manically as she became hysterical, yelping and screaming. He watched the six-foot long snake slowly continue plowing into her body. It defied the laws of nature and physics as it buried two feet and then three feet of its long body into her. Mary screamed and convulsed as the snake buried itself another two feet into her vagina. Her stomach bowed out and undulated as the snake stretched her innards, pushing everything from their proper place. Finally, the tail slithered up her inner thighs and disappeared into her sex. Mary stood there, no longer screaming and dead silent. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, her mouth hanging open loosely.

"Now," Freddy whispered, his scarred lips less than an inch from hers, "Let's see what you've got for me..."

***

The world was dark and cold again.

Mary could no longer feel the snake in her body. She tried to open her eyes but found they would not work. She knew she was lying face up into the sky as her head throbbed with the worst headache she had ever known. She could feel rain splattering her face and running down her cheeks. She could also hear voices, muted and a thousand miles away. She tried to open her eyes again and couldn't. Mary took her hand and felt the mud beside her, thick and viscous.

Thud... thud... thud... thud...

She thought maybe she was hearing her heartbeat, slow and irregular, ready to quit. Her left cheek flared with pain.

Thud... thud... THUD...

It was something else. She strained to hear the pounding noise as her eyes swam in darkness. She made an effort to roll over but found her body was weak and not up to the task. She felt a sick, heavy thickness in her stomach, as though she had eaten too much.

THUD... THUD! THUD!

She could hear splashing with each sound, the voices coming closer and getting louder. It was footfalls she was hearing, people running to her. She tried to call out for help. Her voice cracked and eeked a pathetic, hollow rasp. She could hear them even better now as she felt hands on her body.

"... she alive?" someone asked nearby.

A moment of silence.

"Yes, but she ..."

"What the fuck is that..."

"-good God... get her up..."

"Her face, Sean..."

The voices faded in and out as she struggled with her eyes.

Then, a feminine voice, "-better get her rolling... this is Officer Alexander out at Crystal Lake on evening patrol we have a Caucasian female in serious-"

Mary swirled in the darkness as strong hands moved her to a dry place. The voices floated around her and before long sirens were screaming and bright colors filled her eyes. Strong straps were tightened around her arms and legs, securing her and grounding her in reality. She felt her body shaking violently as her rescuers tried to save her. She tried to remember what had happened to her. She recalled the shore, walking along the shore and to the dock with John... all the fog rolling in... she tried to remember, but only could see red blood and feel cold lake water.

And she could hear him laughing at her.

"Ma'am? Ma'am can you hear me?"

Mary shuddered.

"Ma'am?" the voice was definitely female, but so far away...

She could still hear Freddy laughing like a maniac in the back of her mind.

"-ambulance is here-"

Mary tried to speak.

"-get over here guys, she's in a bad way!"

The words fought to escape her throat.

"-she's been cut real bad-"

"Matthew" she whispered as the paramedics took her to the ambulance, the gurney wheels rattling over the uneven ground of the dirt road. Mary called out for her ex-husband, not knowing why she needed him so badly. She only knew that she needed him to be here with her now. She called out again, her voice overpowered by the wail of the ambulance.

"Matthew!"

"Ma'am?" came a soft feminine voice, "Ma'am hello?"

Mary muttered something inaudible.

"Ma'am do you know where you are?"

Mary closed her eyes and drifted off again.

"Ma'am?"

***

Saturday, May 14th, 2005

New York City, New York

Dr. Matthew Loomis rarely did sessions on the weekend, but for this case, he had made a special exception.

He sat back in his chair, slightly reclined and maintaining his aura of calm observation. Now into his forties, Loomis had all but lost his once thick mane of chestnut colored hair. While he knew that baldness was typically inherited from the mother's side of the gene pool, he still suspected that his father had somehow passed the trait along to him. What remained was a closely trimmed fringe around the sides of his skull. His closely trimmed beard was full and peppered with gray. His face was strong and compassionate, a countenance worthy of a man who had dedicated his life to the science of psychology.

Across from him, beyond the top of his large oak desk and sitting quietly in the large antique wing-backed chair was Lori Campbell-Rollins. Her normally beautiful face was shadowed by more uncertainty and fear than any twenty-one year-old should ever have to experience. When he had first met her six months ago, she had been able to hide the fear better, more efficiently. But as he had forced her to explore the trauma she had endured her final year of high school, her ability to mask that fear fell away day by day.

Loomis knew all about uncertainty and fear. As his father had told him in a letter shortly before he was murdered, they very often went together hand in hand enabling each other. Loomis didn't quite understand the meaning of that at first, but as he continued his father's work, he slowly came to live by that philosophy. Now, he treated his few, carefully chosen patients exclusively by that line of reasoning. 

Lori wasn't making eye contact with him, instead choosing to fix her roaming gaze over the shelves of books and texts he had collected over the years.

"Lori," Loomis spoke softly.




A Nightmare Reborn: FVJ 02



Lori jumped, as though startled from a dream. Loomis noticed that dark circles had formed just under her brilliant blue eyes.

"Yes?" she smiled hesitantly, "Sorry. I drifted off."

"It's quite alright," Loomis reassured her, "You were telling me that you haven't been doing well?"

Lori looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "No, I guess I haven't."

"Please continue."

Lori looked to him, "It's been two years now, and I thought we had moved on from what happened."

"You and Will?"

"Yes," she replied.

"And you've had no nightmares since just before you and Will married, yes?"

"No," she shook her head, "Yes... I mean...only one... I think."

Loomis looked at her quietly and expectantly.

Lori began, "Last night, while Will and I were being... intimate, I felt something happen to me. It was frightening. At first I thought I was dreaming, but then..."

She hesitated.

"Take your time, Lori."

Lori smiled appreciatively, brushing a lock of her thick blonde hair back out of her face. "I think Freddy is back," she said simply, "I started singing that song I told you about before, the one I heard in my dreams before it all started. In my dream, there were little girls playing in front of my father's house, jumping rope and it looked like they were just having fun. But then they start singing that song... last night I started singing it. Will said it was like I wasn't even there, like someone was talking through me. And then my eyes bled."

"They bled?" Loomis said and leaned forward, "Good God, have you seen a doctor?"

"Just before I came here."

"And?"

"The doctor said it was a weak hemorrhage, caused by stress."

Loomis nodded, "That's possible, I suppose. What happened next?"

Lori seemed to visibly shrink in her chair. She looked right at Loomis, trying to find the courage to continue. She said, "I pinned Will down and nearly broke his wrists while I was singing, and I said that Freddy was back. But Will said I sounded like Freddy, not me."

"You don't remember?"

"No, Dr. Loomis," she shook her head, "I don't remember at all. It's like I blacked out or something."

"Isn't it possible you had a waking dream?" Loomis theorized, his faint British accent somehow soothing to Lori's troubled mind. He had often been told his voice was half the reason he had successfully counseled so many of his patients. Lori sat back for a moment, considering the possibility of a waking dream. 

Loomis continued, "You've been through a traumatic experience, Lori. Both you and Will survived an incredible ordeal in which most of your friends were murdered. As I've said before, I do believe that you both may suffer from a mild form of Survivor's Guilt. Extreme nightmares, sleepwalking and waking dreams can be common side effects. The mind is replaying those events over and over to understand and process the event so you can move on."

"But Doctor," Lori said, "Will and I take hypnocil. That drug doesn't allow us to dream."

"For all we know... but hypnocil may not have long lasting effects," Loomis interjected, "It was just approved by the FDA a year ago, and you've been on it consistently for two years now thanks to your father's illegal, but well-meaning connections. Perhaps your body has built up a resistance to it?"

"I don't think so," Lori disagreed. The thought of the dream-suppressant being rendered useless scared her to death. She had never considered that she might build up a tolerance to it. 

"Either way," Loomis stood up and walked around to the corner of his desk, resting there and looking down to Lori, "Maybe hypnocil isn't the way to go anymore."

"What?" Lori stared at him incredulously.

Loomis straightened his dark suit out with one hand and said, "Dreaming is a normal and essential function of the human brain. Beyond that, we don't understand dreams anymore than we understand the brain itself. Dreams and nightmares are mysteries save for a lot of conjecture and guesswork. Still, for all we don't know, it's been proven that people must be able to dream in order to stay mentally balanced. Very often, what we can't deal with while conscious our subconscious handles for us. It's a survival tool, Lori. You and Will both have been cutting off that tool."

"But if Freddy is back-," Lori began.

"Lori," Loomis smiled warmly, "I'll be honest. I don't know if this Freddy Krueger character exists or not. I've read the stories and heard reports on him. When I took you in as a patient, I made it a point to research him. Over the years there have been a lot of stories about him coming out of Springwood. But again, there's no real concrete proof."

"No concrete proof?" Lori asked incredulously, "Dr. Loomis, I saw him. Will saw him."

"I don't doubt what you saw, Lori."

Lori felt like crying again.

"Just hear me out, Lori. Now, this Jason Voorhees... he seems to be the real deal. His death was never satisfactorily determined and proven. And from what you've told me, he died in the lake that night, yes?"

"That's how it looked."

"Then logically, if he drowned in that lake and you beheaded your attacker, Krueger or not, then doesn't it stand to reason you're safe from harm?"

Lori looked to him in frustration, tears brimming fully on her bottom lids, "How can you help me if you don't believe me, Dr. Loomis?"

"I do believe you, Lori."

Lori closed her eyes and the tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Would you consider that maybe a man masquerading as Krueger attacked you?"

Lori shook her head, her eyes glassy and angry, "If you had been there, you would understand."

"You're right," Loomis nodded, "I wasn't there."

Lori sighed.

Loomis sat quietly for a moment, "I believe that you and your husband were nearly murdered by a serial killer named Jason Voorhees. I believe that this experience scarred you, both physically and emotionally. It's very likely that Freddy Krueger was your mind's way of explaining things you still can't come to terms with. I think it's certain that your were part of a mass hysteria caused by Voorhees."

Lori pulled the V-neck of her blue sweater down with her hand suddenly. Loomis saw a series of wicked slash marks, healed over yet prominent across her chest and the tops of her breasts. He winced in a moment of sympathetic pain, suddenly reminded of the scars on his father's face. 

Fire or metal, they both can leave equally permanent legacies on those they touch. 

Lori held her gaze on him, sweater pulled down tight and asked, "Does this look like mass hysteria to you? He did this with his glove."

"Lori," Loomis looked away from her chest, "The bottom line here is that you can't rely on a drug to normalize your life. The circumstances that brought you here are relatively inconsequential against how you choose deal with this and move on. Eventually, you will have to confront your fear. You will have to find a way to do it without hypnocil or any other false talisman. The greatest weapon you have against this is your honesty and courage."

"You might feel different if you'd seen what I've seen," Lori said dryly.

Loomis smiled and knelt down beside her chair, placing his hand on hers. He looked at her and decided to commit a breach of practice. He said, "I know all about ghosts that won't disappear, monsters that won't go away. My father was killed by one."

Lori was silent, unsure of what to say.

"Have you ever heard of Michael Myers?"

Lori nodded. "The Halloween killer. He was in the news a little while ago..."

"Then allow me to tell you a short story?"

Lori nodded.

"He found and killed his sister Laurie Strode," Loomis said softly, "Twenty-five years after he made his first attempt on her life. Twenty-five years he waited and pursued her. He's been shot, burned, maimed and stabbed in the process, even declared dead on several occasions. Yet, he always comes back. He seems to be super-human, much like this Jason Voorhees character. You see my father was his doctor. When Michael escaped in 1978, my father chased him, seeking to put an end to him. Father knew, more than anyone I think, that Michael was beyond reason, beyond reach or help of anyone on this earth. 

His pursuit of Michael was more personal than official. He felt responsible for him and thus sought to end the madness himself. Few believed in his crusade, and many of his colleagues shunned him. My mother even turned away from him and took me back to England. My father spent the rest of his life chasing Michael, always clinging to his obsession and very much alone. One by one, more and more people fell under Michael's blade until finally, father cornered him in a hospital. But, Michael stabbed him to death right there, and that was end of his crusade."

"Oh doctor," Lori whispered, "I am so sorry."

"I tell you this not to scare you and make light of your experience," Loomis patted her hand, "But to show you what can come from holding onto the past too hard. My father could not let Michael Myers go. In the end, it cost him his family, his friends and his life. Don't make that mistake, Lori. Don't try to control what can't be controlled."

Lori sighed, rubbing her temples gently.

"Let yourself begin dreaming again. You may just find the strength you need to face this and be done with it, so you and Will can move on and have a life."

Lori squeezed his hand. "I am so scared."

"There will always be monsters," Loomis said, his eyes filled with nothing but honesty and sympathy, "There's nothing we can do about that. I know Michael Myers is still out there somewhere, but I don't lose sleep over him. You keep telling me you know that Freddy Krueger is still out there somewhere. Let's say that he really did come back from the dead and can come after you in your dreams. If he really is drawing power from your fear, then isn't it prudent to release that fear? No fear, no danger, yes?"

Lori smiled half-heartedly, "No fear, no danger."

Loomis could see she wasn't close to buying into his suggestion. He supposed that she might have even known he was lying about not losing sleep over Michael Myers. That was as big a lie as saying he didn't think Freddy Krueger existed beyond the date in his obituary. Loomis wondered when the last time was he actually slept through a whole night without waking up in a cold sweat, the image of that ghostly white mask still burning in his mind. 

He stood up and walked around to his chair again, sitting down and hands clasped together. He said, "It will take time, Lori. Healing always does. I can't force you off the hypnocil, but I strongly recommend you and Will both confront this together sans dream suppressants. There's great strength in your dreams. Don't be afraid to explore that."

Lori smiled the best fake smile she could muster. "Thank you, Dr. Loomis."

"Same time next week?"

Lori stood up from that chair and gathered her jacket. "No," she said, "Will and I are going to be out of town."

"And where are you two off to?"

"Springwood," she said, the name of the town tasting bitter and harsh on her tongue, "The two year memorial for our friends is being held on Monday afternoon at the cemetery. I didn't know they were even going to have one, but I got a call this morning. Will says it would be good for us."

"It sounds like your husband and I would get along famously," Loomis said. "Perhaps you could face some old ghosts and lay them to rest?"

"Maybe," she said, and then added, "Maybe just to say hello."

Loomis nodded. "This will take time, of that I have no doubt. But you will prevail. You're a survivor, Lori."

Lori slipped into her dark jacket and paused, "If I need you, can I call?"

Loomis nodded. "Of course you can. I'm your doctor, Lori. I want to help you with this in any way that I can."

"Thank you again, Dr. Loomis," she smiled, this time the smile actually touching her eyes. She turned and left his office as rain began pelting the window of his 15th floor office. She seemed so alone, her hands buried deep in the pockets of the coat. Loomis felt such a great swell of pity for her. He thought of his father's case files, and of how he had written of trying to help a young girl named Jamie Lloyd from being taken by Michael Myers. He also recounted the pain in his father's notes about his failure to save her, as though his pen had captured the blood of his broken heart and used it to write with. 

The little girl had been the daughter of Laurie Strode, Michael's sister.

He had believed he could save her.

Loomis turned and looked out the large window at the city sprawled below. New York was getting another shower, and the people below rushed about to find places to stay dry. The clouds hovering above the city reached beyond the horizon, swirling and colored to a deep steel gray. They seemed to be swollen, bursting at the seams and dumping their load on the metropolis below without mercy.

He wondered if he could save Lori from this?

Loomis scratched his bearded chin and thought of his father again. What he must have gone through, living all those years alone here in the states on the trail of a madman? Loomis remembered that even when he was a child, he bore his father no ill will when his parents separated that hot summer in 1981. His mother had been a cast-iron bitch that really henpecked more than she supported the elder Loomis. He could even see how the separation might have been a relief. He could recall many times he had wanted to distance himself from his mother growing up.

When his father had died in 1995, Loomis had immediately taken the first flight available back to the states. At the age of twenty-two, he finally found the courage to escape his mother and at least see to it his father was laid to rest by family. He had spent the entire flight in tears, not only over the death of his father but also over the intention he had of never returning to London, or more to the point, never to return to his mother or her relentless negativity. He had grown up hearing her speak of nothing other than what an ass Sam Loomis was, a fool for chasing Michael Myers. She would rant and rave and try to portray him as an unfeeling monster, no better than Myers himself.

But he remembered the letters from his father, and he remembered the magazine and newspaper articles he had collected over the years. While some agreed that Sam Loomis was just as loony as Myers, others, many others in fact saw him as an unsung hero. He had suffered horrible burns and the metal of Myers blade in his pursuit, and in the end he had suffered a horrible death at the hands of his obsession. As a child Loomis had often imagined his father as being the Van Helsing to Myers's Dracula. Even now, he tried to hold on to that image in his head. 

"Oh Lori, let this go," he sighed to himself as rainwater sheeted down the windowpane, blurring and distorting the outside world. Loomis wondered if this was how they saw the world. He tried to imagine what men like Myers really saw when they looked at the people around them, all form and reason warped into something else vague and uncertain. Instead of rain, their own individual obsessions distorted all that surrounded them and kept them from ever seeing things for what they really were. Obsession fueled them to go on living, driving them to act out on their feelings and kill.

He supposed that was the only similarity between him and them: obsession.

Like his father, Matthew Loomis knew all about obsession, just as he knew that if he were to seriously tell Lori to move on, he should be prepared to take his own advice. His career choice hadn't been random, and when his father had died, he made the decision to succeed where he had failed. The legacy of Sam Loomis would not die in that godforsaken asylum with his body. He was determined to complete what his father had set out to do. After he had attained his PhD in criminal psychology, he used his practice as a platform to begin the study what he and a few others had termed "super-killers."

Loomis had decided very early on if he were going to catch and kill Myers, he would have to broaden his scope. He would have to understand how he thought, what his reasoning was and what ultimately gave him his legendary resilience. His father had never delved into this, and he feared it was a lack of knowledge that killed him in the end. It was clear that Myers wasn't a normal person, and because of that the normal rules didn't apply. He had some kind of an edge that transformed him into an unstoppable juggernaut that always managed to cheat and elude death somehow. 

It was all beyond rational explanation, so Loomis started thinking beyond Myers himself. As it would turn out, Myers wasn't the only super-killer out there with more lives than a cat.

In his research, he had come across names like Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger and other more obscure cases. He had read of a bizarre case in Florida in which local officials found over three hundred bodies in an abandoned church basement after a fire. They had all been sewn together and somehow preserved, displayed all over the walls and ceiling. No one knew who did it really, but there were a lot of strange reports about a man in a trench coat, who had wings no less, driving an old truck and hunting down his victims. 

Loomis was surprised to find that even the local police had confirmed claims of a man with wings who kidnapped a young boy from their precinct station. Several days after the incident at the police station, 'a man with wings' who seemed to enjoy eating his victims, or at least the parts he liked, attacked a busload of college freshman basketball players on Route 9. 

It was fantastic and wholly unbelievable. And yet, so many people had given the same story about this winged man. So many people had seen the same thing. How could that many people share a delusion so specific and bizarre? Why would the police lie and feed into a mass hysteria? The logical conclusion was that there wasn't a mass delusion. It really happened.

The stranger the truth, the less apt people will be to believe.

He thought of Lori and her story about fighting Freddy Krueger. He had told her it could be a mass delusion, but in his heart he knew better. Loomis was comforted over the lie by telling himself that he was thinking of Lori's sake, Lori's future. He knew deep down that Freddy Krueger was as real today as he was in his heyday of murder. Loomis knew the truth, but had hoped to spare Lori from it.

He supposed covering the truth to protect Lori was a fine idea, but in the end it couldn't succeed. How could it?

As with Krueger himself, the whole disaster in Florida was covered up, and only Loomis's reputation and clout as a renowned psychiatrist had allowed him access to the files. This case, like so many others regarding super-killers was labeled "unsolved" and quickly buried. The authorities decided that everything about the entire ordeal was just too fantastic. They relied too heavily on rational explanations in an irrational world.

And yet, it was no more fantastic than, say, a long dead serial killer who hunts children in their dreams. No more fantastic than a hockey-masked killer that stalked the shores of a lake in Middle America for over twenty years, apparently invulnerable and killing anyone who violated the sanctity of his grounds? Or a knife-wielding psycho in a Halloween mask whose only purpose in life it seems is to hunt down every living relative of his family? All of them impervious to death...

Loomis couldn't believe how people could so blatantly hide the truth about these sorts of things. If it couldn't be explained in ten minutes on the evening news, then they didn't want any part of it. If it made them look bad on television or challenged their beliefs, it simply didn't exist. In almost every case he had looked at, people had turned their backs to the horrific events unfolding around them.