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A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 01

By: bluefox07



BASED UPON CHARACTERS CREATED BY:

Wes Craven: A Nightmare on Elm Street

Victor Miller: Friday the 13th

Sam Raimi: The Evil Dead

John Carpenter: Halloween

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANTS:

Tessa Alexander, Sean Renaud & Simply_Cyn

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

-"This is the sequel to 'A Nightmare Reborn.' I hadn't planned on writing a sequel, but the reader response to the first story was so good I figured what the hell? I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it.

This story is meant to be a segue into the events of 'New Nightmare' and 'Jason X,' wrapping up all the loose ends from both series as best I can. Please enjoy!" --bluefox07

***

"Do you know the terror of he who falls asleep? To the toes he is very terrified, because the ground gives the way under him, and the dream begins..." 

-Friedrich Nietzsche

"Only through a Voorhees can he be killed."

-Creighton Duke

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

***

CRYSTAL LAKE

Friday, July 13th 1957

The day that it happened was bright and sunny.

In the deepest reaches of the woods surrounding Crystal Lake, a young woman knelt before the forces of a world she did not understand and cried out. Her anguish touched not only the ears of those living in the small town around the lake, but also into the water itself. The trees heard her scream and the things living within them recoiled, the concerns of her fellow man focused on more important things. She was a mother seeking solace from the one place she had left to go. While the language she spoke was foreign to the conscience of the living woods, it was understood that the grief of a mother over her dead child was a universal constant.

If one had happened upon her as she had been that hot afternoon, the mosquitoes lighting on her and sucking of her blood freely, her face streaked with tears and tainted with mud, they might have thought her insane. If after seeing her like this, a once timid and quiet woman who had dealt with not only a dead husband five years prior and a daughter that was never meant to be hers, and a man had still had the courage to ask her what troubled her he would have found himself on the end of her wrath.

Pamela Voorhees, barefoot and weak in her simple blue summer dress cried into the dirt of the woods, her body stretching out so that she lay flat and limp. Only her fingers dug at the earth, her nails bent and bloody as she scraped rocks and thorns in the only protest she had left. Her heart had split in two within her chest, everything inside spilling out. What had once been a pure and simple love for her son became a poison to her. She felt pain and grief as she never had before, and she believed that before the sun set she would join him.

"Please," she wept, "Please..."

She knew not what it was she asked for. Her mind begged for the return of her son from the depths of the lake. She pleaded for the strength to take vengeance on the kids who had let him die, a poor retarded boy who had never crossed anyone before in his life. She could still see his disfigured face, drooped to one side and damned with a lazy eye that saw nothing beyond the limited range of his distorted bone structure. He had been a freak, but he had been kind and only wanted to be with the other children.

She had loved him despite all the grotesque physical deformities... in fact, she may have loved him even because of them.

Her boy, her Jason... her special boy.

And they had killed him. He had gone under the surface of the lake and never came up. He was lost to her.

"I want my son back!"

Lost forever, taken.

"PLEASE!"

Pamela grabbed at her clothes and ripped, her lips pulled back from her teeth and her eyes shut so tightly she could see an explosion of colors in the darkness from the pressure. A frustrated growl of complete, unadulterated anger tore from her throat as she gave in to the rage surging through her body. She could not control it anymore than a volcano could restrain its lava from erupting. The result of such an action was more deadly than the original intent.

The woods had grown quiet around her as the things that made it grow watched with a morbid curiosity. There was an anxiety building up as spirits that should not have been woken roused themselves and sought her out. They began to move. Though her ears could not hear it, something was coming through the woods towards her like gale force wind. It sped along in a silent running to the ears of men, but its scream could be heard across the hidden places of the world. Trees snapped in two at the core and fell as it rushed to meet her.

Pamela sat up suddenly.

A voice, the sum total of a thousand smaller beings speaking all at once, rang out through the woods, "Join us."

She froze, her blue eyes wide and glassy. She slowly stood up, her once gorgeous dress ruined with grass and dirt, twigs in her hair and clean streaks down her cheeks where the tears had washed the dirt away.

"Who are you?"

"We are eternal." The voices boomed.

"What are you?"

She could feel something rushing towards her like a phantom tidal wave.

Pamela staggered back and braced herself against a dying oak, her hands clawing at the bark, "Help me!"

"What do you seek?"

Pamela closed her eyes as an excruciating pain shot through her temples and then to her ears. The voices were so loud. She barely was aware of the bloody trails dripping from her damaged ear canals and draining down the sides of her neck. She cried out, "I seek revenge on those who stole my boy from me!"

A wind kicked up. It was closer now. She could feel it barreling towards her as the dry leaves of the forest floor spun and flew into the air. She felt something wet under her hands, slick against the rough bark. Her hands were covered in blood. She stepped back and gasped as the old oak tree bled steadily from a thousand wounds. The unnatural stigmata the woods displayed marked her flesh as she tried to speak again.

"Join us," the voiced howled. She could hear giggling and laughing, chanting from the branches above, floating on the wind.

"Dead by dawn, dead by dawn!" they screeched.

"Show me!" she screamed at the voices.

A sharp pain stabbed into her foot and she tried to jump away. Roots, dirty and wet had dislodged from the soil and were attaching to her skin. They slipped up around her bare calves and pulled on her, beckoning her to the depths below. She could feel the world of the dead calling her. She tried to break away again but only found more branches and limbs pulling at her. They tore into her clothes and pulled, ripping and shredding her dress until she stood naked and exposed. Pamela screamed, now lost in the fear for her life.

"Dead by dawn!" the spirits cried.

Pamela was taken to the ground and restrained there. The stinging sensation of fine roots and branches penetrating her skin made the world turn a bright white as she struggled vainly against the forces she had inadvertently summoned forth. Her skin twisted and then gave way as her legs were spread open by thick, wet vines. She cried out as a large branch, once unbreakable and solid, twisted and snaked it's way down from a nearby tree. It found her sex and invaded her. Her eyes rolled at the intrusion and her mind went to a place that was beyond her comprehension.

Pamela Voorhees gave herself over, and in doing so unbalanced the world around her. In the towns surrounding Crystal Lake there was a sudden drop in the temperature, some places recording as much as eight degrees down in a matter of minutes. Years later, the old timers who had been youthful then would try to tell their grandchildren about the strange phenomenon, but no one would listen. 

Later on, the old timers would think back to that day and realize that particular Friday the 13th lived up to its reputation. Lights blew out across three counties and a number of toilets back flowed from freak pressure explosions deep in the sewers. Even as far to the west as Springwood, there were reports of sudden bird attacks on kids that matched the ones happening in Dayton, Cincinnati and Crystal Lake. It seemed the world had experienced a conniption fit, a display of vomitous power that spread out like a plague of accidents and in some cases, death. Of the thirteen people killed that day, either through a freak mishap or other accident, twelve were teenaged children.

When darkness fell across the middle third of the nation, and people began to retire for the night, Pamela Voorhees awoke. She laid on the ground still, the plants and roots gone from her body. Her eyes were blood shot and distant. Her flesh was torn and bruised, every muscle trembling not from the cool evening air but from the unholy energy hanging about her in a black aura. She stood up in the shadows as the sun shrunk away from her and she knew. She could still hear the voices on the wind.

"Come," they called, "Join us."

Pamela walked, her feet bloody and raw. She walked until she came to the shores of the lake. The water was flat and placid, black as ink in the dying light. She fell to her knees and watched the water as the voices spoke to her, whispering unknown words into her mind and burning them to memory. The voices wanted to give her something special, something that was never meant for the world of the living. She closed her eyes and began reciting the words over and over again, letting the power of the darkness in the woods electrify her.

"Allren ammenon," she whispered, her voice breathless as she held her arms out, palms to the sky, "estium dante vorellum..."

The ground beneath her bare knees began to feel warm. The fine hair on her arms and neck prickled and rose slowly as something not of this world began to birth itself. She dared not look at what was forming beside her, but she could feel the sand and gravel of the beach push away and spread as the voices sang their song to her.

"Congragotham anellun..."

Something firm, wet and cold touched her naked leg.

"Orellius carpthium selleras..."

The wind picked up again and swirled all around her as all the shadows of night drew to her on the beach of Crystal Lake. The greenwood of the forest darkened inside, growing hot with the touch of the evil seeping in through the window Pamela had opened. The water of the lake slowly began to churn and boil, the fish inside spasming and dying from the heat. Algae and muck stirred from the lake bottom and rose up as she recited the words.

"Negethum noriuelles," she cried out, blood suddenly gushing from her nose, eyes and mouth "Killias boratus..."

The voices squealed with delight.

Her eyes opened suddenly and she spoke the final words, "Sarithai conharum dei!"

And then it was done. The lake was quite and calm again.

Pamela looked down and saw a book beside her. A glowing blue mist swirled around it, whisping about lazily before evaporating into nothing. The earth had sent her a book, but it was a book like none she had ever seen before. It was gnarled and weathered, the cover and binding a tanned hide of some sort, stitched together in such a way that it formed an angry, demented face. She could see what looked like eyes staring at her from the cover of the book, a screaming maw open and wide just below them.

She touched the book. The cover felt like flesh, somehow warm as though blood were still pumping through veins beneath it. Her fingers felt cold and distant from her hands as she picked the book up and held it. When it opened by itself, the pages flipping by and fluttering like the wings of ancient butterfly, she couldn't breath or speak. In the blur of texts and pictures she could see horrific creatures inked in blood. It had to be blood. No ink ever dried such a dark, bloody brown against paper.

"Say the words," the voices whispered to her, "Say the words."

Pamela Voorhees looked into Crystal Lake and finally, completely understood. A calm fell over her as she placed her palm on the open page of text. Though it had been written in a foreign, long forgotten dialect she read the words as though she had been born speaking the language. As the phrases and incantations left the flesh of her lips, she could feel the heat and the power they invoked from the world beyond.

"Gorethum, alacartum alghanick menthum," she said, "Barrius robbartuh an samiahl areum thenum memman rohdsilias."

At first, nothing happened.

The water remained flat and still as blackened glass. She waited, her breath held and her eyes unblinking. Several birds flew low over the water, squawking. They cruised along and Pamela felt her hopes sink. And then, they began dropping from the air and splashing into the water, wings flapping erratically. Something in the water, something far below in the very blackest depths of the lake moved. It moved and dislodged enough air from dead lungs to make some bubbles on the surface. Pamela saw them and her heart jumped in her chest. 

"Gorethum, alacartum alghanick menthum," she cried as the water began steadily to bubble, "Barrius robbartuh an samiahl areum thenum memman rohdsilias!"

The spirits in the woods clamored around, spinning and tumbling with invisible hateful glee as the dark magic of the world beyond found a new vessel to travel in. An unnatural marrying of dead flesh and the living evil from the foul places of the earth began in the shadows of Crystal Lake. The water around the unholy union superheated and began to boil. The surface over the hot spot spouted and foamed, turning red with blood.

Pamela sat back, her lips drawn back in a crazed leer.

Her son was coming back to her. She could feel him returning to her, even from the watery grave his friends had sent him to. She could feel the rage inside her find a focused point of clarity that she had never known before. It consumed her and filled her with such a malevolent purpose.

"Come to me," she whispered to her dead son, "Come..."

The children could never be trusted. Not a single one of them. She had seen them all running about before her boy drowned, smiling and innocent and putting on such a face of complete benignity that even she had been fooled. That false face they presented hid their wet, damp unions and their lovemaking and their sweaty climaxes, all so important that even the screams of dying boy were of no importance.

Pamela stretched her hands to the sky and laughed, half crying and half overjoyed. The water in the middle of the lake was spewing red offal into the sky, glowing from the light of the hell unleashing just below the surface. Her nipples grew hard in the cool air. She was no longer herself, lost in the seductive chasm of the nameless evil.

A cold hand touched her mind and she turned to see a phantom apparition, alien to her yet oh so familiar.

"My boy," she whispered, "My special, special boy..."

Friday the 13th would never, ever be the same again. Jason Voorhees was dead, and yet he was no longer dead.

Pamela smiled, "My special boy..." 

* * *

Dark Hollow, Michigan

Friday, August 13th 2005

Janey Paulsen waited patiently, alone, on a bench in the Dark Hollow city park.

It wasn't her strong suit, and typically when given the choice between waiting or moving on to something more interesting, she left more tracks than any one woman in the history of impatience. Still, even as a cool breeze rustled the branches of the slowly turning oak trees, shaking loose scores of the first auburn orange fall she knew that this just might be worth the wait. After all, it wasn't every day that the captain of the football team asked you to meet him in the park.

Janey had been filled with a wonderful anxiety ever since Tyler had left her a note asking her to be here (by the second picnic table near the mouth of the river trail, no less). She drummed her fingers on the green enamel coated wood of the bench as evening gave way to dusky night. Part of her felt like a giddy little school girl, though being a high school senior and physically as far from little as a woman could get, she let herself revel in the anticipation.

'He's not the kind of guy who dates outside his click,' her friend Renee Alexander had warned her, 'It's probably a joke.'

Janey could see her point. Tyler Cantrell usually surrounded himself with girls like Renee, not herself. Women who were thin and perky and situated a little higher up the social ladder than she was. It wasn't that Janey was fat, but by the often constrictive and severely skewed standards of the new millennium, she was considered obese. 

She looked down at her clothes. She thought she looked good in them, a simple white blouse that complimented her considerable bust while hiding her modest midsection. The jeans she wore were a dark blue and hugged her full curves. The thick blessing of blonde hair she had inherited from her mother was pulled back in sexy do that made her classically beautiful face both radiant and attractive. Anyone could have told a passerby to Dark Hollow that Janey was gorgeous, but of course "for a fat girl" always followed that statement as nighttime followed day.

It wasn't fair and it wasn't at all kind, but it was also the mentality of her peers. Obsession with media-dictated perfection left little room for a woman with any true fluidity to her form. It used to bother Janey to no end, even to the point of trying to puke her meals (that lasted about a week before she fell into her mother's arms, weeping and sick to her stomach). Her freshman and sophomore years seemed to be an endless parade of fat jokes upon fat jokes, some subtler than others. 

Through it all had been two things: her friendship with Renee and her secret crush on Tyler Cantrell. Both of these special relationships had sustained her like a lifeline in the middle of storm, keeping her afloat and keeping her sane. She had never expected Tyler to notice her, let alone talk to her in any capacity. Her love for him had been sufficed enough to remain at a distance. She figured that's all it would ever be.

But then came the note.

Despite all her reservations about trusting people, she had come here and waited for the man of her dreams. Her heart was skipping a bit, and she knew that at any moment she might wake up in her bed. If it was a dream, she hoped it end after he had kissed her. After all, the only times prior to this that Tyler had touched her was in the hot, sensual playground of her dreams.

"Janey?"

She jumped and looked to her left. Tyler walked out of the shadows, his blue and yellow letterman's jacket bright in the dim light. His loose fitting jeans, white t-shirt and matching sneakers complimented his tall, muscular frame. He was an All-American boy, right down to his corn-fed good looks and head full of dark, wavy hair. He smiled at her, that same sexy little grin he got on the football field when his helmet came off on the sidelines and the team was kicking the opposition all the way back to their goal posts.

"Hi Tyler," she said timidly and stood up.

"How are you?" he walked up to her and actually embraced her.

"I'm fine," she smiled. She was better than fine. She thought she might die from an overdose of pure unadulterated happiness.

"I guess you're wondering why I asked you out here?" he smiled.

"Yeah," she said nervously, "A little."

"Well," he began and sat down on the bench, motioning for her to join him, "I have this problem see..."

She couldn't help but let her eyes fall to his muscular chest, somehow rippling even under his thin t-shirt. She said, "What is it?"

"I have a crush on this girl," Tyler said, "And she doesn't know it all. She's not like any other girl I've seen before."

"She sounds special," Janey replied, her smile still broad but her heart sinking. He was going to ask her to talk to a friend for him. She knew it. The luster began to fall away as she listened.


A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 01



"I think she is," he said, "But, the thing of it is, you know her pretty well."

She rolled her eyes inwardly. 'Renee,' she thought, 'This is about Renee...'

"I do?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'll talk to her for you."

"You will?"

"Yeah Tyler," she smiled, "Sure." And then she thought, 'You fucking pushover...'

"That's so good," he leaned his weight forward, "She's so funny and smart. I've seen her with other people and she is really nice... and she has a killer body too."

"Well there you go," she said, her heart beginning to break, "If that's all I better get going."

"Wait," he held her hand. The touch was electrifying for her and she froze, "Aren't you going to tell her?"

"Yes, of course."

Tyler looked at her doubtfully. "You wanna know her name?"

"Oh," she laughed and slapped a hand to her forehead, "Duh. Who is she?"

Tyler had her sit down next to him again and he said, "Her name is Janey."

She looked at him for a moment, as though he had spoken ancient Latin to her and not simple everyday Americanized English. He looked at her expectantly as she processed the information. Killer body? Was he out of his damn mind? The only killer body here was his. It had to be a joke.

"That's not funny," she said, though her heart wanted desperately to believe it. She wanted more than anything to believe it.

"It's the truth," he smiled and leaned towards her. His lips brushed hers and then pressed warmly into her mouth. His hand touched her face in a gentle caress as he kissed her. When his tongue entered her mouth, she did nothing to stop him. She thought she might wake up now, seeing as he had kissed her and her dreams rarely made it to anything more erotic than this before she woke up panting in her bed, her nipples hard and her slick with heat.

"I don't understand," she said against his mouth.

"I like you," Tyler kissed her neck, his hands already on her hips. She hadn't even noticed he had put them there.

"But you're so," she began, her ability to form sentences failing her, "And I'm so..."

Tyler put a finger to her lips, "Shh."

He kissed her again and then Janey bent forward, a big grin on her face "I can't believe this is happening." 

"Why?" he asked and then looked down the open neck of her blouse. He could see her large breasts, full and firm and just a hint of blue lace framing the large cups. He also saw a small tattoo peaking up from the curve of right tit.

"It's a sea serpent" Janey smiled, her confidence bolstering as she realized he was gawking at her. The captain of the football team was gawking at her tits and kissing on her. She said, "I have a thing for mythical creatures." 

"I'm sure it's a gorgeous tattoo," Tyler looked into her eyes.

"Want to see?" she asked, surprising herself. She felt so bold, so fucking empowered that she thought she might try to seduce him right then and there. It was such a sudden and alien feeling to her. It scared her, but she was relishing in it. Her heart was pounding as her sex became moist with anticipatory want. 

Before Tyler could nod yes or no, she surprised herself again by undoing three of the five buttons keeping her shirt together. She pulled the blouse off her shoulder and revealed a generous view of her ample cleavage. In the soft moonlight, Tyler was treated to the sleek lines of Janey's sea serpent on the swell of her impressively large right tit. All he could see the arc of it's long body curving up, the face of the animal hidden. As his mind began frantically wondering about what the rest of the creature looked like behind the lace of her bra, he said, "It's so beautiful."

"You think so?"

"Oh yes" was all Tyler could say, his eyes drawn to her breasts like moths to a flame. 

"Worked two summers straight to get the money for this," she smiled, looking down at her tattoo.

"Did it hurt?"

"A little," she shrugged, still in awe that she was doing this... and with Tyler no less, "But the stud hurt even more."

"You have a piercing too?" his eyes never left her tits.

"Mmm hmmm," she nodded, feeling as though she might tip over right there and die a happy woman, "An emerald, gold rimmed stud for an eye."

"Sweet," Tyler smiled, his eyes burning a hole through the fabric of her bra.

"Yeah," she grinned broadly. She felt crazy and out of control, showing her breast to Tyler after one kiss. She felt so alive the sudden reality that they might have sex hit her gloriously hard. She wasn't a slut, but at that moment she would have ridden him like a cowgirl on a stubborn bronco. His reactions to her body made her all the more brazen, confident. She cocked a brow and ran a finger over the fabric covering the stud, "Through my nipple..."

"That must have hurt," Tyler cringed.

"Not like you might think," Janey replied, her heart now thundering in her chest. She could feel the heat of an involuntary blush gently burning her against the porcelain white of her flesh. Janey knew it might send the wrong impression if she took this any further. Still, the need for him, the need to fulfill that unrequited love she had harbored for him for so long was overpowering. She wanted him, more than any cheerleader or preppy snob could ever hope to. Janey Paulsen had loved Tyler Cantrell from afar for long enough.

For the first time, she not only felt she could tell him the depth of her affections, but also show him.

"Tyler," she said softly, "You want to see the rest of the serpent?"

Tyler looked up, a horny gleam in his eyes. "Yes."

"You want to see his eye?"

"Yes," he breathed.

Janey took a silent deep breath as she unbuttoned the rest of her blouse, revealing her body to him. She untucked her shirt, suddenly not embarrassed of the extra weight her body carried. It was as though she hadn't ever been plagued by self-doubt, or fear or embarrassment about herself. Tyler licked his lips as she unclasped her bra and pulled the cups away from her breasts. The milky skin of her bosom was almost ethereal in the growing orange light of the sodium lamps surrounding the park.

"Janey," he looked her deeply in the eyes then to the tattoo, following the curves of the sea serpent down the slope of her tit. The artist had done exquisite work, the body looking slick and sensually blue against her skin. The serpent's head was drawn over her dime-sized nipple, just as she had said it would be. The emerald stud indeed looked very much like an eye.

"So beautiful," he whispered and raised his hand to touch her.

Janey smiled, a barely audible whimper escaping her lips as she felt his fingers touch her hard nipple.

"Thank you" she sighed. Tyler made to pull his fingers away, but she surprised herself again by placing his open palm over her breast and holding it there.

"It feels good," she said, "Don't stop, Tyler."

Tyler nodded and began massaging her tit gently. Her skin was so soft, the weight of her breast not hindered by gravity. Her breasts were rounded out to an immense size not only by the natural design of her physique but also the extra pounds she carried. He wanted so badly to suck on them. They were heavy in his hands as he squeezed them and massaged them. He slid down her stomach and found her navel. 

"Kiss me," her lips brushed with his, their tongues sliding together with a cautious, yearning passion. Tyler smiled as they engaged in a long sensual kiss. He could feel himself becoming painfully aroused as they rubbed their bodies against each other. They slowly broke the embrace, lips lingering for a long moment before they parted to look into each other's eyes. He was almost unaware that his hand still cupped her breast.

"I want you so bad," she graced him with a husky whisper, her fingers unbuttoning his fly. Janey wanted to see his cock. She could almost taste it in her mouth, feel it in her hands. She had dreamed of touching him and feeling his cock, the fantasy a mainstay of masturbatory sessions. She slipped her hand into his boxers and tugged them down. Tyler only looked at her and then down at his member.

"Oh Tyler," she smiled. It was thick and beautiful, the veins in the shaft large and strong. His head was a swollen purple, pre-cum beginning to ooze from the tip. His balls hung low, hairless as the rest of his pubic area. He was clean-shaven and virile. She ran her fingers over his shaft and played with the crown of his cock.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, "I mean, it is kinda quick..."

"Yes," she said breathlessly as she grasped him, his shaft throbbing and hot in her hand. Tyler slipped her bra and blouse off. He tossed the articles aside, releasing her tits and letting them hang free for his viewing pleasure. Her nipples were so hard it almost hurt as he licked her nubs, teasing her with his lips and tongue. Finally, Janey pushed him against the picnic bench and knelt down in front of him, her fingers tracing his stomach and pubic area.

"I want this so fucking bad," she took a firm grasp on his cock.

"I didn't know you were so... sexual."

"Let me show you how sexual I can be," she smiled, eyes alive with a powerful confidence she had never known.

"Oh shit, Janey," he moaned as she began to blow him, the sounds of her mouth slurping and suckling around his dick arousing him even more, "You are so beautiful."

Janey felt his hands go to the back of her head, slip through her hair and firmly hold her skull. Tyler began fucking her mouth. Several times she felt the tip of his cock graze the back of her throat, and she worried she might gag on him. There was no way she could deep throat him, he was too long and thick. So she worked his head and shaft as best she could, tantalizing him and drawing him to his climax. Tyler's eyes rolled back into his head as Janey sucked him off, lost in the pleasure of her tongue and lips.

"Baby," he managed, "You're going to make me cum..."

Janey sucked harder.

"Janey, I'm going to cum," he whispered, his muscles flexing tight as he fought the orgasm back.

Joy sucked harder and faster, bobbing her head and giving him the most intense oral fucking he'd ever known. She moaned and gave it her all as he blew his load inside her mouth. The hot, sticky cum shot back to her throat, and she was ready for it as she quickly swallowed the salty sweet fluid. Tyler was moaning and whimpering as he shivered, reeling from the orgasm. She disengaged him and let him finish pumping his cum out on her face and tits. His cock bounced up and down as it convulsed, finally shooting the last drop of semen out. Tyler stood there for a moment, his head tilted back and holding the base of his cock, muscles tight and poised from the experience.

"You're not done yet, are?" she asked playfully, leaning against the picnic table as she slipped her jeans and panties off. Tyler smiled and looked to the sky, cock still in hand as she presented herself naked to him. She was ready, ready for the consummation she had so long waited for. Tyler finally looked at her and when he did, he smiled broadly.

"Actually, no," he said and began pulling up his pants.

Janey paused, the confusion she felt etched across her face in the form of a nervous smile. She asked, "I don't understand. You're getting dressed."

"Well Janey," he shrugged and buttoned his fly, "I really asked you out here because the guys wanted some pictures of your fat ass for the yearbook."

The world went silent for Janey. She felt suddenly small and very alone as the words sank in. She blinked, Tyler's cum still spattered on her face and breasts, "What?"

"Janey get real," he laughed, "It was a joke, okay? I got to play with your titties and you got to suck my cock. Fair trade."

Janey felt tears burning her eyes. A flash in the bushes indicated a camera going off. She gasped.

"Baby, you've been had," he said, "Brody's in the bushes with a camera."

A hearty laugh registered from the surrounding bushes as another flash lit up the evening. Janey stood there, shocked and stupefied as the punch line of the joke registered with her. She had exposed herself to him; she had been so damned happy he was even talking to her. She had wanted to believe so badly that-

"Tyler," she choked back the tears, reaching for her clothes, "Tyler why?"

"Go home Janey."

"How could you?"

"Get over it, bitch."

The word slapped her hard, stinging her deep down inside.

Tyler began to walk away, and then added over his shoulder, "But seriously, I had no idea you were such a slut."

Janey opened her mouth to speak and the stopped. The bushes where Tyler's friend had been hiding began rustling violently. Both she and Tyler watched as the leaves fell away from the bush. Tyler yelled, "What the fuck are you doing man?"

Nothing but more jerky movements and violent rustling.

"Brody, get the fuck out here," he laughed, though there was not a hint of amusement in his voice.

Janey felt her blood run cold as the commotion stopped. In the dead silence that followed all Janey could do was stand there, stunned. She was in absolute shock over what had just happened to her. She was on her way to slowly putting her pants back on when something erupted from the bushes.

"Jesus!" Tyler screamed and ducked for cover. The body of the shit-kicking cohort of Tyler Cantrell, Brody, landed hard on Tyler. He fell to the ground under the weight, the wind blowing out of his body and leaving him dazed. His friend's face was butted against the back of his neck, and when Tyler turned to get Brody off him, he saw the full measure of the evil coming for him. Brody's face was gone, cut away in ribbons leaving only raw angry muscle and blood crests of bone. The jaw hung open wide, and he realized Brody's, tongue was gone.

"Janey!" he cried out, writhing and squirming his way to an escape.

Janey couldn't move. Her eyes were locked on the huge form behind Tyler and Brody. Tyler noticed her stare and turned in time to see something blur down towards Brody's backside. There was a furiously fast penetration, followed by what sounded like celery being twisted and broken, incredible pressure and then searing pain. Tyler felt the urge to vomit suddenly as blood spewed from his open mouth. His eyes went wide, fixed on Janey. He reached out for her with his free hand trembling and dying as a massive machete pinned him and his friend to the ground like bugs under a curious pin.

"Tyler?" she managed, though no sound came from her throat. The hulking killer looked at her. They shared a moment of quite contemplation, regarding each other. Janey felt a cool bead of sweat drizzle down her spine and to the crack of her ass. She stood, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic. The man viciously pulled the machete out of the two boys, briefly raising Brody up with it before gravity forced him to slide off the blade and back to the ground.

"Oh my God," she nearly hyperventilated.

The mystery man turned slowly and picked up a nearby bench. He raised it with one hand into the air, ready to throw.

Janey's paralysis broke and she turned to run.

"Leave me alone!" she screamed and began running. But before she could get a few feet away, the bench rocketed in her back, taking the wind and power from her body. The thick wood splintered from the impact and almost exploded against her backside. There was a loud cracking pop from her lower back as she tumbled to the ground, rolling and then finally coming to a stop. She gasped for air and tried to move.

The killer began walking towards her.

Janey lay on the ground, her body broken. There was a numb, flat feeling blanketing her entire being. She looked down and saw her legs, her arms and willed them to move. They would not. They simply rested on the cool, damp grass as blood trickled from the wounds so bluntly applied to her. She attempted to cry out but could find no words in her throat. Something was wrong with her voice.

A heavy, muddy boot splashed down beside her face. The refuse from the giant foot stung her left eye, blurring her vision. Still, she could see a massive figure towering above her. Even in the dark, she could see that her attacker wore a mask. It was rough and stained, marked by four long gashes across the impassive, simplified features. It was dotted by several holes, each the size of a quarter, all complimenting the dark, endless cutouts for yellowed eyes to look through.

Janey tried to scream for help, but again, found only silence.

Watery, ancient, gold-rimmed eyes looked down on her with all the compassion of a rabid animal, hungry and mad with sickness. She could feel something intelligent regarding her, coolly assessing her, sizing her up for the kill. In his left hand, the mammoth man held a beaten machete. The blade was long, broad, stained and streaked with scratches and gouges. The fingers squeezed the grip tightly, causing oversized knuckles to pop loudly. A thin ribbon of whispy carbon dioxide escaped from under the mask as he breathed slowly.

Her attacker knelt down over her slowly, straddling her. The awful stench of rot and decay filled her nose making her eyes water even more than they already were. Janey realized suddenly that this man had no intention of raping her. He didn't even seem that concerned with her nudity. The rough, damp cloth of his pants rubbed against her, leaving black smears. It was maddening, as she could neither feel the sensation of its touch nor stop it.

"Who?" she croaked.

The large, hockey-masked man raised his right hand up slowly. Her eyes widened as she looked on the long claws tipping each finger. In the dim light from the surrounding sodium lamps of the park, she could see that this man had jammed the blades into his fingertips. The gray skin was split and bloated around the insertions, black ichor oozing from the wounds. Lengths of what looked a thin bailing wire were wrapped around the base of the blades and the fingers to keep them steady. No, to keep them from falling out, even so far as to be pushed under the skin in a sadistic parody of thread work. Mixed in with the strange back liquid dripping from the wounds was blood. Red blood.

Janey wanted to look away from the abomination, but couldn't. Her eyes followed the hand into the air where the infected, bladed fingers stretched out wide and glimmered. Metal whined quietly against metal, the wires rubbing against the blades. Janey's brain began screaming, squealing at her body to move, to do anything. The end was coming, and she knew it.

'Please God,' she cried out into nothing, 'Please!'

But there was no help from on high. No, rather she heard a voice in her mind. It was cold and heartless, yet somehow amused. She could feel something horribly thick and evil dripping from each word, infecting her mind and poisoning her. The voice thundered, 'Hello, child.'

'Please let me go! Please!'

'No,' the voice said flatly as the hockey masked man shook his head slowly.

'What are you?' Janey's mind screamed.

'I am endless.'

Janey began to feel frigid and lightheaded. She was bleeding to death.

'I am the devil, child.'

"Please," her broken voice rattled.

'I am called Legion, for we are many,' the voice chuckled, playing with her like a cat pawing a dying mouse.

"Please..."

And then a hoarse voice escaped from behind the mask. The words were raw, as though they had been torn from his throat in bloody syllables. It was the voice of a man who had never spoken, never used his larynx, never once felt the need to say anything. It was the voice of a man who had seen his words stolen from him, and yet now fueled by a new force. The voice in her mind was underneath the broken one speaking to her.

"You're mine, bitch," the hulking freak rumbled.

Janey's eyes went wide, her pupils contracting into black dots as two of the blades from his hand drove into her ocular cavities. Her skull split under the pressure of the sudden, precise impact. The tissues composing her brain separated as the tips of the blades exited the base of her skull and sank into the soil below. If her body could have, it would have spasmed. Instead, Janey's mouth fell open in a surprised gape as all the life left her body and went to a dark place.




A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 01



She saw no white light, she saw no angels waiting for her. There was no holy comforter to caress and usher her soul to the next world. All the conventions she had learned in church were absent, replaced by a hot torment that pulled at every fiber of her being. She was pulled away, ripped towards that dark place where the heart of the dream killer, the creature that wanted children more than anything else in the world, waited for her. And in that darkness were his designs for her, twisted and devoid of any mercy.

The darkness swallowed her whole, and she was gone.

***

Quantico, Virginia

FBI Academy Guest Accommodations

Saturday, August 14th 2005

In dreams, they say, there is truth. In dreams, they say, there is sight. In the dreams of Matthew Loomis, he often found both. In this particular dream, one he had experienced many times before, he found himself walking alone under heavy, steel blue clouds as the scent of rain blew across the unknown valley beneath his feet. The grass was always a dulled green and wet, the air humid and muggy. Displaced leaves fluttered around his feet and circled in a non-existent wind, wafting to and fro before being carried away into the recesses of his subconscious. It was the valley he often remembered from his childhood, a place he had been before but could not remember when.

The sky flashed with silent lightning in the distance, followed moments later by a roll of bass-burdened thunder. He looked up, his face beaded with sweat and bald scalp shiny in the subdued light. He could hear birds in the distance chirping, busily chatting with each other despite the fact there neither a tree to roost in nor a feather to be seen. Small raindrops began falling, rolling off his baldhead and then falling to his white shirt.

"Matthew," came a voice from behind him, to the left.

He spun around and saw his father standing quietly, looking at him with such love and pride that it broke his heart. Sam Loomis looked as he had just before he was murdered. Old and slightly over weight, bald as could be and a genial smile framed by a graying beard. His face was only slightly scarred, the wounds of his past having been corrected through cosmetic surgery. He looked healthy and strong. The elder Loomis smiled at his boy, hands planted in the pockets of his tanned trench coat. The tail of the coat caught the phantom wind and billowed for a moment as father and son regarded each other.

"Dad," Matthew smiled, tears in his eyes. God he missed him. He missed him so much.

"I am proud of you," Sam said, his blue eyes fixed on Matthew with wonder, "You've done so well."

"I miss you Dad," Matthew breathed, his throat choked and face hot. Tears threatened to birth from his eyes as his father walked to him and placed at hand on his shoulder.

"I don't want your fate to be mine," his father's fingers trembled, his skin tone, once vibrant now dulling slightly, "There is nothing to be gained by dying."

"I can catch him," Matthew said, "I know I can. I almost had him, Dad."

"Michael will never die," Sam said, "He won't die until the evil inside him is ready to leave."

"The Thorn?"

"Yes," his father replied, "Go now. Leave the crusade. There are things fouler beyond the curse of Michael Myers. And they are coming."

"I don't understand."

"I would hope you'd never have to," Sam Loomis said, his eyes glassy and distant, "I've seen things..."

Matthew took his father's hand in his own. They were cold. He said, "Dad, I've seen things too."

Sam focused on his son after a moment, "No, not like this. There is an evil beyond anything you can imagine coming for you and your friends. It is already happening."

Matthew stood there for a moment as the dream began to grow dark. And then his father squeezed his hand and let go of him. Matthew went to reach for him, but he might as well have been a million miles away. His father was a mere few feet away, and yet too far to touch. Matthew felt the tears streaming down his cheeks as he reached out, rain rolling off his fingertips. He whispered, "Dad, please. Don't go."

"I'm sorry, Matthew," Sam smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes, "I am truly sorry."

"I never got to say good-bye to you, Dad," Matthew said suddenly. The rain was falling now in a soundless torrent.

"Be careful, son," his father said.

Matthew looked up into the sky, searching for anything, anything at all to say that would make his father stay with him for one more minute. He looked back and saw his father was gone and in his place was the white, bleached out face of Michael Myers. The killer gazed down on him in the shadowing dream world, the eyes of a doll so impartial and unsympathetic. His wild, brown hair was matted and wet, the eye sockets weeping dark blood. The mouth of the mask was emotionless and cool. Michael cocked his head to one side and regarded Matthew solemnly.

"Michael," he breathed.

The blade Michael had been holding, a simple kitchen carving knife, cut through the flesh of his stomach and destroyed the surrounding innards as though he had been made of butter. Matthew cringed, his abdomen on screaming in pain as white-hot sensation ripped through his body. He cried out as the rain became blood and the world was red.

"No," he wheezed and then was jerked up violently, the blade embedded in his body. He heard a wet squishing sound and then a crack as something penetrated his spine.

"Michael!"

The blade punched through his back, severing his spine.

"No!"

.... And then Loomis woke up in his bed, sheets soaked and screaming. His legs flailed and kicked the sheets off his trembling body. His heart thundered in his chest, blood pumping furiously through his veins and adrenaline lighting up every single muscle in his body. He gasped for air and immediately felt his stomach. All he found was 20 pounds of extra weight and a fine covering of dark hair. There was no blood, no wound and no Michael Myers.

"Jesus," he put his hands to his face and fell back to the bed. A weak laugh worked its way out of his trembling lips as he breathed deep, calming himself. Matthew swung his feet over the side of the bed and hugged himself. The laughing was that of relief and ever-present fear. After a few minutes he found, to his surprise, that he was sobbing. He was sobbing as he had when his father had been killed. It was the same uncontrollable grief that haunted him over his failure to catch Michael and that of what had happened in Springwood not too long ago.

"Please God," he whispered in between breaths, "Please help me."

The phone rang.

Matthew looked to his bedside clock and found it was three in the morning. He rubbed his eyes and composed himself, the ringing of the phone acting as an alarm to get his act together. Even as he found his footing again, he knew there was something on the end of that call, someone that had some bad news in store for him. The dream had been too prophetic for Matthew Loomis's taste, and after all he had seen since taking up the life and career of his father, he had learned not to ignore those kinds of signs.

The phone rang for the tenth time.

"Alright," he said quietly.

He picked up the phone, cleared his throat and said, "Hello?"

"Dr. Loomis?" came a female voice.

"Yes," he replied, "May I ask who is calling so early in the morning?"

"Alexis Rowan," his caller said, "I'm sorry to wake you."

"No, please don't apologize," he said, "I was already awake."

"Can't sleep?" his former student asked.

"Bad dreams."

"In our line of work, bad dreams can kill you," she said.

"What's gone wrong?" he asked.

"How'd you know?"

"Call it intuition."

"There's something new happening in the Voorhees case," Rowan said, "Something that, well, is out of the ordinary."

"You speak as though Voorhees is ordinary in some capacity."

"Doctor, we need you here."

Loomis took a deep breath, "Is it Michael?"

"No, thank God," she said.

"What is it then?"

"Are you sitting down?" Rowan asked.

"Yes."

"Brace yourself."

Loomis listened and suddenly wished that he hadn't answered the phone. When Rowan was done, he hung up the phone, got up and went into the bathroom where promptly vomited. He puked until he had nothing but the reflexive dry heaves of an unsettled stomach. After a few moments, the spastic contractions stopped and he put his face to the toilet seat, taking comfort in the cool porcelain. The toilet flushed and he returned to the bedroom after a good five minutes of down time.

Once more he picked up the phone. He paged the front desk and after a few rings, the attendant on duty picked up the line. Loomis said, "I apologize for calling you at such an ungodly hour, but I will need a taxi in twenty minutes."

"Destination, sir?"

"The airport," he closed his eyes, "And please hurry."

"Of course doctor."

"Thank you."

The line went dead and after a few eternal moments, he opened his eyes.

"Time to go," he whispered, pulling his suitcase out from under the bed.

Indeed, the time had come.

***

New York City, New York

Saturday, August 14th 2005

Lori Rollins stood at the stove in her kitchen, barefoot and relaxed in simple gray sweats and a t-shirt. Her once long blonde had had been cut short, almost to the middle of her neck. She had pulled the thick hair back into a stumped ponytail from her face in an effort to better focus on the task at hand. A mild mist of sweat had broken out over her countenance and neck, giving her a luminescence in the fiery afternoon fade that made her shine.

With a metal spatula she pushed and prodded the chicken breasts cooking in the large, silver pan. The steam caressed her and the aroma of lemon, pepper and garlic graced her nose. The sizzle of the meat against the searing metal pan was the only sound she could really hear. When she cooked, she lost herself in the activity. It was here that she could block out the world and think.

Today, as with the day before and the day before that she spent her time grieving for her husband, dead now for four months and yet still very much alive in the place they had called home together. She had wanted to leave the apartment behind and get a smaller place, maybe a studio in Greenwich Village. Money wasn't an issue. Between the insurance from Will's policy and her own success as an accountant, she was as financially well off as any 25-year-old widow could be.

Still, she could not leave. There were memories here that she needed, or rather memories that she couldn't let go of. She felt like a drug addict, somehow trying to rationalize a habit that she knew was no good for her and still necessary all the same. Every room had seen an expression of their love for one another, from the intimately sexual to the mundane arguments. And they had gone through quite a few arguments together, but none so bad that in the end he couldn't look at her with his powerful brown eyes (as he always did, the proverbial ace-in-the-hole for one Mr. Will Rollins) and melt her defenses.

Lori wasn't ready to move on, nor did she think she ever would be. Will had been the man she had been waiting for since she had first met him at the age of fourteen. A suffocating schoolgirl crush became something real for her when she discovered he felt the same. That something real grew into a deep love when they came together and made love for the first time. When Will came back to her during the last year of high school that was all it took. They were inseparable and a perfect match for each, a balance and counterpoint that equalized everything out effortlessly.

"Jesus," she whispered, stifling back the lump in her throat. Like any bad habit, dwelling on Will too much was dangerous and eventually painful.

The chicken had browned in the pan for a few moments before she began adding conservative splashes of lemon juice. The juice sizzled and steamed as she flavored the meat. A minute later, she shut the burner off and sat the pan on the marbled counter. The glass of wine she had poured (fourth one today, and all by three in the afternoon no less, thank you very much) was still sitting by the phone, waiting for her with the promise of comfort. Lori took it and sipped, pacing herself as best she could. It wasn't like when she downed tequila (Te-Kill-Ya, as Will had always joked). With the wine, she felt more in control. She could sip it or drink it or down it or pour it down the fucking sinkhole if she liked. Either way, she was in control.

As the chicken cooled, Lori walked through her spacious living room and to the sliding glass door. She opened it to the somewhat less than hospitable air of New York City and stepped onto the balcony. The metropolis was alive and bustling, its citizens already on their way home from work and signaling the start of rush hour. Lori found that ironic, considering it felt like rush hour at any given hour of the day or night. The city never slept, and it seemed that upon her return from Springwood, Ohio Lori Rollins adapted that label for herself.

She took another sip and sat the glass down on the balcony ledge. Her bare feet felt cold against the designer concrete of the structure, but she didn't much care. If the balcony gave way or there was a sudden fire in her apartment, the ten-story drop to the street below would make her cold feet seem a little inconsequential. Lori reached into the pocket of her sweats and pulled out a half-used pack of Camel cigarettes, lights of course as the regulars made her stomach queasy.

From the box she removed a single smoke with her lips and then lit it. The silver Zippo lighter Will had kept in his sock drawer was one of the few possessions he owned. Will had never been keen on having too many things. He was as simple as the metal case holding the lighter-fluid soaked cotton within. The lighter had belonged to Will's father, brought home from a worldwide trek in the service of the military and as such it was considered a family heirloom. He had often said it would go the firstborn of their children, the torch being passed from one Rollins to another so to speak.

Not that there would be any children.

Not now.

Not ever.

Will Rollins had died trying to save her and her friends in Springwood. The brutality of the murder was horrific enough as it was. The legendary serial killers Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers had both laid claim on his life, and they didn't stop until he was dead. Once that life was stolen, they turned on each other and fought like titans as Lori had screamed and cried until her eyes burned. She thought maybe it was a blessing that his body had burned up along with the police station where he had been slain. A funeral would have difficult, and his body could never have been viewed.

Will's mother had blamed Lori for her son's death. At first, she had tried to explain what happened, but really there was nothing she could say. It had been Lori who wanted to go back to Springwood and face the past; it had been her decision to stay when things began to get serious. It had been her choice to pursue the danger that Jason and Michael represented. And it had been her that Freddy Krueger singled out from the beginning. When Will's mother laid the blame at her feet, Lori picked it up and bore the burden on her back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. 

The horizon of New York City was growing gray and thick with clouds as the first of the September rains began to arrive from the Atlantic, taking the edge off the hot August weather. She leaned against the brick and mortar wall of her apartment and took a deep drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke jet from her nostrils.

What it all came down to was Lori felt overwhelmed. She had seen more friends and loved ones die around her simply because, for reasons that she had only begun to understand, she was chosen. The word "chosen" used to imply something of great importance for her, an honor or some other sort of distinction. Now, she realized that her being "chosen" by the forces that governed the world beyond the physical as the Dream Master was more of a curse than a blessing.

During their time in Springwood, Lori and Will had met the previous bearer of the guard. Alice Johnson, beautiful and enigmatic, had gone from being a young high schooler to being a social recluse. Like Lori, her past was plagued with the losses of those she held most dear. Lori could still remember the haunted look in her eyes, and the strange sadness that seemed to permeate the air around her like an aura.

The sudden sound of her phone ringing brought Lori out of her thoughts and to the present. She stepped inside long enough to grasp the phone from its cradle in the kitchen and then return to the balcony. She clicked the phone on and said, "Hello?"

"Lori?"

"Yes."

"Hello," came a distinctly English voice, and Lori knew who it was even before he said it.

"Hello Dr. Loomis," she said, a small smile crowing across her lips. The doctor had not only seen Lori through the counseling of her first run in with Freddy Krueger, but also the second. In fact, the doctor had been with her every step of the way, as though it were fate. From New York to Springwood and back again, Matthew Loomis had been her safety net. When Will was killed, he became her rock in the middle of the storm. She asked, "How are you?"

"I'm all right," he replied, "I've been lecturing in West Virginia to some of the upcoming graduates at Quantico. Serial killers and the art of profiling and so on."

"You make it all sound so mundane," she smiled. Loomis was possessed of such a genuine modesty that she sometimes wondered if he even knew just how much intelligence he exuded or the trust he engendered.

"It's been a nightmare," he laughed and then, "So, how has your sabbatical been?"

"As relaxing as it can be," she hugged her arms to her chest and took another drag on her cigarette, "I still feel like I'm a million miles away."

"You're not smoking are you?"

Lori paused, and then, "Of course not."

"In my line of work, the simple term for what you just said is 'bullshit'."

Lori said, "Well, we all have vices."

"Some more than others," Loomis agreed, and then said, "Are you feeling any better?"

Lori breathed, "Not really. I can't get myself together."

"You were chased by two serial killers and one monster from beyond the dead," Loomis observed, "You underwent a serious psychic event and on top of that you lost your father and husband all in a matter of days. Don't be too hard on yourself. It will take time."

"I should be doing better than this," she said.

"Well, I had debated on calling you," he said quietly, changing the subject so subtly that Lori felt her heart jump.

"But?"

"Lori, there's been-" his voice paused, distressed and sincerely apologetic, "But there's been a new development."

"A development?"

"I'm sure you've been watching the news?"

Lori sighed. "They still haven't caught him?"

"Jason has eluded the authorities for four months now," Loomis said, "And his path seems to be laden north across Ohio and now into Michigan."

"He's not going back to Crystal Lake?" she asked.

"Not this time, apparently," Loomis said, "There may be a reason for it, or he may have just been forced that way by the pursuing authorities."

"The news reported seventeen people have been killed," Lori said, her mouth as dry as cotton.

"Yes," he confirmed and then after a moment said, "Lori, I know this is a trying time, and I hate even bringing this up to you."

"Doctor," she closed her eyes, her heart beginning to pound, "Matthew, we've been through too much together to beat around the bush. What is it?"

"I got a call from Alexis Rowan today. You remember her?"

"I remember."

"She is heading the investigation to recapture Jason," Loomis explained, "She requested that you and I join her in Michigan."




A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 01



"Why me?" Lori flickered her cigarette away into the air and to the street below, "I'm not a specialist or a scientist."

"True," Loomis admitted and then hesitated, "But..."

"But what?"

"Rowan believes that there may be more at work here than just a case of Jason Voorhees on a rampage."

Lori shook her head. Again, she knew it before Loomis even thought it. She had been waiting for this particular moment ever since she had gotten on the plane for home in Ohio. The reality of this moment had been seared into her mind during all the questioning sessions with the FBI and the police. She knew it wasn't over. It would never be over. How could anyone kill something that was already dead?

"Krueger?" she licked her lips, her stomach churning.

Loomis was quiet for a moment. "Yes."

"Jesus." Lori felt like crying.

"She couldn't go into the specifics, but she did say that there was some compelling evidence," he told her, "Rowan's superiors aren't as willing to believe that a dead child killer from Springwood has anything to do with anything, let alone Jason."

"Godammit."

"If we can recapture Jason, maybe-"

Lori swallowed hard. "I keep thinking about them, Matthew."

Loomis was silent, and then, "I know. Me too."

"Will, Alice, Sean and Tessa," she tried to fight back the stinging hot tears, "My father."

"If you can't do this, Lori, I understand. There is no pressure on you to come."

Lori took a deep breath, her voice betraying her. She felt scared. She felt so goddamned scared. "Are you going?"

"Yes," he said, "If there's anything I can contribute, it's my job to be there."

Lori could feel that black-handed fear closing hatefully around her heart again, threatening to steal her soul and her life from her. She had been living with this cancerous blackness now since her mother had been murdered. It was her determination to rid herself of it that had led her back to Springwood in May, but now it only seemed worse. It had regrouped in the wake of her becoming the Dream Master and grown into a new beast, angry and hideous.

She could see it smiling at her in the mirror sometimes late at night after flushing the toilet. She would see it in the windows of stores she passed walking to work and in the faces of men she knew to be no better than Freddy Krueger himself. The thought of going back and facing the evil again terrified her to the very core of her being, and she realized her hands were shaking badly now. Very carefully, she said, "I'm tired of being afraid, Matthew."

"It is up to you," Loomis said, "You must remember that. No one will think less of you."

Lori swallowed hard as the fear taunted her. The faces of those she had loved swam before her as they always did in her nightmares. She could see Will looking at her accusingly, along with the grim visages of the two cops Sean Renaud and Tessa Alexander. How they had protected her and stood by her, despite the danger to themselves. And they hadn't even known her. She could still feel Tessa's arm around her, holding her as the shock of Will's death sank in. She could hear her father scolding her, warning her to stay away and not bring any more death to the innocent.

But if Freddy were able to bounce back so quickly from his last defeat, then he would find her whether she was with Loomis and Rowan in Michigan or under her bed here in New York. The dream killer would come for her, because she was the Dream Master. It was her fate, her destiny to face Freddy Krueger and those like him to protect the innocent. She had even told the killer himself that very fact as he burned and writhed in agony at the power plant.

Of course, talking tough to the broken corpse of the enemy is one thing; facing him again, fresh and rejuvenated was a whole other matter entirely.

"He'll come for me no matter what."

Loomis said nothing.

"I'll come," she said finally.

"Rowan has arranged a dinner tomorrow night at the Jade Dragon in a town called Dark Hollow. It's about a half an hour south of Dearborn, and easy to find. That's where we are to meet her and the others."

"Others?"

"Apparently," Loomis said, "Dr. Maggie Burroughs and Yaphett Parker will be there as well."

The names were familiar, and Lori knew that the gathering of these people was not a routine avenue in an investigation. Something serious was about to happen and whether Rowan had called or not, they all would have ended up in Dark Hollow anyway. It was meant to be. Lori could feel that as certainly as she felt her lungs take in air and release. The wheels of the universe were turning again, taking both hero and villain alike towards the climax of this event.

"I'll take first flight out tonight," Lori said, "I'll meet you at the restaurant."

"You're sure?"

Lori wanted to tell him no and hang up, but instead said, "Yes. What time is the dinner?"

"Five sharp," he said.

"Okay then."

"Lori?"

Loomis paused, as though trying to find his words. He said, "I've missed you."

Lori smiled. The doctor was always good to her, and she felt a small burning flame of hope in her chest at his admission. She said, "I've missed you too."

"See you soon," he said, "And be careful."

"You too."

The line went dead and Lori dropped the phone to the floor. She slid down the wall and tucked her legs beneath her as the sobs simply came out of her and spilled for all to see. Her body wracked silently, her mouth open and eyes watering as she realized that she probably would not be coming home again. As certain as she had been about her being there with Loomis, she was just as certain about this. There were only so many times a person could face death and escape before death wised up. Freddy Krueger may have been arrogant and overzealous in his ambitious plans, but he learned quickly.

"I'm not ready," she wept.

After a while, she gathered herself up and went to pack her clothes.

It didn't matter if she was ready or not.

It was time.

***

Jason Voorhees stood alone in the dark over his latest victim; only it wasn't quite Jason Voorhees. The killer stood in front of a busted concrete wall in the middle of the debris field of a condemned neighborhood somewhere in Michigan. His machete was lodged in the still warm corpse of some kid unlucky enough to have been passing by when Jason emerged from hiding, driven by the torturous evil seeded within his black soul. With fingers that had never done anything delicate in his entire life, he dipped the tips into the open chest cavity of his victim.

Blood dripped and drizzled to the ground. He held his fingers up and began to write on the wall. He wasn't sure of what he writing. Jason couldn't read beyond the most elementary means. His mind had never developed to include such basic education. It simply was never necessary for the path his life had taken. Still, he instinctively wrote on the wall, periodically refreshing the warm ink of his blunt pen. He seemed to be there forever, watching his hand move about and create the words, the names of the people his antagonizer wanted most of all.

Jason could see what the dark man, the dream killer, wanted. When he was done with his task, Jason grasped his weapon with his good hand and pulled it from the body. He turned and disappeared into the shadows. On the edge of the breeze floating by at that moment, there was a distant, maniacal laugh.

Jason looked at his mutilated right hand.

His anger burned.

Jason walked on.

***

... to be continued



A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 02



BASED UPON CHARACTERS CREATED BY:

Wes Craven: A Nightmare on Elm Street

Victor Miller: Friday the 13th

Sam Raimi: The Evil Dead

John Carpenter: Halloween

Clive Barker: Hellraiser

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANTS:

Tessa Alexander, Sean Renaud & Simply_Cyn

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

"There's no sex in this chapter, really. Just forewarning you..."

***

A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

Dark Hollow, Michigan

Sunday, August 15th 2005

Lori Rollins stood alone in the spacious reception area of the Jade Dragon. Several waiters and guests had passed her by, though she couldn't fault of any of the restaurant's staff for having overlooked her. She purposefully remained still behind one of the huge fan shaped plants near the glass double doors, leaning against the elegant emerald green and gold wallpaper. Her eyes watched with a tired and almost haggard weariness. No one had to ask if she wanted to be here. 

She didn't.

It had only been a few months since she had left the smoldering remains of Springwood, Ohio behind her. She had lost a lot in that town, more than most people could ever know. The evil that dwelled there had taken her mother, and then her friends, and then her father and then finally her husband. Those losses had combined to form a weight in her soul almost too heavy to bear, but it didn't compare to the burden of what she knew she had become.

Lori rubbed her eyes, her mind frantically giving her a thousand bullshit excuses to walk away and leave right then and there. She didn't want to face the evil again, whether it came in the form of Freddy Krueger's bladed glove or the bloody machete of Jason Voorhees. She wanted to forget and move on, to leave the faces of those dead buried in the past. There were so many of them, and most of them she knew. Most of them she loved.

"Jesus, what I am doing here?" she whispered, hugging her arms to her body. Her simple black business suit felt too tight and hot against her. She could feel cool sweat on her forehead despite the fact that her soul was heating her body like an inferno trapped inside a metal and concrete basement. She could feel her hands shaking even as she grasped her arms to steady them.

Fear. It was what gave the monsters of the world beyond the living their power. Fear was the fuel to the fires in which they flourished and burned. Lori knew better than to give in to her fear, and yet she couldn't shake the searing cold fingers caressing her mind.

"Miss?"

Lori looked to her left and saw a lanky Asian man dressed in black slacks and a smart white shirt smiling at her. She stood up straight and forced a warm expression onto her face. "Yes?"

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here for the Loomis party."

"Oh good, they've been expecting you," he motioned his hand towards the banquet room off to the side of the kitchen, "They've been here for some time now."

Lori followed the waiter past the general dining areas, the thinly veiled haze of eastern incense trying to soothe her mind. She took a deep breath and ran a hand through her thick blonde hair. She had cut it short since the last time she had seen Doctor Loomis, shortening her mid-back locks to just shy of the nape of her neck. It was one of the many small changes she had effected to try and remove herself from her life before the Friday the 13th last May, before she had faced Freddy Krueger again.

The waiter, whose very un-Asian name was Robert, opened the doors to the private room and Lori stepped inside. She smiled her appreciation to Robert and faced the members of her party. The doors closed heavily behind her, probably much louder than they actually did. To Lori, they sounded like the heavy, ancient oak doors of a medieval horror chamber rumbling shut and locking off with some kind of bulky latch. She felt herself recoil from the sound and again found herself feeling both silly and scared out of her mind. 

The eyes of curious people gazed her over as she stood there, expectant and even anxious about her. She smiled and walked to the empty chair beside Dr. Loomis at the end of the table. Loomis looked as he had when she left him, though his beard was trimmed to close-kept goatee and his fringe of gray-sprinkled hair buzzed short. He looked younger and rather dashing in his trademark charcoal suit.

"Lori," the doctor stood up and pulled out her chair for her, "Welcome to Dark Hollow."

"Dr. Loomis," she smiled and surprised herself by embracing him. She felt a sudden lump in her throat, tight and constrictive as she held him close. The doctor patted her back, his English-accented voice as calming as ever, "It's good to see you too."

She released him from the embrace and said, "I'm sorry I wasn't in touch before now."

"We all have our duties, Lori," and he smiled reassuringly, "Considering what you've been through in the last little while here, it doesn't surprise me. Don't give it a second thought."

"Thank you," she squeezed his arm and then sat down.

"Allow me to introduce our guests," Loomis said. Three strangers sat around the table, all of them foreign and unknown to her, yet somehow familiar. The gathering at the table felt more like a ceremony to her, a certain weight and shadow cast over the regal happiness of the Jade Dragon. Loomis motioned to the strong looking black man at the other end of the cherry stained table, "This is Dr. Yaphett Parker. He's a professor of psychology at UC Davis and a former counselor at the Elm Grove Youth Shelter."

"Call me Doc," he said to Lori, his voice powerful and filled with solid, quiet authority. He was a bear of man even sitting down, not so much heavy but stocky like a father bear out of some deep woods fairy tale. Gray swept back from his temples in a smooth shade of kinky hair, his dark eyes penetrating and almost as hypnotic as Loomis's could be. The colorful knit sweater he wore over his large frame complimented the dark chocolate hue of his skin. He leaned back in the chair, his large hands clasped over his stomach and added, "Everyone does."

"A pleasure, Doc" Lori smiled.

Next to Doc sat an attractive woman with obsidian black eyes and premature lines around her beautiful features. Lori was struck by her simple yet exotic looks, but then she imagined most people were upon seeing her. Beyond her face, there was something Lori sensed both cold and eerily close to her. There was something about her that touched Lori at the base of her skull and chilled her. She looked away from her, trying not to show her discomfort. 

Loomis said, "This is Dr. Maggie Burroughs. She's one of the foremost experts on sleep analysis and dream interpretation. She's also an expert on matters of the, shall we say, darker side of Springwood history."

"Dr. Burroughs," Lori smiled and considered offering her hand for a shake, but then thought better of it.

"Please, its Maggie," she corrected and held out her hand. When the two women touched their flesh together, Lori's unrest became even more pronounced. She could feel something frigid in this woman, like a frosty residue after a very cold night. It was almost as if she had shaken hands with an ice sculpture. Images of dark things and blue flames drifted before her eyes as Maggie squeezed her hand gently. Lori steeled her mind and tried to keep her expression pleasant, but her anxiety had already been revealed. Maggie frowned, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Lori shrugged the sensation off and released the woman's hand, "I've just had a very long day. Jet lag, I guess."

Maggie nodded and sat back, though she looked none too convinced. As intuitive as Lori was, she figured Maggie Burroughs was equally attuned if not more so.

"And," Loomis motioned to the third woman sitting on the other side of Doc, "You already know Alexis Rowan."

A spark flashed in Lori's mind. Rowan was one of the doctors that came to the Springwood Power Plant after she had killed Freddy Krueger a few months back. The smell of kerosene and charred flesh filled her nose briefly, as did the screaming rage of Krueger himself. She forced him from her mind. Even thinking about him was dangerous. She said, "Of course, Dr. Rowan. Pardon my memory."

"It's okay," the petite, dark haired woman waved her off reassuringly, "Happens all the time."

"How are you?" Lori asked.

"I've been better," she replied and then sat forward, straightening out her business suit and clasping her hands together. She looked to Loomis who nodded and sat back. Whatever was happening in Dark Hollow, she had no doubt that Loomis was already neck deep in it. Lori smiled despite herself. No one could ever say that Matthew Loomis hid from danger. Had it been up to her, she never would have set foot in the middle third of the United States again.

'Then why did you come here?' her mind asked, 'Why?'

Lori couldn't explain it. There was safety in her apartment in New York. She could deal with muggers, rapists and dope heads but the thought of facing truly evil men like she had seen recently terrified her. With each passing second she wished more and more she hadn't come to this dinner.

'Did I really have any choice though?' she thought, 'Do any of us have a choice. I don't think I could have said no to Loomis anymore than Loomis could have said no to Rowan. There's something bigger at work here, and whatever it is doesn't give a fuck whether we want to go or not. I'd have to be here no matter what.'

'Because you're the Dream Master,' a soothing voice in the back of her mind whispered, 'It's your job.'

"I had been hoping for one more person to show up tonight, but I think we're all the little Indians that are left," Rowan took a drink of her water and then said evenly, "We have a problem."

"What kind of a problem?" Lori asked, though in her heart she already knew.

"As you may already know," Rowan addressed them all as Loomis sat down, "Shortly after Jason Voorhees was taken into custody this last May, an accident occurred during his transport to our Dayton facility. He escaped from several heavily armed guards and ever since then he has been on the loose across three states."

"I've been watching it on the news every night," Doc said, "Next to the war in Iraq and Springwood burning down, it's the biggest story in the nation."

"Much to everyone's dismay," Rowan agreed and continued, "The good news is people have been staying indoors so the casualties are down as much as they can be, but the bad news is Jason seems to have learned some new tricks in hiding from the authorities."

"He's avoided the law for most of his life," Maggie said and pulled a cigarette from out of her jacket pocket, "I don't find it that surprising."

"Normally, I'd agree," Rowan nodded. She then reached down beside her chair and pulled up a black leather briefcase trimmed with brass. She popped the twin locks and opened it, pulling out several folders. She said, "We can look at these now or after dinner."

"I got a strong stomach," Doc said, "It don't bother me none."

"Everyone?" Rowan looked at the others.

There was a silent agreement amongst the five guests. Rowan spread out dozens of black and white photos across the cherry wood table. The elegant plant and dragon designs of the tabletop were suddenly hidden by gruesome crime scene photos and reports on the latest rampage of Jason Voorhees. Lori shuddered as she saw the dead eyes of a young girl, maybe not much older than she had been when all this shit started three years ago looking up at her from the flat world of the photo.

The group looked at the pictures soberly, each of the processing the horror of what they were seeing in their own way. The pictures captured the brutal methods of the Crystal Lake Slasher with perfect clarity, every broken bone and every inch of lacerated flesh commemorated for all time. Maggie examined the pictures with a cool detachment, cigarette in one hand as smoke jetted from her nostrils. Doc shook his head, his mouth turned in a frown of sorrow and disgust. Loomis ran a hand over his bald pate and then scratched at his hairy chin.

"Good lord," he sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"All of us here are familiar with the mindset of serial killers in one way or another," Rowan said after a few minutes, "But can anyone here tell me what is unique about the these murders that sets them apart from every other Jason Voorhees murder?"

There was a moment of silence from them all as they looked at the photos until finally Lori spoke, much to her own surprise, "I think I know."

Rowan looked at her expectantly.

"The slash marks," Lori said immediately and pointed to the gruesome bloody mess in the photo she held, "The slash marks, right? I mean you can see where he used his machete, but there's a bunch of smaller slash marks too."

"Yes," Rowan said and held up one of the pictures. It was of a teenage kid, maybe eighteen years old. He had been cut across the chest with four long sharp blades from the looks of it, and he had been cut deep. The look of wide-eyed terror on the dead boy's face seemed to say what they all were thinking. She showed another, this one of a boy whose face had been sliced off. Another: a naked girl sporting what looked like a snake tattoo over her right breast, broken and bloody with her eyes gouged out. Rowan said, "Jason Voorhees has been something of a creature of necessary simplicity. Early on he used whatever he could get his hands on to carry out his murderous impulses. When he found his weapon of choice, a machete, he became very monogamous with it for the most part."

"Like Michael Myers with his knife," Loomis said.

"Or Freddy Krueger with his bladed glove," Maggie added.

"Yes," Rowan said, "Exactly. Jason is brutal and to the point. Hacking and slashing motions to get the job done has been the cornerstone of his M.O. for years now. We know Jason did this, but not all these wounds are consistent with his past murders."

"Freddy," Lori said weakly. She was glad they hadn't eaten yet. In that moment, she might have thrown her food up right there on the table. She breathed, "It's Freddy."

"How is that possible?" Doc asked.

Rowan nodded. "That's why you've all been called here," the pretty young doctor said grimly, "All the evidence points to someone else being involved here with Jason. You're all the foremost experts on Freddy Krueger, and considering what just transpired in Springwood a few months ago... well, I don't believe in coincidences."

"Officially," Doc put his photo down, "The story is that only Jason and Michael Myers were involved there."

"Come on," Maggie smiled sardonically, "It's Springwood, Doc. Whenever something bad happens in Springwood, Freddy's most likely the cause."

"Freddy was involved," Loomis said, "But he was dispatched by Lori here."

"Sweetie," Maggie looked at Lori sympathetically and took a deep drag on her smoke, "I don't know how to tell you this, but Freddy Krueger can't be killed."

Lori met her eyes, feeling that frigid antagonism again. She said, "I know. But he can be stopped."

"Temporary solutions for a permanent problem," Doc interjected, "That was part of the problem those idiots in Springwood ignored back when we all sat down and tried to figure out how to get rid of Krueger."

"All that aside," Loomis said, "We're faced with a serious problem. Either Freddy somehow survived his immolation and death in the flesh, or he's taken up residence in a host body."

"A host?" Doc frowned.

"We've seen it before," Lori said, "He did it to a friend of mine and then he did it to Dr. Loomis's ex-wife."

"Typically," Loomis closed his eyes, losing his thoughts for a moment. He hadn't been able to forget the horrific manner in which Mary Stilfreeze had died in the Springwood Police Station holding cell during the waking hours. Freddy had tried to birth himself from her decaying body right before his eyes, and Mary had felt everything from the first broken bones and torn muscles to the final hail of bullets that ended her misery. But at night, when he slept (if he slept) he could see it all in vivid recollection. Loomis shoved the memories and the choke in his throat away, focusing on the facts at hand, "Typically a host is used for him to return to a flesh and blood state of being. This results in the host either dying or being killed before the transformation can be completed."

"You're saying Freddy jumped into the body of Jason Voorhees?" Maggie cocked her brow, "Matthew, are you serious?"

"Very," he replied and held one of the photos up, "Look at the slash patterns."

"Either way," Rowan said, "The wounds on these victims have Jason's power and aggression behind them, but the form of Freddy Krueger. I think we have to at least investigate the possibility."

"Even if it was Freddy," Maggie said, "Why would he and Jason work together? If what you're saying about them is true there's some bad blood between them, yes?"

"True," Rowan conceded, "But there is one more thing."

She reached into the briefcase and took a single, large 8" X 10" photo out. She held it up for them all to see. If things had been quiet before, the room fell dead silent now. Lori felt her skin break out in a cold sweat as she gazed at the photo. It revealed a single concrete wall, probably a left over of some old house foundation. The black and white clarity of the picture captured every crack and stain on the pale cement as well as the words written across it in a demented scrawl. The lettering was black, but Lori knew as everyone else did that in the world of color it had been a crimson red.

"Oh Jesus," Lori gripped the arms of her chair, "Oh Jesus."

Four names had been spelled out across the wall in thick blood. Some of the letters had dribbled and ran before they dried, but the language was clear and concise despite the crude manner in which they had been written. It was clear a clumsy, untrained hand with large fingers had been at work. It looked as though it were a finger painting done by a child, a vindictive parent holding said child by the arm and forcing the words out.

Lori Rollins... Matthew Loomis... Yaphett Parker... Magdalena Burroughs... 

The names were presented in a list, as though the writer had been thinking of people he needed for a special shopping list. Below the last name on the list, that of Maggie Burroughs was scrawled the following: "Daddy's waiting... come home."

Lori looked to Maggie, who only stared at the picture, her jaw clenched tightly.

"You see now why I had to call you all here," Rowan said after a moment, "Whatever is about to happen, you seem to be a part of it."

"He wants us all," Loomis eyed the picture, "He mentions us specifically."

"But why?" Lori asked, "Why would he purposefully call us all to confront him."

Doc spoke up, "Because we're the last."

"What do you mean?"

"We're the ones that got away," he said grimly.

***

Ashley Williams was leaning against the register in the Housewares Department of the Dark Hollow S-Mart. The clock over the employee exit slowly ticked closer and closer to the end of his shift with a maddening hesitation. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the register drawer, trying to will the hands of the clock to move faster, to pick up a little speed and get him the hell out of there. It wasn't that he hated his job. No, S-Mart had always been good to him. Even when that possessed bitch of a woman stormed the sports department and he had to shoot her dead in front of twenty people.

It was the monotony of the whole routine that killed him. No one really believed him about what had happened. He hadn't really expected anyone to, to be honest. After all, he had seen a lot of shit in a short amount of time. He had seen his friends taken and killed by evil spirits. He had watched his girlfriend become possessed and then had the horrific task of killing her. He had been taken over by a demon himself, and then had to chop off his own hand to get rid of it.




A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 02



And then there was that time vortex thing...

"You got somewhere to be handsome?"

Ash turned and saw Renee Alexander standing beside the pots and pans display. She was as attractive as they came, her short stature compensated by an hourglass figure and the prettiest eyes he had ever seen. She smiled at him and he had to stop himself. She was only eighteen years old, and though she was everything his lonely heart and sexually frustrated body needed, she was also as vulnerable as they came. Her sister, a cop in Springwood, had died a few months back. This was no time to rob the cradle, not that Ash would have done anything like that anyway.

"Hi Renee," he smiled, "Just anxious to get home."

"Me too," she leaned against the counter, her conservative white blouse opened just enough to reveal the crevasse of her cleavage. Ash glanced down her shirt with one eye, his eyebrows cocked casually. God, even her tits were evenly tanned. He took a deep breath and stood back from her. She said, "Any plans tonight?"

'Aside from grilled cheese sandwiches and a porn flick?' he thought.

"Not really," he replied and then heard himself ask, "Want to join me?"

"Are you hitting on me?" she asked coyly and touched his arm.

"As badly as a one handed man can," he smiled. He knew that doing this was wrong on every level. They worked together, she was so much younger and she was probably looking for a quick fix to deal with her sister's death. Of course, Ash knew all about dealing with the death of a loved one badly.

"Hey," came a nasally voice from behind him. Ted stood at the counter, chewing on his gum and looking just as bored as Ash had been a minute ago, "So if they all wanted you to be king, why did you come back here again?"

"Oh look," Ash rolled his eyes, "It's been how many years now, Ted? Can we let it go?"

"But it's such a great story," Ted said petulantly, "I mean, in seven years more people have heard that story than about the time you and Linda got caught in the stock room-"

"Leave Linda out of it," Ash said, feeling that familiar emptiness inside his chest again at the mention of her name, "Let her rest in peace."

"Seriously Ash," Ted leaned over the counter, nudging Renee out of the way, "You don't really expect anyone to believe all that bullshit about books that resurrect the dead and time travel do you?"

"Look into my eye," Ash turned and pulled the bottom lid of his left eye down, glaring at Ted, "Do you see anything in there that says I give a shit what you think?"

"Personally, I think you lost your hand and your girlfriend and now you're trying to deal with it by making up stories," Ted said, "That's all."

"Do yourself a favor, pal. Scram," Ash said.

"I think it might have been a stupid accident," Ted ventured, his goal not only to demean his coworker but to also look slick in front of Renee, "Something only a goof like you could pull off."

"Ted," Ash shook his head, "Why-"

"Did you slam your hand too hard in the car door? The doors on those 'classic' Oldsmobile's are real heavy, you know."

"Want to know what I think?" Ash stepped closer to him, one eye on the clock as it ticked closer to five in the evening.

"What's that?" Ted asked smugly, thoroughly enjoying the taunting.

"I think you need to get that off your nose," Ash motioned to his face.

"What-" Ted's eyes crossed as he looked down at his nose but he never finished the thought. A hard fist smashed into his face quickly and brutally, knocking Ted to the floor with a solid thump as his glasses spun away across the checkered tiling. He clasped his face as blood ran from between his cupped fingers. Renee jumped back, her eyes wide but a shocked smile gracing her full, rosy lips. Ted looked to her and then to Ash with eyes that glistened with pain and anger. 

"Never mind, I got it," Ash said evenly.

Through a clogged, nasally choke Ted said, "That's it Ashff. You ah so gonna get fired- *sniff*- ouch... my fucking nose! What's wong with you?"

The clock struck five and Ash pulled off his light blue work vest. Running his good hand through his thick head of black hair, he walked past his coworker and said, "Nothing's 'wong' with me, Ted. What's 'wong' with you?"

"I'm gonna get oo fo dis..."

"Two wongs don't make a wight, Ted," Ash said over his shoulder.

It took only five minutes for the store manager, Mr. Pegg to find Ash by the punch clock near the back of the stock room. The resident Englishman of Dark Hollow was flushed almost as red as his short cropped hair. The barrage of questions hit Ash in a hot wave even before Pegg opened his mouth. Ash rolled his eyes and leaned against the wooden post to which the punch was mounted. Pegg shouted, "Williams! Williams what have you done?"

"I don't follow you, sir," Ash slipped his time card into the clock and pulled the lever. There was a familiar ratcheting and a final click followed by the complimentary bell signaling his day was done.

"Ted!" Pegg put his hands on his hips, "You punched him."

"Yeah," Ash said, "But I did it with my good hand."

"There's a difference?" Pegg shouted. Ash supposed that the prosthetic hand he had bought a few years back would have probably hurt more, but not as much as the steel hand he had made for himself in the blacksmith's shop. Oh, that would have left a real good mark. Part of Ash was giddily curious to see what would have happened had he been wearing his metal hand.

"Ted was going on about me being king again," Ash said, trying to think of a defense.

"Ash," Pegg put a hand on his shoulder, "You tell people stories like that they're going to react. Believe me, no one more than I wants to believe that you traveled back in time to thirteenth century England and defeated an army of zombies with the help of knights in shining armor and a book of the dead... what was it, the Negronamican?"

"The Necronomicon," Ash corrected.

"It could be called the Superfragacalalisticexpeali-fucking-dotious for all I care," Pegg said, "But living in the past, real or not, is not helping you any here. And punching out Mr. Raimi's brother in the middle of the store is not acceptable."

Ash looked at the short manager, wanting to find something he could say to make him understand that he wasn't crazy. He really had been sucked into a vortex and sent back in time. He really had fought an army of darkness and he really had lost his hand to evil spirits. The primates living in that castle had asked him to stay and lead them, but he had been so determined to return to his own time. He had even left Sheila behind to come back, and she was the only woman he had ever given a damn about besides Linda.

"Mr. Pegg," Ash began, but the short man cut him off.

"Ashley," he said, "No more stories, okay? I know Ted can be a little prick, I know this Ash, okay? But please. For the sake of my sanity and Ted's physical well being, no more stories. Mr. Raimi owns these stores, and all you do when you beat up his brother is make things harder for you and me."

Ash glanced down at his fake hand. He had been called a coward, a murderer and even a loud-mouthed braggart. He supposed all those things were true. But to be called a liar? Oh, Mr. Pegg wasn't coming out and saying it but he was implying it. Was it really the case that no one believed him? Not even after the deadite woman had attacked him in the store just after his return?

"Okay Ash?" Pegg asked, "You have to be flexible here."

"But..."

"A flexible frame of mind," Pegg drew a square in the air in front of him with his index fingers, "Yes?"

"Yes, Mr. Pegg," Ash said finally.

"Good," the manager smiled, relieved and clearly tired, "I'd hate to fire you, Ash. You're the best we got. You could run this store single handedly..."

Pegg stopped and realized his folly.

Ash waved him a reassurance.

"I am so sorry, Ash," he stuttered.

"No worries," Ash said and looked down at the prosthesis attached to his right arm, "Really."

Pegg cleared his throat, "In any event, please, no more foolishness, okay? I don't want to lose you."

"Thank you," Ash said and then stopped in his tracks as something loud crashed in the store. He and Pegg ran out of the storeroom and back onto the sales floor. There were people scattering everywhere from the sports department, flooding into Housewares like war-torn refugees. There was something big raising hell just beyond the display fixture separating the two departments.

Ash felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and rise up as he watched one of the huge, metal work display racks lean precariously and then tip over. Basketballs, footballs and an assortment of other sports wares rolled and bounced furiously across the store. Several bowling balls sped away and smashed through walls and boxes stacked on the floor, spilling dishes, silverware and cups from Housewares.

His Housewares division.

"What the hell is that?" Pegg screamed, standing behind Ash and shaking like a weak tree in a bad windstorm, "My God!"

A register toppled through the air and hit a customer square in the back, knocking him out cold atop a pile of shattered porcelain and broken glass.

"Trouble," Ash said grimly and ducked into the aisle that ran along the edge of the sporting goods section. He could hear heavy footsteps on the other side of the display partition, as more of the store's floor inventory became nothing but so much junk. Ash ducked through the fish and game goods kiosk. It was apart from the sporting goods department enough to allow him not be seen by the intruder but close enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of something huge. Ash wasted no time gawking and made for the gun displays.

"What kind of trouble?" Pegg yelled, following close behind.

"This kind," Ash stood in front of the wall mounted display case holding the S-Mart's selection of shotguns and rifles. He smashed the glass and the burglar alarm sounded off throughout the store. He thought it was funny it hadn't gone off sooner considering the mess that had already been made. He cleared the jagged glass away with his prosthetic hand and grabbed the first shotgun he could find, pulling it from its display of red velvet and brass. 

"What are you doing?" Pegg gasped as Ash shoved the gun into his hand. The frightened little man pushed it back to Ash.

"Load it," he shoved it back.

"You can't be serious," Pegg gave the gun back.

Ash tossed a box of shells to Pegg and shouted, "Load it!"

"Load it?" he stared at the shells.

He once again shoved the gun into Pegg's hands, "Load the damn gun!"

The manager was scared out of his wits, but he finally did as he was told.

Ash looked down at the pathetic plastic hand attached to his wrist. He grabbed the prosthesis and tossed it away, leaving only his healed over stump. Pegg brought him the gun, loaded and ready to go. Ash held the single barrel weapon in his hand and took a deep breath. It wasn't like his much-cherished boomstick, the double-barreled Remington that had seen him safe through his many misadventures, but it would do the job. 

"Don't kill anyone!" Pegg shrieked. 

"Only if I have to, baby," Ash said grimly. 

The manager dove behind the counter and watched with eyes could not blink as Ash approached the mayhem ensuing in the sporting goods department. He walked with a purpose and confident stride that came naturally, as though he had been programmed to deal with the madness just around the corner. The power flickered on and off for a moment creating crazy shadows as desperate people flooded past Ash, making their way wildly out of the S-Mart. They swarmed past him, but he cut through their panic like a knife through butter.

"I knew it," he mumbled to himself and pumped the gun, "I knew it wasn't over."

Ted came running by, still holding his broken nose and screaming.

"You seen that, Ted?" Ash yelled as the bespectacled cashier went wailing by, "Does that look like bullshit? You tell me? Huh?"

One of the overhead lights blew out in a shower sparks as Ash turned the corner to where the entire cashier's counter had been thrown over. Standing in the epileptic lights was a huge man, maybe seven feet tall and hulking like some freakish cartoon character drawn out of proportion and out of any sane person's reality. His clothes were ratted and tattered, smeared with mud and what Ash knew could only be blood. A battered hockey mask covered the man's face, a horrible stench wafting from him as though he had been dead and decomposing for years.

"Excuse me sir," Ash called out and brought the gun to bear, "Can I help you find anything?"

Jason Voorhees looked at Ash with eyes that were bloodshot, yellowed and filled with hate. The giant man's chest heaved up and down as he stood off against the S-Mart clerk, glass crunching under his heavy boots. Jason slowly reached one hand to the sheath attached to his belt and withdrew a long, wicked looking machete. It was covered with grit and rust, but still looked dangerous enough to cut a telephone pole in half. Jason held the weapon high and ready to strike.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put down the sword," Ash said firmly and raised his shotgun, his finger resting on the hair trigger. There was a rush of exhilaration he hadn't felt since, well, since the crazy bitch deadite had tried to kill him just after he got back from England. He was a little scared, but he felt more than brave. He felt alive again.

Jason took a step forward and Ash pulled the trigger. The blast took Jason in the chest, shredding his shirt and jacket in a spray of blackened red bile blood that spattered the displays and wall around him in a fat faux rain drops. Jason looked down at the wound and then back at Ash again.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

Jason stared him down with eyes that began to glow a feral yellow.

"Creepy," Ash gritted his teeth and fired again, the shock of the recoil vibrating through his arm. The round took Jason in the chest again, this time up and to the right. Again, flesh and cloth shredded to pieces and blood splattered but the behemoth did not waiver.

Ash frowned. 

He'd never seen a deadite take two hits from a shotgun and then keep standing there like nothing had happened. They usually bounced around and screamed and floated in the air shouting at him in that freaky-ass voice they get. Of course, that was assuming this guy was a deadite. Ash considered this for only a moment and then pulled the trigger again, this time blasting the machete out of Jason's left hand. The blade sparked and then flew from the killer's hand into the wall where it stuck, embedded deeply into the wood.

"Shit," Ash breathed, "Not bad, huh?" 

Jason regarded the machete for a moment and then began walking towards him as casually as a priest out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. The killer inhaled deeply and brought his right hand to bear, the knives he had been compelled to drive into his fingers still anchored into his flesh by wicked wire. 

Ash leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger again. No shot sounded off, only the weak snap and click of an empty chamber. He looked at the gun and then back down the aisle at Pegg, who looked more like a 3-D Kilroy cartoon than anything else as he cowered behind the check stand.

"You only loaded three shells!?" Ash yelled.

"I panicked!" Pegg screamed.

"Three goddam shells!" Ash looked at him incredulously and then Jason was on him. Powerful hands gripped his shoulders and Ash was lifted off the floor. Jason jerked him upwards and Ash's head promptly broke through the tiled ceiling. A cloud of debris showered him as he was pulled back down, his eyes spinning and head lolling back and forth. He could almost hear the birds chirping and flying around his head.

"Okay," he grunted as the man in hockey mask spun him around and smashed him into another display rack. The edges of large cardboard boxes jabbed into his side as the rack fell over, the metal groaning and the screeching as it, the merchandise on it and Ash fell to the floor. Baseball bats and golf clubs showered Ash as the hanging display above came loose and fell.

"What we have here is a failure to communicate," Ash managed as the display battered his body.

Ash scrambled to get up but Jason grabbed his boot and yanked hard, pulling him out of the pile of wrecked sporting goods and spinning him around. Ash's screams filled the S-Mart as the big man spun him like he was a rag doll and then released him again. Ash sailed over one tall display end cap and then landed in the lawn and garden department. The summer display tables for lawn furniture gave way, their glass tops shattering and spraying across the entire department.

Ash lay there for a moment, catching his breath. His entire body felt like it was on fire, every muscle screaming out. It had been a long time since he had been this active. The mundane routine of the S-Mart had dulled him somewhat, but as he rose from the pile of broken aluminum piping and shattered glass, he suddenly felt like a phoenix rising from the ashes. He brushed off his shirt and pants, oblivious to the countless tears, cuts and bloody scratches he had accrued in the last few minutes.

"Son of a bitch must pay," he growled and grabbed one of the broken lawn chair legs.

***

"The ones that got away?" Lori repeated.

"Think about it," Doc explained, "Almost everyone who has gone up against him is dead now. We're the last of the opposition, so to speak."

"So what do you expect us to do?" Maggie asked, "I mean, even if Freddy is hitching a ride with Jason and using him like this, what can we do?"

"If you were right in your original hypothesis that Freddy's power, his evil spreads like a disease, then Jason is the carrier," Rowan said, "Springwood is gone. His original host, the city, is dead and buried. I think he's going to try and escape to a new city and start over again."

Maggie didn't want to admit it, but she could see where Rowan was going with her thoughts. Freddy himself had used her as a vessel to leave Springwood at one time. She had unwittingly brought him out to Elm Grove, to the children's half way home and he had almost escaped into the city. Almost. She and Doc had been lucky to stop him that time, and if she hadn't made him transform into a physical being then it's possible Freddy would have won.

"Then we have to kill the host," Doc said, "Before Freddy can enter anyone else's dreams or body. Obviously, the fight between he and Lori took a lot out of him, otherwise he'd be killing children in their sleep left and right."

Rowan said, "The police between Elm Grove, Ohio and Lansing, Michigan have been monitoring every emergency call with in 60 miles of Jason's path so far. No murder fitting Freddy's profile has come up yet outside of Jason's bizarre behavior."

"That you know of," Maggie interjected, "He could just be laying low and being careful."

"If we could contain Jason," Doc said, "Then maybe Lori here could take Freddy on before he's able to branch out, while he's still weak."

"I didn't fight him alone last time," Lori spoke up. Alice Johnson, the original Dream Master had gone in with her, and she had fought Freddy for her until- Lori stopped. She didn't like to remember what happened to Alice. Sometimes, she could almost forget what had happened, as though it had all been a bad dream. Sometimes, in the dark before she drifted off to sleep and had to relieve the nightmares anyway, she could almost convince herself that it hadn't happened. None of it had happened. Not to Alice, Sean, Tessa or Will.

"Still," Loomis said, "If there's anyone on this planet equipped to deal with Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees, I think we're the best shot there is. I don't like the idea of going up against either of them again, but if what Rowan is saying is true, then I don't see we have any choice. Clearly, we factor into his plans. I think it would behoove us to discover what part he would have us play."




A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 02



"I do have a choice," Maggie said and stood up from her chair, "And I left Freddy behind a long time ago, Matthew."

"Maggie, you can't just walk away," Loomis said.

"Oh yes I can," she said, her voice oddly strained, "I can't go back. And you know, I don't think I'd be much use if I did."

"Can't go back or won't?" Loomis asked softly.

"But Dr. Burroughs," Rowan began, "Please. You know him better-"

"Better than anyone?" Maggie looked at them all, "I'm his fucking daughter, okay? Katherine-fucking-Krueger, all right? I know him better than all of you, and that's why I can't go."

She shot Loomis a fierce glare, "I won't go, Matthew."

The frigid edge Lori had sensed in Maggie now became less of mystery. Magdalena Burroughs, the daughter of the son of a hundred maniacs. She was marked. Her life had been stained by the malevolence of her father in a way none of them could ever understand. No wonder Maggie seemed so angry and cold. Lori could feel her fear and anger even from where she sat but she couldn't blame her for wanting to leave. If Lori had the choice, she would have left right then and there too. Hell, she would have paid for a cab to take them both right back to the airport and out of Dark Hollow forever. 

But she couldn't.

The ghosts of her past wouldn't let her. More than that, when Alice died the power had come to her and thus Lori became the new Dream Master. If Lori would not stand against Freddy Krueger, then who else would? Loomis and the others would try, but they would fall one by one. Krueger was a creature of evolution, of adaptation and shiftless evil. Only someone equipped with the power to change with him could best him.

"So you catch Jason and Lori is able to subdue Freddy again. Then what?" Maggie asked, her eyes flashing heatedly to her friends, "Just keep trying to find ways of taking him out? Even if you did manage to kill Jason, which I think is highly unlikely, you can't kill Freddy."

"If nothing else we could cryogenically freeze Jason until we can figure something out," Rowan said, "No matter what, we catch him this time and he stays caught."

"How would you keep Freddy from escaping into another body again?" Maggie asked from the doorway, her voice trembling, "What then?"

"Well, to be honest," Rowan shrugged, "I had hoped you and Lori could figure that one out."

"This is fucking insane," Maggie shook her head, "Doc, you coming?"

The large black man shook his head, "I can't, Maggie and you know it."

"You're going to die," she said and pointed at Rowan, "You know that. You'll die right along with them."

"If it means putting a stop to all this bullshit," Doc turned and faced her, "Then I'm willing to take that risk."

Maggie put threw her hands into the air and laughed. She turned and walked out as easily as she had entered the room. She slammed the doors and was gone, leaving them alone. Rowan looked at the doors and sighed. She had hoped all five of them could work together, but especially Maggie and Lori. They were the ones who knew Krueger best. Between their knowledge, her experience with Jason and then the smarts of Loomis and Doc combined there was a stronger chance of success.

"Okay," she said, "Who's in?"

"I'm in," Loomis said flatly, "You needn't ask, Alexis."

Rowan smiled gratefully at her mentor.

"I'm in," Doc said, "All the way."

Rowan looked at Lori and asked, "Can you do this?"

Lori looked at her hands and felt that heaviness on her chest again. After a moment she said, "I lost my husband, my mother, my father and most of my friends to Freddy Krueger. If I don't help, then their deaths won't be worth anything. I won't lie. I wish I could get the righteous fuck out of here and never see any of you again."

Loomis put a hand on her shoulder and Lori put hers over his. She said, "I'm in."

The musical chime of Rowan's cell phone sang out. She reached into her pocket and opened the phone, holding it to her ear. "Hello?"

Doc looked at Loomis and said under his breath, "Let me go talk to Maggie."

"Are you serious?" Rowan said into the phone, "Jesus, we're on our way."

"What is it?" Lori asked.

"Jason," Rowan gathered the photos off the table as they all stood up, "Jason has been spotted fifteen miles north of here in the suburbs of Dark Hollow. He's in a department store raising hell."

"Let's go then," Loomis said.

***

Ash didn't have time to be scientific about his methods.

When the shit hit the fan like this, he rarely did. So when he took one of the Stihl chainsaws from its display case, he first shattered the glass around it with the broken chair leg and then popped the gas cap. He had a half full tank, which was just enough to get the job done. This was one of the 1500 series, a powerful wood eater that could cut through a good eight foot round in a minute-and-a-half all by itself if one were lazy enough.

It would have been easier had he worn his pneumatic hand, the one made from authentic English steel and chain mail. Coupled with the harness he had worked into an extension of his handicap, he had been ready for anything. It was really a work of art in and of itself, but as it was Ash settled on one of the tree climbing harnesses, similar to the one he had scavenged that night at the cabin in the woods. The night he lost his hand. 

He slipped it on quickly; making sure the hook on the breast strap was pointed out and up. In a single motion he slipped the plastic grip of the pull cord in the groove of the hook and yanked the saw down as he primed the small but powerful motor with his stump. The chainsaw roared to life and blue smoke billowed from its exhaust.

Ash looked at the spinning chain, it's teeth blurred into a fine thin line of deadly metal. He held it up appraisingly and smiled, "Groovy."

With that, he kicked the wreckage of the lawn display out of his path and rounded the corner to once again face Jason Voorhees. Frightened employees and customers watched with wide eyes and gaping mouths as Ash stood defiantly in front of the giant man. Ash revved the saw and stared into the dull, angry eyes glimmering behind the cutout holes of the bloodstained hockey mask.

"Ash!" came the scared whisper of Renee Alexander. She was hiding behind the counter with Pegg, her beautiful eyes wide and unable to close, "What are you doing?"

"Taking care of business, baby," he eyed Jason.

The killer reached over and grasped his machete by the weathered leather handle. With one mighty pull, the blade was free of the wood and drywall.

"Be careful!"

"Some people are born to use a chainsaw. Others have chainsaws forced upon them," he took a deep breath, bared his teeth and stood ready, "Me? I have one attached to me."

Jason lurched forward.

"All right asshole," he muttered, "Come get some."

Jason brought his machete down hard, meeting the chainsaw in a shower of sparks and hissing pops that filled the store with the acrid smell of metal against metal. Ash could feel the raw power of his opponent's strength behind the push of his blade and with a grunt shoved back even harder. The machete finally cleared the bite of the chainsaw and chipped away part of its white and orange casing as Ash ducked to his right. His arm was already screaming with fatigue as it bore the burden of the fight.

"Jesus!" he growled and brought the saw up fast, catching Jason on the side of his head. Bruised flesh and black blood sprayed into the air as one of the side-straps for the hockey mask caught on the saw. The mask was torn from Jason's face and clattered to the floor. Jason turned and glared at Ash, his deformed and primitive features black with rage.

"Ugh," Ash taunted him and cringed, "Inbred and undead. Talk about a handicap there, chief..."

Jason swung again, narrowly missing Ash's head and instead splitting a nearby support column in two. Ash ducked out of the way and rolled across the debris-covered floor. The chainsaw gnarled and chipped the tile with deep gouges as he recovered, being careful not to let the spinning teeth catch his legs. Jason turned like an enraged animal, his head cocked to one side. Ash was up on his feet again as the machete came down in a blur, this time burying itself into the wall. Ash saw his chance and brought the chainsaw up hard. The spinning chain and bar disappeared into Jason's midsection as blood and gore spattered Ash and the wall behind him.

"You like it?!" Ash screamed through the rain of foul smelling innards, "You like that, big fella?!"

Jason's arms flailed about as the blade dug through his stomach and began mangling his spinal cord. The giant killer convulsed and shook as the 18-inch bar of the chainsaw erupted from his backside in a rain of gore. Ash cried out a triumphant yawl and shoved the killer backwards. Jason fell quickly, his weight heavy and dead as the chainsaw came free of his body in a squelching release. He landed hard on his back, blood oozing from his malformed mouth and legs twitching erratically.

Ash nudged Jason's boots with his own. Blood sputtered up from the killer's open maw, but he did not move beyond the muscle convulsions. He looked down at the hockey mask laying next to Jason and kicked it aside.

"Hockey season's over."

Ash looked around at his fellow employees, his eyes wide and face stained with Jason's nasty ichor blood. White dust from ruined drywall had settled over the fluid and made him look wet and gray in the flickering lights. His lips drew back from his teeth in a bright white smile of both anger and satisfaction. He held the chainsaw out in front of him and choked the engine, letting the machine spin to a rest. The silence that followed was so intense in seemed almost loud. 

Ash read each of their faces, all of them looking like they were ready to pass out from nausea, pure fright or both. Pegg was still cowering behind the gun counter as Renee watched him with a mixture of awe and horror. Ted was hunkered down behind one of the new-hire cashier girls, his glasses lopsided on his face and nose swollen purple.

"Now," he announced to the store, "Is there anyone else here who thinks I'm crazy?"

No one replied.

Ash sat the chainsaw down with a defiant shove on one of the broken display tables. He shook his head and faced his peers and customers. All the ridicule and jokes came at a price, he had always told himself. It was time to pay up now. When push came to shove and these people had to deal with the truth, it had been he who had risen up and dealt with it. Ash felt a righteous vindication wash over him as he cupped his hand to his ear and said, "Huh? Anyone? Speak up..."

Pegg slowly stood up from his hiding place. Ash could see his manager had pissed himself during the fight. A large dark spot had formed over the crotch of his tan khaki pants that spread down to the knee of his left leg. Pegg seemed oblivious to the fact as he stepped out and cautiously stood beside Renee Alexander.

"Anyone?"

Mr. Pegg shook his head quickly and Renee only looked at him with huge eyes that dared not blink. Her mouth was hung slightly agape, her normally chocolate aulait skin a pale ghost of its former pigment. A small squeak escaped from between her lips, her legs shaking and hands trembling. Ash wasn't angry with her, as furious and as dark as his face must have appeared at that moment. Renee had been the only person in the store who had believed him. He supposed Pegg had been supportive too, but that didn't stop him from being subtly sarcastic and dubious with him on a daily basis.

And now, for all the naysayers and skeptics was proof of his story, or at least a damned convincing argument.

"Anyone else got anything to say?" he shouted and turned suddenly, his eyes flashing at Ted. The clerk shrunk back behind the terrified girl he had been using as a shield. Ash touched her shoulder with one finger and moved her aside, giving him a clear view of his rival. Ash put his hand out and shoved him hard on the shoulder, "Huh, Ted? Anything to say about me being the king, you thick-headed prick?!"

Ted opened his mouth.

"Huh?" Ash shoved him again.

Small tears glistened in Ted's eyes as he tried to find his voice.

"Huh, Ted? Speak up."

Ted merely recoiled back as though he might disappear into oblivion, his eyes wide and head shaking back and forth in a silent apology. Ash loomed over him, his eyes burning with a power that seemed to not only diminish Ted's already shrinking bravado and wit but also his stature. Ash nodded approvingly and turned to face Mr. Pegg. He looked around at the destroyed S-Mart and said, "Mr. Pegg, sorry about the mess."

"It happens," the older man whispered, "I mean, who knew?"

"I knew," Ash said evenly.

"It's all true," Renee breathed, "All of it. Is that a deadite?"

Ash looked at her. It was nice to hear someone other than himself that word. It made it more real for him, and suddenly he didn't feel alone.

"This," Ash looked down at the convulsing body of Jason Voorhees, "Was the easy part."

The sounds of wailing sirens filled the store as doors opened at every exit and thick boots thundered against the floor. They all turned to see several men, military from the looks of their dark combat fatigues and weapons, come rushing down the main aisle to the shattered remains of the Housewares and sporting goods sections. They all carried compact machine guns, red laser sights flashing in thin beams across the thick, dusty air.

"Glad you could make it," Ash looked at them, "Is 'Charles in Charge' over?"

The men in black said nothing as they secured the area.

"You guys took your time getting here," he took a step forward and then stopped as one of the men turned his head to the side and looked at him. Ash couldn't see behind the dark goggles the man wore, but he could feel the gaze.

"Easy chief," he put his hand up, "We're all on the same side."

Ash stood back, already feeling uneasy. At first, he couldn't figure out why he was so wary of the cavalry rushing in to clean up the mess. Normally, it was all up to him and him alone to deal with this kind of bullshit. He supposed he had been expecting to see blue uniformed cops, with shiny badges and ample guts hanging over their belts jogging in to see what the hell had happened. The arrival of these commandos felt wrong in every way. The last time Ash had checked, Dark Hollow didn't have a SWAT team or a special ops police unit on the payroll.

As the soldiers surrounded Jason, their weapons trained on him and fingers resting on the triggers, a tall lanky man in a black over coat came walking in behind them. He strode through the wreckage and the troops with a graceful ease. His hair was almost grayed out completely, his features tough and devoid of any kindness. Through thin, wire framed glasses he surveyed the damage to the S-Mart with an almost disappointed frown. The stranger looked around at the bewildered staff and customers of the S-Mart and forced a smile on to his face. He asked, "Ladies and gentlemen, what happened?"

"The Labor Day Sale," Ash spoke up, not feeling even slightly intimidated by him. He could feel the man's self-importance radiating even from ten feet away. He added, "We're getting ready early."

"I am Dr. David Wimmer," he glanced at Ash, his lip curled in a clear display of disgust, "I must have caught you on laundry day."

Ash looked down at his blood soaked clothes and shrugged.

"I am assuming you dealt with the large gentleman on the floor there?" Wimmer asked.

"Yeah," Ash said, "Yeah that's right."

"Then congratulations Mister-" Wimmer looked at Ash expectantly.

"Williams," he replied, "Ash Williams."

"You've succeeded where my team of highly trained commandos has failed," Wimmer glanced sideways at the soldiers with a look that could have frozen a forest fire, "You've stopped Jason Voorhees."

The hockey mask had looked familiar, but it was the name that made Ash remember. He had caught a news report a while back detailing how the Crystal Lake killer had escaped custody and fled the authorities. Ash looked down at the dying hulk on the floor, the barrel chest rising and falling as he labored to breathe. The glittering eyes deep inside the sockets of his hideous head watched with impassive curiosity.

"You sure this guy ain't something else?" Ash stepped away from the killer, "I mean, he took three blasts from a shotgun and was still kicking. If I hadn't used the chainsaw..."

"Regardless of what you might think, Mr. Williams," Wimmer cut him short, "He is only a man. Now, if you'll please stand back."

The soldiers began ushering away the crowd of people that had formed during their conversation. Ash looked to Pegg, who was still in shock. The manager found his voice and asked Wimmer, "What about the damages?"

"That's why a responsible owner pays for insurance," the doctor said.

Ash shook his head, "But-"

"Thank you," Wimmer glared at him as more soldiers entered the store. Leading them was a tall, broad shouldered man. His brown hair was cut short and his features hard. Out of all the nameless and faceless drones buzzing about, he was the only one who sported an ID and didn't wear a full-face mask. Ash looked at the nameplate, reading "Turner." The soldier nodded to Ash and stepped past him as loads of gear and equipment was brought in.

"If you'll all step back, please, and exit the premises," Wimmer announced, "This is an official crime scene."

Ash remained defiant, "As opposed to an unofficial crime scene, right?"

Wimmer eyed him, and the said, "Mr. Turner, see to it that Mr. Williams here receives the appropriate medical attention... and a shower."

Turner stepped forward, "Yes sir."

Ash took a deep breath as everyone was ushered out of the store by the soldiers. He looked at them, their countenances the alien form of goggles and masks. They were trained and tested to be that stoic, he imagined. The way they held their powerful assault rifles proved that if nothing else, they meant business. One of them motioned to the exit, scaring Renee and Mr. Pegg. They looked to Ash and then did as they were told.

"Mr. Williams," Wimmer said, now standing beside him, "Please, leave with Mr. Turner. Your job is done."

Ash looked at the doctor, "You don't have any questions for me?"

Wimmer cocked a brow, "Not at the moment."

Ash leaned in towards his ear and whispered, "Who are you really?"

The doctor only smiled and motioned to the exit, "Now, Mr. Williams."

Ash nodded, "That's what I thought."

"I'm sure our definitions of what constitutes 'thought' are two entirely different animals, Mr. Williams."

Ash turned to leave, Turner close behind him, his boots crunching the broken metal and glass slivers into the floor. He muttered under his breath, "Asshole."

"It always comes down to name calling," Wimmer said intentionally loud. The soldiers looked up from their work and looked at Ash. The doctor finished, "Why don't we give Mr. Williams a hand for all his efforts?"

Ash looked down at the stump where his right hand used to be and heard some of them snickering. He swallowed that burning ball of fire rising from his injured pride, stifling the reflex to turn and punch the doctor in the face. He paused, took a deep cleansing breath and then stepped out into a cool Michigan evening.

"Major asshole," he shook his head.

***

The dark blue van carrying Rowan and her party rolled up to the sight of several local police cars, news vans and unmarked government vehicles surrounding the S-Mart. When Wimmer had called her, she knew that he would probably reach the scene first. She had expected that no matter where Jason popped up, Wimmer would have his ear to the floor and ready to pounce. Between the wiretaps he had illegally set up in every police station in the search radius to the sophisticated equipment his men used to monitor civilian communications, it was only a matter of time before the self-righteous doctor found him.




A Nightmare Unleashed Ch. 02



The vehicle stopped and Rowan opened the sliding door of the van. Lori stepped out into the parking lot, followed by Loomis and Doc. Maggie was already gone by the time they had left the Jade Dragon, and Rowan doubted they would see her again. They were met by three of Wimmer's men, dressed in full combat fatigues and weapons cocked for anything. Loomis leaned close to her and whispered, "The man has no idea how to be tactful."

"Wimmer has a lot riding on this," Rowan said, "The more force he shows and the more public this is, the better his credentials will look."

"That's a big gamble," Loomis remarked, "He's going to cause more of a panic than we already have."

"He never thinks that far ahead," she said dryly, "Besides, his gamble paid off."

From the broken doors of the side entry to the store came a group of doctors and more uniformed soldiers. They brought with them a large gurney atop which laid the body of Jason Voorhees. No sheet covered his bulky form. This left his gory state of being revealed for every photographer and cameraman bold enough to go for the close up. His trademark hockey mask was lying atop his chest, which was strapped down with a dozen thick restraints. Rowan counted at least twenty of the sturdy straps holding Jason down to the gurney. And then she saw his right hand.

There were blades mutilated into the fingers.

She looked at the soldiers blocking their path and held up her identification card, "I'm Dr. Alexis Rowan. I have clearance."

"Sorry doctor," the lead soldier said, "You are not permitted past this point."

Rowan pointed at the growing media circus surrounding Jason as he was wheeled to a large, black unmarked delivery truck. She said, "So what are they doing?"

The soldier hesitated and then said, "Dr. Wimmer specifically ordered that you not be allowed anywhere near the site. I'm afraid you have to leave."

"Is this a joke?"

"No ma'am."

The soldier wasn't kidding.

Rowan looked past the soldier's shoulder and saw Wimmer emerge from the store as cameras flashed and a roar of questions erupted from the crowd of reports. The doctor smiled and waved them off with several "no comments at this time" and "we'll be making a statement shortly" dismissals. As Wimmer watched his men load Jason into the truck, he saw Rowan and smiled at her through the crowd. A moment later Rowan's cell phone rang.

She answered the phone, "Hello?"

"Glad you could make it," Wimmer smiled smugly at her, his phone to his ear and a sea of people between them.

"What is going on, doctor?" she asked, "On who's authority are you doing this."

"On the authority of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Dr. Rowan," he replied coldly, though a more than audible trace of haughty glee crept into his voice, "You remember them? They're the ones who requested our help in this matter. They also have final say so over every decision we make?"

"I don't understand."

"The next time you decide to share classified information with civilians," Wimmer said, "Run it by me first."

"We need them," Rowan shouted into the phone, "The wall had their names written on it."

"Which is inconsequential now that Jason has been captured," Wimmer said, "As is your association with this investigation."

"You son a bitch."

"Dr. Rowan, I'd be mindful of the imminent danger your job is in."

"Don't do this. You can't just cut me out."

"I already have."

"Wimmer..." she breathed deep.

"Have a pleasant evening."

The line went dead and she glared at Wimmer across the sea of onlookers. He slipped on his black gloves and stepped up onto the loading lift of the truck Jason had been wheeled into. He smiled and waved a small salute to her (a gesture that would end up on the front page of USA Today with a caption reading "Criminal Scientist Captures Crystal Lake Killer in Michigan"). The arrogant son of bitch had only had her come out here to see the finale of the investigation and to be publicly removed from her position. Rowan might have crushed the cell phone in her hand had Loomis not grasped her shoulder, grounding her in reality again.

"I have to ask you to leave," the soldier said again, "Please."

"It's okay Alexis," Loomis squeezed her shoulder as the others went back to the van, "Come."

Rowan pursed her lips into an angry smile and returned Wimmer's salute with a flipping of the bird.

As she turned away from the crowd, she noticed a man standing on the curb near the entrance to the store. He was surrounded by several soldiers and doctors, all of them chattering and questioning him. He looked agitated and on the verge of hitting someone. As he talked with the doctors, their eyes met and held for a moment. Although Rowan thought he was handsome, she was more taken by the look of frustration on his face. She noticed he was stained with some black fluid. In fact, he looked as though he had been thrown down a manhole and into the watery filth below.

"Rowan," Doc called from inside the van, "Let's go."

She broke her gaze with the stranger and got inside, rolling the door shut. She got into the drivers seat and started the engine, still reeling from the blow Wimmer had dealt her. They had never seen eye to eye on this case, and she had been battling against his self-serving agenda since day one. He wasn't after Jason to save lives; he was after Jason for the public praise and money that would come with it. For the man who captured and unlocked the secrets of the killer's seemingly invincible physical form, a world of fame and fortune awaited.

"Godammit," she cursed and hit the steering wheel with both hands, "Godammit!"

"I assume Wimmer didn't know you brought us here?" Loomis asked tenderly.

"No," she admitted and closed her eyes.

Loomis nodded.

"It isn't over," Doc said after a moment, "Does he realize that he probably just stepped into a truck loaded with Jason Voorhees and Freddy Krueger?"

"He won't have anything to do with the theory," Rowan sighed and leaned her head back against the seat, "He doesn't believe in ghosts, let alone dead serial killers who kill kids in their sleep."

"Then we have to convince him," Doc insisted.

"We're going to need some help," Rowan mussed, her mind rolling the brief glimpse of Jason's mutilated hand over and over again, "We need to be there at the autopsy."

"How are we going to do that?" Doc asked, "They'll have a regiment of soldiers there guarding him."

"I have an idea," Rowan said, more to herself than anyone.

"Yes?"

Rowan looked at Loomis. "You up for this still?"

"Always."

She glanced back at Lori and Doc in the seat behind her, "Lori? Doc?"

Doc buckled his seat belt, "Lead the way."

Lori nodded, "Let's go."

Rowan slipped the van in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. It was going to be a long night.

***

Between this world and the one beyond it is a place that knows no name or boundaries. Some people call it purgatory, a place where souls must wait for some kind of atonement or penance to be paid before going on to something better or worse. Some think of it as a place where a soul goes when the body sleeps, the place that dreams and nightmares are made of. There are those that believe there is no such place, that it's merely a product of overzealous Bible thumping-types and a self-important system of religions and faiths.

But no matter what the human perception of it was, it still existed. Whether a man chose to believe in its tangibility or not was of no concern to those who dwelled there. More often than not, those among the living who realized its existence were those who weren't grounded by the rules of the world they lived in. Many things fueled this place, kept its connective tissues intact and the borders of the realm from fading into the great nothing beyond. It was a place where the rules no longer applied and the magic, both light and dark, flowed freely like crystalline water.

The chronology of one event to another meant little here, so the past and future mingled in a profane and unholy consortium. Fire wreathed this world and those who dwelled here might have once figured it to be Hell. After a while, they realized it was no more Hell than the Earth they had left was Heaven. This was a world of gateways and tunnels, paths to other places and realities. Only a few ever understood the concept that they could return, and even fewer had the means to do so.

Across the arid, flat expanse of the netherworld walked a figure in black. His coat flowed and billowed in the wind as razor sharp sand swirled around his dirty boots. A simple, dark fedora was pulled low over his brow, hiding his visage from the curious eyes of those around him, watching him from the hidden places. He was well known to them all, and though his failures outnumbered his victories, their fear of him remained all the same.

Hate radiated off him as heat from an inferno distorts the world around it. The lesser minions of this ungodly place scurried about and burrowed themselves into hiding. His yellow eyes scanned the horizon of the desert with all the calculation and kindness of a venomous snake. Even through the hiss of the red sandstorm and echo of the wind, his footfalls could be heard. He was a man with a purpose.

The man in black stopped in the middle of the storm and waited, looking up to the blazing sky and swirling clouds above. Flames jetted from the supernatural sky in plumes and pillars that erupted from nowhere. He could see the souls of those taken swimming above, some of them on their way to a better place and others heading for eternal damnation.

"What do you want?" a smooth voice asked. 

The wind suddenly died and the airborne sand fell to the ground. It seemed that the entire world had stopped for this new figure standing next to the man in black. As much as they might have feared the creature Fred Krueger had become, they fear this being even more. The wind itself dared not cross him wrong, though pain meant little more to him than a pleasant distraction.

"A bargain," Freddy Krueger said simply from beneath the shadows of his fedora.

"I do not bargain," the lone man said. He watched Krueger with red eyes, the corneas like rubies beset in solid obsidian. His face was marked by a complex grid that cut deep into the pale flesh, counted off by wicked metal pins inserted at each intersecting line. He regarded Krueger as a man might regard a wayward stray dog. He said, "Why have you returned?"

"I seek to leave this place," Krueger said.

"You have the power," the cenobite replied, "Use it."

"There is more."

"Your arrogance is your downfall," Pinhead replied, "Not mine. I am only here as a grace to the one I serve."

"I want vengeance," Krueger growled, his patience running thin, "All I ask is that when my work is complete, you allow me passage."

"And why," Pinhead stared at Krueger, "Would I do that?"

"I can offer you something you might enjoy," the dream killer grinned and chuckled.

Pinhead seemed unimpressed. "What would that be?"

"A woman."

"I have seen a thousand women lose their flesh and their minds," he said, "This I can find without your assistance."

"This is a special woman."

"When in pain, gender means so very little," Pinhead looked to the burning sky above, "You should know that by now."

"She is the Dream Master," Krueger said, "She's beautiful and ripe, filled with life."

"I know who she is," the Cenobite said, "As I knew who her predecessors were."

"I can get one of your toys to her," Krueger said, "Give me the puzzle box. She would prove to be a most unique subject. Her soul is strong and her heart powerful. She could last for a long, long time."

Freddy held out his bladed right hand, the palm facing up to the inferno above. From the scarred flesh of his hand came a sudden pop of flame that grew into a roiling cloud. From the rolling surface of the micro-phenomenon came the face of Lori Rollins, beautiful and pure. Pinhead looked at the display without any interest whatsoever for a few minutes. The proposition was irrelevant and hardly of any importance to him.

"What do ya say, Needles?" Krueger chuckled, "She is severely fuckable."

The leather clad form of Pinhead stood quietly a moment longer before resting his blood red gaze on Freddy Krueger. The anguish of the innocent and discovery of all things sensual in pain tempted him. Some thought of him as an angel of unlimited pleasure while others saw him as a demon from the very depths of Hell. He thought he might be both, as the rules of this place allowed for such impossibilities to occur.

He looked at the countenance of Lori again.

To ravage the Dream Master? What pleasures might that hold?

"Well?" Freddy insisted.

"Lead her to me," Pinhead stood back, "And you shall have your passage."

Freddy closed his open hand the image of Lori was gone.

"Fail," the cenobite looked right through Krueger's blackened soul, "and I will tear you apart limb from limb."

Freddy Krueger bowed gracefully, "Always a riot, you are."

"Krueger," he said calmly, "There are places that even the reach of God and Satan have no claim. Do not fail."

Krueger nodded, uneasy of the creature before him, "Always a riot."

Pinhead neither smiled nor frowned. He raised his hand, palm up to the scorched sky and revealed the puzzle of the Lament Configuration. The small cube, so unassuming, seemed to peer right into Krueger's mind. The dream killer stepped back for a moment as the cube rose into the air and floated over to him. He reached out and grabbed it, holding the hellish toy in his hand.

"Go now," Pinhead commanded him.

The wind rose suddenly and the cenobite creature was gone, leaving Freddy Krueger by himself. His laugh rode the winds from the maw of Hell to the pillars of Heaven. His time was now at hand, and finally he would do what he should have done a long time ago. He had learned much from his failures, and now more so from the last. He had been defeated by his own arrogance. He had underestimated Lori Rollins as he had underestimated Alice Johnson before. 

But no more.

He would not waste time toying with the likes of Michael Myers or Jason Voorhees anymore. He would not take on Lori Rollins again because he knew better. Instead, he would sit once more at the chessboard of the eternal and position his pieces. The game was for keeps, the winner take all. Freddy knew his time was short in the reality he had once called home to his human form.

He would have to act.

Even now, the pawns were moving into place. He hadn't counted on them coming together so quickly, but nevertheless here they were. He could sense them all, especially Lori and his own wayward daughter. They were the two strongest of the many who had faced him. Alice Johnson had been equal to their power, but she had fallen on the edge of his blades. He relished that victory over and over, even as he had taken time to recover deep in the recesses of Jason Voorhees brain. He had hidden there, a perfect refuge for a spirit unwilling to die.

Freddy prepared himself to return.

There was much work to be done.

***

... to be continued...