NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET: INNOCENT DEMON

Chapter IV:  "A Night at the Bar"

REVISED EDITION
Written by Abri Isgrig and Diane N. Tran


For the rest of the night, Loretta didn't say a word to Freddy.  She'd merely set his pillow and several blankets outside the closed door to the bedroom they shared.  Freddy knew better than to protest.  If the silent treatment would last for more than one night (and it had in the past), Freddy would sleep on the floor opposite the bedroom door, waiting for Loretta to let him in again.  When it came to that point, Freddy couldn't help but feel like a dog that had been kicked but still craved its master's attention.  Loretta would silently make him beg — and, god, he hated it!

Of course, he could make her beg and plead for hours whenever he felt like it, too...

Sighing, Freddy scooped up the makeshift bedding his wife had left him with a frown and wandered downstairs to the living room sofa.  He set the items down and reached for the half-empty bottle of bourbon, muttering to himself between each swig:

"And so... the Couch of Banishment — a vile contraption that the wives of Springwood use to force their husbands into a guilt trip.  The judge sentences one Frederick Charles Krueger to a night of tossing and turning, falling off at least twice, and a punishment of a stiff neck and a sore shoulder for the following day.  Krueger has one final drink before facing his sentence before turning to the Couch to say, 'Damn you to hell.'"

As tired as he was, Freddy rolled over and over restlessly upon the overstuffed cushions of the sofa, unable to find a comfortable spot, and ended up counting the plaster stalagmites upon the ceiling in boredom.  The air in the house felt stifling.  He stood up, grabbed his fedora and keys, and walked to his pickup truck, with KRUEGER LANDSCAPING AND MAINTENANCE scrawled upon its side, hearing the low rumble of thunder in the distance, as he smashed his finished bottle onto the sidewalk.  The outside air smelt crisper with the scent of a storm nearby.  Uncertain where to go at this time of night, he put the keys in the ignition and backed out of the driveway.

One of the benefits of rain:  It made a gardener's life easier.

Ten minutes later, Freddy pulled to a stop and found himself outside the local bar of Jason's.  A mismatch of cars littered across the tiny parking lot and each one he recognized.  He was met with cheers and raised glasses from the patrons when he entered through the double doors.  With a smile, he grabbed his hat and waved it in the air in greetings, as they cheerfully shook his hand and vigourously slapped him on the back.

Springwood was a small town.  Everyone knew who he was.

"Way to go, Fred!" said Police Lt. Holbrook, raising his shot glass to the gardener with a wink, as he moved over a seat and slapped the top of the barstool between himself and his companion.  "My wife Gwen finally told me the news," he continued.  "Congratulations, buddy."

One of his thick eyebrows arched and disappeared under his hairline in confusion at the policeman.  "News?" asked Freddy when he climbed onto the vacant seat.  "Whattaya talkin' about?"

"That you knocked up Loretta, idiot."

"Oh, that," said Freddy with a lopsided smile, as he inflated his chest and fanned his peacock feathers proudly.  "Yeah, guess I did."

With a ridiculous chuckle, Holbrook snapped his fingers at the burly barkeep behind the table, whose interest was transfixed on the television set, and pointed to his glass.  "Hey, give the daddy-to-be one of these and make that two.  It's on me."

Although his drinking was excessive, interfering with his work at times, Donald Holbrook was a good cop and a good man.  With his steely, narrowed eyes, rugged face, muscular physique, and everyman ethnicity that made him think of sheriffs of the Old West, one could call him a man's man — an all-around tough guy — and that was certainly the image that he made for himself.  Cradling his scotch and soda, Alan Smith, his best friend since childhood, was the humanities teacher at Springwood High — the kind of teacher students dreaded to have — who was already on his way to principal's chair and, someday, the school board.  They practically did everything together, as inseparable as twin brothers:  They both went to the same schools, met their respective wives in elementary, married in college, and even lived on neighbouring streets, with children the same age.

Personality-wise, however, they were as different as night and day.  Holbrook had the bearing of a soldier; he was roughhew and vulgar, but genuine and personable, who doted upon his daughter, yielding to whatever her little heart could possibly desire, which usually consisted of construction paper and crayons.  Smith had the bearing of a scholar; he was reserved and polite, but remote and robotic, who deigned his son, although a child of five, had already shown that he couldn't, would possibly never, live up to the expectations his father had created for him.

"What the hell is this shit?" cringed the gardener, watching the barkeep mix various liquors in adjoining shot glasses and slide the alcoholic concoctions before the two men.  He stared at the brown liquid with a dubious frown, sniffing it cautiously.  "Essence of road kill?"

"It's good for you, Krueger," replied Lt. Holbrook, while he drained half his glass and seethed a satisfying hiss between his clenched teeth.  "It'll grow hair on your balls."

Glancing at Smith, who could only present him a reassuring shrug, Freddy took a puff of air, shut his eyes, putting on his best brave face, and gulped the drink down quickly, which made his throat scorched and his stomach wrench, barely managing to strangulate a noise somewhere between a dry cough and a spitting fire.

"Good shit, huh?" grinned the policeman, as the gardener could only nod weakly in response, before he hollered for the attention of the barkeep from the television.  "Hit him again."

"You sure you don't want any, eh?" added the burly barkeeper questioningly at the schoolteacher, as he mixed a line of shots.   "I make the best Cowboy Killers in the town."

"It's a school night," the schoolteacher replied, sipping his watered-down drink, while he shook his head as companions down their respective glasses.  "I got a pop quiz tomorrow and I can't wait to hear the groans."

The bartender chuckled at the comment, but he was at half-attention because the man suddenly hollered at the inanimate television, causing everyone in bar to turn to him half-surprise:  "Oh, c'mon!  Score, you bunch of beavers!"

Freddy let out a dirty giggle into his drink.  "Heeheehee...  He said beavers..."

"Looks like Tiny here can't hold his liquour, eh?"

"Fuck. You. Bitch," the gardener's lips sneered between his hiccups.  After a few swigs of whiskey and a shot of whatever this was, Fred Krueger was already feeling drunk.  Admittedly, out of the four men, he was the lightweight of the group and he loathed to be reminded of it.  "How about changin' the channel to somethin' other than figure skating, Princess?"

"And miss the playoffs?"

"Goddamnit, Jason!" came Holbrook in frustration, throwing his hands in the air, appearing as though he needed a good argument.  "There're fifteen other people in this bar, two hundred channels on that box, and all you do is put on hockey!"

"My bar, my rules," gloated the barkeep, crossing his stocky arms assertively in front of his massive, barrel chest.

"Whatever happened to 'the customer is always right' thing?"

"We don't have that rule in Canada."

"We're not in Canada.  This is America you're standing on, friend, and the American game is football and baseball, so how about changing the goddamn channel?"

"Or what?" snorted the larger man ridiculously, as a grin curled the handlebars of his goatee.  "You'll arrest me, eh?"

Holbrook gave him a wry smile, as he placed the rim of another glass to his lips:  "I could make sure your place doesn't pass inspection next time."

The barkeeper grimaced at the policeman, tossing the remote control upon the table in grudging defeat before stalking off, which Krueger yanked away promptly with a childish cackle.  He needed to clean something, badly.

"So, what are you doing here in the middle of the night, Fred?" questioned Holbrook, as he chugged yet another shot.  "Shouldn't you be home with your wife?"

"Said something I shouldn't.  Lore banished me to the couch and givin' me the silent treatment," the gardener gave a shudder and scowl, as he rapidly mashed the buttons of the remote and stopped at a game of Little League Baseball.

"I know the feeling," the officer nodded in sympathy.  "Had a huge fight with Gwen.  Dragged Alan here with the full intention of getting plastered out of my mind before I crash my ass out on the living room couch."

"So, what did you do exactly?" injected Smith curiously.

Narrowing his eyes at his friend, Holbrook gave a resentful huff:  "Why do you immediately think it's my fault, Alan?  I didn't do shit!"

"Calm down, Donny," replied Smith, his hands up defensively.  "You know I didn't mean it that way."

"Don't wanna talk about it, okay?"

"Why?" Freddy prodded teasingly.  "Gwen bein' all frigid on ya?"

Holbrook downed another shot, sucking a cold chill of air between his clenched teeth, before he murmured:  "Gwen's been cheating on me."

The schoolteacher and gardener glanced at each other for a silent moment.  The conversation seemed to have stopped dead with his words that they could hear a pin drop between them.  Turning their attention back at their mournful friend, it was Alan Smith that spoke first:

"Are you sure about this, Donny?"  His words were deliberate and cautious.  "Maybe you're just imagining things..."

"Yeah, I'm sure," lamented Holbrook, pinching the bridge of his nose in pain.  "All the signs were there and, now, I can't ignore them anymore.  I'm just worried about Nancy.  My parents divorced when I was a boy.  I knew what a divorce was before a marriage.  She's too young to understand these things."  He shook his head and stared into his muddy drink, talking more to himself than his companions, as he rambled on, "If I ever find that son of a bitch she's screwin' with, I'll—I'll..."   His fists balled angrily and the glass shattered in his hand.  "Shhhhhit!"

Alan Smith practically leapt out of his stool and to Holbrook's side who held his hand and spat his curses.

"I think we better get you home and have Gwen look at that," urged the schoolteacher, carefully picking the larger shards of glass out and wrapping the injury with a napkin, as the policeman clung on his shoulder for support.  "C'mon, Krueger, I'll take you home, too."

"Naaaahh, I'm—," grumbled the gardener after a low, satisfied belch, as he nearly toppled off his barstool, slapping the two men on the back and missed with a grin.  "I'm fine.  Nothin' to worry 'bout."

While Alan fussed with his umbrella, Freddy Krueger straightened his fedora, swaying uneasily on his two feet from the combined high of alcohol and adrenaline, miraculously managing to stumble out into the parking lot without falling, and clambered inside his truck.

It was raining now.

But despite the drumming of the raindrops and the rumbling of thunder, he could hear angelic choir of monks and nuns from St. Dymphna's drift from across the street:

SALVE, REGINA, MATER MISERICORDIÆ

He knew this one well enough.  It was heard during the Liturgy of the Hour of Compline, the final prayer service of the day.  He and Loretta would often have their nightly visits in the abandoned East Wing, due to a fire however many decades ago, and hear it reverberate across the altar married with their screams.

Of course, that was years ago.

VITA, DULCEDO, ET SPES NOSTRA, SALVE

His eyes squinted through the waterfall cascading down the windshield to see the massive doors of the church open wide by a nun dressed in white.  He groaned when he recognized her.  It was that fuckin' Christ bitch again:  Sister Mary Helena.

The woman followed him.  He was sure of it.  Wherever he was, she was there.  Watching him.  Leering at him.  He suddenly felt sick.  He had to get out of here.  He had to get home.  He didn't want to take the chance of her seeing him.

AD TE CLAMAMUS, EXSULES FILII HEVÆ

The gardener turned on the ignition, struggling with the gearshift, and slammed his foot against the gas pedal.  He heard the engine snarl before him, the wheels screech beneath him, and the puddles spray around him.  As long as the damnable woman was as far away as possible, whatever direction he was going, it didn't matter, nor did he care.  He quickly gave the steering wheel a sharp turn when the stoplight in front of him changed.

AD TE SUSPIRAMUS, GEMENTES ET FLENTES

He could feel everything spinning out of control.  Literally.

"Motherfucker!"

IN HAC LACRIMARUM VALLE

"Alan, call 911!" Lt. Holbrook ordered, as he staggered up to wrecked remains of the gardener's truck.  The left fender was lodged into a large oak tree with its door, or what was left of a door, crushed inwards, nothing more than an unmoving mass of twisted metal, as a blood-streaked arm dangled out the broken window.  "Fred?  Fred?!"

"Goddamnit, Donny," the gardener managed to cough weakly after retching over himself, "stop screamin' at me..."

EIA, ERGO, ADVOCATA NOSTRA

"Easy, friend," soothed the policeman, pulling out a penlight from his pocket and shined it at him.  He had cuts and bruises, but his right leg was positioned at an unnatural angle, wedged against the driver's side dashboard.  He could see a shard of bone protruding from through skin and fabric below his knee.  "The ambulance is on the way.  Just hang on there."

ILLOS TUOS MISERICORDES OCULOS AD NOS CONVERTE

"I need to get home..."  Clenching his teeth in pain, the gardener began to struggle against his chair and call out:  "Loooorretta!  I need you!"

"She's on her way," comforted the policeman, gently easing his friend back in his seat with his injured hand.  "Where's that damn ambulance?!"

ET IESUM, BENEDICTUM FRUCTUM VENTRIS TUI

Gazing through the fractured window of his truck, he watched the small congregation file out of the church and tear through the falling rain towards him.  Among them was her...

The realization hit him.

NOBIS, POST HOC EXSILIUM OSTENDE

Why hadn't he seen it before?  Why hadn't he put two and two together?   That feeling he got whenever he saw her.  All the clues that seemed so small and insignificant stood right before him.  It all made sense now, a hopeless kind of sense, which somehow terrified him.

O CLEMENS, O PIA, O DULCIS VIRGO MARIA

The rain fell heavier, echoing off the hollow roof of the truck, like a metal coffin.  He could hear the faint wail of sirens and the flicker of lights in the distance.

He fell back into the headrest of his chair with a painful rasp of air.  He was exhausted.  He was too weak to lift the weight of his skull.  The adrenaline that coursed through his veins was falling and falling fast.  His mind reeled in uncertainty.  His face went slack and his body fell limp.  He began to doubt where he was or who he was with.  

The world was spinning out of control and the only thing he could see was darkness, as a childhood taunt, one that he had not heard in a long time, rang in his ears with a deafening kind of dread:

SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS!  SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS!  SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS!

---

<< PREVIOUS - Chapter III: "Of Sinners, Not Saints"
>> NEXT - Chapter V: "Son of a Hundred Maniacs"