Freddy vs. Ash

by A. Eggleston

Ash stepped back into the living room. Meanwhile, the stereo in the back of the room turned on. A little blue light shown, indicating that the power had turned on. In an instant, the whole room was encapsulated with the brazen sound of shrieking death metal. The floor vibrated and Ash's ear drums pierced from the sound of that ungodly high volume the stereo produced. He put his hands up to his ears to try to muffle the sound, but it was much too loud and boisterous. "Aaaaah!" Ash screamed in pain. He fell to his knees and tried to plot a solution.

  He looked around the room that saw that some of the furniture had...come alive. The little tassels on the curtains, the lamps, the books on the shelf, they were...dancing. They were bending and contorting to the rhythm of the music. It was disturbing and distracting. He had to make it stop. He crawled over and reached for the fire poker and decided to make good use out of it. Ash stood tall, raised it above head and swung at the stereo with brute force, smashing it.

  "SHUT...!"

  CRASH!

  "THE...!"

  CRASH!

  "HELL...!"

  CRASH!

  "UP!"

  CRASH!

  The stereo had been smashed and broken into little pieces. The music had stopped. It was finally quiet. Ash dropped the poker to the ground and exhaled in relief. He was dripping sweat from the top of his head to the back of his neck, matting down his short, dark hair. He closed his eyes and paused for a moment to think and figure out what was going on here. This was all so surreal that it just didn't feel that it could really be happening. But it was real to him. Everything felt real. Just like the dream from last night. The scorching heat from the fire. The throbbing pain in the back of his head. The feeling that his ear drums were being torn apart from inside his head. Could this all just be a dream?

  "Ha ha ha ha ha ha..."

  There was that laugh again. It wasn't as loud as last time. It was quieter, guttural, echoing. Ash opened his eyes and looked straight forward.

  Freddy was right in front of him.

  He stood mere inches from Ash's face. He could see Freddy clearly now. But he wished he hadn't. Even though that old, brown, ratty fedora covered most of his face, what did show was simply repulsive. His skin was burned and disfigured. Little sinews of decayed flesh had been peeled off of him and hung across his face. Even whole chunks of

  his face had been missing, showing bloody muscle tissue. But he was smirking, showing hints of rotted fangs for teeth. Freddy quickly urged his face closer to Ash's and, with that low, echoing voice, said...

  "Boo!"

  Ash screamed at the top of his lungs, flailing his arms and legs. He flipped over, and landed face first on the hardwood floor. When he looked up, he saw the light of dawn showing through the curtains. Ash looked around and noticed he was lying right next to the couch. He had been sleeping the whole time. He pushed himself back up, sending a shockwave of pain across his bones. He muttered and groaned as he got back up. Ash had slept in his clothes from the day before. He noticed the dried up bloodstains on his shirt as he dusted himself off.

  He felt a sharp, throbbing pain in his left hand. He held it up closer to examine it. As he looked at it, Ash noticed a large, red, burn mark on his palm. As Ash combed his hair back with his fingers, he realized that maybe it was time to start believing in urban legends.

  Chapter Six

  Ash looked up at the wall clock. He realized that it was time for him to get ready for work. He painfully pushed himself up, feeling the knot in the back of his head as he got back up on his feet.

  Standing upright, Ash looked around him and examined the living room. If the injuries he sustained in his dreams were real, what about everything else he had broken?

  Ash looked at the floor lamp. It stood perfectly straight, as if it had never toppled over. How can that be? Just a minute ago, it seemed, that lamp was broken and on the floor.

  He directed his attention to the shelf on the wall next to it. The hinges were unbroken. The shelf was level, and everything on it was back in its usual spot.

  Whipping his head in the opposite direction, Ash had prepared to see his stereo broken into a dozen pieces. On any other day, seeing his precious stereo that cost him nearly a month's pay, busted beyond recognition, would be last thing he would want to see. But, he hoped for some remaining fragment of the night before to make some kind of sense out of this. The stereo was unbroken with not a scratch to be found.

  Come on, that's impossible! Ash thought.

  Nothing was making sense anymore. He felt as if his sanity was being stripped away from him every minute. Something was obviously trying to come after him. He didn't have any definitive proof. What he saw was only a mere glimpse. But he knew. It was a persistent aching in the back of his mind. He knew who was trying to get to him. But he only saw him for half a second, how could he have known if it was really Freddy? Even if

  it was just for half a second, he was standing right in front of him. So close, he could feel the hot breath coming from his mouth. He remembered, it smelled like a rotting animal carcass, mixed with brimstone. Something awful, like that.

  Mostly, he remembered that horrible, ugly face. The same face he saw the night before. Half of it had been covered by a dirty, brown hat, but the rest was...revolting. Skin charred to such a degree, that it would have killed any other living being. At the same time, it was raw and seeping blood in spots. The mere memory of his face disgusted Ash. Judging from what he'd heard before...and what he'd experienced just then...It seemed like Ash had just been the victim of a deathly nightmare. It was quite possible that maybe--if his assumptions were correct--Ash was Freddy Krueger's latest prey. His newest target.

  But why? Didn't this Freddy guy always go after little kids, young girls and boys who were too weak to defend themselves? Why me? Why now?

  Ash was going to be late if he spent any more time trying to figure this all out right now. He rushed up the stairs, hoping that a cold shower would set his mind right...and keep him awake longer.

  The droplets of water shooting from the shower head felt like icy, cold, needles against Ash's skin. He shivered from underneath the shower head, feeling goose bumps rise from his shoulders as he clutched them for some small sense of warmth. As discomforting as it was standing underneath what felt like a hailstorm in the shower, it was still better that than going through what he had endured last night. Ash reached over and turned off the water, the knobs creaking as he did so.

  He stepped out of the bathroom, leading straight into his bedroom. He promptly dried himself off, and put his work clothes on. There was some blood on his shirt, specifically a large splatter on the right, near his ribcage. On his trousers, there were specs of coal and soot, along with dirt all across the bottom of his pant leg. He couldn't really do anything about that right now, so he reached for cleaner clothes in the closet. After buttoning his shirt, he turned slightly and reached over to the nightstand to grab his nametag. Spots of blood had accumulated over it as well. It seemed like a quick fix. He spit on the nametag, and wiped off the Deadite blood on his white shirt.

  Before he left, he had a quick look of himself in the mirror, making sure that the slight dirt stains and cuts on his face would be "presentable" enough. With any luck, people wouldn't think he had entered the store after having just gone on a ravenous killing spree. Although, that accusation wouldn't have been too far from the truth. Ash felt he looked clean enough to show up for work.

  Moving on from his wardrobe, Ash stepped up closer to the mirror, and studied his own face. He was aware that everybody gets older, and he wasn't excluded from that. When taking away the shotgun, the chainsaw, the leather holsters, and the blood stains that accompanied them, Ash looked just like any other man on the cusp of age fifty. He had crow's feet in the corners of his eyes. He wasn't as energetic and agile as he used to be. And frankly, he's starting to find people half his age to be a real pain in the ass.

  But, some things remained the same. Over the years, he'd gained so many scars, it l
ooked like a road map across his whole face. Thankfully, the mutton-chops across the lower half of his face covered most of them. On the bridge of his nose, he had just a small

  nick. On his forehead, right temple, and left cheek where fairly large scars, pink in coloration. His biggest one spread across from his upper to his lower lip.

  Each scar was a memory of a different injury: being body-slammed into a tree by a demonic force, cut with a glass shard by an undead girlfriend, scratched across the face by a band of living skeletons. For most men, a face full of scarification and wounds wasn't considered classically handsome. But on Ash, considering how the placement of the scars was symmetrical with his bone structure, rather similar to that of The Tick, it gave him somewhat of a rouge charm.

  Ash had also been lucky in the sense that he still had a full head of hair. He ran his fingers through his locks, and lingered on the wide, gray, streak of hair on the side of his head. Some have said it made him look distinguished, refined, and wiser; Ash viewed it as looking weak, and that he shouldn't be battling grotesque monsters anymore.

  Deciding not to dwell on the subject any further, Ash turned away from the mirror, headed downstairs, and out the door he went.

  Ash trudged his way to work around 9:00 AM that morning. He kept his black, leather jacket on him to conceal the small spots of blood that couldn’t wash out. As far as the built-in dirt and grass stains on his pant leg, he'd just make up some story about how his car broke down in the middle of the road, and he was forced the push it back to the nearest auto shop. It wasn't that hard a story for people to believe.

  Just like yesterday, he'd kept himself awake through massive amounts of coffee and energy drinks. But, unlike the day before, Ash wasn't able the get any kind of sugar high, or jolt, at all. He just felt depleted and diminished. At least when he was pumped up full of caffeine, he was able to get through the day just fine. Today, he didn't want to deal with whiny little brats and pencil-necked managers with clipboards all day, but it was better that than the nightmares.

  Despite his high rank in the Housewares business, Ash had spent the better half of the morning stacking boxes of microwave ovens into a perfect, little pyramid. Apparently being "Senior Housewares Domestic Engineer" of S-Mart meant that he still had to stock shelves and price check this and that, but he got a shiny, new, nametag to boot. After thirty or so years, he thought he would at least get a clipboard of his own, and longer breaks at lunchtime.

  Just as he stacked the last box at the very top, which stood as high as he did, just a little over six feet tall, Ash heard the squeaky footsteps of his nerdy co-worker, Anthony. He cringed at the sound of those rubber-soled loafers he always wore. With each wide step that Anthony took, the horrid squeaks got increasingly louder. Ash closed his eyes, and breathed a sigh of discontent. He really didn't have time for this right now.

  Anthony stood but a few feet away from him now. Ash turned around to face him. He looked down at him, noticing his Beatle haircut that was parted perfectly down the middle. In fact, it was a little too perfect. He must have spent half an hour that morning making sure he was dressed in the height of nerdy fashion. "Hey, Ash?" he inquired as he pushed his thick, black, glasses back against the bridge of his nose.

  "Hmm?" he replied.

  Anthony looked into his bloodshot eyes. "You look like you haven't slept. I hope we

  didn't scare you yesterday."

  "No." he answered quickly. "My, uh, car broke down on the way home. So, I had to walk here."

  "Oh, okay." he said, relieved. "Say, uh, while I have your attention, do you know anything about home repair, do-it-yourself kinda stuff?"

  It was kind of funny to Ash. The day before, he was telling horror stories to him, forewarning him about the dangers that may surface by living in a "murder house"; and here he is today, back to asking him dumb, meaningless, questions to get a little attention.

  Ash leaned back against the stack, but not far enough to completely demolish the pyramid of suck-iza he had just completed. He was about to tell Anthony to bugger off in the nicest way he could think of, when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a gorgeous blonde walking his way. She had shiny, red, lips, long legs, and was wearing a tight, blue T-shirt. It was time to bring out the old, Ash charm.

  Speaking a little louder than normal, Ash kept switching eye contact between Anthony and the woman and said, "Well, I know my way around a screw." She was closer now, about to pass him by. Ash looked right at her and did his signature cocky smile. "Hi. How're you doing?" Their eyes met, and needless to say, she was not impressed. She scoffed and carried on without a second glance.

  Oh, well. Ash thought. Back to the pencil-neck.

  Anthony continued, ignoring his failed attempt at getting a lady. "Yeah...I was hoping I could get some advice about fixing the ceiling fans in my house." He made a propeller motion with his index finger, as if Ash didn't know what a fan was.

  Arrogant little prick.

  The guy wasn't really that bad. It was just that Ash felt absolutely drained, and didn't feel like putting up with anybody's crap today. He exhaled and rubbed his eyes intensely, trying to wipe away his sluggishness. "Look Anthony," he said, trying to be nice. "I, uh--I'm really not in the mood for this. I haven't slept in days, could you just leave me alone for one day?"

  Anthony raised his hands, accepting defeat. "Fine. Whatever, Ash." He finally turned around and walked away, muttering various curses under his breath. "...like I didn't warn...don't blame me...your life becomes a living Hell..." Ash didn't hear a word, the loafers pretty much muted all Anthony said as he marched away.

  What Anthony didn't know was that Ash's life was already a living Hell. It's been that way for as long as he could remember. Even as a child, Ash could just sense that danger was all around him. Maybe it was the bullies in middle school who teased him mercilessly. Or, it could have been the teachers who gave him bad vibes. It wasn't until that dreaded day he and Linda went to that cabin up in the mountains did all of those fears come to the surface. Even though he was just a normal guy, he was destined to be the one to defeat the foul scum of the earth for the rest of his days.

  He'd had enough. Ash was determined to find out if his instincts were right. If it was truly Freddy coming after him all of a sudden, or if it was just a mixture of fleeting sanity and the power of suggestion. But he wasn't going to find any answers with a crowd of people darting in and out of his way. Maybe a little walk around the store will clear my head.

  Setting his price-marker aside, Ash left his post and paced up and down the aisles of the Springwood S-Mart. Springwood wasn't such a bad place on the surface. It was pretty much the standard, suburban, all-American, town. Colonial-style homes filled every block. The lawns were bright green and trimmed all year round, and the buildings were sans graffiti. Ash thought it was a nice place to live, so he didn't understand why he got the sinister urge that evil dwelled in this town. That was until he stayed here long enough. After adjusting to his nightly routine of hunting demons, Ash came to realize that evil can be found under the purest of guises.

  As he walked, he constantly looked at the floor, muttering under his breath. "...gotta be some kind of...explanation...all of this...why did I...come here?" The lack of sleep was making him delirious.

  Somehow, he found his way the Housewares department on the other side of the store. He casually looked around him: lamps, light sockets, nothing really interesting. At least he was safe. He was up and walking. Nothing could happen to him as long as he didn't fall asleep.

  After Ash reassured his own security, he noticed the lighting had become slightly darker. One of the flourescant lights in the building had flickered off, and then back on again. Ash looked up at the faulty light. "Of course." Ash said to himself. Knowing the incompetent staff in this particular store, he knew he'd be the one who had to fix it. He continued walking, heading to the back of the building to find a ladder and a replacement bulb. "Ash, stock these shelves. Ash, stack these
boxes. Ash, fix these damn lights." After walking a while, he realized something. He was all alone in the store. It was packed with people just a few minutes ago, but now it was barren.

  Another light flickered.

  Then another.

  Soon, the entire building was almost pitch black. He looked up at them, "What the hell?" He took a step forward and slipped on something slick, nearly falling down in the process.

  Alright, now what?

  There was blood on the floor, a large, thick, deep, red puddle covered his boots. Ash lifted his head up and looked around him. He was no longer alone anymore. Surrounding him were the corpses of young children. Some were hung by a noose around their necks from the light fixtures. Others just laid down on the floor, their bodies had succumbed to rigor mortis, contorted in horrifying positions. A few had been impaled from the signs sticking up from the ground, stuck in the middle with their limbs reaching out. Each and every one of the children had been stabbed or cut in some way. Their skin was pale and their lips were blue.

  He saw a little girl on the floor who'd had her throat sliced. Blood had poured down from her neck to the bottom of her frilly, pink, dress. She couldn't have been older than five years old. Over to his left, was a boy who was probably fourteen, impaled, and had his eyes stabbed out of the sockets. Streaks of dark blood ran from his eyes and the corners of his gaping mouth. Ash's eyes started to well up a bit, like he wanted to cry. He felt nauseous from the sight of it all. "God..."

  Looking straight ahead, at the end of the trail of blood a few yards in front of him, was

  the cold, lifeless, body of another young girl laying in front of a full-length mirror. Her hair was short, blonde, and stained with blood. Her face was pale with hints of blue around her cheeks. She laid on the ground, facing Ash, staring at him. It looked like the wide trail of blood had come from her body. Her right arm was extended, like she was reaching out for help.

  She spoke. Her voice was small and innocent. "Help me." In an instant, her body was jerked away, like something had grabbed her by her feet, and dragged her away. She had been pulled inside the mirror and vanished. She never made a sound. All that was left was Ash's reflection.