Fatal Games

by Bruce Richards

  Annotation

  IT'S NOT WHETHER YOU WIN OR LOSE… UNLESS YOU'RE PLAYING DEADLY GAMES!

  Al was sprawled out on top of the bed, half covered by just a sheet. His body was wet with perspiration. His face was beet red and filled with terror.

  "No!" Al bellowed in his sleep. "He can't be! It was all a joke! I was only joking! Noooo!" His features contorted into a gruesome mask of revulsion.

  And then Al suddenly rose from the bed and came at Chip like a lunatic caught in a trance. Before Chip knew what was happening Al had his meaty hands around Chip's neck.

  Chip tried to pry his brother's hold loose as he realized he couldn't get any air.

  He slapped his brother in the face as hard as he could, but Al's grip only tightened.

  "Al!" Chip croaked hoarsely as Al's steel-like fingers bit into the skin of his throat.

  Al was strangling him to death!

  * * *

  Bruce Richards

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Bruce Richards

  Freddy Krueger's Tales of Terror #2: Fatal Games

  Prologue

  A football tumbled down a long flight of stairs. It skipped past a blazing boiler, bounced off the toes of a pair of scruffy brogans, and rolled to a stop in the shadow of a tall, angular man.

  A razor-tipped finger speared the ball. "I told those kids not to play in my yard."

  The sounds of playing children filled the air. A small group of young girls was skipping rope nearby. Their song floated through the air.

  "One, two, Freddy's coming for you…"

  The man in the basement adjusted his floppy hat and glared up the stairs. The fire inside the boiler suddenly blazed out of the opened boiler door. The blast of heat singed the last few strands of hair left on the man's scarred face, a face that had already been burned many times over.

  "Hey, mister, can we have our ball back?" a kid's voice shouted from above.

  "Why don't you come down here and get it?" the man replied. "I could show you a few new plays."

  The kid didn't answer. Maybe he sensed the evil in the man's voice.

  Freddy Krueger snickered. "Afraid I'll penalize you for being out of bounds?"

  Still no answer.

  Freddy cackled. "You should be. It's going to cost you more than ten yards."

  "You'd better give me my ball back, or I'll sic my big brother on you!" the kid shouted. He was trying to sound tough, but his voice was laced with fear.

  Freddy smiled.

  "I'd like to meet your brother," Freddy chortled back up the stairs.

  Another flame burst through the door of the old cast-iron boiler as Freddy spun the football atop a razor-sharp finger. "I was a pretty good football player as a kid. Of course, they wouldn't let me play much. The coach said I had bad hands. Every time I played, the game was called on account of pain."

  Freddy cackled madly at his sick pun, as he held the football through the open boiler door. He wrinkled up his nose at the smell of burning rubber, then pulled the ball back out like an overcooked marshmallow. He flicked it to the ground and kicked it away in disgust, but it bounced off the wall and came back to him.

  "No, I never got to play in many games. Seems like I was always penalized for unnecessary roughness. My coach said I had raw talent but I needed to sharpen my skills — that was the time I listened to my coach."

  Freddy snatched the ball off the ground and dropped back like a quarterback looking for an open receiver. "But when I did get to play, I could throw a pretty mean bomb."

  Freddy whipped the ball through the air in a tight spiral.

  "A killer of a pass…"

  Chapter 1

  Chip Parker charged across the barren field as the football spiraled toward him. He knew he would catch it. He always did.

  Chip was six-foot-two, with shoulders that could be depended upon — by any coach, by any girl. He was handsome, too, sure to be voted best-looking in his graduating class. Except that he wouldn't be graduating with his class. Not with the move coming up.

  He reached his arms out and felt the leather hit his fingertips. He juggled the ball for a moment till he gained control, then felt the moment of satisfaction as he pulled it down into the pit of his stomach.

  Then he hit the wall. In the flicker of a moment, he saw his own nose break open like a glass ketchup bottle, and felt a sharp pain in his head like no other he had ever felt before.

  He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and prepared to hit the ground. Once he was down, he opened his eyes and through a bloody red film saw a shadowy, hooded figure standing over him.

  "Al?" Chip said, confused. He held out his hand, expecting his brother to help him to his feet. But instead. Chip caught a glimpse of something shiny.

  A gleaming switchblade knife with a red dragon on the handle.

  He heard a cackling laugh, soft at first, then growing louder and louder.

  In that moment, Chip felt a wave of terror so intense that he thought he might actually die from fright. Then he saw the eyes — eyes on fire, burning red in the darkness.

  The eyes of a lunatic.

  Chip heard his own scream of terror as the hooded figure raised the knife high above him and prepared to kill. As the cold metal pierced his skin. Chip looked up for the last time. A geyser of blood spurted out from his chest, splashing over the handle of the switchblade.

  A silent scream erupted from Chip's throat as he felt himself drown in his own lifeblood.

  Chapter 2

  "Aaagh!"

  Chip threw the blankets off the futon. His breath came in short, rapid gasps. His pulse raced.

  Where was he?

  Still in his dream? His nightmare? He forced himself to take a long, deep breath.

  A cold draft slipped through the open bedroom door, touching Chip like an icy finger, sending goosebumps up his arms and down his back. It was late autumn. It was supposed to be cold, he realized.

  But why was his bedroom door open? He was sure he had closed it, to keep out the sounds of Al and his mother arguing.

  Chip's eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and he looked around the room for comfort. Then a floorboard creaked. Someone was in the hallway, hiding in the darkness, looking in the room at him.

  Large beads of perspiration collected on Chip's forehead. The vision from his nightmare returned. The hooded figure he thought might be Al…

  But that was just a nightmare. Was he imagining things now?

  Chip lay back against the futon. It was just the nightmare, he told himself. There's no one out there.

  Chip felt another cool breeze blow into his room.

  That was it! The breeze must have cracked his door open. He wa
s spooking himself for nothing.

  Chip swiveled his head to look at the digital clock on the floor next to him. Just a little past midnight.

  He pulled the covers back over himself. He needed to sleep. Badly.

  He had a long day ahead of him tomorrow.

  Tomorrow he would be moving to Elm Street.

  He willed himself to go back to sleep, but the harder he tried, the more wakeful he became. The nightmare was still too fresh in his mind. The gruesome images of it gripped him and wouldn't let go. What did they mean? Who was the hooded figure in his nightmare who had slammed him in the face, smashing his nose open like an overripe blackberry?

  And then attacked him with a knife.

  There was something about that knife. About the way it had looked. Chip tried to revive the image, but it eluded him.

  Chip scanned the charcoal sky outside his window. A huge full moon hung comfortably low amid a million sparkling stars. From the apartment above, he heard the neighbors arguing. Next door, the bedsprings squeaked and the fat woman who lived there uttered a loud curse that easily passed through his thin bedroom wall.

  Chip hated this apartment. It was just like every other grimy place they had lived in since his family had moved to Middleton when he was just a baby.

  He was glad they were moving into the new house.

  Even if it was on Elm Street.

  Where Freddy Krueger had once lived.

  And killed.

  Chip could still vaguely recall hearing about the Krueger murders when he was a little boy. The stories had been on the TV news for weeks. Whenever they showed a picture of Freddy Krueger, Chip would suddenly burst out crying. He would wail and scream and nothing would comfort him. His mother had thought it odd.

  And, of course, his brother Al had kidded him about it for years. Al was so good at prodding a person's sore spots. Heartless taunts. Obnoxious behavior. Chip had become accustomed to it all.

  Chip watched the last of the leaves blow off the hickory tree outside his window. The tree quivered to the will of an icy wind.

  With a shudder, Chip pulled the covers up over his nose and stared at the bedroom ceiling. The jagged shadow of a branch threatened him, as if it would skewer him through his blankets.

  Despite the cold, Chip's pajamas were soaked with sweat. He couldn't get the nightmare out of his mind.

  Those eyes.

  Those ghastly glowing red eyes that stared out of the hood.

  Then he heard it again.

  But this time he knew he wasn't imagining it.

  Something outside his door.

  Or was it coming from another apartment in the crowded tenement? As Chip tried to gauge the source of the sound he felt another rush of paranoia. He focused on the crack where the door was slightly ajar, waiting for whatever it was to show itself.

  But why was his door open? he wondered again.

  He was sure he had closed it. He had closed it to shut out the noisy argument Al and his mother had been having before she had left for her job as a cocktail waitress — the job she hated so much.

  Like all the other menial jobs she had to swallow her pride to keep.

  But even through the closed door he had heard their shouts. Their arguments were always the same.

  "Al — grow up! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Get a life!"

  "I've got a life. The sorry life you and your loser husband gave me when you adopted me."

  "Don't talk about your father that way! Have a little respect for the dead. Your father, may he rest in peace…"

  "He wasn't my father. He was Chip's father."

  "He raised you like a son, and for that you should be grateful. Instead of being spiteful and petty all your life because you were adopted. Instead of being mean to your brother all your life. If you can't act like a decent human being then just leave. You're eighteen!"

  And on and on, his mother and Al, bickering.

  A picture of Chip's father entered his mind.

  His father had been a janitor at Middleton High until a few months ago, when a boiler had blown up in the basement and scalded him to death.

  Chip had loved his dad. He knew his dad had had a drinking problem, but he had never been a mean drunk. He'd never hit Chip or his mother, although once he had slapped Al for driving drunk.

  His drinking problem had caused his dad to lose most of his jobs. It had looked like the janitor thing might work out — but then the accident… Chip felt tears forming in his eyes and blinked them away.

  Chip thought he heard heavy breathing coming from the doorway.

  "Mom? Is that you?"

  No answer.

  "Al?"

  The crunching sound in the hall outside his bedroom started again. Chip sat up slowly on his futon. He stared into the dark hallway, stared into the shadows, as the crunching grew louder. In the eerie glow of the bright full moon, Chip thought he saw the glint of a knife.

  "Who's there?" Chip called, surprised to hear his voice crack.

  The crunching stopped, lips smacked, and soft laughter trickled in from the dark hallway.

  It must be Al, goofing around. Al, who at six-foot-four was two inches taller than Chip. Al, who was Chip's only undoing.

  "Who's there?" Chip asked again, impatient this time.

  The answer sent a chill up his spine.

  The voice that answered was as soft as fresh dirt on a grave.

  "It's your father."

  Chapter 3

  "Yeowwww!"

  Chip sat bolt upright on the futon, scattering the covers.

  From the shadows, Al roared with laughter. He stepped into Chip's bedroom. Al was a year and a half older than Chip, with very broad shoulders and a bullish neck. A weightlifter's physique. His face was a mass of sharp angles, and his short blond hair was cut punk — spiky on top and short on the sides.

  In the moonlight, Al reminded Chip of a Mohican warrior.

  "Man, I really had you going," Al said, nearly in tears. "You are so-o-o easy!" He sliced another section of apple with the switchblade knife he always carried and used the tip of the blade to shove it into his mouth. "Yeowww!" Al screeched, mimicking Chip. "You scream like a girl, bro', you really do. Like some little girl who found a bug in her bookbag."

  "Shut up, Al."

  Al spat an apple seed on Chip's bedroom floor. "Yeowwww!"

  "Don't you ever get tired of spying on me?" Chip laid back on the futon.

  "No," Al said, approaching the bed. "Besides, I wasn't spying on you. You were moaning and groaning like a little girl so I decided to check you out. See if you were wetting the bed or what. Did wittle Chippy have a baad dweam?" Al said in baby talk.

  Chip tried to control his temper as he looked up at Al. He noticed that beneath his black leather jacket, Al wore a hooded sweatshirt.

  A hooded sweatshirt… just like the guy in his dream.

  Al sliced another section of apple with his knife and popped it into his mouth. "Moving to Elm Street getting to you? Afraid you're going to meet up with your daddy there?"

  That was another of Al's sick jokes. Suggesting that Chip's real father was Freddy Krueger. That mom had had an affair with you-know-who when she had lived in Springwood, when she was still a teenager.

  In fact, Al liked to tell Chip, the reason they had moved from Springwood was because of who Chip's real father was.

  "Your real daddy will be glad to have his son living nearby," Al went on. "Reunited at last."

  Chip ignored Al.

  "Let's face it, Chip — you're just a chip off the old block. Like father, like son."

  "At least I would know what my father looked like if I saw him," Chip finally said. Sometimes it was hard to ignore Al. "That's more than you can say."

  Al's face turned into an angry scowl. "Watch your mouth!" he said, pointing the switchblade knife at Chip in a menacing gesture. Something about the knife stirred Chip's memory of his dream.

  Chip got out of bed and started to get dressed.

>   "What are you doing?" Al asked.

  "Going to go meet Daddy," he answered sarcastically. Sometimes Al was too much.

  "Huh?"

  "Let's go. You said my real father was waiting for me. Why wait till tomorrow? Let's go pay him a visit, tonight."

  "Where?"

  "Where do you think? Elm Street. Our new house."

  "Now? In the middle of the night?"

  "Scared, Al? Huh? Scared we might meet Daddy and he might not like the way you've been treating his favorite son? C'mon. We'll take the van and move some stuff in tonight. We'll leave Mom a note. She can meet us there tomorrow."

  Al hesitated and Chip realized he had gotten to him.

  "Chicken, Al? Like you think I'm chicken?"

  "Who you calling chicken?" Al asked, giving his brother a dark look.

  "You."

  Al wiped the blade of his knife on his faded jeans and pocketed it. "Let's go."

  An hour or so later, after packing the van, they were stopped on a dark street in Springwood.

  "Don't tell me you got us lost, you ditz," Al said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, looking out the windshield nervously. A sudden fierce wind rattled the van, and the inside of the vehicle grew colder. Chip turned up the heater.

  Chip peered at the map, lit by the tiny light of the glove compartment. "Turn here," he told Al. "Then make the next right."

  Al made the turns, and steered the van onto Elm Street.

  The boys had been to the house before, during the day. The real estate agent who had taken them around hadn't talked much about the house, but Chip figured that anything would be better than the cramped, smelly apartment they had been living in. And he was looking forward to going to Springwood High. It had been tough going to Middleton when his dad had been the janitor there. Now that his dad had died right there in the school basement it would have been even harder. Chip felt tears start to burn his eyes. He still hadn't gotten over his dad's death. He wondered if he ever would.

  Chip tried to distract himself by looking out the window for the house. Elm Street looked totally different by night.

  Chip noticed a decrepit-looking old house with a for sale sign out front. The sign was tilted at an odd angle. The ghastly looking place sent a chill up Chip's spine. In the glare of the streetlight, the grass appeared to be as dead as the trees. A stray dog sniffed at the edge of the yard, then quickly ran away.