"Yeah," Chip said. "Do you go there?"
"Not anymore."
"Graduate?" Chip asked, wondering if she was older than he was.
"I dropped out."
"Oh…" Chip was silent for a moment, hoping Alicia would tell him more. He was afraid to push her too much, lest she faint again.
"I might still finish. I don't know. I've already got an art scholarship, so I can go to art school if — when I graduate. Painting used to be about the most important thing in my life. But now… it seems so pointless. Everything does."
"Why?" Chip asked.
Alicia's features tightened. "It just does," she said flatly.
Chip decided to change the subject away from her. "Al and I are both seniors. Al's a year older, but he flunked a grade. He thinks he's going to play pro football someday, so classes don't matter. I told him he still has to study if he wants to get into college — the pros don't draft kids out of high school. But Al doesn't listen. He doesn't listen to anyone except Al — and maybe his blood brothers."
"So I take it your brother is going to play for Springwood."
"We both are — I hope. Our coach at Middleton arranged tryouts for us. The only problem is that both Al and I want to play quarterback. Al can play defense, too. He was all-conference at Middleton as a free safety, but he says quarterbacks make the top money in the pros. Is Scott Martin still your quarterback?"
"No," Alicia answered in a tiny voice.
Chip could barely hear her over the fluttering flames emanating from the stove top. "What happened? Is he injured?"
The wind began to howl, rattling the window.
"Yes," Alicia said in a tight voice. "I don't think he'll be playing again very soon…"
Inside the cast-iron potbellied stove, the fire crackled and popped.
A hiss of steam rumbled up through the radiator.
"That's too bad."
Alicia was staring into the fire, the light dancing off a smattering of light freckles over the bridge of her nose. Chip moved till he was standing behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She turned and raised her face toward his. Chip brushed a strand of Alicia's odd-looking white hair away from her eyes, her lovely, sparkling vulnerable eyes, and looked deep into them.
As he pressed his lips against hers he saw someone out of the corner of his eye.
Someone in the hallway staring at him from out of the darkness.
Then the room exploded in a burst of white light!
Chapter 10
Alicia uttered a cry of dismay. Both she and Chip covered their eyes.
"I found the fuse box," Al said casually as he stepped into the room. Al felt a brief surge of admiration for Chip. One minute he's about to bash this babe's brains in, the next he's swapping spit with her.
"I guess those weird stories I heard about Elm Street can't all be true," Al finally said with a smirk. "The neighbors around here actually seem to be quite friendly so far."
A few minutes later, Al watched from the bedroom window as Chip walked the girl home. He watched them disappear up Elm Street, disappear into the gloom.
Gee, I hope I didn't spoil their fun, he chuckled to himself.
And then he saw someone run out of the shadows and into his yard, heading for the back.
Someone wearing a hooded sweatshirt.
Al ran down the stairs and peered out the kitchen window, hoping to get a closer look at the trespasser. If the neighborhood kids thought they were going to use his new home as a fun house, they were sadly mistaken. He didn't care how many people had been murdered in this house. He was living here now, and anyone who tried to mess around with him would soon learn the hard way that it wasn't a good idea.
No one messed with Big Al.
Al spotted the figure, opened the kitchen door, and ran out into the back yard. "Yo!" he yelled to the figure who took off in a sprint. He ran all the way to the back fence, a rickety, wooden, white picket fence, and leapt over it.
"Yo — I'm talking to you!" Al yelled again louder. "Come back here, you little punk!"
The hooded figure turned to face Al. The guy looked pretty big. Almost as big as Al. The light from the moon glowed off his face, framing it eerily in a silver beam, and Al felt a twitch in his memory. Then the hooded figure disappeared into the murk.
That face… he knew that face.
It took only a moment for Al to remember where he had seen the boy before. He smiled. He wasn't going to be alone in Springwood after all. He'd found a brother…
"Wait!" Al yelled, running after the hooded figure through a backyard grown wild with tall grass and unruly weeds. Dead wet leaves stuck to his shoes. He hurdled the back fence and ran across a short clearing, until he came to the edge of a stretch of woods that suddenly towered in front of him like a big, black animal.
Up a dark, twisting path that ran through the woods, Al heard footsteps thudding away.
Al stared up the path for a long moment.
It was so dark — darker than any woods he had ever seen before.
Al pulled a flashlight he'd found in the basement from his back pocket and flicked it on. He followed the cone of light through the thick woods, trampling over a path covered with brown leaves and fragrant pine needles. He kept going, and it wasn't long before the path led out of the woods.
Into a cemetery.
Al stopped short, and nearly fell on a dewy patch of grass.
This was a little more than he had bargained for…
Tombstones of different heights rose in not so neat rows from the ground like broken rotting teeth.
There was no sign of the hooded figure.
The full moon floated in front of him as if leading the way.
He thought of turning back, but decided to push on. He wouldn't do this for just anyone.
Only for a brother.
There were certain allegiances you had to honor, and the brotherhood was one of them, or else you were alone.
All alone.
And Al had felt so alone all his life.
The warmth and the attention and the love had all gone to Chip.
Al walked past the half-opened rusty gate that said elm street cemetery, up the gently sloping hill, looking for his brother.
And found him.
The dark, hooded figure stood before a gravestone silhouetted by a giant golden moon. Loose leaves swirled about his feet as a sudden rush of wind whistled through the cemetery.
Al silently approached the hooded figure. The enigmatic form was running his hand along the cool granite of a newly set gravestone.
Al peered past the hooded figure, curious to see the name on the tombstone.
Ellen Sawyer.
"Brother…" Al started to say.
But a gust of wind blew the word back into his face. The wind whipped up, suddenly fierce, causing dirt from the grave to blow in his direction. Al raised his hand to shield himself.
Then the hooded figure turned slowly and looked at Al with eyes that burned bright red.
As red and as bright and as hot as the breath of a dragon.
Chapter 11
Chip dragged his futon up the stairs, down the dusty hallway, and into his new bedroom. He flopped it onto the floor next to the cast-iron stove.
It seemed like a cozy place to crash.
The stove still gave off heat, though the fire had long since gone out. Chip peered in at the orange coals still glowing brightly. Then he shut the trapdoor on top of the stove, lay down on the futon, and closed his eyes.
He was totally worn out from unloading the van.
Al had disappeared again. He hadn't been at the house when Chip returned from walking Alicia home, so Chip had unloaded most of the stuff from the van himself. At first he was just pissed that Al had left all the work for him. After an hour had passed, though, it crossed his mind that maybe he should be worried.
He didn't let the worry consume him. It was entirely possible that Al was hiding someplace to avoid having to help.
> Chip closed his eyes and felt a cool breeze wash over him as he lay on the futon. He opened his eyes and realized he had left his bedroom door open. But he was too tired to get up and close it. Might as well leave it open anyway in case Maggie wanted to get in.
Where had that crazy cat gone, anyway? Probably someplace in the house exploring.
Chip closed his eyes again and thought of Alicia. What a babe. And what a kisser. He couldn't believe how lucky he was to meet such a gorgeous girl his first night in Springwood.
And under such unusual circumstances.
Life is so strange, Chip thought, as his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off into sleep.
The metal trapdoor on top of the stove — popped open with a loud clunk.
Chip opened his eyes. He smelled something foul.
An eerie red mist snaked out through the opening of the stove. Like a rope, it coiled around an exposed beam in the ceiling. At the end of the rope hung a noose and the noose was looped around the neck of a teenage boy. His neck was twisted at an impossible angle, long slender fingers dangling lifelessly at his side like useless meat hooks. Behind his thick-lensed, black-framed glasses were empty eye sockets.
The smoke ghost drifted across the floor and hovered in one corner of the room, pointing a bony red smoke finger first at Chip, then down at the floor, flames from his fingertips hitting the floor like blowtorches of amazing accuracy.
Chip recognized the form now — it was Evan Walker.
He wants me to go into the basement, he thought with horror. Where the murders took place.
But Chip couldn't move, no matter what. Every muscle in his body was petrified.
Then the hideous creature began his approach.
Chapter 12
"Aaaaugghhhh!"
Chip bolted upright in his bed, his heart thundering inside his chest.
Who screamed?
Breathless, he gasped for air, his mind whirling with horror-filled thoughts.
He had heard it even in his dream. Like the screech of a dying cat.
The thing in the stove — red ghostly monster — no eyeballs — hands like meat hooks — incongruous glasses — fingers like fire daggers pointing — awful screams — and screams again.
Who had screamed?
He glanced at the wood-burning stove, still glowing, warm and friendly.
And then he knew.
He had screamed.
It was a nightmare.
Another nightmare. This one about a gross, eyeless dude wearing big nerdy glasses.
Dazed, Chip rose from the futon and stood in front of the stove. With a trembling hand he lifted the top trapdoor and peered inside. Nothing. No ghosts. No demons. No hideous red smoky monster faces with empty eye sockets.
Just warm glowing embers, almost out now, though the stove seemed to radiate more heat than before.
Chip's body was soaked in sweat.
Hot, nervous sweat.
Over a stupid nightmare.
Chip looked at the glowing numbers of his digital clock plugged in at the far wall. Almost four in the morning.
The first bad dream had come just a little past midnight. Now another one four hours later. At this rate he would be dead from fright before the weekend was over.
His first night on Elm Street.
The floorboard creaked in the dark hallway right outside his bedroom door.
Chip swiveled his head and saw the black silhouette of a hooded figure standing in the gloom. Staring at him.
Chip fought to remain calm. "I know it's you, Al, so you can come out. Either come out or close the door — you're letting all the heat out."
Soft laughter, then Al walked into the room.
"Another bad dream, bro'?" Al asked. "Bummer." Al's face took on the familiar smirk.
Chip felt the urge to rip that smirk off and shove it down into the stove once and for all. He wanted to burn it to ashes. Take Al's entire head, maybe, smirk and all, and rub it into the hot coals glowing inside the stove's belly until Al screamed for mercy. And then he would rub even harder.
Al played with the strings of his hood. "If you think maybe you could go the rest of the night without screaming the roof off the house I might be able to get some sleep. Or should I sit by your bed and hold your hand to keep the bogeyman away. You want the lights on?" Al started flicking the bedroom lights on and off.
Finally, Al got tired of his own game and left. The room seemed colder now. Chip got up and walked over to the stove to see if he could poke some more life out of the fire.
But it wasn't necessary.
Somehow the fire had rekindled itself.
And the flames were dancing high and lively.
Chapter 13
Saturday afternoon.
Chip slept until noon, when the sunlight that had been working its way across the room finally hit him full in the face.
He yawned and sat on the edge of his futon, still groggy from interrupted sleep. His eyes felt puffy, his mind fuzzy, his head wooden. But at least he had made it through the night without a third nightmare.
His stomach grumbled hungrily. He hoped there was something in the fridge to eat. Maybe his mom had stopped at the 7-Eleven on the way home for some groceries.
Chip chuckled to himself. Did they even have a fridge? He couldn't remember if the previous tenant was supposed to leave one behind.
He stood up, crossed to the window, and looked out. It was a bright, sunny day, but the grass looked wet and there were puddles in the street. He must have slept right through a storm.
Chip pulled some gray sweats out of his duffel bag and got dressed. Maybe later he'd get out and throw the ball around with Al.
As he laced up his Nikes, he noticed how dingy and bare his bedroom walls looked. The floor was greasy and the room still smelled of cat.
"Maggie?" Where had Maggie run off to? He hadn't seen her since last night.
Chip tacked his football posters up on the wall. His favorite was a life-size shot of Bernie Kosar, when Kosar was with the Cleveland Browns. He stood back to admire it. Kosar was a great quarterback — Chip thought he actually looked a little bit like him.
Chip noticed a thin diagonal crack along the wall, and moved the poster over to cover it. Perfect.
Suddenly he slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Alicia! Last night when he had walked her home, she had said she would come over today to help with the cleaning. Had she been over already?
Of course, she did live practically next door. He could go over to her house if he'd missed her.
Out of curiosity, Chip ran down the stairs and out onto the front porch.
There was no doorbell.
Just an old fashioned knocker on the door in the shape of a beady-eyed hawk. Identical to the bird on the handle of the cast-iron stove.
Chip knocked lightly on his mother's bedroom door. No answer. Maybe she had gone to work already. He glanced out the kitchen window to see if her station wagon was still in the driveway.
Nope. Just Al's van. Chip climbed back up the stairs.
As he passed Al's bedroom he heard a long, low moan.
Chip placed his ear against the door to hear better.
The moaning grew louder.
He knocked on Al's door. "Al?" No answer, then a loud gasp of pain.
"Al!" Chip twisted the door knob with a sweaty palm and swung the door open.
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 his 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 co
uld, 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!
Chapter 14
Chip slapped his brother again with what little strength he had left.
Al's eyes finally snapped into focus and he immediately let go of Chip. "What happened?" he asked groggily.
"You were walking in your sleep again," Chip rasped, rubbing his neck. He cleared his throat.
"Oh…" Al said, still in a stupor. Wearing only a pair of oversized boxer shorts, Al trudged back over to his bed and sat down.
"Man, and you make fun of me for my bad dreams," Chip said.
Al looked at Chip as if seeing him for the first time. Then he grinned. "You know what I always kid you about?"
"You mean about who my real father is?" Chip asked, his eyes wide with mock horror.
"Yeah. That's what I was dreaming about." Al chuckled. "Man — I'm freaking myself out."
"Did you see Mom this morning?" Chip asked his brother.
"Does it look like I saw her?" Al asked grumpily, running his hands through his spiky blond hair. He patted his hard abdominals. "You want to pump iron later?"
"Maybe," Chip said. "The movers are coming later. Are you going to be here?"
"I don't know," Al mumbled vaguely.
"And Alicia might stop by."
"Who?"
"The girl from last night."
Al smiled wickedly. "Nice going, buddy boy. You move fast. How far did you get with her?"
Chip felt his face turn red. "Far enough, I guess," he answered vaguely.
Al smirked. "I really dig that white streak in her hair. Like the bride of Frankenstein or something."
"You should talk," Chip said. "Your hair isn't exactly humanoid."
Al spiked up his blond hair where — it had been crushed flat on the pillow.
"So do you have any idea where Mom might be?" Chip asked.
Fatal Games Page 4
