Alicia stopped next to him, holding her side as she gasped for air. Their hot breath steamed the cold night air with wisps of white.
The wailing sirens stopped, and their silence filled Chip with dread. They had sounded so close. Too close.
They crossed the clearing to the back fence that bordered his yard. Chip shot one last glance over his shoulder to make sure they hadn't been followed. He felt unsteady, shaky, as if he might burst out screaming.
They hadn't run fast enough, or far enough.
On the other side of the clearing was the hooded figure, his breath steaming up about his face, staring back at them with lunatic eyes…
Chapter 35
"Hurry! We've got to hop the fence!" Chip said to Alicia. Chip climbed the back fence first so he could help Alicia over next. But when he landed on the other side his foot hit something and he toppled forward, his arms and legs sprawling as he fell. He sat up, his gaze scanning the moonlit yard to see what had tripped him up.
It was the odd-looking clay girl, half buried in the loose dirt. He had stepped on its head, crushing it.
"Chip? Are you all right?" came Alicia's voice from the other side of the white picket fence, and then Chip saw part of her body rise above it. He clamored to his feet and helped her over, staring past her across the clearing to where the hooded figure had stood.
There was nothing there.
They cut through his backyard. In the driveway Chip saw Al's white van parked next to their mother's station wagon. Al hadn't been home a little while ago. And why was his mother home? She had said she'd be working late.
They made their way past the vehicles and onto Elm Street. Chip walked Alicia the short distance to her house and said good night before Alicia's creepy mother could come to the door.
As Chip approached his own house he saw old Nick Murphy hurrying toward him as fast as his elderly legs would carry him. "Is she all right?" Mr. Murphy asked, his leathery face filled with worry.
"Is who all right?" Chip asked.
"Your mother."
Chip felt his head swim. "What happened?" he asked, his voice a harsh, raspy whisper. He felt a lump grow in his throat as he looked quickly at his house. It was totally dark, except for a dim light shining through the broken basement window.
"I don't know," Mr. Murphy said, scratching his thick patch of white hair with gnarly, yellow, tobacco-stained fingers. "They took her away in an ambulance not more than ten minutes ago."
The sirens he had heard running home from the cemetery.
They had been for his mother.
Oh god no, a voice inside Chip's head screamed — Al murdered Mom!
Chapter 36
Chip rushed into the house. He found the basement door open, the stairs in almost total darkness. He flicked on the light. A naked bulb — the one he had replaced just that morning — blinked on at the bottom of the stairs, barely penetrating the gloom.
Chip heard voices coming from the basement.
Then he saw in the light cast by the naked bulb the splattered blood.
Fresh, glistening blood.
His mother's blood?
Chip gasped. The sight filled him with dread. He had to find out what had happened, and if Al was responsible…
Chip gripped the staircase banister with a sweaty palm and started his way down. The bottom seemed like a million miles away, at the end of a long, dark tunnel. When he reached the basement, he saw that the office door was open a crack. Light was bleeding out.
From inside the office Chip heard voices. Chip carefully stepped around the puddle of blood and made his way to the door. "Al?" he called, bracing himself, not knowing what to expect.
The voices stopped.
"Al!" Chip shouted, reaching for the door.
Suddenly Al stepped out of the small office, closing the door behind him. He was wearing the hooded sweatshirt he always wore when he lifted weights, and he was sweaty. Chip stared at his brother.
"What?" Al asked impatiently. "I'm busy, punk."
"What are you doing in there?"
"I'm taking a break from pumping iron. I like to sit in that goofy chair. It's comfortable." Al shifted his weight nervously from one foot to another. "So now that you know what I do in my spare time, why don't you scram."
"Who were you talking to in there?" Chip asked. He was too angry to be intimidated.
Al hesitated for a moment, his eyes shifting to the door, then back to Chip. "No one."
"Don't give me that, Al. I heard you talking to someone." Chip could tell his brother was lying.
"I was talking to myself. All right?"
"You've been talking to yourself an awful lot lately."
"So?" A smug expression crossed Al's face. "What's it to you?"
Chip's gaze shifted to the crimson splatter, then back to Al. "What happened to Mom?"
Al nonchalantly unwrapped the tape from his wrists. His hands were all chalky. And there was blood on them. "Mom had a little accident."
"What kind of accident?" Chip asked, his voice rising.
"I guess she tripped, fell down the basement stairs," Al said with a smirk. "She really should be more careful, watch where she's going…"
Chip punched Al as hard as he could, punched him right in the face, right in the middle of his big, ugly smirk.
The punch sounded unusually loud to him — like a cartoon sound effect.
Al staggered back a few steps and would have fallen if it hadn't been for the office door. He leaned against the door, dazed.
But Chip wasn't done with him yet. The image of his mother, her body lying broken and bleeding on the basement floor, filled him with rage. White, hot, murderous rage.
"I'll kill you," Chip screamed at Al, advancing toward him, hatred in his eyes, his hands rolled into fists at his sides, clubs to smash Al with. "I'm going to jam those barbells right up your…"
"You stupid jerk!" Al spat at him, spat blood from his bloody mouth. Then he whipped out his switchblade. He flicked the knife open with a well-practiced motion and held the weapon menacingly in front of him. "I didn't do anything to your mother. I found her at the bottom of the stairs when I got home and I called 911. I don't know what happened to her. I wasn't even here. You can ask her yourself if you don't believe me."
"Liar!"
"Am I?" Al asked, making little circles with the gleaming knife blade. "Am I? So prove it. Come here and prove it."
Chip took a few steps backward, keeping his eyes on his brother, then he spun around and raced up the basement stairs. He yanked the kitchen wall phone off its cradle, got the hospital phone number from information, and quickly punched it in. After a few inquiries, he discovered his mother was in the Intensive Care Unit. He waited impatiently in the dark kitchen while they put him through to someone else. He kept his eyes glued to the top of the basement stairs, expecting Al to come up at any moment.
Another voice came on the line and told him that his mother was still unconscious but in stable condition. They had no more information for him.
Chip said thank you and hung up the phone.
Mom was stable. He wished he could say the same thing about himself.
Chip heard the basement stairs creak as Al came up for him.
Al stood in the dim light at the top of the stairs, dabbing his bloody lip with the tape he had unraveled from his wrists, leaving little red marks on the binding. "You made me bleed, you little punk," Al said, his eyes burning with hatred. "And now you're going to pay big time."
Chip stood frozen, his body tense, waiting for his brother to make the next move.
"Your day has come at last," Al said ominously, challenging his brother with his eyes as he dabbed blood from his lips. Chip could see the bulge in Al's sweatpants pocket where he knew the knife was. "Or maybe I should say your night has some. Your last night."
Chip's eyes quickly swept the dark kitchen, looking for a knife to even up the odds. A big butcher knife would do. But all he saw was his mother's wooden
stirring spoon in the dirty pot covered with curry gook. He'd throw the whole damn mess on Al.
"Okay bro'. We'll do it tonight. Tonight we'll get down."
"Right now," Chip said.
"Nah," Al said. "I'll pick the time. I think I'll make you squirm first. I like to watch you squirm. Squirm like a stuck pig. But tonight's the night, bro'. Tonight we get down."
Al smirked. Then he went out the side kitchen door. Chip heard him start the van. The headlights from the van suddenly lit the kitchen in garish yellow colors as he backed down the driveway. Then the lights rolled out of the kitchen and the van headed down Elm Street and everything was quiet.
Except for Chip's thundering heart.
And his heavy breathing.
And the frenzied thoughts whirring about inside his head chattering loud, dark prophecies to him.
Now it was just a matter of time, Chip knew, just a matter of time before all hell exploded like a fiery volcano, with Al the center of the eruption, swimming in the molten lava of his own hatred.
Chapter 37
Chip went up to his bedroom and shut the door that never seemed to latch. He pushed the futon against the door to keep it closed — and to warn him if anyone should try to get in. He lay down and stared out the window at the skeletal branches of the elm tree. Its branches were being tossed about by the wind, making the inside of his room come alive with jagged shadows.
He kicked off his sneakers.
Maybe he should shut the windows and lock them.
But he was so tired. Too tired to get up now that he was lying down.
Maybe later. After he'd slept a little.
He was exhausted. He needed rest. Badly.
He had to be ready when Al returned.
Because Al never slept, it seemed.
Chip's body felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, his head as heavy as a cannonball. His eyelids could no longer resist the pull of gravity. He needed sleep. Sleep…
As he lay there, he listened for sounds outside his bedroom door, sounds of Al sneaking back in, sounds of Al moving up the stairs, sounds of Al coming to get him.
But all he heard was the eerie creaking and groaning the old house made as it tried to settle itself.
The house couldn't sleep either.
Chip heard Al's van drive up, the headlights rolling through his bedroom and creating a whir of distorted shadows on the walls. He heard the engine shut off, the van door open and slam shut, and then the bang of the kitchen door that told him Al was inside the house.
He listened for a while. No more sounds for long heavy seconds.
And then voices came up the air vent.
The wood he'd tossed in the stove crackled as it caught fire. Chip could feel the warmth begin to spread through the room.
Bang!
The little metal trapdoor on the cast-iron stove clanked open.
Chip gaped in disbelief.
Eerie red smoke was pouring out the top of the stove!
Chapter 38
The shock of the dream woke her.
Alicia sat up in bed, her body bathed in sweat. The nightmare had seemed so real, so horrifyingly real. In her dream Johnny Murphy had attacked her in the basement of Chip's house. He had grabbed her and was dragging her to the furnace, his lunatic eyes burning like red rubies.
And in the glowing red of his pupils she saw tiny fire-breathing dragons.
She swung her feet out of bed and let them hit the cold, bare wooden floor. She sat on the edge of the bed listening to the voices downstairs.
Voices?
Downstairs?
Who was downstairs at this time of night?
Her mother seldom spoke to anyone during the day. Alicia threw on her terry-cloth robe and quietly slipped out of her room. She padded to the head of the stairs. Her mother had the front door open and was talking to two men, both dressed in dull gray suits, the expressions on their faces as somber as their colorless clothing. They were apologizing to her mother for disturbing her at this late hour, and then they were walking away.
Alicia came halfway down the stairs, alarmed by the pale expression on her mother's face. "Mom — what is it?"
"The police," her mother said, her voice becoming shrill.
Alicia felt her heart start to pound. "What did they want?"
"Johnny Murphy escaped from the insane asylum Friday night. He was in the hospital wing and they weren't guarding him that closely because they thought he was too feeble to get out of bed — but apparently he made a remarkable recovery. The police are canvassing all the neighborhoods, telling everyone to be on the lookout for him."
Friday night! Alicia thought. That was days ago, and they're only warning us now?
"They should have come to Elm Street first if they wanted to find a madman." Her mother's voice was bitter. "Elm Street's the devil's playground." She stumbled back to the living room couch, mumbling incoherently. Alicia wondered if Elm Street had claimed her mother's mind, too.
But she couldn't distract herself with thoughts like that. She had to warn Chip. Now she was sure it was Johnny she had seen at the cemetery.
Had Johnny been hiding at the cemetery since Friday night? It didn't seem likely. Someone would have spotted him by now. A caretaker, maybe, or one of Scott's mourners.
Then a chilling thought struck her.
She remembered Chip telling her about the secret passageway that connected to his basement. The tunnel that led to the woods outside his house. The woods that separated his house from the Elm Street Cemetery.
And now she knew where Johnny was hiding.
She ran up to her room, threw on her clothes, then hurried back down the stairs. Her heart pounded with pile driver force. She prayed she wasn't too late. As she raced through the living room on her way to the front door, her mother called to her, "Where are you going?"
Alicia stopped and spun around. It always seemed dark in her house. Even in the daytime. More shadows for her mother to hide in. "Where are you going?" her mother repeated, her voice gripped with panic.
Alicia didn't answer her.
"You're going back there! Aren't you!" her mother screeched. "You're going back to the devil's house."
Alicia grabbed a down jacket from the coat rack in the foyer and slipped it on as she hurried out the door.
"Come back!" Alicia heard her mother's cry from the front door. "Come back before it's too late!"
Chapter 39
Chip sat up and stared at the stove, at the smoke coming out. He knew he wasn't dreaming this time. He moved across the futon as far as he could, until his back hit the bedroom door. The eerie red smoke reformed into the ghost of Evan Walker.
Evan turned his eyeless sockets toward Chip.
Chip felt his mind coming unhinged as he stared back at the ghost. Evan drifted across the room till his red form was directly over the air vent. He pointed down the same way he had a few nights before.
A chilly breeze blew through the window, and the red mist dissolved into the cold air.
Voices filtered up the air vent. Chip's forehead beaded with tiny cold dots of sweat.
Chip went over, got down on his hands and knees, put his ear to the open vent, and listened.
"…had to do it… no choice… mother would have thrown you out… finish her off… trust me… finish him off… we are brothers… Red Dragon… brothers in blood… the house will be yours… Martin would've burned the house… clubhouse… I took care of Martin… you take care of Alicia to prove to me and the brotherhood… be number one… needs to be done… he's the son of Krueger… chip off the old block…"
He's the son of Krueger.
"I'm the son of Krueger?" Chip whispered harshly to himself. "Freddy Krueger's my father? No. No way."
Who was making those insane accusations? Whoever it was had something to do with his mother's accident. And the murder of Scott Martin. Now he wanted Al to kill him and Alicia. Tonight.
Chip kept his ear pressed to the vent. It was so ha
rd to hear. He could understand only little bits here and there, just snatches of conversation.
"…chip off the old block… he'll get you if you don't get him… only a matter of time… get him first… it's us against them… brothers in blood… be a winner… destroy the evidence… burn him after you…"
Chip felt his blood pumping in his temples. He had to do something — but what?
He had an idea…
Chip frantically dug his Walkman out of a canvas bag he still hadn't unpacked. He could record the conversation on tape and give it to the police. He just had to get close enough to do it. The voices coming up the air vent were too garbled, and his Walkman wasn't that great to begin with.
He'd have to go down into the basement.
Chip tugged on his sneakers and stood up, determined. He slipped the tiny Walkman into his jeans pocket and pulled the futon away from the door.
Slowly, silently, carefully, he cracked the door and peered down the darkened hallway. The coast looked clear.
He crept down the hallway, trying to keep the floorboards from creaking, and made his way into the kitchen. He looked in one drawer after another until he found what he was looking for: the big knife his mother used to slice her homemade bread. The very big, extremely sharp knife. He slid it into his belt, like a sword, and made his way to the top of the basement stairs.
He hesitated a moment. It wasn't too late to run. He felt as if his limbs were drugged, too heavy to make them go to the stairs, or run away.
He knew he had to do this.
Or he'd live in fear — looking over his shoulder always.
He could hear them down there, whispering, chattering, their conspiratorial voices drifting up to him.
Chip inched his way down the stairs, willing his legs to stop trembling and to move, wincing at every squeak he made, until he was at the bottom.
He stepped over the blood splatter, another reminder of his mother's fall, and crossed the basement floor to where a crack of light showed beneath the door of the old examination room.
Fatal Games Page 12
