StarDestroyer.Net BBS

A little something. Inspired by the films I've been watching lately and the onset of Halloween. It's not complete, but I don't plan to make it very long. Fanfiction, of course. Consider all applicable disclaimers taken. Let me know what you all think. Should not be difficult to figure out what's going on...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++


~He’s running through endless corridors of decaying stone that wind, twist and turn in all the wrong directions. Up, down, there, to and fro, above and below, sometimes at the same time. See himself run past and try to reach out his hand, steel fingernails raking the air, but he ignores himself reaching out at him and keep scrambling. He can get out of here. He must get out.

~Blood running in rivulets down the slimy blocks. Cold mist sweeps through the corridors with a deathly rattle. It tastes of a crematory’s ashes. Pale skin sharply tied back in dark leather shines from the gloom.

~Savage orgiastic roaring in the distance. Flesh tears. Chains clatter. A tongue lasciviously licks a twisted, razor-sharp blade, sweeping trickles of blood off the saw-edge, ignoring (or enjoying?) the gashes cut as it laps.

~A cold unlight sweeping over the world around them. The Leviathan ignores those below it. Why should it care? They are stray neurons scuttling about the architecture of his mind. Above the surface of the sky (night? Day? Does it matter?) a perennial swirl of mind-boggling geometries scuttle.

~Running, always running. It’s behind. Run faster. Find the door to the labyrinth.

~The stone becomes a room full of rust and flame. Massive boilers roar, pipes gurgle. Familiar. Warm. Home.

~A slow, sinister scraping creeps through the chamber. That’s wrong. It’s not his own. Something else is in here. Something stronger than himself. Where?

~Never stop running. Stumble and trip over roots. Roots?

~A forest in night. Moonlight shines on a pristine lake, the sight spoilt by decaying buildings and a half-collapsed dock.

~A blank visage behind them, blocking out the moonlight.

~Nothing is left but screaming. Keep running.

~RUN.

~RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRU--

He jerks awake, gasping. Violated. Impossible. He’s the master of his domain. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t dream. He can’t. The boiler behind him rumbles and the door rattles in sympathy with his heartbeat, what little of it he has.

His eye falls upon the cube, sitting on the floor beside him. Instantly, he knows. The first thing he wants to do is snatch it up and destroy it. Smash it! Throw it into the fire! Bite it! Grind it into powder! Chop it up with an axe! Pour acid atop it!

But that’s not what he does. Instead, a grimace stretching across his scarred face, he reaches out and grabs the dirty brown fedora. Something doesn’t feel right. He freezes as his fingers tighten upon the crown of the hat, squeezing the felt out of shape.

WHERE IS IT?!, his mind roars. There’s nothing on his hand. The glove. It’s gone. It was part of him for all those years, and now it’s gone. So many children. So many people. And it’s gone. Its razor-sharp embrace, scuttling forth across skin, meat, bone, guts… gone. Nothing. Just his hand. Four fingers, one thumb, locked in twisted and half-melted skin and gristle.

He stares at this vile appendage, and then his eyes flicker back in the direction of the cube.

It’s now sitting in the palm of his glove, the claws slowly uncurling as the leather folds under the weight of the puzzle-box. A stray flame from the boiler glitters off the intricate brass detailing. It creaks and suddenly, the pieces shift. Before his eyes, it rearranges itself. The first configuration is completed.

Freddy fucking Krueger had a nightmare? This can't be good...

Kids run screaming through familiar hallways that twist into nightmare dimensions around them. They dive deep into the dream trying to get away from him, and in his rage, not only does he swallow their souls, he rips them apart. He feels as though he was just as torn up in his own right, the safehold of his mind violated by… whatever laid within that cube.

Panting within his boiler-room sanctum, Krueger thinks. Fast on his feet, he always was, and now that he’s master of the dream world, he’s faster. So what happened?

A comfortable leather chair materializes before a large wood-paneled television, and he sits back to nurse a glass of (we don’t really want to know). He waggles his clawed fingers—even embroiled in wrath, he cannot resist a little flair—and carefully touches one blade to the power button of the old-fashioned remote sitting on the arm of the chair.

The television turns on with a crackle of static, and he begins reviewing dreamers. A boy who had a fear of drowning? No. flipflipflip Girl who had tried to kill herself (or was it wake up?) in the dream by jumping in front of a bus? No. flipflipflip A boy that—Wait. flipback A girl. Something sticks out about this one. As he’s putting his claws through her neck, she’s laughing.

He flashes back through her dream. He’s seeing the same stone halls, the labyrinth, the geometric stone god. The chains. The blood. The screaming. Oh God yes, the screaming. He pushes further, and there it is. The cube. The girl had that cube in her dream, and after he killed her—he picked it up. Took it back with him. A little memory.

The laughing had been weird, which was why he kept the cube. Usually they only laughed if they were trying to pull something off on him. It had worked a few times, he had to admit. They’d even hurt him badly a couple of times. Tried to send him to Hell and all that. Really, Hell. Place with the big red guy with the tail and horns and the pointy stick. Lots of fire. He didn’t mind fire, though. What he minded was people not really being afraid when he killed them. That girl had sounded… relieved.

All he had done was yank a surface impression off her mind, take a bad dream she was already having and jump into it. At the time he had just been kinda’ frustrated. It rather spoiled the fun, you know? But now he thinks he knows what’s going on. And he thinks he needs backup. Now.

He strides across the room and opens a door. Beyond it is a forest, black under a night sky, moonlight shining off a lake nearby. He had hoped never to try this again. Last time, that… backfired. To say the least. He sighs, screws his hat down upon his scalp, and steps through.

Forests. Ugh. He was always a town boy. No camping for little Freddy. No Boy Scouts. They wouldn’t have had him, anyway. Snobby pricks. Never mind, he had his turn later anyway. Now, let’s see. Where does the big moron hang out? The camp? His mother’s rotten house? Town?

A weaselly grin stretches across his scarred face as a thought occurs to him. The retard’s jimmies get rustled by premarital sex and drugs, right? Let’s give him what he wants…

In a cabin by the lake, under a single lightbulb, a young couple moans in ecstasy, their bodies intertwined under the sheets. On the porch of the cabin, a young man lights up a massive bong, and blows out a fragrant marijuana-scented cloud of smoke. The moon shines on a hulking form stepping forward purposefully from the trees. The clothes don’t much matter, he changes every now and then, but one thing always stays the same—the hockey mask. Oh yeah, and the machete. As he steps forward towards the cabin, the figures within dissolve away, and he stops in puzzlement.

Krueger materializes in front of him, stretches his arms wide and snarls gleefully, “Hi! Uncle Freddy’s back! Remember me, sonny?”

Jason doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Freddy’s face with his off hand and with a monstrous blow, hacks Krueger in half. Yeah… he remembers Freddy, all right. Throwing down Freddy’s torso, he chops a number of times, tearing Freddy’s arms off his shoulders and severing his head.

Freddy can’t help but chuckle. Boy’s full of grit for all he’s an incurable mama’s boy and don’t have the brains of a half-wit goldfish, don’t he? Jason turns away, and he pulls himself together, stands up and taps the monster on his shoulder. The behemoth freezes, and then spins around. He’s ready, and two of his finger-claws go into the eye-holes of the hockey mask.

It’s the boiler room again. Jason is frozen by the claws in his eyeballs—a little trick of Freddy’s, he doesn’t need to make a mess here. He reaches out his arm, reaching grotesquely far, and grabs the puzzle-box. Once he knows he has complete control of the empty-headed mass of muscle, he slowly slides out the claws and holds up the filigreed cube before Jason’s eyes.

“Uncle Freddy’s got a new toy for you, my boy. Do you wanna play? Here…”

Docilely, the giant reaches out with ragged gloves, takes the box out of Freddy’s hand, and slowly peers at it, dull neurons barely firing. He doesn’t move. Freddy sighs, rolls his eyes, and gives Jason’s mind a shove. The hands jerk convulsively, and Freddy winces—did the idiot just break the damn thing? Would that actually take care of the problem, on the other hand?

Never mind. He may have just done exactly the right thing completely by accident. The box shifts, morphing before their eyes, and a cylinder extrudes from the center. A tune tinkles; did that happen before, Freddy wonders?

He doesn’t have time to wonder. The cylinder pistons back into the box and it morphs again. A cold mist billows through the boiler-room and when he looks up, a stone arch yawns in the wall. A cold grin spreads across his face and he slowly whispers, “Jason, my boy. You see that? Mama’s in there. Go find your mama…”

ma ma?

He blinks. Did the lunkhead just speak? Whatever, play along. “Yes, Jason… go find Mama! She’s in danger! Bad people are gonna kill her! Save her! Kill them all!”

Jason’s hands flex and then curl into fists. Slowly, he bends over and picks up the machete that he dropped when Freddy caught him, and as he straightens up he steps forward deliberately into the arch. Mist bellows forth and Freddy loses sight of him for a moment. Waving his hands to try and part the mist, he squints and Jason isn’t there anymore. That was fast.