The Consumption Of Salt

Disclaimer- Do not own NOES. I do own Phyllis Dale though, and other minor original characters.
Boy, oh, boy. This is an old fic, the first part of a two chapter project that I began back in April. I never write original characters, but a challenge from a friend spurred me into hesitant action. Whether this shall be continued or not depends; I just had to get it up. Criticism and comments would be deeply loved in this ficlet; I'm not sure whether the style or characterisation works. (I think it does get better as it progresses, though.) I wondered about Krueger as a child, and thought what was best to show the development from unhappy boy to sarcastic teenager to evil adult. Though another's eyes, maybe....his only consistent, male friend; an ordinary boy called Phyllis Dale.
Warnings: Dark themes, implication of child abuse, and strong, unsentimental sexual content. There is slash, so to speak, but not in the way one would think. This is in no way a fluffy friendship fiction.

NOTE - AFF screwed the formatting. My aplogies for that; if it burns your eyes too much, you can read it with a much easier format on FF.net.


The Consumption Of Salt


Phyllis was new.


And in a way which was painfully obvious. His shoes were overly polished, his light brown hair combed into a perfect bowl cut. There was hardly a crease on the impeccable white of his shirt, and his mother had even ironed his jeans. He stood in the centre of the Principle's office, feeling scrubbed and shiny and hopelessly vulnerable, as he stood, small and receding behind the giant desk, its tip barely gracing his chin.
Phyllis was eight years old, far from his city life in Arizona, standing under the roof of Springwood Junior School, faced with the glaring smile of his new teacher and the trembling death grip of his tearful Mother.
“There is nothing to worry about, Mrs Dale. We shall make sure that Phyllis is greeted with only the warmest of welcomes.”
His mother tearfully hiccupped in protest, sounding like a distressed animal. Smiling a little firmer this time, his new teacher-a homely woman called Ms Shears-veered a gulping Phyllis away from his trembling mother, who shot him one last pained smile. He grinned back in a hopefully comforting fashion, trying hard to be strong for his Mum, and trying exceptionally hard to beat down the icy sting of panic threatening his insides.


Ms Shears was a bustling, friendly woman, who half dragged a dazed Phyllis though the corridors, briskly pointing out the toilet, the art room, the cafeteria, even offering a low down on the local broom closets. Phyllis echoed his mother’s long suffering smile as he was finally plonked down beside the classroom door, Ms Shears shooting off in a last bid to settle his paperwork before introducing him to the class. Though the disappearance of her presence was a relief at first, her sudden loss quelled the silence in the empty corridor, prompting an even stronger feeling of loneliness then before. Agitated, Phyllis rocked on his feet, trying to focus on a strange stain on the floor.
“Son of a hundred maniacs, son of a hundred maniacs, son of a hundred maniacs...”
Phyllis blinked. Behind the classroom door, a barely detectable chant captured his ears.
It was the type of sing-song chant that implied playground bullying. His old friend, Carl, had been unfortunate enough to have been born with two sticking out ears the size of teacup saucers. The kids of the school used to chant the tag-line of Dumbo whenever the poor bastard approached.
But this chant was different. It wasn’t the hurtful giggles of thoughtless children. It seemed to drip with a personal resentment, a malicious poison that shrieked of ongoing spite.
“SON OF A THOUSAND MANIACS...!”

Son of a thousand...? Wait, wasn’t it a hundred?


Curiosity getting the better of him, Phyllis tiptoed to look though the square window on the classroom door.

He was greeted with a shocking sight.

In the corner of the classroom, was a lanky boy, tall for his age, leaning against the hamster’s cage, surrounded by a crowd of mocking children. His hair was a dirty blonde, unkempt and wild. He was dressed in a green, sleeveless jacket with a red sweater underneath, and ripped, dirty jeans. The underside of his trainers were layered with mud, as if they had been left outside in the rain, but the lone thing that struck Phyllis was the boy’s face.

The boy’s features were nothing special, albeit a slightly flat nose, but they seemed to glower with something. His mouth was fixed into a cruel, twisted sneer, teeth bared in silent vendetta against the other children. His small hands were clamped into fists, tension raging though his skinny frame. But his eyes....they were alive, alert, angry, bright little eyes, fuming with fury and pent up aggression, so vivid and sharp in their appraisal that Phyllis felt his knees wobble. They travelled to and from every child’s face, lit with contempt.

They locked unto Phyllis.

Phyllis darted down, heart pounding violently against his ribcage. At that moment, Ms Shears rounded the corner, pausing in concern at the frightened child. Her face burst in an indulgent smile, awash with sympathy.
“Now, chin up, Phyllis Dale! Everything is going to be fine. You’ll have the time of your life in Springwood!”

When they entered the classroom, it seemed as if the scene before had never occurred. Everyone was seated, albeit chattering noisily in the childish language of giggles, squawks, and whispers. A stray paper aeroplane zoomed past Phyllis’s ear. The place reeked of dried paint, of fresh pencil shavings, of life and kids. To Phyllis’s reluctance, the noise died down to invite his introduction. Twenty seven beady little eyes fixed themselves on the newcomer, drinking in his inoffensive attire and timeless bowl cut. Silence settled like dust on an executioner’s axe.

Ms Shears narrowed her eyes at this lack of hospitality.

“Everyone, say a warm hello to our newest student, Phyllis Dale. All the way from Arizona!”
A bland, monotonous “hello” was all the welcome Phyllis received.

At the back of the class, positioned on a lone desk, was the tormented kid from before. He lifted his head slowly to observe Phyllis. All the cold blooded bitterness had seeped from his eyes; they were now a light, feverish green, veiled with an unreadable indifference that was chilling. He stared to the point of rudeness, forcing Phyllis to look away.
Ironically enough, the only free seat in the class was the unoccupied chair beside him.
Ms Shears, noticing the only absence, felt the smile fade from her face. Almost pleadingly, she scanned the class room for a kinder alternative. The chance of any other chair seemed to close in on itself, as Ms Shears paused, turning a hesitant eye to the wide eyed child who was scrutinising her choice with the behaviour of a panicked lamb in the company of wolves.
The green eyed boy obviously knew this. One bony little hand clenched his filthy rucksack in severe reluctance. His glare intensified as he lifted it from its place next to him, dropping it beside his desk with a heavy thud.

Ms Shears winced.

Without prompt, Phyllis gathered his things and embraced his so-called doomed fate. He walked over to the spare seat, not quite meeting the boy’s eyes, placed his bag beside the chair, and sat down. He waited for an introduction. None came.
Ms Shears's smile was almost apologetic. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the board to begin the lesson.
Though the boy next to him made a point of ignoring this newcomer, Phyllis could sense the kid’s weird, haunted presence. It seemed to stretch from across the wooden table, freezing the breath in his lungs with its terrible heaviness. The atmosphere was charged with some sort of intense energy, which prompted Phyllis’s discomfort and, so it seemed, the other children’s resentment. The lesson seemed to drag on, Ms Shears's voice becoming a droning buzz in the background. Phyllis wondered whether or not he was ready to test the waters, and get a better view of the boy seated next to him. During Ms Shears's babbling about Algebra, he turned his head over so silently to observe his new companion.

The boy was staring right at him. It was as if he had been waiting; merely daring Phyllis to attempt any interaction. Coyly cocking his head to the side, his lips twisted themselves into a knowing, vindictive smirk.
Phyllis felt suddenly rooted, at once, on the spot.

The light prick of worry dwelling in his belly transfigured itself into a complex coil of terror.

Break was one of those awkward, bumbling moments in your youth when you just want the world to mercifully swallow you whole. Upon being released from Maths, Phyllis Dale found himself bombarded with twenty seven little voices and searching eyes, asking numerous, probing questions in tones that ranged from empathic to teasing. He answered as best as he could, struggling with hidden meanings and tripping over his words. That mysterious boy, however, hung back, leant against the wall in the shade, away from the sunshine and noise. Though his face was empty, his eyes seemed to flash momentarily with relief that his classmates were occupied with something else beside his misery. On the other hand, the bite of his nails into his skin seemed to imply a jealousy about the attention being bestowed upon the new classmate. The boy’s eyes never left Phyllis, who couldn’t help catching his gaze.

The bell rang.

A girl with untidy pigtails near him sniffed.

“I feel so sorry for you, Dale. Sitting next to him.”

Whoever him was, he certainly posed an enigma. And an even greater enigma was offered upon his return to his desk. The lone boy sat away from him, completely still, yet there was an odd, fidgety strain present on his person, as if anticipating something exciting. And Phyllis was no genius, but he was pretty sure the cause of this excitement was the sloppily written note on his desk.

RULES TO SURVIVING ON DESK
1.DO NOT TALK TO FREDDY
2.KEEP ALL STUFF OFF MY SIDE OF THE DESK.
3.NEVER TELL ON FREDDY
4.DO NOT TOUCH FREDDY
5.WELCOME TO SPRINGWOOD. NOT!!!
Signed,
Freddy Krueger

“Freddy” Krueger (tired of trying to coax a reaction) shifted closer to Phyllis, those eyes of his now lined with spite. Phyllis tried and failed to move as far away as possible from the approaching danger, for Phyllis was no genius... he could see what was about to go down. A hand shot out and gripped his arm with surprising, iron clad strength, as two bony little fingers grasped the pink flesh on his wrist and twisted.

Phyllis bit back a whimper.

“All clear, now?” whispered Freddy, who seemed to possess a strangely gravelly voice for a child. Phyllis, feeling unwanted moisture building in his eyes, nodded in silence. Freddy smirked, releasing the pinch, but still grappling the boy’s wrist in what looked like a potential Chinese burn. Weakly, Phyllis attempted to kick for the boy’s shin...only to miss and clank sensitive toes against steel table legs.
He yelped, much to Freddy’s delight, who replied with a low, hissing chuckle.

Phyllis saw red.

“Well, at least I’m not the s-...”
Krueger flew back, is if burnt. The venom that had glowered so strongly in his face before began to return, darkening his features with a vile, pulsating hate. The grip on Phyllis’s arm became tighter. The rest of the class, hearing the argument and potential insult, perked up with the joyous opportunity for more mockery.
Freddy’s teeth were gritted.
“What am I?!”
Behind the black anger, there suddenly flashed a note of desperation. Not pleading, exactly, but a horrible hopelessness that cut Phyllis short.

Phyllis turned away, suddenly feeling sick. He leant back in his chair, inspecting his lap.
“Nothing.”
The shivering voltage in the class suddenly subsided. A few kids groaned in disappointment.
Confusion dominated Freddy’s face. Releasing Phyllis’s hand, he just stared at him.
Ms Shears entered arms full with textbooks. She beamed at Phyllis, who looked down, suddenly embarrassed. The afternoon lessons consisted of double English, much to his chagrin; though even dull Shakespeare couldn’t affect the consistent, puzzling stare of Freddy Krueger burning the back of his head.

The next day came far too quickly. The other children, obviously surprised at Phyllis’s display of conscience, just scrutinised the new boy with silent, judging eyes. There was nothing much they could tease Phyllis about. His face was ordinary enough, with dark blue eyes, and your basic, chestnut brown hair colour. His attire was normal; all common brands that his Mother bought for him. He was polite and quiet. The only ammunition they could acquire was that he sat next to Freddy Krueger, though in reality, it hadn’t been his choice to make. He was just like all of them; he had a mother who loved him, he was okay at most subjects, and enjoyed pretty much the same things they did. Except when it came to Krueger, it seemed.
Krueger awaited Phyllis’s return with an uncharacteristic relish. When the new boy took his seat beside him, Freddy noticed Phyllis’s brand new pen, sticking out of a freshly brought pencil case. It was a small, insignificant thing, but enough for Freddy to test this new boy; his new project, so to speak.
As Phyllis reached for it, it vanished from his pencil case. Freddy Krueger leant back on his chair, twirling it teasingly between his bony fingers. He wasn’t smiling. His face was an expressionless void, yet his eyes, as always, were thunderous and daring Phyllis to do anything about it.
Phyllis just stared at Krueger. As if he found the whole enterprise to be tiring, he sighed, and reached for an older pen.
“You can have it, if you want. I don’t think it works, though.”
Freddy’s reply was the same, twisted smirk from their first meeting.
“I guess....”
He suddenly leant in very close to Phyllis. He didn’t see the danger before it was too late.
“.....I could test it.”
Quick as a flash, the sharp tip of the pen was forced into Phyllis’s white flesh. Phyllis cried out, struggling to move, but Krueger’s hand grasped his wrist in a death grip. The tip pierced his skin, as Freddy “drew” a slow, jagged line down Phyllis’s arm, leaving a trail of blotched blood and ink. The pain evolved from stinging to intense, leaving Phyllis almost sobbing in protest. The other children rose from their seats to see what the fuss was about; one specific boy, with accusing eyes, began to advance on Freddy. If Freddy noticed, he didn’t care; he was too busy concentrating on his handiwork, as if concocting a masterpiece. His face was hardened with a dull sense of amusement; his mouth twitching into a sadistic smile.
Donald Thompson gripped Krueger in a headlock.
“Leave him alone, you freak!”
Krueger paused, quick little eyes darting to peer at Donald’s clamped fists. He dropped Phyllis’s hand, obviously irritated at having his work interrupted.
“The kid is such a baby. I was only playing with him.”
The hand that Freddy had just released did a rebound, and crashed into Krueger’s nose.

Detention.
On his second day.
Ms Shears had been oddly quick to sympathise with the messy situation. She hadn’t phoned his mother to tell her about his misfortune; only that he was helping with an after-school club, lovely, gentle boy that he was. It would certainly delight his Mother to think he was so involved with School life already. Freddy, however, was scolded with a solid telling off and a letter home. Somehow, Phyllis’s dramatic show of anger, or Ms Shears’s fury, didn’t deter his attitude at all. Though the whole woeful scenario, Freddy just fixed Phyllis with an almost goofy smirk, despite the blood fountain spurting from his nose. Occasionally, his attention would flit to the long, bloody cut on Phyllis’s arm, and though Phyllis didn’t want to believe it, it seemed Freddy looked upon it with a sort of accomplished pride.
They were alone in the classroom.
Ms Shears had left them to tidy the brushes. Or Phyllis to dutifully tidy the brushes. Freddy Krueger sat away from the working scene; his feet casually placed on the desk, alongside a lazy half smile being thrown, ever so often, in Phyllis’s direction.
Phyllis couldn’t believe this kid.
“Going to help?”
“No.”
Freddy whipped his legs off the desk.
“I’m going to clean out the hamster’s cage.”
Phyllis sniffed. Biting dislike grew in his chest.
“Good for you.”
A few moments passed. Phyllis was aware of a few shuffling squeaks. It seemed that Freddy was petting the hamster; he could even hear the breathy coo of his voice, soothing the animal. Something loosened in Phyllis’s chest. If he was kind to animals, maybe he wasn’t so....
Thunk.
A high pitched squeak became a pained shriek.
THUNK.
Phyllis felt his blood run cold.
A silence fell between the two boys. It seemed to strengthen, swell...Freddy said nothing. Phyllis made a nervous show with the brushes, placing them in colour order. A low snigger crept up behind him.
Soft, wet fur was suddenly pushed behind his ear.
Phyllis jumped back, knocking over paint pots and brushes, sending them clattering to the floor. The sticky guts of the creature lingered, warm and slimy, on the back of his head. Phyllis suddenly felt nauseous, reaching up a trembling finger to dislodge the mishmash of remains present on his neck. Krueger was watching him, grinning with joyful malice, as Phyllis brought his hand around to stare at the red, squishy moisture trailing down his fingers.
“Y-Y-You’re sick.”
Freddy responded with a genuine smile.
“Huh. I think I like you, Phil.”

Phil. It stuck as Phyllis’s new nickname, much to his annoyance, and was always used by his new “friend.” Freddy Krueger.
Freddy was no longer antisocial and cold. He was devious, talkative, and sadistic, not quite believing he had someone’s full attention for the first time in years. That dentition...though slow, was an hour that left Phyllis reeling. It was like someone had broken a sealed dam; Krueger refused to shut up, telling Phyllis in low tones about the ghastly secrets of the other children, what to look out for in Springwood, where to buy the best porn unnoticed, and how dreadful was that bowl cut, anyhow?
Phyllis just allowed the boy to talk. It saved his lungs, but also, he could not help but be fascinated by the weird, entertaining, disturbing rambles of that strange boy. Whether it was due to him holding back the triggering insult the day before, or punching an oddly delighted Krueger on the nose....he didn’t know. But Freddy seemed to think they had a connection, however small and invalid and fragile, and was taking this opportunity to exploit it in full.
The brushes were done. Phyllis just stood open-mouthed by Freddy, who was gesturing wildly about some cruel prank he had pulled the day before. As he moved, his green sweater lifted to reveal the bottom part of a deep, black bruise; about the size of an oak leaf, embedded on his skin in swirls of dark purple and dried blood. Phyllis felt his breath stolen for a moment, as his own fresh cut tingled on his arm. Krueger stilled, following Phyllis’s eyes to the cause of the sudden diverted stare.
Forgetting his story, Fred Krueger smirked, somewhat bitterly, at Phyllis.

Phyllis settled down at Springwood. Throughout the following weeks, he opened up to the children and gradually began to make friends. Some Lunch and Break times, he would play tag or board games with the other children on the grass, as Fred Krueger sat alone, away, as usual. But other times, he would be beckoned into the shade by his new friend...to partake in typical, kid-like conversation or be shown a naughty picture ripped from a magazine, or on occasion, a razor blade stolen from Krueger’s father.
It was on one of these occasions that Freddy made an interesting proposition.
“Hey,” he whispered, hushing his voice in a way that he knew always caught Phyllis’s attention, “Wanna have a test on who is the bravest?”
Phyllis narrowed his eyes. He was brave, surely.
He crossed his arms in a way he hoped looked satisfyingly manly.
“Do your worst.”
Freddy grinned devilishly at this. He reached out to hold, with an uncharacteristic gentleness, Phyllis’s wrist, reminiscent of if he was about to pet a small animal. Phyllis felt his face pale. He knew what was coming. Freddy was in one of his moods.
Freddy twiddled the razor teasingly in front of Phyllis’s face.
“Now, don’t scream.”

Phyllis was usually confronted about why he was friends with Krueger, a closet psychopathic loner who enjoyed hurting small animals and causing fights. Phyllis usually responded with an almost apologetic grin. The truth was, he didn’t know. He couldn’t explain why he was drawn to Freddy so much; sometimes, the guy was fine, as simple and enjoyable as any other kid, albeit with a more haunted glint in his eye. But there were other times; times with razors and wicked whispers and malicious sniggers, but even beneath that, pulsed something deep and untouchable that was wicked, twisted...yet throbbing with a dark, magnetic charisma. Wrong to say, but Freddy Krueger was addictive.
Time plodded on. Boys grew taller, their voices deepened. Girls developed distracting curves and a bizarre maturity. They got spots and fluff for beards and awkward hormones, with chests that were too big or too small and every sentence began to end in innuendo.
Freddy Krueger grew taller still. Though not built like a brick house, he began to develop wiriness in his lanky frame that implied speed and surprising strength. His dull blonde hair blossomed into a cherry red, his features strengthening into an unusual, characteristic face. His eyes were too erratic, too bulging and mean spirited to be considered handsome, and once when he had been a silent, solemn child, the blackly witty traits that Phyllis had seen just begin to surface seemed to overtake his older, twitching self. He moved with a swift, almost supernatural, discerning elegance that prickled people’s skin, as his main facial trait became that chilling, knowing grin.
Phyllis still saw Freddy around. Though new classes and new teachers dictated the changed routine (no more disquieting talks in the shade) Freddy still watched Phyllis with that almost quizzical stare from their first meeting. Krueger was still bullied, worse than before, it seemed; older boys used fists and insults...but its effect seemed dulled, as Freddy seemed to welcome the new attention with darkening eyes and sneers etched in hate. Though Phyllis had dealt before with Freddy’s.....moods, so to speak, he had never been a victim of Freddy’s berserk button; the old taunt, Son of A Thousand Maniacs.
Phyllis grew up as well. He was normal in every aspect; his eyes were naturally gentle, and his manner was refined. He inherited from his absent father just about average good looks, which got him the eye of a pretty potential girlfriend, Jenny. Life at fifteen just seemed...normal for him.
He still, at times, met with Krueger, at his friends’ protests and Jenny’s distaste. Or more accurately, Krueger met with him...being somewhat famous for darting uninvited into his house and snuffling his food.
Like this particular night.
“You’re always hungry,” said Phyllis, sighing at the scene in front of him. Freddy, juggling a can of soda and a pot of pickles, pulled himself from the embrace of the fridge, and grinned at him. Despite this, Phyllis noted how thin Krueger actually was...his clothes was practically hanging on him. Just above his friend’s collar bone were fresh bruises, each one darker then the last. Phyllis felt a stab of guilt.
“You don’t need it.”
As usual, that was his friend’s reply. Phyllis didn’t need that new top. Or this specific record, or toilette. Or this food or his lunch money. Phyllis didn’t always give in. But the majority of the time, he was indulgent of Krueger and his quirks. It was an indulgence no one else imitated and an indulgence others resented. He liked Freddy. The guy’s black, pitiless wit and abstract view of the world was refreshing in the small town mentality of Springwood, with its perfect white picket fences and painfully smiling housewives, and fathers that smoked pipes in old arm chairs with folded papers and brown slippers. Krueger was interesting.
And ridiculously lecherous.
“You fucked Jenny yet?”
Phyllis rolled his eyes at this charming display. “Hell, Fred, I haven’t even kissed her yet.”
Krueger groaned in feigned disappointment.
“Damn it, Phil. Look, if you ever get seriously gagging for it, just call me and I’ll dock the girl with alcohol. Make her nice and lenient.”
Vague amusement seemed to trickle into discomfort. Despite himself, Freddy’s hard laugh at his own comment seemed to unsettle Phyllis.
“God, you’re immoral.”
He murmured the comment more to himself then Freddy.
Freddy’s eyes brightened at the compliment. “Well, I try. Hey...” he cocked his head hopefully to the fridge. “You got any peanuts? I just love peanuts.”


It was a night in his sixteenth year. It was during the summer, where school was out and so the long, hot, humid days were full of irritable, small town teens with nothing to do but lay on dopily on the scorched grass, wishing the heat and time away. It had been a ridiculously warm summer, leaving the oxygen weighted with prickling, sharp, suffocating caresses that tormented the senses into a frenzy of forbidden thoughts and feelings that seemed oddly premature. They were right in saying it was summers like this which the most young people lost their virginity. Phyllis deemed it was less about the climate, and more about the awful boredom facing them all in the coming weeks.
Phyllis was up working on summer homework. It was midnight, and the heat had cooled enough to a dozy, comfortable lull of its former self. His mother was away visiting relatives, so all was dark and still in the old house. The silence seemed to drift, thickening throughout the crumbling brickwork, crawling in ; draping the atmosphere with a muskiness and unearthliness that caused the hair on Phyllis's neck to raise. Ignoring it, he turned to finish his essay.
The window was suddenly thrown open.
Phyllis leapt about ten feet in the air, knocking over pens and papers. Their clatter, for a fleeting moment, made him recall smashing paint pots.
His eyes widened.
“You!”
Freddy Krueger struggled though the tiny gap in the window, staring at Phyllis with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Phyllis could just about make out the red and green stripes of a faded sweater against the dark blue of the night sky; for a moment, Krueger looked almost ethereal, silhouetted against that dense blackness. His growling voice broke the effect.
“Keep your knickers on, Phil. It’s just me.”
Though the moonlight raking his room, Phyllis could just about make out the purpose of Freddy's visit. A deep, messy gash had been inflicted down the side of Krueger's face, as if he had been struck by a heavy belt with the buckle still attached. And that wasn't everything.
Freddy's eyes were burning.
Phyllis groaned, rising to aid his friend with an outstretched hand. With a snarl, Krueger caught his foot on the ledge and tumbled-right into Phyllis, sending them both sprawling down, Freddy being heavier then he looked. Phyllis’s senses tightened with the sudden, unwanted proximity. The warmth increased on his skin, making him feel grimy and uncomfortable.
If Fred noticed, he didn’t say.
Krueger got to his feet, staring at his surroundings with unusual relief. This didn’t last long. As if barely believing his luck, he threw himself down on Phyllis’s couch, propping muddy boots on the cleaned chair arm, arching like a content cat with fresh milk.
“I had a fight with my old man. So, I thought...”
He flashed an expectant smile at Phyllis.
“I would come here. Your Mom isn’t around, is she?”
Phyllis resumed his seat at his desk, tapping his pen in resigned, semi-bemused suffering. He was glad that Freddy had fallen back into his old, care free self, even if it was false. However, he was still hyper aware of the shaking, morbid aura soaking up the oxygen surrounding Freddy; the grim, almost sorrowful tension in his eyes still smouldered strongly, as if daring Phyllis to drive him out. As if he could.
“You know she isn’t, Fred.”
Krueger fidgeted in annoyance. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to make my own sandwich. Hey, could I...” The young man paused, hesitating, as if tasting the words in his mouth. Freddy never asked anything of anyone, ever. “....stay the night? We could hang out. Watch specific channels, if you know what I mean...”
“You can stay, Freddy.”
A silence followed.
Phyllis stilled, his pen frozen in position on the paper.
“Thanks.”
It was quiet, and gruff, and strangely groggy.
When Phyllis turned back around five minutes later, the boy in the green and red sweater was fast asleep.
It was one o’clock when Phyllis finally turned in.
Slipping into his bed, he eyed the still slumbering form of Krueger. The young man hadn’t moved; fragmented moonlight streamed on his face, making his pale features seem otherworldly and opaque. The cut had begun to scab; taking on the guise of a long, clumsy, stodgy line of broken skin and trauma. The glint of a razor in his pocket shone warily in the twilight.
Feeling spontaneously exhausted, Phyllis slipped between his covers and let night claim his senses.

It claimed his senses until an hour later.
A shuffling shape in the shadows pried him reluctantly out of sleep. The room was stuffy, suffocating, hot; as if the angry sun had projected her boiling rays to replace the easy, cool soothe of the moon.
The couch was empty.
Blinking sleep from his eyes, Phyllis observed the absence with a sudden stab of panic. His flesh was clammy, an uncomfortable blend of shaking anxiety and heated fever.
The bulk of a large body enveloped him from behind. Phyllis forced down a cry, as the sharp tip of a razor teased the back of his thigh.
“Shhhhhhh....”
A low, rusty chuckle echoed in his eyes, coaxing a shiver.
“Freddy, what the fuck are you o-....”
The razor pressed deeper, just hard enough to initiate a stinging, shallow scrape. Phyllis fell silent.
He could feel the tangible smirk gracing Krueger’s lips.
A spare hand tiptoed to Phyllis’s bare chest, slowing drawing experimental circles with the light tips of his fingers. The touch made Phyllis’s insides quiver; as if to contrast this unbearably tender action, the razor sunk a little deeper into the back of the young man’s leg. Phyllis hissed, refusing to scream, to allow any display of weakness to quell Freddy’s enjoyment. Instead, he closed his eyes and forced himself to think of Jenny, of childish games, of school and homework and summer and heat...blistering, throbbing heat, like blood that clots upon kissing the air, and electric energy, that rockets and twirls and screeches in your veins...
The hand moved lower, lapsing into Phyllis’s boxers.
Now, that was too much.
Incensed, Phyllis began to thrash against Freddy’s hold; ignoring the razor and trying his very best to displace Krueger’s hand. Calmly, the razor was retracted from Phyllis’s leg, instead resting against the pulsing vein of the man’s neck. Phyllis felt his limbs freeze. A laugh floated up behind him as the spare hand began to stroke.
It was abnormally gentle, so out of character for Freddy, who sensed the growing fury and confusion binding Phyllis’s form.
“Come on Phil, aren’t you curious?”
Phyllis went to shake his head in complete denial, when a sudden shock of pleasure caused his legs to tremble. With a sickening twist in his stomach, he realised he was hard.
Having noted this, Krueger’s strokes became longer, slower, more drawn out, almost painful in their merciless dilatoriness. Phyllis writhed, trying to retreat from the knife threatening his main jugular and that accursed hand continuing it’s slow, wanting assault.
“It’s not about sex,” spat Phyllis, though gritted teeth. “I-It’s about power.”
“Good baby,” came the snarling reply, heavy with arousal and repressed anger and sadistic glee. “Pain is like pleasure. Pleasure is like pain. Pain is...” -Another rough jerk, nearly tipping Phyllis over the edge-“Pleasure. If you endure pain, you can learn to control it. And with it, you can control others.”
The razor blade twisted, and sliced a shallow gash down Phyllis’s chest. Fresh, warm blood bubbled to the surface, causing Phyllis to groan and yelp; the mix of pleasure and pain seemed to intensify; Phyllis saw stars and colours and sounds, as if somehow he had been elevated off the bed itself.
“I’m causing you pain by giving you pleasure,” came the murky, sneering whisper behind him. “You don’t want this. But I. Am. Making. You. Want. This.”
“What is this, then?” quipped Phyllis harshly, “Your summer project?”
“Idiot. You’ve always been my special project.”
“You sick son of a...FREDDY!!!...”
A building sensation gripped him in its fiery, grasping embrace, and drove him over the edge into a crashing crescendo of feeling and pleasure and hatred and pity and pain.
He came.
The blinding effect of his orgasm clenched and spent his limbs; dirtying his boxers and ebbing out into the throbbing sting of the crusting cut on his chest. Exhaustion seized his muscles once more; he couldn't help but teeter on the edge of a crushing, helpless sleep. A deep, manic crackle, sounding almost subhuman, seemed to fade as the warm body melted away from Phyllis, to elope and mingle in the shadows until there was nothingness, just the gentle breeze billowing his curtains and the dull ring of crickets singing outside his window.
The next morning, his couch was empty. The moisture and pus from his wound had trickled into a bloody mess on the mangled sheets of his bed, that smelt of sex and shameful sweat. Phyllis shifted in the early morning sun; silently, he rose from his sleeping abode and entered the bathroom. Upon such swift movement, his legs began to buckle in protest; he caught himself on the sink, breathing hard, arms braced on the porcelain in a aid to steady himself. His reflection peered back at him with bleary, haunted eyes. His brown hair was tousled; his blue eyes red from a deep, all consuming slumber and his cheeks gaunt; pale with some unknown fever. The clamminess of his skin crashed into his stomach, sending him heaving to the toilet.
Phyllis Dale was violently sick.

Autumn came too quickly, with its freeing, chilly winds, chasing the engulfing embrace of possessive summer to another corner of the globe. School started again, a relieving distraction from the sordid events of the past holiday. Phyllis had made a point of not seeing Krueger though the rest of those few weeks; instead, he befriended the level headed, serious Donald Thompson, who was as generic and as safe as they came. He was dating the local lush, a beautiful cheerleader called Marge. Donald and his group discussed work, girls and future careers. They were a nice bunch, though heavily affected by the small town mentality, and seemed content with the small little lives that their destinies dictated.
Krueger hated him for this.
Phyllis knew. In the blurry recesses of his memory, he recalled his first glimpse of his future neighbours; a crowd of taunting, smug little faces circling the oddball that had, and was, Freddy Krueger. Phyllis battled his guilt; keeping it at bay with his memory of that lone, mysterious evening.....
“If you endure pain, you can learn to control it. And with it, you can control others. I'm causing you pain by giving you pleasure. You don’t want this. But I. Am. Making. You. Want. This.”
The quizzical stare transformed over night into Krueger's famous death glares, that hounded his back whenever he moved though the corridors. It seemed to pulsate with a stronger, more personal edge then the others; a fearsome frustration at being ignored and, even worse, forgotten. Krueger no longer visited Phyllis's house; instead, he took to leaning against the old, creaking gate late at night, in the cold, nipping weather of early winter, fixing his eyes on Phyllis's window with a terrible, almost tragic expectation.
The night he stopped coming was the night that his father died.
It was buzzing around the school the next day with the speed of a road runner on acid. The locker rooms vibrated with the hushed whispers of the unexpected “death” what looked like suicide; the drunken fool had gone bonkers and driven a razor though his left eye, apparently. The chattering whispers snapped to an anticipating quiet upon the arrival of Freddy Krueger; who looked strangely elated, as if he had discovered something marvellous, transcendental, about the previous night. Truth be told, he'd never looked happier, and this disturbed Phyllis.
This time, it was Freddy who caught Phyllis gawking at him. As if reading his thoughts, a slow, sneaking smirk grew across his face, spreading from ear to ear with an almost devilish malevolence.
Phyllis visibly shuddered.
That night, Freddy Krueger was pressed up against his window, demonic sneer stitched into place, his features squished almost comically against the glass; its surface misting with his deep, deliberate breaths. His eyes flared with a sick, cruel need to hurt; it crept into Phyllis's mind, and drowned him in a sinking pool of horror.
He awoke from his nightmare, screaming blue murder; his Mother burst into his bedroom, only to be confronted by her babbling, sobbing mess of a son. For the first time in years, she rocked him like an infant, trying to soothe and frighten away the invisible monsters plaguing his waking hours.
Over time, Krueger developed an acidic politeness and indifferent front to shield himself from the dismissive remarks of his past tormentors. Phyllis remained his friend; his only friend, and for a few years, things seemed....fine. Despite it all, he forced himself to forget the crawling darkness he had once seen swelling within his friend; again, he came to enjoy Krueger's company, basking once more in his black, contagious humour, and they passed the hours watching the game or discussing various topics.
Phyllis began to go steady with Jenny, his pretty girlfriend, who became his blushing, conventional wife. Krueger finally married a stuttering, plain yet sweet natured woman called Loretta, who seemed to shake more then stand in his presence. She seemed to acknowledge Phyllis with simpering, doe eyes, as if pleading with him to save her.
Her eyes haunted his dreams.
Krueger disliked his wife.
“You know, Phyllis,” he said once, in the shade of his friend's garage. “Maybe I should have married you instead of that bitch. I like you a lot better.”
He would then stand close, too close, projecting his hot breath on the nape of Phyllis's neck. His eyes would brighten with sick joy at his friend's barely concealed discomfort; twitching, almost questioning fingers would scamper across his flesh, leaving goose pimples in their wake. Krueger was becoming restless, it seemed, bored with his pregnant wife and the idle talk of the small town clouding his vision. Phyllis empathised; in truth, he hated Springwood. Every single inch of its picket fences. He hated it all.
He tried to convince Jenny to move. She just laughed, shaking her pretty head, unable to understand why anyone would wish to leave such a mini slice of domestic heaven.
He mentioned it once, though fleetingly, to Krueger.
Iron fingers had cut the blood supply to his wrist.
“You wouldn't leave your old buddy, Freddy, now?” He was smiling but his beady eyes were poisonous. “Because if you did, Phyllis, I would have to punish you.”

Loretta gave birth to a little girl. Small, cute, with downy brown hair on her head and Bambi brown eyes to match. She had the small, fragile attractiveness of Loretta, but she was as much Freddy's daughter as an oyster was to a shark. Phyllis would have questioned her parentage if such a question wouldn't have prompted a possible, vicious attack on the part of poor Loretta.

It was three weeks after this event that the children started to go missing.