Title: Nightmare Ring

Author: Kora

E-mail: [email protected] or [email protected]

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The following a character belong to Wes Craven, Gore Verbinski and all the other people and companies who deal with all that legal stuff. I am simply using the characters for my own twisted enjoyment.

Author's Notes: I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I wrote this. This is, without a doubt, the sickest most twisted piece I've ever done. I am actually mortified, but when a good idea comes I don't pass it up, no siree bob. I was trying to think of a good match for Freddy in my fear department and could only think of one and, ironically enough, she'd be a good match for him in the worst ways possible, especially when you take into fact that even Wes Craven himself has mentioned that Freddy was not only a child killer but a pedophile. I doubt anyone will read this, much less review it though, so I guess there are no worries. With that said, please take caution and read the special warnings listed below:

WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE/GORE

WARNING: CHILD DEATH

EXTREME WARNING: MENTIONS OF/SOME PEDOPHILIA

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Prologue

The sun was setting low in the sky near the edge of Shelter Mountain. It gleamed especially strong through the leaves of a tree nearby, casting out an eerie red light that resembled blood. Behind this, in the remnants of a destroyed cabin, sat an old stone well that jutted up from the ground like a tombstone.

It was dark and crumbled; vines wrapped around its exterior, clinging to it like twisted limbs. Moss grew out of its crevices and its stone top rested to one side, slightly cracked.

There were no sounds anywhere - which was strange considering so many forests were near by. But it was silent. Deathly silent. No birds, no insects, no animals…nothing dared to disturb the peace as if, innately, all life knew what rested down in the bottom of the well.

For far beneath the surface, even though her body had been removed and buried long ago, an evil waited, resting with bated breath. It rose only when someone was foolish enough to dare and watch a particular tape.

A seemingly innocent video that once viewed with human eyes declared death upon its owner. She had created it from her soul, a seed of her darkness that was to be spread about the world, among its populace like a disease.

For she had always wondered, in life and now in death, why she should be the only one to suffer? They had told her when she was very young that she was different…strange.

They didn't understand. No one ever would. The blonde, Rachel, had tried and failed. She had given useless empathy and pity but she had not understood.

The things she saw in her mind, the horrible images…she had to hurt people, she wanted to and sometimes she was sorry…only sometimes. And so she had created her video, her masterpiece, and had spread her images so she was not the only one. So that everyone would suffer.

And so she rested until one day there was sound. The crunching of feet on ground as the sun set even lower into the sky, the blood light from the leaves now cast perfectly on the well as if shrouding it from view. But the feet only drew nearer. And there was another sound…the sound of metal clanging together, the soft whisper of blades.

The blades whizzed out, dancing across the stone edge of the well with a loud clatter that sent up a small wave of sparks. There was a smoky laugh and the claws tapped rhythmically on the stone edge before drawing back.

A man appeared over the edge of the well, looking down. His face was horribly burned, his head covered by a beat-up old fedora. He wore an old, tattered red and green sweater and on one hand he had a leather glove, its fingers made from long, sharp knives.

A gravely voice spoke up, echoing down the well, "Time to wake up, down there!"

There was no answer coming up from the well and another laugh merely reverberate down as he snarled, "Come and play with Freddy."

At first there yet again appeared to be no response when suddenly there was a low rumbling sound. Freddy cocked his ear to one side, bringing it close to the open well. The sound grew closer and he drew back quickly.

Water bubbled up from the well, pouring on to the ground. It was almost as if the ancient tomb was vomiting, liquid pouring out if its mouth and on to the earth. It continued to pour upwards for several moments, soaking the ground then, as quickly as it began, it stopped.

There was nothing but silence and Freddy watched with twitching fingers, blades swishing together anxiously. His eyes narrowed, frustrated when suddenly a tiny, pale hand clutched to the lip of the well.

It was followed by a long, wet, slinky mass of dark hair. Another hand emerged; resting near its twin and slowly a dark head arose. A small girl pulled herself up and out of the well. Her white dress clung to her body - torn and sopping wet. She fell to her hands and knees, crawling out of the well as if the act was almost painful. Her fingers were curled, as if claws and dug at the fresh earth.

She rose to her feet and stood for a few moments, her wave of long dark hair obscuring her face from view. An evil gleam took Freddy's eye, as well as a twisted smile that showed his rotten teeth as she stood a few feet before him. In a flash she moved, right before him. Even he was taken aback by her swift movement.

Her hair parted and all he could see was a graying eye - one that spoke deeply of evil in its purest form. But, naturally being of the same stock himself, he was unaffected, instead merely cackling with amusement.

"Sorry, death glare isn't going to work."

The little girl, apparently not expecting this, took a step back and looked him over. He was several years her senior and she seemed to finally notice his face. Her hair fell back in place over her face, the graying eye hidden beneath its depth.

When she spoke, her voice sounded as if it was coming from far away, static messing with its reception, "You're all ready dead."

"Bingo, give the kid a prize," Freddy hissed, as if bored.

The girl did not react to him. Instead she continued, her voice devoid of any feeling, "Why are you here?"

"I've searched the bowels of hell for others who could be of…assistance to me. I've come across a few…one who failed me miserably and then there's you."

"What do you want with me?"

Freddy actually knelled down to her height, his hands behind his back, "I know all about you, Samara, I like your work. I really do. I especially like what you do to 'em. Their faces…priceless."

Samara was silent again, then, in another flash of movement, her hand was on his face. He was once more startled by the quickness of her movement as well as the action. Still, her hand touched his face as images flashed before her eyes.

It opened with blood and the ripping of flesh, bloody hunks of meat and muscle, sinew, bones and organs. She saw children - some her age, some older - boys, girls…there was no difference. She saw them fall before him.

She saw his razors sink deep into flesh, she saw blood erupting like a geyser from a bed, saw human faces struggling under the flesh on his chest, saw his mouth elongate and swallow a girl whole. Him burning atop a woman, clawing at her as she struggled. Another girl dragged across a ceiling, a boy's veins ripped out and used as marionette strings.

She dug deeper and Freddy could feel it. He knew what she was doing as she picked and pried her way through his mind and memories. He went to pull back but found himself stuck in place, as if a strength greater than him was in charge. This caused his demonic eyes to widen, whether in fear or shock it was impossible to tell as the little girl continued to hold him in place with one hand.

She saw him alive - with a family. She saw the wife murdered at his own hand, saw his daughter run. He lured children to his side - young children. He was seductive, kind. He offered them such wonderful things - toys, dolls, candy and they came with him happily, trustingly.

Boys, girls…once again, it didn't matter…though little girls seemed to be his favorite. This time they were young, all of them and he was alive and laughing, unburned and glorious, celebrating in his success.

He held the children down in his boiler room or his cellar and he would touch them, smell their hair. Sometimes they'd fight and sometimes they'd cry but most of the time they were too afraid to do anything but let him have his way.

Then, when he'd had his fill, abated whatever he hoped to achieve, he would pull out the glove and he would slash them wide open, killing a few instantly, torturing others. Slicing. Dicing. Shredding children to ribbons and all the while he was gleeful.

Then the Springwood parents came and burned him alive. She did not see this time, but actually felt the fire - the burning, the scalding heat.

Her hand fell away to her side. Limp and lifeless. Freddy was still kneeling before her, waiting for her again and his patience was yet again rewarded with her voice, "I've seen what you do with…children. You can't hurt me. I don't dream. I never sleep."

"That's just it," Freddy tried to purr but came up more with a growl, "I don't want to hurt you. I'd never dream of hurting you. You're what I've always wanted, don't you see? That's why I came to you. I want you to be a child of my very own. They are all my children, of course, but you'd be special. You'd be mine. My own, understand?"

There was yet again no response at first, finally Samara 'spoke' again. This time her voice was clearer and seemed to project inside his very mind, asking a question for the first time in her dead life, "Yours?"

"Its all about the dreams, Samara. We both use the dreams to draw them in. We both use the fear. We make them afraid but they can forget, I've seen them forget and when they do, we're gone. But together, we'll make them remember. What do you say?"

He removed one hand from behind his back, the ungloved one, and held it out to her. Her head turned as if she was staring at it, then the voice came in his mind again, "Your other hand, please."

Freddy's smile grew even worse as he held out his gloved hand. Samara's fingers reached out, playing over the blades. They did not cut her porcelain white skin, instead merely caressing them with cold, damp fingers. Freddy pulled the hand back, his claws reaching out and parting Samara's hair, revealing her face.

It was molted from water, bulbous and poached with veins sticking out brightly, skin ghastly greenish white and eyes an ugly gray. Freddy clucked his tongue in disapproval, "You have such a lovely face, you shouldn't hide behind your hair."

Something of a smile came across Samara's face, like flesh ripping open to form a new wound, grisly green teeth showing. Freddy laughed and snipped at a chunk of hair, drawing it under his nose and inhaling it deeply. His eyes rolled upward and then he edged forward swiftly, languidly licking the side of her face.

A childish giggle burst from somewhere and when he drew away Samara looked as she had when she was alive, pale skin fresh and unmarked, dark, bottomless eyes dead and flat but a tiny, malicious grin on her tiny pink lips. Freddy shrugged, "Whatever. I got what I want."

With that he rose to his feet and let his clawed hand dangle. Samara obediently took hold and together they walked off hand in claw. Freddy laughed as he spoke down to her, remarking, "I can all ready hear the screaming."

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Author's Notes: I got such a lovely response with the first half I thought what the heck, I'll write more…I mean, after I wrote the last fic (which I had intended as a one-shot) I must admit many an idea on how to extend it did brew in my mind.

I'm always worried about characterization you know, worried I'm writing Freddy all wrong but Lindsey Vesperry a.k.a A Nightmare On Water Street read my story and considering her fic 'League of Slayers' and another authoress, Nephthys Jeckel, were my inspiration to write Freddy fic I figured it'd be okay for me to continue, like a green light that I'm not doing all too bad. That in mind, here are a few more warnings…

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR FREDDY VS. JASON

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Chapter 1

The little girl's voice sang quietly, the words were hard to understand as they were uttered so quietly but the melody was still there…a haunting, lilting kind of song that could send shivers up someone's spine.

The girl's tiny body was swaying from side to side as she continued singing to herself, her hair covering her face completely, making it impossible to determined what kind of expression she may have been making…what was happening beneath the makeshift veil.

Considering her current surroundings it wouldn't be hard to imagine that she should have had some kind of reaction. She stood in the middle of what appeared to be a large abandoned boiler room.

Everything around her was bathed in red light and distracting noises kept sounding off every few seconds - the hiss of steam, the rumbling of fire captured inside metal, and then of course there was the scrapping.

Scrapping?

Metal on metal?

That sound was actually rather new and Samara heard it through her song. She stopped, her head titling to one side slightly. She turned and behind her stood Freddy, his clawed hand raking along a metal pipe nearby.

As usual, there was no reaction from the child aside from her merely turning away from him, as if bored by his appearance. The singing began up again as he approached closer to her.

He towered behind her and she gave no inclination as to whether she felt it much less cared, continuing on with her song. Suddenly something clattered to the floor before her. The song stopped abruptly again, as she seemed to look down to see what he had dropped at her feet.

It was a cracked china doll, its porcelain skin encrusted with soot and its glass eyes long since removed. It had a few tufts of singed hair but its dress was torn and bearly on. It was strange to say that it looked almost sad in its state, its' once happily painted face now a mirror image.

A gruff voice sounded behind her, merely muttering, "It's for you."

At first she did nothing but eventually Samara bent down and gathered the broken doll in her arms, cradling it close. There were still no words spoken as Freddy continued to stand behind her, as if waiting for something…

For a long time there was no movement by either until Samara seemed to bend, turning to him, her voice sounded deep inside his mind. It was not necessarily a thank you but merely a whisper of sound; once again similar to the static heard when a television was on the fritz.

However, he seemed satisfied as he turned on his heels and walked away. Samara continued to hold the doll close and turned back towards the furnace door she'd been facing. She wasn't entirely sure what Freddy's plans were for her exactly. He had not mentioned them since he had brought her here, into his dream realm.

He was showing her a measure of patience that, she knew from having picked inside his mind, was not characteristic of him. He was also being almost…kind. Gentlemanly would be a more appropriate term. She could tell that there was restrained anger beneath his burned flesh, an unabated need to torture and kill that for some reason he was not attempting to take out on her.

And she knew he wanted to. It was his weakness, the need to cause pain in others. Especially little girls and considering she was one, or rather, in the form of one, his abstaining was rather curious. True, she was dead and he could not truly do her permanent damage but there was much he could do if he wished it.

There were many, many ways to hurt a tangible dead spirit and in essence that was what she was. In some ways, so was he, especially if drawn out into the real world. Her thoughts drifted to the masked one she'd seen. Her mind scan had been through, though there had been some moments she had taken as accessory notes, things that had been of certain significance.

The boy getting sucked into the bed was one.

The girl's head getting jammed into the television set was another.

She imagined these were most noteworthy not by her own standards, but by Freddy's. When she had been in his mind, looking through it, pulling out all his secrets as she learned about him those particular memories had been highlighted for her to see.

They had been imaginative deaths that he had been particularly proud of for whatever reason. After all, if there was one thing she had discovered about him it was that his ego was another weakness. Nothing worse than vanity, especially when it was broken.

And the masked one, who had stood out whether Freddy had wished it or no, had done so. When he had come to her, he had mentioned others he'd seen. This one with the mask…Jason…he was one of them.

Freddy, in his normal egotistical way, had been proud at his devised plan to use Jason to kill for him, to bring him back into strength and power but this plan had back fired, both humiliating and angering him. Because once the zombie king had started killing, he refused to stop and if there was one thing Freddy despised more than being wrong it was having his victims taken away.

And so there had been a battle with Jason more the victor and she could only assume this was why Freddy was acting this way around her. At the well he had told her he didn't want to hurt her, that he'd never dream of doing such a thing but she knew that had been a lie.

He could hurt her, he wanted to hurt her but because of the Jason incident he refused to hurt her because he didn't want another set back. He could wait this time until he got what he needed - full power.

And he needed her to do that, she was his key, he couldn't afford merely using her, if she found out she was being used she would have been angry and chosen to fight back, just like Jason, thus causing him trouble all over again.

No, he had learned from his mistakes for the most part. He wasn't going to toss her around like a mere pawn but he wasn't going to let her go easily either.

Instead, he was offering her something more along the lines of a partnership. As much as it sickened him, he had to do so in order to get his way. With that in mind, he was playing the Mr. Nice Guy routine for all it was worth until she got whatever it was she wanted and agreed to help him, caved in essentially.

Her leaving the well with him hadn't been enough permission, she realized. He needed more. Needed her to ask him how she could help him, what she could do - what should she do in order to free him and return him to full power. Which brought her to her own questions.

Why had she gone with him?

Why had she left the well, her home, and gone to his side?

It wasn't like she needed him, she was a successful, powerful killer. A vengeful spirit who had been working with no problems whatsoever since her death.

Sure, Rachel had gotten away but the fail-safe she had added to the tape made it so that the only way to free yourself from her grasp was by damning your soul, by making copies of the tape and spreading death.

So while Rachel and her kid had not died, someone else would in their stead, she still got to kill. Unlike Freddy, she needed nothing to fuel her, save her anger and poor souls viewing her tape.

So what was her reasons for being here?

What did she want?

There had been his flattery, of course. The things he had said to her at the well…she tried to convince herself that she had only bought them because it had been so long since she had heard any, but that was not true. She had taken to it because she had never heard any.

Her adopted mother, Anna, had tried but failed. Hell, she had stuck her in a barn with the horses for Christ's sake and then Rachel…well, she'd clung to her skeleton and been all weepy-eyed for her but deep down she hadn't really cared, hadn't given a fuck at all really. She'd just been relieved at 'solving' the mystery, thinking herself and her creepy brat safe.

So it was his words that had drawn her in…he was, in some ways, charismatic. Probably why it was so easy for him to crop up in people's dreams by the mere mention of his name. That and the fear, naturally, it's own addictive quality.

And then she remembered him smelling her hair, licking her face…like one of his children. His victims.

And for the first time in her entire existence, alive or dead, she almost shivered with emotion.

She may have died as a child but she knew much about the world, almost too much at times. He had, in some ways, regarded children with much more than mere killing desire but also with sexual desire despite the fact that young children not even ten had no real experience or privy to these kinds of feelings.

It didn't matter to him however - five, seven, eight, nine-year-olds…he hungered for them in a lecherous way that was naturally sick, immoral, and disturbing to most sane individuals.

But then, Samara couldn't quite be considered sane - not when she was alive, nor now when she was dead. And while she didn't claim to understand the reasoning behind his feelings she couldn't necessarily condemn them either.

In truth she did not feel this way or that about the whole thing. Why should she?

So he liked to mess around with kids - kiss them, fuck them, kill them. Whatever. It was of no consequence to her. The only part of it that gave her pause was…well, the feelings.

Considering she had not grown up she never did quite understand those kinds of feelings. The feelings one had when the lights were off. Those feelings one had when kissing another, touching another….she had never gotten to that point, that stage, she had been denied it because she had been killed. Murdered. And by the mother who was supposed to love her no less.

She had never grown up and thus never gotten to experience what it could be like. In some ways, she almost envied the teenagers she had killed. At least they had gotten a chance to experience something that was supposedly so great…

Not that she was about to wax poetic about love and romance. Those things were dead. Beneath the hair her lip curled upward in a sneer as she took a firm grip of the doll's head and began twisting it, her movements ragged as her thoughts kept thundering on.

Those things weren't real, they were fleeting pieces of shit - no - pain, anger, blood…those things were real and they were eternal. The images she saw in her head told her so. Darkness, devastation, mutilation, horror…those were the building blocks of life.

Her fingers dug into the scalp of the doll, clutching like sharp hooks as she continued twisting, its' neck making tiny sounds of resistance.

The images showed her the truth and when she had tried to share it with people what did she get for her trouble? Time locked up in a psychiatric ward against her will and eventual murder at the hands of the woman who was supposed to be her mother, who was supposed to show her those wonderful, trifling lies that life was supposed to be full of.

Damn the living!

Damn them to hell!

They had to suffer, they all had to suffer, everyone had to…

The doll's neck made one last feeble squeal, as if the toy itself was crying out in agony, then it surrendered, the head snapping off loudly. Samara's own head bent downwards, as if looking at the destroyed doll in her hands. Her hand was squeezing the decapitated skull of the doll; the glass beneath each fingertip slightly cracked from the pressure she had exerted on it.

The body was whole but its limbs limp, as if knowing its head had been removed and it was supposed to be lifeless…dead. She looked at the doll and knew this is how she wanted everyone who was alive to be. She wanted them all dead at her hands, wanted them all stretched and broken.

They had taken her life, her chance to experience every thing fully, her chance to grow up, to have feeling to maybe even try to understand them…

She had no sympathy for those treacherous bastards, for all of humanity in general, people who were alive had to die and it had to be long and painful, slow and torturous, because it was what they deserved. And why? Because she said so.

But her videos weren't enough, they didn't have enough of a reaching length, she needed to get more specific, more precise. In some ways, she did needed help as much as Freddy if she wanted to increase the body count, if she truly wanted to make everyone to suffer.

Suddenly there was clapping above her and her head moved again. Freddy was above her on a catwalk, his eyes glittering with triumphant approval. He leapt down to the ground before her, "I can hear everyone's thoughts here…everyone's."

He didn't need to say any more, she merely gave a short bob of her head to show her acknowledgement. So that was how he did it, hmm? How he knew how to scare his children to death, how he knew the perfect way to kill them and how to find them when they tried to hide. That was also how he knew what conclusion Samara had finally reached.

He crossed his arms as he glared down at her, the glint in his eyes still strong as he growled, "So…"

He waited for her to ask, practically salivating at the thought. Her response was to walk to the furnace and open the tiny metal door. She tossed the remains of the broken doll inside with a particular amount of relish, then slammed the door shut.

She turned to Freddy and the hair parted again to show the graying eye, her voice came soon after, this time a bit more forceful through the static than usual, "What do you want me to do?"