The night was still, that kind of suburban silence that pressed against the windows like a warning you didn’t want to hear. You lay in bed beside Nancy, the weight of the years between you both and that first blood-soaked summer heavy in your mind. You’d thought it was over. You’d both thought it was over. But lately, Dylan had been waking with dark circles under his eyes, the same haunted glaze you’d once seen in Nancy’s when she was nineteen. You didn’t need anyone to tell you what that meant.

The bedroom door creaked open—slow, tentative. A small shadow shuffled in. Dylan stood there, trembling, clutching the edge of his pajamas. He didn’t say a word at first, just stared at the two of you like the floor beneath his feet was about to give way. Nancy was the first to sit up.

“Sweetheart?” she whispered, voice low, guarded, like she already knew.

“I… I saw him,” Dylan finally said. His voice was thin, barely holding together. “In my dream. He… he was—”

“Shh,” Nancy cut him off gently, sliding out from under the blanket. She crouched in front of him, brushing his hair back, studying his face as if searching for the smallest crack in the story. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

The lie sat between the three of you like something venomous. You got out of bed and reached for him, lifting him up effortlessly. His small hands gripped the collar of your shirt like a lifeline, and his heart was hammering against your chest. You carried him back to the bed.

“Between us tonight,” you said simply.

Nancy didn’t argue. You both knew the unspoken rule—if Freddy had touched him in the dream, he’d try again. Keeping Dylan between you wasn’t just comfort; it was strategy. You slid back under the blanket, your arm draped protectively over him. Nancy mirrored you on the other side, her hand resting on his shoulder. Dylan’s eyes darted between you both, still wired, still searching for proof that he was safe.

“Close your eyes,” you murmured. “We’re right here.”

For a while, the only sound was Dylan’s uneven breathing. But you weren’t asleep. Neither was Nancy. You could feel the tension in her body, the kind that came from experience—she wasn’t scared for herself. She was scared for him. You met her eyes over Dylan’s head, and no words passed, but the meaning was clear: it was happening again.

It started with a shift in the air. A wrongness. Like the room had been dipped underwater without the sound of water. You felt your muscles tighten before you could stop it. Dylan stirred first, whimpering softly.

Then it hit—the familiar pull, like a hook had been slipped beneath your ribs. The edges of the room seemed to fray, reality peeling away in quiet strips. Nancy’s fingers tightened around Dylan’s arm.

“Hold him,” she said sharply.

You did. But it didn’t matter. The bed beneath you dissolved, replaced by a gray, endless expanse. The walls of your bedroom stretched, warped, and then shattered, pieces drifting into a black void. The three of you were standing now, though you didn’t remember getting up. Dylan was in your arms, his wide eyes scanning the impossible horizon.

The sky overhead was wrong—like a sunset bleeding into midnight, bruised and alive. Somewhere in the distance, a boiler hissed, a metallic groan echoing across the nothing.

Nancy’s voice was calm, but there was steel in it. “We’re in.”

You adjusted your grip on Dylan, your heart beating hard against him. “Then we find him before he finds us.”

Nancy’s gaze was fixed ahead, into the haze where shadows twisted and stretched. “No,” she said. “He already knows we’re here.”

Somewhere, just beyond sight, a laugh curled through the air—low, taunting, and unmistakable. It sent a ripple down your spine, an echo from the past you’d buried deep. Freddy wasn’t hunting tonight. He was waiting.