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retrospective

The Night Ends on Elm Street

in Fiction by

I was 5 years old and a man with knives for fingers was telling me to go to hell. But it wasn’t Freddy Krueger – it was my mom’s boyfriend Tim. I’d been woken from a dead sleep in an attempt to terrify me with a reference I neither understood nor appreciated. But that wasn’t the last time Wes Craven’s monsters would invade my cultural landscape. Years later I was home alone on a stormy night when the power cut out. Being from the South (land of actual storms), I was pretty used to this sort of thing and gave it only a passing thought. I was less composed, however, when my cell rang and the raspy voice at the…

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