“Did you know there’s a true story behind Wes Craven’s Nightmare on Elm Street?” Rachel’s gaze was fixed on the eerie sight across the street, an abandoned home that seemed to echo the horrors of the film. Overgrown with weeds, a once-white picket fence leaned precariously, sagging out towards the street, looking like it might collapse if the wind blew hard enough. A tangled mess of tall, brown grass and invasive weeds crept up the sides of the home and twisted through the picket fence. It may have been a lawn at one time, but not now. Paint peeled in sections from the siding, exposing the bare, warped wood.

“You mean, like the Blair Witch was a real story about three filmmakers?” Ian laughed at Rachel, his long-time friend. “Come on, Rachel. Horror stories like that? Supernatural occurrences? Occult garbage? It’s not real. Never is. And never was. Give me a break.” Ian swallowed the last beer, throwing his empty can into the garbage basket a few feet from the breakfast nook. “Nothing about Craven is real. It’s all make-believe and nonsense.” He grabbed another beer out of the cooler by his feet, a melting piece of ice clinging to the side of the aluminum can. “Anyone needing another?” Rachel shook her head no, as did Janel, her cousin. Mike sipped his bourbon, doing his best to try and look sophisticated. It had the opposite effect, making him look like a frat boy trying not to out-drink everyone at the table. Compared to Ian and Janel, he was the one who wanted to be more than he was. He sniffed his bourbon and swallowed the last bit of it, grimacing. Not the sophisticate he thought he was, which made everyone laugh.

Except Rachel. “No. Seriously, Ian. I heard the story is true. There’s something about that house that just doesn’t sit right with me,” she added, her voice tinged with a hint of unease.

“No one can enter your dreams. They are your dreams. Not someone else’s,” Janel interjected, her tone firm and rational. “Every one of those kids was sleep-deprived, probably borderline psychotic.”

“Yeah, for real, Rachel,” Mike added, his voice oozing with confidence. He poured another bourbon, this one a bit shorter than his last. Swirling the glass around, he continued, “You can’t do something that defies basic principles of physics. Nothing that happens in a dream happens for real. It’s a story. Nothing more than that.” He sniffed, swirled, then sipped his drink. “Besides, if it was real, wouldn’t some reporter somewhere uncover the truth?” He made quotation marks with his fingers when he said ‘the truth.’

“What if the reporter was the story, not the kids?” Rachel asked the group, staring at the old house.  

Jagged shards of glass clinging to thin beads of caulking were doing their best to hold the glass in place on the second and third floors. The broken windows gave the home a strange, sinister, semi-toothy grin. Faded green curtains, yellowed from the sun and aging, grasped ahold of their rods for dear life, the tatters swaying from a breeze blowing through the windows. Even the roof appeared neglected, missing entire sections of shingles, exposing the plywood decking, hinting at severe water damage and decay.

Janel curled up in Ian’s arms, kissed him, and then looked back to Rachel. “The reporter? Come on, Rach. Give it up. You’ve been trying to get us to go over and check out that house across the street for months. What makes you think tonight is going to be the night?” She kissed Ian again. “Don’t you think if something were fishy over there, your Mom or Dad would be investigating?”  

Rachel’s Mom and Dad were historical researchers investigating claims of historical significance on the edge of their rural community fifty miles away from the nearest city. Rachel’s Father, Gene Whittaker, worked as a detective for fifteen years with the San Diego Police. He had the highest number of solved cases, not because he was particularly good at his job but because he knew who to put on his team, leading the best of the best to the answers that no one else found. Gene was tired of crime, deciding history was a better pursuit, especially for his investigative knowledge. In less than four years, he teamed up with his wife, Dr. Angela Whittaker, searching through records, sifting through clues of historical evidence, and helping her determine whether a building was historic. They were often false; many buildings and artifacts were not worth much more than their production materials.

Rachel grabbed a Bud Light from the cooler, cracking it open. After one long sip, she sat beside Mike, still nursing his Maker’s Mark. The bottle appeared untouched, even after Mike’s two shots.

“Maybe,” Rachel sighed. “Why won’t you guys go over there with me? We could check it out, all of us. It’d be just like the Scooby Doo gang!”

“I suppose you’d be Velma, Rach?” Mike sneered. “And Ian? And Janel? They’d be Fred and Daphne. I mean, they are the beautiful ones, right?” He swallowed the last of his Maker’s. Mike wasn’t wrong. Janel was beautiful, a cheerleader and leader in her sorority. Ian, on the other hand, was the president of his fraternity, not a jock but decent at playing different sports. Ian was more about learning and education than the former presidents of his fraternity.

“Does that make you Scooby Doo?” Janel asked Mike.

“No,” Rachel smiled, finishing her beer. “He’s Shaggy!”