Chapter 60: Not Your Typical Exorcism
Inside the monitoring room, the air was thicker than concrete.
Lieutenant Donald Thompson and several trusted officers looked like they'd been hit with a taser, jaws hanging open, eyes glued to the monitor screens.
What they were watching was enough to overturn decades of law enforcement experience.
The monster who'd been unstoppable and untouchable in Nancy's nightmares was now ragdolling through the air in a completely physics-defying trajectory, then slamming into the wall like a thrown garbage bag with a sickening thud.
Then the young guy—Edward—cracked his knuckles, strolled over casual as hell, grabbed Freddy by his iconic red and green striped sweater, and yanked him up off the floor.
"WHAM!"
Another punch.
Freddy's head snapped back, and several blackened teeth mixed with god-knows-what went flying.
"WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!"
Edward's fists came down like a goddamn jackhammer.
No fancy martial arts. No technique. Just pure, primal, unfiltered violence. Left hook, right hook, straight jab, haymaker—each one connecting perfectly with Freddy's already ruined face.
This wasn't a fight. Hell, it wasn't even a beatdown. It was a demolition job.
"Jesus Christ..."
A young officer swallowed hard, instinctively touching his service weapon, only to find his hand shaking like a leaf.
Donald stiffly turned his neck—joints creaking audibly—and looked at Alan, who was watching everything with calm interest.
"Is this... is this how you... always do exorcisms?" Donald's voice came out sandpaper-rough. His entire worldview was being ground into dust.
In his understanding, exorcisms involved holy water, crucifixes, Latin prayers. Not... street-fighting brutality.
"What's wrong with it?" Alan blinked, asking back with genuine curiosity. "Look how good his form is."
Donald: "..."
What could he even say to that? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He could only watch as the notorious dream killer got used as a human punching bag by Edward, utterly defenseless.
Freddy's steel-clawed glove—which had terrorized an entire generation of Elm Street kids—just hung there limply, unable to block, let alone strike back.
Inside the cell, Nancy was equally stunned.
One second ago, she'd been feeling equal parts terror and relief at successfully dragging Freddy into reality.
One second later, she was watching the nightmare demon who'd kept her and her friends awake for weeks getting absolutely pummeled like a carnival game.
The cognitive dissonance was breaking her brain.
Edward, getting into the rhythm now, apparently decided fists alone weren't satisfying enough. He grabbed Freddy by the ankle, swung him around, and hurled him into the opposite wall!
"BOOM!"
The entire cell shook on its foundation.
Freddy lay on the floor like roadkill, making wet gurgling sounds, his body twitching spastically.
His burned face was a mask of confusion, agony, and unprecedented humiliation.
Who am I? Where am I? What the hell just happened?
Why are this kid's fists harder than the fucking boilers?
This doesn't make sense! This isn't fair! This isn't even supernatural!
Within minutes, Freddy was beaten to within an inch of his miserable existence, completely stripped of any ability to fight back. He couldn't even scream anymore.
Edward stopped, shaking out his hands, looking vaguely dissatisfied.
He turned and looked at Nancy, who was still frozen by the bed, and gave her a friendly smile.
"Nancy, you want to get a few kicks in? This asshole killed your friends and almost killed you and your boyfriend. I think you've earned the right."
Nancy instinctively took a step back, waving her hands frantically.
"No... no thanks, you keep going. I'm... I'm kinda afraid you'll get carried away and hit me too."
Edward's eye twitched.
Do I look that unhinged? I'm getting revenge FOR you!
He sighed and turned his attention back to Freddy cowering in the corner.
The dream demon had completely lost that arrogance and sadism he'd displayed in the dream world.
He was curled into a fetal position, clutching his head, body trembling, whimpering sounds escaping his throat. He looked like a scared kid hiding in a corner after getting bullied at recess—as pathetic as it gets.
If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes, who'd believe this pitiful wretch was the Ghost of Elm Street who'd butchered over twenty children and killed countless others in their sleep?
"Alright, warm-up's over," Edward said casually.
Nancy and everyone in the monitoring room nearly fell over.
That... that was just the WARM-UP?
Edward ignored their shock. He slowly walked up to Freddy and raised his right fist again.
This time, unlike the purely physical beatdown before, a soft circle of white-gold light began gathering around his fist.
The light wasn't blinding, but it carried a sacred, solemn, absolute authority.
Purification energy, mixed with holy light, condensed into a blazing sphere on his knuckles.
"As a sign of respect for a piece of shit like you who corrupted children's dreams," Edward's voice became grave, "I'm gonna give you the most thorough cleansing possible."
Freddy, huddled in the corner, seemed to sense the annihilating power within that light—the one thing truly fatal to an embodiment of rage and fear like him.
He stopped whimpering. His head snapped up, and for the first time, genuine terror flooded his ruined face.
"NO! You can't do this!" he shrieked, voice raw with desperation.
"WHAM!"
Edward put everything he had into it, and his fist—empowered by Purification—struck without mercy.
This punch didn't make the dull thud of the earlier ones.
Light consumed everything.
The moment Freddy's body touched that radiance, it began rapidly disintegrating and vaporizing, like an ice cube dropped into molten lava.
His evil form—constructed from resentment and fear—was absolutely defenseless against pure holy power.
"I'LL BE BACK—!"
Before completely turning to ash, Freddy used his last breath to spit out one final venomous curse.
The light faded, leaving only a small pile of black ash and a single leather glove studded with four steel finger-blades.
Edward walked over, crouched down, picked up the glove, and weighed it in his hand, brushing off the dust.
"Not bad craftsmanship. Terrible taste, though," he commented, then casually pocketed the infamous weapon. "Perfect. Makes a hell of a souvenir."
In the monitoring room, Donald stared at the screen where the pile of ash was slowly settling.
"Did... did he just..."
"Yep," Alan confirmed. "Freddy Krueger is dead. For real this time."
Donald slumped into his chair, suddenly feeling every one of his years on the force.
"I need a drink," he muttered. "A very, very strong drink."
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