Freddy's Lament (McDaniel)

One, two, Freddy’s coming for you.

Covid-19 haunts my dreams. Often in the Nightmare on Elm Street series, Freddy Kreuger uses the camouflage of mundane life to stalk his victims. Part 2 of the film series opens as the protagonist Jesse heads to school on a rusty yellow bus, and Freddy hides in plain sight as the driver, like coronavirus on a backpack or a faded vinyl seat. At other times, Freddy has dispatched high school boys by transporting them to a tropical oasis, with Freddy in the guise of a stereotypical 1980s horror vixen – coconut bra optional – waiting to reveal his razored glove. I have similar nightmares of the Caribbean cruise I took pre-pandemic with similar revelations. Instead of Freddy, I’m confronted by coughing sunbathers, crowded elevators, and a lack of leadership by the ship’s captain.

Three, four, better lock your door.

I use Freddy’s jump rope rhyme as my handwashing song. After every door handle, after every package, after every shopping trip. One, two…. I always thought my love of horror movies would save me. I wouldn’t need a silly song to remind me to lock the door. Now I need one to make sure the hydrophobic virus goes down the sink with my Japanese cherry blossom foaming hand soap an aunt gave me for Christmas. The rhyme lasts around twenty-two seconds.

Five, six, grab a crucifix.

Freddy gains his power from fear, and knowledge combats fear. I watch horror movies so that if I ever do meet up with a Freddy in one of my nightmares, I won’t be the dummy that the audience screams at, “Don’t go in the basement!” Everyone who has seen a horror movie knows what I’m talking about: the character who wakes up to find his best friend/girlfriend/camp counselor’s head (take your pick) in his bed only to follow a blood trail to a closet door where the killer hides. “Don’t go in the closet!” But he does anyway, and he reaps the consequences of the killer’s traumatic childhood. I don’t want to be that guy. I always thought that if I find myself in a real-life horror movie, whether with poltergeist or Pumpkinhead, I’m going to be prepared, and I’m going to lead others to safety. Recounting the harrowing tale, I’ll be the hero who grabs the crucifix, kills the demon, and winds up with the heroine on his arm while the credits roll. In the immortal words of Gloria Gaynor, whose song often mockingly makes it into horror films, “I will survive. Hey, Hey.”

Seven, eight, better stay up late.

During the pandemic, I’ve stayed up too late watching too many horror movies. Some are almost sadistically appropriate. Lots of zombie films begin with new viruses or leaking chemicals, some make use of claustrophobia and quarantine as narrative devices, and others show disastrous government responses to major events. The movies are not all doom and gloom, though. The Paul Lynde Halloween Special from 1976 and Killer Workout (also known as Aerobicide) from 1987 both offered campy relief from the 24/7 coronavirus news cycle. One rare film called Night of 1000 Cats from 1972 inspired me to make my own horror movie trailer advertising a modern horror writers and directors class I’m teaching online this fall. Not even Freddy can scare these cats.

Nine, ten, never sleep again.

Those were the early days of the pandemic. Now, I stay up late for other reasons. My father had a minor stroke, and we cannot visit him in rehab. My aunt who gave me the soap has been exposed to Covid-19, and I have other family members who have tested positive. Job insecurity, fear of contamination at my workplace, worry over my nieces returning to school this fall, and disgust at the selfish actions of some people have replaced any imaginary monsters. From almost the beginning of my fascination with horror movies – Nightmare on Elm Street Part II was my first – I had always yearned to find myself in one of those situations. I wanted to be the hero, the smart one, the one everyone admired at the end. But it is not like I thought it would be. I expected the clichés of the films I love, but no big-busted blonde heroine clasps my hand, and no 1980s hard rock ballad signals triumph and the rolling credits. Instead, there is just me – tear-stained, angry, scared.

Jamie McDaniel teaches English at Radford University in Virginia. He is currently writing a book about representations of disability in film adaptations. His favorite horror director is the "Italian Hitchcock” Dario Argento, and one of his earliest film memories is his cousin sneaking him into a midnight showing of Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2: Freddy’s Revenge, unbeknownst to his parents. His cousin made him cover his eyes during the nudity.