The Beginning

In 1949, a new resident moved into house number 1429, beside 1428 Elm Street in Springwood, Ohio, in the United States.

People watched the workers coming and going, then took in the renovations, the white paint on the walls, and the flower beds surrounding the fence. It seemed a family with good taste had moved in. Anyone would welcome neighbors like that.

Following tradition, everyone brought little homemade gifts, cute, pretty decorations and ornaments, or a few beautifully wrapped cookies and pastries. Smiling, they planned to get to know their future neighbor.

They guessed that anyone who could buy such a large house and spend so much money renovating it must have a model family: a handsome, capable father and a beautiful, gentle mother. If they had an adorable child as well, it would be absolutely perfect.

While chatting with them, they could also slip in the local developer's slogan: "Welcome to Springwood, a wonderful place with 15,265 residents."

But they had only guessed one thing right. That enormous house was home to just one thirteen-year-old child of mixed Asian descent. He really was very pretty, with black hair and black eyes, yet rather Western features. Mixed-race children rarely looked bad, and this child in particular was practically an expensive doll.

But nobody knew where his parents were. When they asked the child, the answers were either that his parents were busy with work, that they had not moved in yet, or he would awkwardly change the subject in a childish way. People vaguely sensed that something was wrong.

But it was illegal to leave a child that age living alone. They had asked the community authorities or the police about it, but a man and a woman would always step forward, claiming to be the child's parents. Rich people always had their ways, whether through bribery or something else.

In any case, several months passed, and the child still lived there alone. Over time, people stopped concerning themselves with it and could only offer whatever help they could, with a touch of pity.

What a wonderful community. What kindhearted neighbors.

I set the pastries and cookies on the table. A woman from across the street had brought them over. Ever since the rumor that I might be an orphan had spread through the neighborhood, when I politely accepted the cookies and saw this neighbor off-

Even then, I could see the spots of mold on the bottoms of the cookies.

I found it a little amusing. It seemed this community was not quite as nice as the advertisements claimed.

I simply swept all those cookies, which had been sitting around for who knew how long, into the trash, then bagged it up and tossed it at the garbage collection point in the backyard.

I lay on the bed. Today would be my last meeting with my fake parents, because I needed to complete my school enrollment.

As for my real parents... They would be better off dead, I thought viciously. But I knew better than anyone that as long as that thing remained, they would only keep stepping over other people's remains, drinking the blood of their own flesh and blood, and living better and better.

In any case, this should be the last time I had anything to do with them.

December 9. There was still a month before I started school. Normally, a thirteen-year-old child should have climbed into bed early.

But I did not sleep that night. I kept watch at the back door. For three days in a row now, the garbage bags I left out back had been torn into a complete mess. I did not want to put on gloves and pick up trash again.

I was going to see just what little animal was stealing food.

It was past midnight, and I kept watch at the back door. The winter nights were bitterly cold now. Even inside the house, cold drafts still blew in as I waited by the door, and I had to pull my thick coat tightly around me.

Before long, faint rustling sounds came from outside again-the sound of plastic bags being rummaged through.

I immediately opened the door and rushed out. I guessed it was a raccoon, a coyote, or something else.

But when I saw what it was, I froze. What little garbage-scavenging animal? It was clearly a filthy, scrawny child.

It was a little boy who looked very young, many years younger than me, and he was dressed far too lightly. He had no coat on, only a sweater. It was even snowing outside, yet all he wore on his feet was-a pair of thin-soled slippers far too large for him.

And what he held was none other than the cookies and pastries I had thrown away, which had been sitting around for who knew how long. His mouth was stuffed full, and he even clutched a moldy cookie in his hand.

He froze when he saw someone come out, then hastily shoved the food into his pockets and scrambled back over the fence beside him.

Nobody had told me there were homeless children here.

The next day, and the third day, my garbage remained untouched. Ever since he had been discovered, that homeless child had never come back.

But was this not supposed to be the happiest community? Why was there a homeless child? Curiosity drove me, so when another woman came over with cookies the following day, I decided to ask. She was a decent person. At least none of the cookies she brought were spoiled.

"Yesterday, I saw a filthy little kid," I said hesitantly. "He looked..." I gestured to indicate his height. "About six or seven."

The woman clearly knew, but she did not want to tell me much and looked deeply guarded. First, she looked me up and down, thoroughly confirming that a thirteen-year-old child was not a good gossip partner, then offered only a few vague remarks.

"Oh... that child... ah... he's your neighbor. He lives next door to you at 1428. It's Mr. Edward Underwood and Mrs. Ethel Underwood's house. The house... that child, that child isn't their biological son. They adopted him."

"But actually... Mr. Edward treats the child quite well. It's just that men, you know, can be a bit hot-tempered, a bit strict about disciplining boys... Anyway, you don't need to worry about it. If he makes a mess of your backyard again, just knock on their door and mention it briefly. Mr. Edward will teach him a lesson. Oh, right, try to go before lunch. He should be... at that time."

Afterward, she repeatedly assured me that this really was a good community, then hurried away.

I closed the door, finding it rather amusing. Even a thirteen-year-old like me could see it. How was that carelessness? It was clearly abuse. No matter how careless a father was, how could he let his child wear thin slippers in the middle of winter and rummage through a neighbor's trash for food? Besides, those marks on the child's face hardly looked like something he could have caused himself.

And judging by what the woman had said, the solution she offered meant the child had probably rummaged through other people's trash when he was hungry before. What was this so-called Mr. Edward's solution?

Feel embarrassed, then beat the child, making him stay away from their garbage cans? Rather than worrying about whether someone was raising me, when I could live perfectly well, should they not be doing something about this?

That night, I set up a grill in the backyard and barbecued meat. A sprinkling of cumin sent its aroma wafting everywhere. I deliberately let the smell drift toward the house next door. Sure enough, before long, a tiny figure, thinking he was well hidden, cowered beside the bushes, swallowing and secretly watching in my direction.

I gently beckoned to him. "Come here, Freddy." That should have been his name.

He suddenly realized that I seemed to have spotted her. He hesitated for a long time, but in the end, hunger overcame reason, and he climbed over the fence, which was taller than he was.

Pretty nimble, I muttered inwardly. He still wore those thin slippers, only now he had a thick coat as well. It was much too large for his frame, as though he had dug it out of some garbage heap.

The night was cold, and the meat taken off the grill cooled quickly. I set the plate in front of him.

He still did not dare move, only looking at me with those fluorescent blue-green eyes. It was my first time seeing eyes like that, and I found them rather novel.

"Eat. There's more if it's not enough."

He hesitated for a moment, then immediately began wolfing it down. To someone hungry, that fatty aroma was the most enticing thing of all. His body was so small, yet he ate at least a pound and a half of meat, not even counting the vegetables, bread, and so on.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Only when he could eat no more did he withdraw his hands and look up at me, like some little animal. Only then did I notice that he had a pair of beautiful, gemlike mint-green eyes.

"My name is Willy Klein. Just call me Klein. I'm your new neighbor." Not exactly new, since I moved in months ago, I added inwardly.

He hurried to introduce himself as well. "My name is Freddy Charles Krueger. You can call me Freddy. I'm seven this year. Thank you for letting me eat..."

I tentatively pointed at his face, right beside his cheekbone, where there was a faint bluish mark.

"Here... how did you get hurt?"

He said nothing, only lowering his head awkwardly and rubbing the hem of his clothes between his fingers. After a long while, he finally squeezed out a few words. "Mom... Mom... went out..."

Freddy knew that if Mom were there, he would still have something to eat. He would still be beaten and scolded, but he instinctively did not want to say it.

So your adoptive father won't give you anything to eat?

Of course, I could not ask that aloud, but I already had an answer. His parents did not treat him well. The man named Howard not only did not beat him, but also abused him, and the mother in the family was a cowardly-or rather, cold-blooded-presence as well.

I loathed people like that, parents like that. Even if they were adoptive parents, why bring a child into the family if they did not want one? Just for those few hundred dollars in assistance? It was utterly despicable.

"If you're hungry in the future, you can come knock on my back door. I'll treat you to something to eat."