Jenna screamed, but the scream came out as a silent yawn. Her eyelids drooped. The fan became a turbine. The floor became a grate.
Jenna exhaled, shaking.
Jenna’s phone lay on the nightstand. The screen flickered, then displayed a single line of text:
She had. Every Friday the 13th marathon. Freddy Krueger. The burned face. The glove. The dream murders. But this wasn’t a movie. This was her childhood street—Elm Street—where she’d moved away from at ten. And she’d been having the same dream for six nights: a boiler room, a red and green sweater, and a voice asking her to count .
A photo loaded. A class photo from her middle school. Fifteen smiling faces. Eleven of them had red X’s over their heads. Four remained—including Jenna.
She typed 7 .
Here’s a short story based on the prompt “nightmare on elm street how many”: