A nightmare on Elm Street - Westin Hills Stories - script idea
A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET: WESTIN HILLS STORIES, Treatment
Genre: Psychological horror / supernatural thriller
Tone: 1980s stylized dread, synth-driven atmosphere, dream-logic set-pieces, practical effects horror.
TAGLINE:
“Dreams never die. They wait.”
LOGLINE:
Decades after the Dream Warriors fought Freddy Krueger at Westin Hills, a new group of patients begins to share the same nightmares — and discover that the hospital itself remembers every scream.
SETTING:
Westin Hills Psychiatric Hospital, Springwood, Ohio — modernized, but still cold and fluorescent.
Beneath the new wing lies the abandoned ward where the Dream Warriors once fought Freddy.
The architecture has changed — the evil has not.
STRUCTURE:
ACT I — “The Echoes in the Walls”
OPENING:
A synth-heavy dream montage — corridors warping into endless loops, ghostly kids chanting, and Freddy’s glove slicing through old film reels labeled “Patient Files: 1987.”
CUT TO:
Present day.
Westin Hills has reopened as a “trauma rehabilitation center.”
Dr. Hannah Wilkes (40s, clinical yet empathetic) begins a new shift.
Among her patients:
-
MIA (17) — artistic, withdrawn; sketches burning houses.
-
TREY (19) — ex-patient from a juvenile facility, night terrors.
-
NORA (16) — mute since a car fire; terrified of sleeping.
-
JORDAN (21) — ex-gamer, insomniac, medicated to numbness.
They’re part of a new sleep-study program.
Hannah learns the building was constructed over the original Dream Therapy Unit from the 1980s — closed after “the Krueger incidents.” The staff dismisses it as urban legend.
But then the nightmares begin again.
ACT II — “Dream Warriors, Generation Two”
The kids start sharing dreams: a burned man’s shadow, a red-and-green glow under the floor.
They realize they’re dreaming together.
Mia sees her sketches come alive in dreams.
Trey finds he can bend dream physics — parkour through walls.
Nora communicates telepathically inside the dream.
Jordan can pause dream time for a few seconds — but it drains him.
Each one exhibits “Dream Warrior” traits, like the original group — though they don’t know the history.
Hannah finds old files from 1987 signed by Dr. Neil Gordon, Kristen Parker’s therapist.
The files mention “cooperative lucid dreaming therapy” and a patient who predicted “the dream will return through the children of memory.”
That night, all five fall asleep during a thunderstorm.
DREAM SEQUENCE #1:
They find themselves in a hospital hallway where every door leads to a different nightmare.
Freddy’s voice echoes through the intercom — distorted, mechanical.
“Paging Doctor Krueger. Time for group therapy!”
He emerges from a flickering light panel, glove sparking with electricity.
They escape — but wake up with burns on their arms.
ACT III — “The Ward Below”
Dr. Hannah decides to confront the truth.
She finds a sealed elevator shaft leading to a forgotten sublevel.
Inside: rusted beds, broken monitors, graffiti reading “THEY TRIED TO WAKE US.”
The teens follow her down.
One by one, they vanish — swallowed by dream portals that flicker in and out of reality.
The hospital itself is now half in the dream world, half in waking.
Freddy plays with them, each kill a reflection of their fear:
-
Trey is crushed inside a collapsing hallway of walls that breathe.
-
Nora’s silence becomes literal — her mouth sewn shut in dream until she screams through her eyes.
-
Jordan pauses time, only to find Freddy waiting inside the frozen frame:
“Nice trick, kid. I invented time to kill!”
Mia remains — lucid enough to fight back.
ACT IV — “Legacy of the Warriors”
Mia finds Freddy’s old file in the dream world. It’s labeled “WESTIN HILLS CASE 1428.”
She opens it: inside are Polaroids of Kristen, Kincaid, Taryn, Joey — the Dream Warriors.
She hears whispers:
“We fought him. Now it’s your turn.”
The dream world reshapes — corridors turn neon blue and black, 80s graffiti reading “Dream Warriors Forever.”
Mia dons Freddy’s mirror-image glove — forged from hospital instruments in dream logic — her own weapon of defense.
She faces Freddy in the burning therapy room, walls pulsing with veins.
He laughs:
“You’re all just reruns, sweetheart!”
Mia:
“Then I’ll change the channel.”
She stabs him through his reflection in a cracked mirror, causing Freddy to shatter into hundreds of ghostly fragments — each one whispering a name of a past victim.
ACT V — “The Sleep Never Ends”
AFTERMATH:
Morning. The power is back on.
Paramedics remove the survivors — only Mia and Dr. Hannah remain conscious.
As they drive away, Hannah looks back: smoke rising from the hospital’s broken windows.
Inside, a single TV turns on by itself — static forming Freddy’s grin.
Freddy’s Voice (V.O.):
“Sweet dreams… class dismissed.”
CUT TO BLACK.
80s synth cue kicks in — end credits roll over grainy VHS footage of old patient logs.
STYLE & MUSIC
-
Aesthetic:
Retro-futuristic hospital design — flickering CRT monitors, analog equipment, warm neon lights bleeding into cold whites.
Grainy textures and film burn transitions.
Dreams are practical-heavy: smoke, backlighting, water tanks, slow-motion bursts of blood. -
Score:
80s analog synth meets Gothic choir — think Tangerine Dream + Charles Bernstein themes. -
Cinematography:
Dutch angles, long corridors, fog layers, overhead drone shots fading into dream sequences.
THEMES
-
Memory as a haunted house.
-
Intergenerational trauma — the sins of one dream passing to the next.
-
The hospital as metaphor for the human mind — sterile on the surface, chaos beneath.
-
The Dream Warriors’ legacy as myth — every generation must fight their own Freddy.
POTENTIAL SEQUEL SETUP
In a post-credits tease:
A new patient is wheeled into Westin Hills, unconscious — name on the file:
“Jacob Krueger” (Freddy’s son from Part 5).
His eyes twitch beneath the lids…
Cue Freddy’s nursery rhyme in synth remix:
“One, two, Freddy’s coming for you…”
POSTER LINE:
“Dream Warriors never die. They just wake up somewhere new.”
Script/Screenplay
🎬 A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET: WESTIN HILLS STORIES
written in proper screenplay format (1980s tone, structured like a New Line horror sequel).
FADE IN:
INT. WESTIN HILLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL – NIGHT
A sleek, sterile modern facility — too clean, too quiet.
Fluorescent lights hum over a long hallway of locked doors.
The sound of breathing, rhythmic, mechanical — a sleep monitor beeping somewhere off-screen.
TITLE CARD:
Springwood, Ohio – Present Day
Camera glides past nameplates:
“Sleep Disorders Wing” — “Dream Therapy Program – Restricted.”
CUT TO:
INT. OBSERVATION ROOM – CONTINUOUS
DR. HANNAH WILKES (40s, calm, intelligent, eyes like someone who’s seen too much) adjusts a headset connected to half a dozen SLEEPING PATIENTS behind one-way glass.
The hum of machines fills the silence.
Hannah presses a recorder button.
HANNAH
(softly, dictating)
Session Seven. Group Delta. Subjective recall indicates identical recurring imagery… dark corridors, shadow figures, auditory hallucination described as “claws.”
She pauses.
A flicker on one of the monitors — a heartbeat spikes.
HANNAH
(cont’d)
Possible mass lucid episode, induced by environmental cues.
The lights flicker.
BZZZT.
The camera feed distorts — for a moment, the sleeping kids’ faces are replaced by burned, skeletal grins.
Hannah blinks — they’re normal again.
She exhales, forcing logic over fear.
INT. DORM ROOM – NIGHT
Four patients sleep restlessly:
-
MIA (17), sketchbook on her chest.
-
TREY (19), wiry, twitching.
-
NORA (16), curled up, earbuds jammed in.
-
JORDAN (21), tattoos of circuit lines on his arms.
A vent rattles overhead.
WHISPERS drift from it — voices overlapping like echoes down a tunnel.
“Wake up…”
“Don’t let him in…”
“Time for group…”
Mia’s eyes flick open.
DREAM SEQUENCE 1 — “The Hallway”
INT. WESTIN HILLS (DREAM VERSION) – NIGHT
Everything is wrong.
Walls stretch infinitely, the ceiling bends.
The colors are red and green, lights pulsing like a heartbeat.
Mia stands barefoot in the hall, holding her sketchbook.
Paper flutters around her, pages she doesn’t remember drawing — faces of children screaming.
A voice — slick, playful, and deep as oil — fills the hall.
FREDDY (O.S.)
(taunting)
Aw, don’t be shy. We’ve been dying to meet ya.
Mia turns.
At the far end of the corridor, a wheelchair rolls on its own — empty — its wheels squeaking like laughter.
The hallway lights pop one by one, advancing toward her.
Mia runs — but the corridor folds in on itself, twisting like a ribbon.
She bangs on a door marked “THERAPY ROOM C” — it opens on its own.
INT. THERAPY ROOM C (DREAM)
The 1980s live again — peeling paint, analog monitors, a poster reading “DREAM CONTROL THROUGH WILL.”
A group of ghostly teens sit in a therapy circle.
Their faces are foggy, but one girl turns — it’s Kristen Parker (ghostlike, older).
KRISTEN
It never stops. Not while they build on our bones.
Mia stumbles backward.
FREDDY (O.S.)
(cheerful)
Now, now, group therapy’s supposed to be interactive!
A SHADOW grows from the floor — smoke forming into FREDDY KRUEGER, burnt skin glistening, claws catching the dim light.
He grins wide.
FREDDY
Class… is… in… session!
He lunges —
INT. DORM ROOM – NIGHT
Mia JOLTS upright, gasping.
Sweat drenches her — a faint burn mark on her forearm.
The lights flicker again.
Trey sits up across the room, same terrified look.
TREY
(whispers)
You saw him too, didn’t you?
Mia doesn’t answer.
The power cuts. Total darkness.
Somewhere deep in the hospital, a CHILD’S LAUGHTER echoes through the vents.
INT. MAINTENANCE CORRIDOR – SAME TIME
Hannah and a janitor, MATT, walk with flashlights.
Matt opens a panel — old wiring, corroded.
Inside, something glints — a metal glove blade jammed between cables.
HANNAH
That’s… not standard issue.
MATT
(smirks nervously)
Urban legend says they found one just like it here years ago.
He yanks it free. Sparks fly — the lights snap on across the hospital.
For a single frame, reflected in the glass behind them — FREDDY’S FACE GRINS.
SFX: Freddy’s laugh, low and distant.
MONTAGE — DREAM RESURGENCE
-
Mia sketches Freddy’s face unconsciously in group therapy.
-
Jordan sees a handprint burned into a server screen.
-
Nora writes “ELM STREET” in her sleep, over and over.
-
Trey wakes up to claw marks on the wall above his bed.
Over it all, Freddy’s distorted voice through the hospital intercom:
“Paging Doctor Krueger.
Group therapy in ten minutes…”
INT. HANNAH’S OFFICE – DAY
Hannah reviews the old Westin Hills microfilm — yellowed files, black-and-white photos.
Her hand trembles when she finds it: GROUP THERAPY LOG – 1987.
Names circled in red: Kristen Parker, Kincaid, Joey, Taryn…
A note scrawled at the bottom:
“The dream will return through the children of memory.”
She hears breathing.
Looks up — her reflection in the office glass smiles back, but she isn’t.
FREDDY (REFLECTION)
(snickering)
Sweet dreams, Doc. You’re next on my rounds.
The glass SHATTERS, pulling her scream into black.
FADE OUT.
TITLE CARD:
A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET: WESTIN HILLS STORIES
Cue synth-rock theme.
FADE IN:
INT. WESTIN HILLS – GROUP THERAPY ROOM – EVENING
Fluorescents buzz. Folding chairs in a circle.
MIA, TREY, NORA, JORDAN sit with DR. HANNAH.
A wall clock TICKS too slowly, like the second hand is swimming.
HANNAH
We’re going to try a guided wakeful state. Eyes open, steady breath. If you share imagery— say it.
They breathe. The clock stutters. The second hand jerks backward, then forward.
NORA
(whispering)
He’s in the glass.
Hannah swallows. She forces calm.
HANNAH
We anchor here. Hands flat on your knees. Feel the chair—
INTERCOM (V.O.) FREDDY
(chipper)
ATTENTION, WESTIN HILLS.
SOUND THE NAP ALARM.
The room FALLS INTO DARK— then back ON. Everyone is exactly as they were, a fraction closer to sleep.
JORDAN
I just blinked.
TREY
(under breath)
Yeah. He blinked us.
MIA
We stay together. That’s the rule.
The lights FLICKER again— a strobe rhythm like a pulse.
HANNAH
Okay. Field trip.
INT. WESTIN HILLS – ARCHIVE HALL – MOMENTS LATER
Narrow, dark stacks of dusty file boxes. Hannah unlocks a cage.
HANNAH
This wing was sealed after… incidents. Keep close.
She slides a box onto a cart. A label: DREAM THERAPY, 1987.
TREY
What happened to them?
HANNAH
(picking words)
They fought. Some lived. All changed.
A draft moves hair; a distant CHILDREN’S RHYME hums from the vents.
KIDS (O.S.)
One, two, Freddy’s coming for you…
JORDAN
(tight smile)
Do we call that a “shared delusion” yet?
MIA
We call it a warning.
INT. WESTIN HILLS – SECURITY CORRIDOR – SAME
A lone GUARD watches monitors. Every screen glitches to a different year: 1987 beds, 1989 hallways, present day.
In one screen, the guard sees himself, staring back— then a SHADOW behind his chair.
He spins. No one there.
INTERCOM (FREDDY)
Security breach.
In your pants.
The lights POP in sequence, chasing toward the guard. He backs away. Falls against the alarm panel — his palm smears a sooty handprint. He stares at it, shaking.
INT. ARCHIVE HALL – CONTINUOUS
Hannah opens a file. Old Polaroids: NEIL GORDON with the Dream Warriors. Scribbled notes.
A loose cassette tumbles out, labeled NEIL – SLEEP STUDY.
HANNAH
We’re leaving. Now.
TREY
What’s on it?
HANNAH
History… that doesn’t want an audience.
A breeze skims through the aisle. Papers flutter— arrange themselves across the floor into a burned grin.
NORA
He found us.
The aisle ahead stretches farther than it should.
JORDAN
We’re not just in a hallway anymore.
MIA
(steady)
Then we make a door.
She rips a sketch from her pad — draws a door with a bold red EXIT sign and tapes it to the end of the shelves.
The paper ripples. Becomes a real door, glowing faintly.
They trade looks. Trey grabs the handle— it’s warm but real.
They step through.
DREAM SEQUENCE #2 — “THE WARD BELOW”
INT. SUB-BASEMENT – DREAM VERSION – NIGHT
A hospital sublevel that shouldn’t exist. Water drips. Flicker-lights smear color like VHS tracking errors.
Beds line the hall, each with a cloth-draped lump.
NAMEPLAQUES: KRISTEN, TARYN, KINCAID, JOEY…
A faint heartbeat comes from the walls.
TREY
This is sick.
MIA
It’s a memory. He likes museums.
The cloths begin to lift— not by hands. By breath. Like each bed is inhaling.
FREDDY (O.S.)
(gleeful)
Welcome back to class, kids.
TAKE A SEAT.
Metal chair legs SCRAPE BEHIND THEM. They turn— four chairs wait, facing a cracked one-way mirror blackened with smoke.
The smoke clears into a REFLECTION: The four teens and Freddy standing with them.
He tips his hat.
FREDDY (REFLECTION)
Lookin’ sharp.
HANNAH
We’re done. On your feet—
The floor under her becomes soft. Hands press up from underneath the linoleum — patients long gone — clutching her ankles.
Hannah gasps, yanked half a step down. Mia lunges, pulling her back.
MIA
Together!
FREDDY (O.S.)
Let’s open those files.
The beds tip. Sheets FALL. Under each sheet, not bodies — burned case folders. Paper tongues curl and lick as if waiting to taste.
All the drawers of a nearby file cabinet slam open and shut, rhythmically. Claw marks score the metal front.
A door at the end of the ward BLOOMS red and green. A plaque appears: THERAPY ROOM C.
NORA
He wants that room.
JORDAN
Time trick?
Jordan inhales, concentrating. The hallway sound stretches — the drip becomes a gong. The red-green door stutters through frames… then holds.
JORDAN (strained)
Move.
They run. Trey stays last, backing toward them—
A SHADOW unfurls from the ceiling like a banner. Whips down— CLANG! Metal claws slice sparks across the floor, blocking Trey.
FREDDY
(chuckling)
You kids always leave someone behind.
Trey stares Freddy down.
TREY
Not tonight.
He sprints at the wall — runs up it, flips past the claw-swipe with dream-parkour grace. Lands by the door.
TREY (to Freddy)
Learn some new tricks, old man.
FREDDY
Oh, I have.
The wall ripples. Trey’s shadow remains on it — pinned like a trophy, writhing. Trey suddenly gasps, clutching his chest.
MIA
Go! Now!
They haul him through the door as the shadow THRASHES. The door SLAMS.
INT. THERAPY ROOM C – DREAM – CONTINUOUS
The room breathes. CRT monitors flicker with 80s video snow. A circle of empty chairs.
The mirror on the wall is a funhouse slab of rippling black.
A gentle, steady VOICE hums. A MAN’S HAND rests on Mia’s shoulder from behind.
She turns—
DR. NEIL GORDON (60s, spectral but warm), half in light, half in shadow.
NEIL
You’re not alone.
He looks at each teen, then at Hannah — recognition. Gratitude.
HANNAH
(whisper)
Doctor Gordon?
He nods. Glances to the mirror.
NEIL
He feeds where we fed. He heals where we healed.
You must make a wound he can’t close.
The mirror ripples.
In it, Freddy leans in, hat brim low.
FREDDY (MIRROR)
Awww, Neil. Miss the good old days?
Take a seat— I’ll tuck in the sheet.
Neil straightens.
NEIL
You don’t get clinicians, Frederick. You get witnesses.
He turns to Mia.
NEIL (to Mia)
Your hand. Draw the wound.
Mia’s hand trembles. She pulls a pencil— looks at the mirror like a page— and draws a crude jagged crack across her reflection.
The pencil line APPEARS on the glass. It spiderwebs— a HALO of weakness spreads.
FREDDY
Nice art project. Here’s extra credit.
He punches the mirror from inside. A fissure shoots across the room’s ceiling. Gurneys roll in by themselves, circling.
JORDAN
Hold on—
He pauses time again. Everything stills— dust freezes midair. He staggers, nose bleeding.
JORDAN (strained)
Do it.
Mia slashes more lines into the mirror with her pencil— the graphite becomes metal in her hand— a scalpel.
She carves a final line. The mirror SHATTERS with a sound like screaming steam.
Time resumes— a cyclone of glass and breath.
FREDDY (O.S.)
YOU’RE MINE!
He erupts from the broken frame, full presence now— hat, sweater, dead grin— glove flashing.
He swipes— sparks bloom— the chair circle BURSTS into flame rings around each teen.
NEIL
Circle tight! Breathe together!
They huddle. The flames recede a fraction.
FREDDY
Group hug. Adorable.
He pivots toward Trey— whose shadow is missing from the floor.
FREDDY (realizing)
Where’d your little sticker go?
Trey smirks, breath ragged.
TREY
Left it on your wall.
Behind Freddy, HIS SHADOW lifts a glove of its own and RAKES Freddy’s back. Freddy jerks, surprised.
FREDDY
Clever boy.
He WHIPS his own claw backward— the shadow screams silently, dissipates. Trey staggers, pale. He sinks— but Mia and Nora catch him.
NORA (to Mia, mind-voice)
We need story.
Mia nods. She pulls a fresh sheet— fast-sketches: four stylized kids, hands linked, standing before a bed with Freddy’s hat on it.
MIA
(soft, intent)
We choose what the hospital remembers. It remembers us.
Her sketch GLOWS. The bed in the room forms under the paper lines, pushing through the tile.
Freddy looks— surprised, then amused.
FREDDY
Oh, you made me a tuck-in. How sweet.
NEIL (urgent)
Make him mundane. Make him bored.
Nightmares starve without drama.
HANNAH
(quick)
Group therapy. Neutral tone.
She faces Freddy, clipboard snapping into her hand— dream authority.
HANNAH (to Freddy)
Mr. Krueger, we’re starting.
Name. Symptom. Precipitating event.
Freddy blinks. The lights flatten to fluorescent. The room dulls. The ring of fire dims to heater glow.
FREDDY
(grin faltering)
Oh no you don’t.
HANNAH
Name?
A beat. Freddy’s grin twitches.
FREDDY
Frederick.
(he sneers)
Like my mother used to—
His voice drifts. The glove relaxes slightly.
HANNAH
Symptom?
FREDDY
I—
(pain)
—get soft when they stop screaming.
NEIL (to Mia)
Now.
Mia steps forward, raises the scalpel. Not at Freddy— at the bed she drew.
She carves a word into the headboard: SLEEP.
The letters SINK. A HUM grows.
Freddy sways— like gravity just doubled.
FREDDY
(angry)
NO NAPS. NO NAPS!
JORDAN
Hold him.
Jordan pushes his hands forward. Air thickens. Freddy’s glove slows like it’s slicing honey.
NORA
(eyes fierce)
Sleep.
Her silent word fills the room like a bell.
Freddy TOPPLES onto the bed— which buckles and holds him like a magnet.
FREDDY
(snapping)
NOT MY SIZE!
He thrashes. Claw sparks. The more he fights, the duller the room gets— the red-and-green bleeds to gray hospital beige.
NEIL
He’s weaker in ordinary time. Finish it.
MIA
We don’t kill.
We put him where he can’t be.
She grabs a fallen shard of mirror— holds it above Freddy like a lid. The shard’s reflection shows a burned boiler room— the memory he owns.
MIA (to Freddy)
You wanted reruns. Enjoy yours.
She SLAMS the shard down. The bed and Freddy fold into the mirror like paper slid into a file. It clicks shut— a perfect glossy square with a hospital label: PATIENT: K – FILED.
Silence. The square clatters to the tile.
The room exhales.
The teens stand, shaking. Trey leans on Nora and Jordan. Hannah looks to Neil—
He’s fading.
HANNAH
Thank you.
NEIL
Tell them we tried.
Tell them they can do better.
He’s gone. The mirror shard dims to a simple square of glass.
JORDAN
Is it… done?
MIA
Until the next renovation.
TREY
Then we stop the next one.
A distant ALARM begins to wail. The dream thickens, losing saturation.
HANNAH
Wake now. All of you. Wake.
The room falls away—
INT. WESTIN HILLS – THERAPY ROOM C – MORNING
The real room. Sun through blinds.
Paramedics sweep the hall. The group sits on the floor around a plain, cold square of glass with a barcoded sticker: PROPERTY – RECORDS.
Hannah pockets the square, voice steady.
HANNAH
We’re closing the sublevel. Permanently.
Mia looks to the kids, to Hannah. A weary unity in their eyes.
MIA
He’ll find cracks.
HANNAH
Then we keep sealing.
EXT. WESTIN HILLS – DAY
Reporters at a perimeter. Police tape.
The kids sit on an ambulance bumper, wrapped in blankets.
The sky is clean. The building looks… smaller.
TREY
Think the news will say “shared delusion”?
JORDAN
Hope so. Let them keep their story.
NORA
(soft, first spoken word)
Thank you.
They all look at her— a fragile smile. Mia squeezes Nora’s hand.
Hannah steps away to a payphone (anachronistic, but there it is, gleaming like it never left). She dials.
HANNAH
(into phone, low)
Dr. Simms… it’s Wilkes.
If you still have Neil’s old key— we’re starting a different kind of program.
She hangs up. Looks back at her kids.
Wind moves through a line of poplars. For a moment, the leaves sussurate like a nursery rhyme reversed, dissolving into birdsong.
INT. RECORDS ROOM – LATER
Hannah enters alone. She places the mirror square into a steel lockbox. Turns the key. The lock clicks. She exhales.
On the shelf above: dusty VHS tapes, case files, a small cardboard box labeled 1428.
The room’s lights DIM a fraction.
In the lockbox reflection— a ripple. Nothing moves… then a faint grin forms and fades, like fog on glass.
SFX: a barely-there scrape of metal on metal.
Hannah steadies. She pats the box once, as if calming a dog.
HANNAH
Not today.
She kills the light and leaves.
EXT. ELM STREET – DUSK (TAG)
A quiet, ordinary street. Kids on bikes. Sprinklers. The sky the pink of an old VHS jacket.
A MOVING VAN idles at a small house.
ORDERLIES wheel a gurney down the ramp — a YOUNG MAN, asleep, strapped gently, an oxygen mask in place.
The supervising NURSE signs forms with the NEW OWNERS.
NURSE
Short-term. Rehab sleep program.
He’ll rest here till we find family.
As the gurney passes beneath the elm branches, the young man’s eyelids flutter. The chart on his chest: JACOB K. – TRANSFER.
A breeze lifts his hair. He almost smiles, like he heard a joke.
A little girl on a scooter slows, looks at him with knowing eyes.
LITTLE GIRL
(soft sing-song)
Five, six… grab your—
Her MOTHER calls her. She rides off. Silence returns.
Jacob’s gurney rolls inside.
The front door closes.
We stay on the empty porch.
Through the transom window, a TV glows on its own — static gently pulsing red and green.
INTERCOM (V.O., whisper— the whole town this time)
Pleeeease take your seats.
A single LAUGH, distant as thunder on a hot night.
CUT TO BLACK.
END
SYNTH TITLE CARD:
A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET: WESTIN HILLS STORIES
CREDITS ROLL over a cassette deck playing a warped lullaby, as grainy patient logs flicker like they’re being taped over— but never erased.
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