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The Dream Trap	By : Flynnparadox Category: M through R > Nightmare on Elm Street Views: 2557 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own A Nightmare on Elm Street, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter Two: Suburban Legend
1
The next morning - a Saturday - Jill woke up at nine, looked around, disoriented for a moment. She was in her living room, on the floor, in front of the television. She sat up, saw Gale on the couch, still passed out. They hadn't quite made it the night before: only managing to stay up till about five. With the first rays of dawn creeping in through the windows, they had passed out of the waking world and into the unconscious. Jill knew she had dreamed during her brief hours of sleep but couldn't remember what.
"Well, you two look like you had fun last night," a voice said.
Gale sat up, immediately awake. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes but dropped back down on her back on the couch, not asleep but not wanting to return to the waking world just yet. Jill turned, still sitting, to find her father standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He also wore the scars of a hard, mostly sleepless night: bags under his eyes, a weariness in his manner. Bill Snyder was in his later forties, hair thinning, starting to grey at the temples.
"Pull another all-nighter at the paper?" Jill asked.
"Yeah," he said.
"What happened?"
"There was...I don't think I should say."
"We're gonna find out about it sometime, Dad. Might as well tell us."
"There was a suicide last night. One of your classmates."
"Jesus, who?"
"Boy named Charlie Boyle. Lived just down the street. Did you know him?"
"Only a little. How did he do it?"
He sighed.
"Come on, Dad," Jill said.
"He used some kind of metal wire to hang himself," Bill said. "Took his head clean off."
"Nice image, Dad."
"Glad to be of service, hon. You missed breakfast. Cereal will suffice, I would imagine."
"Yeah, sounds great."
"I'm heading out."
"Already?"
"There's a million stories in the City, my dear. Someone's got to cover them."
He took a final drink of his coffee and left through the front door. Jill sighed and leaned against the couch, her back to Gale.
"Charlie Boyle," she said. "He ever strike you as suicidal?"
"No," Gale said, yawning and turning on her side, eyes still closed. "But I didn't know him very well."
"Neither did I."
"We didn't make it."
"What?"
"We didn't make it last night. We fell asleep."
"Yeah."
"Did you dream?"
"Yeah. Don't remember what, though. You?"
"Yeah. The theater one again. Didn't make it as far this time, though. Less sleep than normal, I guess."
"Well, that's good, isn't it?"
"Yeah. What kind of cereal do you have?"
"I'll go check."
Wearily, she got up and headed into the kitchen. Gale sat up on the couch suddenly - inspiration striking - and called out to Jill:
"If you have Fu-Man Chews, I'll take a bowl of that!"
2
Eric was drenched in sweat. It was a cool morning but the sun was hard today, and it beat down on the young man as he pushed the heavy, metal death machine forward, always forward. Forward and back and forth, back and forth. It was Hellish.
"Son, son! How's it going there?"
It was Mr. Blaze, sitting on the porch as he always did, watching Eric mow the retirment home's lawn. He did it every week, along with several other choice lawns around the neighborhood. All to earn extra money, so he could get out of this town. Of course, his mother always reminded him that it wasn't a real job and she was right, of course.
"Good, Mr. Blaze," Eric called.
"Watch..." Mr. Blaze said, "watch the corners, now, son. They...they bite."
"Right, Mr. Blaze. I'll be careful."
Eric continued moving the lawnmower up and down the lawn of the retirement home. It was hard work. The lawn was large, expansive, lush. He hadn't slept well the night before and he was being punished for that today, that was for sure.
He looked out at the town revealed below him. The retirement home sat on a hill that rose above the neighborhood, practically above the whole town. Eric looked down at Elm Street. He could see his house, which was located at the bad end of the street; a shitty little building sitting next to a bunch of other shitty little buildings all connecting to a shady-looking back alley. Farther up the street, he could see the local spook house - the House - crumbling away. And, even farther up, Jill's house. Even farther still, the upscale end of Elm, with big, luscious homes. He didn't know anyone in those houses.
His gaze drifted back towards his own end of the street, to a house near his own. He knew that Steph lived there, with that asshole Drake. He'd seen them coming in, going out, totally ignoring him. Being so close to her, yet so far: it was the worst.
"Son!" Mr. Blaze said, stirring Eric from his musings.
He had nearly driven off the edge of the property. He shook his head, chuckled.
"Everything all right, son?!" Mr. Blaze said.
"Yeah," Eric said. "Yeah, everything's fine, Mr. Blaze. Just want to get the fuck out of this backward ass town."
"What was that, son?"
"Nothing, Mr. Blaze. Lawn's looking great, don't you think?"
"Yes, son, wonderful."
Eric nodded, and got back to work. From then on he avoided looking down at the neighborhood.
3
Lunchtime at the Crave Inn. The place was lively, booming, the jukebox blaring that new Alice Cooper song about some serial killer in New Jersey. She and Bobby shared a small booth. Jill had a burger - as she usually did - while Bobby had a steak.
"I don't know," Jill said between bites of her burger. "I don't know who he is. All I know is that I keep dreaming about him."
"If you can't really remember him," Bobby said, "then how do you know that he's the same guy in every dream? Sounds like a pretty generic, faceless boogeyman. Pretty standard dream stuff if you ask me."
"You haven't seen him. You don't know how scary he is."
"Well, you don't remember him, so he can't be all that scary."
"Oh, big tough football star, 'Nothing scares me!' Give me a break."
Bobby laughed, took another few bites of steak. They ate silently for a few moments. Then, Bobby spoke again, this time not looking at Jill.
"I've been having dreams - nightmares - recently," he said.
"Oh yeah?" Jill said.
"Sure."
"What are they like?"
"The usual stuff. Anxiety, not being able to perform."
"Oh, really? Cause you seem to be doing a pretty good job of that, I must say."
Bobby smiled, looked at her briefly, before turning his gaze back on his steak.
"I mean on the field," he said. "Riley's always there, always...better than me. In the dreams, not in real life."
"Of course," Jill said.
"He's taunting me. And half the time I've forgotten to put on my clothes. I'm naked."
"Do go on..."
"And there's this...guy. He's standing behind Coach. No one else seems to notice him but me. I'm scared of him."
"What does he look like?"
"He's not tall. Kind of short, even. I can't quite... He's always in shadow, doesn't matter how bright it is outside. It's always hard to see him. But he's dressed funny."
"Funny how? Like a clown or something?"
"No, weird. He's kind of a tramp."
"Like Charlie Chaplin?"
Bobby laughed again.
"No, like a street person. Wears this...dirty sweater. With--"
"Red and green stripes," they both said in unison.
Bobby looked up at Jill. Their eyes met. Silence. Neither of them made a move to eat, or grab their napkins, or call for the check. They just stared at each other. Then:
"Wears a fedora," Jill said.
"Yeah," Bobby said.
"How can we be dreaming about the same guy?"
"Come on. You're putting me on, right? Eric tell you about my dreams?"
Jill shook her head.
"That's the guy who's chasing me in my dreams," she said.
"Bullshit," Bobby said.
"No, not bullshit. I remember now. He has...razors for fingers. On one hand."
"What the fuck?"
"Bobby, how is this possible?"
"It's a coincidence, babe, nothing more."
"No, there's something to this. Something to do with Jesse."
"Jesus Christ, babe, not everything is about you or Jesse. You gotta get over that."
Jill shook her head, put her burger down and stood up, getting out of the booth. She grabbed a few dollars out of her purse.
"Babe," Bobby said, "babe, you don't have to pay for--"
"Quiet!" Jill said. "I'm paying for my meal, whether you like it or not. And when you realize that this - what's going on here, between us - that it's more than just coincidence, call me. Until then, I need some space."
She slammed money down on the table and stormed out. Everyone in the place seemed to be looking at Bobby.
"Problem?" he asked them.
They went back to their meals and conversations and didn't say anything to him.
"That's what I thought," Bobby said.
4
"He's a lightweight," Riley said. "Completely worthless."
"Ask me," Ann said, "I think you obsess about him a bit."
The two of them circled the High School field track, keeping pace. Riley felt he always had to beat Ann. One, because she was a girl and it would just be plain embarrassing if someone saw him losing to her. Two, he felt he had to beat everyone. Competition was life itself.
But Ann wasn't making it easy as of late. She was one tough chick.
"It isn't an obsession," Riley said. "Bobby just drags the whole team down. I mean you've seen us. You know that we've been sucking lately."
Ann nodded slowly.
"Yeah," she said, "you guys kinda suck."
"I wasn't expecting an actual response from you," Riley said.
"Then I'm not the person you should be asking. You know me."
"Yeah, I know you. Know that you're gonna lose today. On the seventh lap, I'm taking you down. I'm gonna be a damn ghost."
"Fat chance."
"But, damn, but he does have a sexy girlfriend."
"Bobby again?! You are obsessed."
"Just an observation is all. That Jill is one sexy broad."
"Yeah, I've noticed."
"Oh, you have, have you? That's interesting. Any chance of getting a show? You know, a private viewing? You and Jill, some whipped cream, me as the only audience member?"
"You're sick."
"I could join in if that makes it any better."
"You perv."
"Jello, maybe? How 'bout Champagne? I could pour it down both of your chests."
"Stop."
Riley laughed, dramatically wiped sweat from his brow. Ann shot daggers at him with her eyes.
"It would be sexy," Riley said, "all I'm saying."
"Right," Ann said. "Hey, there's a band playing tonight."
"Oh, not again."
"What?"
"I'm not going to another concert with you, girl."
"Why not?"
"Two reasons. One, you always take me to some loud, screeching metal band. You know I hate that shit. Two, you get all...weird when we're out doing the nightlife. Get some drinks in ya and you get all...clingy. It just feels odd, know what I mean?"
"I guess," Ann sighed.
"What?" Riley said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I've just been having these dreams."
"Apocalypse Tomorrow?"
"Yeah. It's worse. Whole world's reduced to ashes."
"It's just a dream, girl, everyone has 'em."
"But it's not a dream, Riley. We're gonna blow ourselves up. And there's nothing we can do about it. We're fucking toast."
"It'll all blow over," Riley said. "They know what they're doing."
"The politicians?" Ann said. "Are you out of your mind? One day we're wake up to a nuclear sunrise and we'll all be wiped off the face of the planet. How can that not scare you?!"
"Oh, it scares me."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Sure. But I know something that'll scare you more."
"Yeah? What?"
"I'm about to beat your ass."
"Bullshit."
They both pushed themselves to run faster. They were neck and neck.
5
Maria Ramirez lived at 1419 Elm - across the street from the House - drove a sensible suburban, made scrumptious cookies and sold the best weed in Springwood. Jill walked all the way from the Crave Inn to Maria's house and, though it wasn't exactly hot out, the sun beat down on her and she worked up a bit of a sweat. To say that she pounded on Maria's door would be an exaggeration, but would also not be far off the mark. Maria answered as she always did, kind and inviting.
She was an attractive latina, 27, rather tall with long hair and full lips. Many a boy on the street lusted after her, Jill knew.
"Jill, come on in," Maria said. "Hot out? Lemonade?"
"Sure," Jill said.
They went inside. The house was a spacious two-stories, nicely decorated and furnished. Jill followed Maria into the kitchen. As she was getting Jill an ice cold glass of lemonade, Maria grabbed her pager off the kitchen counter, checked it.
"I didn't get a page from you," she said.
She handed Jill her glass. Jill took a long drink before answering.
"Sorry," she said. "I didn't page. Didn't know I was coming."
"It's fine," Maria said. "I've got another client or two coming by but they won't mind if you're here. So, what can I do for you?"
"Dime, I think, would be good."
"Coming up."
Maria went through a little door off the kitchen. Jill could just see into this room, could see the bricks of sweet weed stacked several feet high, could see the safe tucked into a corner of the room. How much money was in that safe? Thousands? More?
After a moment, Maria emerged from the little room, baggie in hand. Jill pulled money out of her purse, counted it out. Trying to be cool, trying to make this visit more than just needing to score drugs to get over the argument with her boyfriend, she searched for something to talk about. She looked around the house.
"I like what you've done with the place," she said.
"Thank you," Maria said. "Were you in this house before I moved in?"
"No."
"I got it cheap."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. Murder house."
"I think you've got that confused. That's across the street."
"No, I'm not confused."
"Well, 1428 Elm is across the street. That's the house with all the murders."
"Of course, that house had many, many murders. No way they're going to sell that place again. But there was one murder in this house, too. Happened upstairs."
"Really?"
"Sure. Teenage boy. Ripped completely apart, they say. Turned into mush. He was the boyfriend of...oh, what was her name, the girl across the street, the one who went crazy."
"Nancy," Jill said. "Her name was Nancy. I remember."
"Nancy, right," Maria said. "Nancy Thompson. It was her boyfriend. He was just laying in bed when it happened. They say the room was painted with his blood."
"Yeah, right, I remember. There was something about her boyfriend. This was the house? Wow. And she went nuts."
Maria nodded.
"Said something about some man from her dreams killing all her friends," she said. "Loco."
"Man of her dreams," Jill said, staring off into space.
This was when Jill noticed the bags under Maria's eyes. She was just about to comment on them when they were interrupted.
"Maria, I thought I was the man of your dreams."
It was Drake. He strode into the house like he owned the place. Steph was behind him, looking a little less confident than Jill had seen her before.
Drake was just under six feet, with black hair, 19, attractive in a sleazy sort of way. He was adorned with many piercings and chains. Steph was dressed similar but her hair was the perfect shade of orange/red, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. Put in her a punk outfit - like she was now - or the attire of a runway model, it didn't matter, she'd be beautiful no matter what. But today she seemed meek, maybe a little paranoid.
"Talking about the loser who died in this house?" Drake said. "He was a wimp, big time."
"Did you know him?" Jill asked.
Drake looked at her, sizing her up, giving her a bit of the stink eye. Finally, he answered, but by now he wasn't looking at her. He looked at Maria as he answered, as if she had asked the question.
"Yeah," he said. "His girlfriend was a loser, too. Heard she never put out, either."
"I told you not to come barging into my house," Maria said. "You knock, like any other decent person."
"Do I look decent?"
"No. Now what do you need?"
"She cool?" Drake said, referring to Jill.
"She's cool," Maria said. "So, what is it? Pills?"
"No, I got a better source for pills. Free, in fact. So, no. Made a big score last night. Good payout. So I'm gonna take some smack."
Maria nodded. Numbers and discussion of dollars were exchanged. Somehow, the whole exchange made Jill feel uncomfortable, made it all seem so real. She just bought weed from time to time, but this was a Real Drug, the kind where you could hear the capital letters when discussing them. For some reason, she expected the little packets to be filled with white powder but when Maria brought them out for Drake and Steph, the powder was brown. It looked like dirt, in fact. This was what they shot up into their arms? This stuff?
Drake took his drugs, satisfied, and made to leave. Steph lingered behind, her gaze meeting Jill's. She looked as if she wanted to tell Jill something, wanted to get something off her chest. As it turned out, she didn't have the opportunity.
"Steph!" Drake called out. "Let's go!"
Steph finally left, following Drake out the door. Maria sighed after the two of them left, muttered something in Spanish under her breath.
"Bad news," she said, louder. "Need anything else, Jill?"
"No," Jill said, distracted. "Thanks."
"Anytime."
Jill left, headed home, thinking all the while about dreams and nightmares. Thinking about murders on Elm Street.
About boogeymen.
6
Gale sat in her car, seat leaned as far back as it would go, her head practically in the back seat. It was almost two in the afternoon and this being a Saturday, naturally, she didn't have any plans. The car was parked outside her house but she dreaded going in. All that was waiting for her inside was her parents, who thought she was on every drug known to man. They would want to know where she was the previous night, who was she with and, more generally, what was going on with her. Gale certainly didn't have the answer to the last of these questions, though she was beginning to suspect it. What she was sure of was that she didn't want to go inside.
But where to go? Jill was probably parked with Bobby somewhere for a little post-lunch fling. So that was out. And, though she got along with Eric, she wouldn't call them friends. In fact, her only real friend was Jill. Pathetic, really.
The girl swept by just then, bobbing her head to music that Gale couldn't hear, gliding along on her skateboard. She was distinctive, odd. Short, just slightly chubby - thick was perhaps the right word - blonde hair with black streaks, crimped. Eyeliner and black highlights. Her clothes were predominately grey and black, with some white mixed in. Doc Martin boots, pants tucked inside. She wore headphones. All of a sudden, Gale felt compelled to stop the girl.
"Hey!" she said.
The girl stopped, kicked up her skateboard, caught it, eyed Gale with more than a little contempt, sour look plastered on her face. She didn't speak but gave Gale a "Yeah, what is it?" look.
"What are you listening to?" Gale asked.
The girl - who was perhaps a year younger than Gale - took off her headphones, the expression on her face changing, becoming if not congenial than at least neutral.
"You really want to know?" the girl asked.
"Yeah," Gale said.
"Band called 'Psuedo Echo'."
"Sounds pretty cool."
"They are."
"Hey, I know you, right? Is it...Tiffany?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Gale."
"I know who you are."
"Can I listen to some of it?"
"Huh?"
"The music."
"Oh, I guess."
Tiffany leaned over the car, took the headphones from around her neck and gave them to Gale, who slipped them over her ears. Their heads were quite close together as Gale listened to the song, "His Eyes." Their own eyes met during the course of the song and their gaze held strong.
When the song ended, Gale reluctantly took off the headphones and gave them back to Tiffany. A comfortable silence passed between them.
"That was good," Gale finally said.
"Yeah, they're wicked," Tiffany said.
"You're a Junior, aren't you?"
Tiffany nodded.
"Thought about where you want to go for college?" Gale asked, knowing she was grasping at straws but wanting to keep the conversation going.
"No," Tiffany said, "not really. Doesn't seem to be much point."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean teenagers on Elm Street don't exactly have a long lifespan around here."
"You heard about Charlie Boyle then."
"What?"
"Charlie Boyle. He killed himself last night."
"Charlie's dead?"
"You hadn't heard?"
"No."
"Then what are you talking about?"
"Louis Abernathy, a month ago. Slit his wrists."
"I haven't heard about him."
"Then there was Jesse Walsh almost single-handedly taking out his entire class. Figure I won't make it to senior year."
"Good attitude to have."
"I'm just a realist."
"Is it this town?"
"Huh?"
"All the kids dying or killing themselves. Is it the town's fault?"
"It's this street, like I said. Goes back a ways, actually."
"Oh yeah?" Gale asked.
"Yeah," Tiffany said. "Back in the late 60s or early 70s, there was this serial killer. Killed kids, little kids. This street was his hunting ground. Snatched twenty or thirty of the little buggers."
"What did he do to them?"
"Tortured them. Mutilated them. Murdered them."
"Sounds like a nice guy."
"The nicest."
"You live nearby?"
"Just down the street. That's why I'm doomed. Speaking of which, I should get home to my dad. It was...nice talking to you."
She stood up, turned to go. Gale watched her leave, her gaze drifting to the girl's wide hips and prominent ass.
"Hey," she called after the girl.
Tiffany stopped, turned around again. Gale smiled at her.
"You wanna grab a late lunch?" Gale asked. "I've haven't had one yet."
"Sounds good," Tiffany said.
"Yeah. And, hey, Giant Human Sandwich is playing at the Forum tonight."
"Wicked."
"You know it. Seen 'em before?"
"No."
"They rock live."
"Shit."
"What?"
"What about my dad?" Tiffany said.
"Fuck your dad," Gale said.
Tiffany nodded.
"Okay," she said.
"Excellent," Gale said.
Tiffany rushed back to the car and got in the passenger side. Gale started up the car and gunned it the second the girl had her seatbelt on.
7
Stanley's house was like a fortress. Bars on all the windows, doors hard, sturdy wood with locks that had to be unlocked on both sides. Stanley was out till nearly ten, a somewhat early night for a Saturday yet he had to explain to his worried parents that he had been out with Bobby, trying to console him after his fight with Jill. It took several minutes and there was a new tape burning a hole in his backpack all the while.
Finally, blissful release! He was allowed to retreat to his room, where everything made sense. It was a large room - he was an only child and his parents did pamper him - with a large, comfortable bed and a window which was always covered to keep out the sun on the rare mornings that he could sleep in. This morning was not one of those mornings. There were chores to do and errands to run and he was up at seven. He was feeling it now - chores in the morning, errands in the afternoon and all evening trying to cheer up his best friend. He was beat. But, he had to beat something else before he could fall into beautiful sleep.
The room was lined with VHS tapes, they were everywhere - on shelves, stacked on the ground, in the closet, which is where he kept his "special" ones. Porno that he didn't want his parents knowing about. The first thing he did when he bought a new one was throw away the cover. This made him feel awful, he just loved the pictures and the artwork, but it was necessary. If his mother saw a row of caseless tapes, she would just assume that they were filled with programs that Stanley had taped off the television and think nothing else of them. This was what he hoped, anyway.
He got the new tape out of his backpack, jumped for joy a little bit. A brand new one: "Slippery When Wet" with the luscious Erica Boyer and hot to trot newcomer Barbara Dare. The pictures he had seen of her were great and he heard that she was even better in action.
Making double sure the door was locked, he undressed, turned on the television and booted up the VCR. He slipped the tape inside the machine and sat in front of the television on the floor, quite close to the screen. After the usual FBI Warning, the program started.
"What the Hell?" Stanley said.
This couldn't be the right tape. The video showed a typical small town America street. In fact, it looked like his street, like Elm Street. That couldn't be right.
A roll of static scrolled up the screen as the camera panned. There was an abrupt cut and the new image was different somehow. Suddenly, it came to Stanley. It looked like film now, not video, not like a cheap porno movie but like a theatrical film, one from the sixties or early seventies, possibly. It was still the street from before - still Elm Street, his mind insisted - but now the camera was focused on a house. It looked familiar to Stanley but he couldn't quite place it. An ice cream truck was parked in front of the house. It was weird, somehow all angles and graffiti: an abstraction of an ice cream truck, then, not the real thing. No one was behind the wheel. In fact, there was no movement at all in the shot, as if he were looking at a still image instead of a shot from a film. There were no leaves blowing in the wind, no animals moving around.
All of a sudden, however, there was movement. A figure moved in the cab of the ice cream truck, as if emerging from the back. The figure was in shadow, Stanley couldn't quite make him out.
There was another abrupt cut and the television now showed the interior of a vast, labyrinthine boiler room. It looked like some kind of industrial plant on the outskirts of town. The camera panned the plant until coming to focus on a long, womb-like corridor. At the end of the corridor was a figure, a figure with a distinctive silhouette: a hat on his head, one hand outstretched with long fingers. Razors? The figure was too far off to tell for sure but they were claws of some kind.
There was a long, discordant groan on the soundtrack - moody music or oppresive sound design, take your pick - and static broke up the image until there was nothing on the television but white snow and noise.
Stanley started to get very, very scared.
All of a sudden, the image put itself back together, as tapes sometimes do. But the image had changed again. Now Stanley was looking at someone from behind, someone sitting in front of their television set, someone naked and sitting cross-legged on the floor. Stanley leaned closer to the television and the figure onscreen did the same thing.
He was looking at himself.
Right now.
Live.
Stanley stood up, turned around as fast as he could. His room was empty. The television went all snow again, white noise filling the speakers. Was that voices he could hear under the white noise? Voices calling for help?
It didn't matter. He had his own problems to deal with. His closet door was open and he knew it hadn't been just a few moments ago. But this was not what worried him most. No, what did was the fact that all the tapes that he kept in there were moving.
They moved erratically, jittery, scittering off the shelf, crawling down it and landing on the floor. Like bugs. The first one scampered across the floor towards him and Stanley was reminded of a cockroach running madly across a room.
More followed. Suddenly, he was surrounded by a virtual swarm of VHS/roaches, all of them running like chickens with their heads cut off. It was repulsive, scary.
Stanley stepped on one and instantly regretted it. Pain shot up his leg from his foot. Fragments of hard, sharp plastic cut into the sole of his foot.
The VHS/roaches reacted, all at once, surging towards him and overwhelming him. They crawled up his legs, his torso, the crack of his naked ass. What the Hell were they using for legs?!
Stanley fell to the ground, reached out, trying to grab onto something. His hand found the VCR below the television, his figures sticking into the slot itself.
There was light coming from inside the VCR. As the VHS/roaches crawled up his body, reaching his neck and going for his mouth, Stanley pushed the flap of the VCR slot open more. He had to see. Just had to!
From inside the slot, a pair of eyes watched him. The skin around the eyes was horribly burned. The eyes themselves were filled with hatred. They wanted him dead.
And they would be satisfied soon enough.
The VHS/roaches covered his whole head now and he could no longer see. Soon he would suffocate or perhaps be torn apart by these hideous creatures - hideous, expensive creatures, he thought madly, must have paid at least ten or twenty bucks each for these killers - leaving him nothing but a bloody husk.
What would his mother find in the morning? What would she think happened?
Stanley started to black out. It wouldn't be long now. His body convulsed, limbs flailing all over the place.
"Stanley," his mother said.
Stanley sat up, looked around. And there was nothing. No VHS/roaches, no crazy images on the television. The only thing onscreen was the porno: Barbara Dare was pleasuring Erica Boyer in the backseat of a car, with cool sexuality.
It had all been a dream. He must have fallen asleep right after putting the tape in.
"Stanley, everything all right?" his mother asked, knocking on his door.
"Fine, mom," he called.
"Okay, dear. Just saying goodnight."
"Yeah, goodnight, mom."
"Come say goodnight to me properly now."
"I'm already in bed, mom. See you tomorrow."
"Of course, dear."
He heard her leave his door and head down the hall to her own room. He fell onto his back, looked up at his ceiling. His foot still hurt and he checked his sole and, sure enough, blood. His foot had been cut by those things. As if they were real, even though they couldn't possibly be.
It didn't look like he was getting any sleep tonight.
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The Dream Trap