After tasting the cream from the cake, Larry turned his gaze toward his brothers, who were sound asleep in the living room, oblivious to everything. He took a deep breath.
His expression changed. He no longer looked like an eleven-year-old boy. Not in that moment. His face transformed into that of someone on the verge of delirium, as if he had just committed a crime without flinching, his eyes distant and his lips curled into a restrained grimace.
He didn't fully understand why he kept having these dreams, but they all had one thing in common: a killer would come into the house and murder his family right in front of him. Sometimes it was the "End of the World Killer." Other times, someone else. But the ending was always the same.
Larry always witnessed everything. Always. And only when the killer left the house could he finally wake up.
He had discovered a kind of shortcut in these dreams: he could try to change the outcome. He could hide his family and attempt to kill the killer.
He always tried. But with each new dream, the killer changed. A new face, new methods, a new voice. He no longer knew if it was the same killer who had scarred him as a child… or another, an echo from his own mind.
But he had learned one thing: if he could act with conviction—if he could get inside the killer's mind—then he had a chance. After all, it was only a dream. If he felt he couldn't win… he would kill himself. Sometimes it worked. Other times, there wasn't enough time. All he could do was hide.
But this time… he wouldn't hide. This time, he would face it.
He had an idea of why he was having these dreams, though never a clear solution. The real question was: Was he crazy for doing all this?
He opened a cabinet with steady, almost automatic hands. He pulled out medical restraints—the kind used in psychiatric hospitals to restrain the most dangerous patients. With surprising skill, he tied up his father and mother, one by one. Without hesitation.
The television kept repeating warnings about the killer on this rainy night. Rain hammered relentlessly against the windows. But none of that seemed to matter now.
Larry dragged his unconscious parents to the bedroom door. The effort was immense, but he didn't stop.
Larry loved his parents. And they loved him. No matter how busy they were, they always came home at night to see him.
But that didn't matter anymore.
They were just memories now.
"Almost there…"
He shoved the bedroom door open with force. The chain clattered, and a group of strange but familiar faces with eerie smiles stared at Larry.
The bedroom was full of copies of his parents!
Their bodies were piled up!
Their expressions weren't something a human face should be capable of!
Larry's mother and father returned every night in these nightmares—not continuously, but frequently—and none of the people in that room were truly his parents.
Ever since he began hiding them in this dream to avoid psychological torment, they never disappeared from the room where he hid them. The same thing happened with his brothers, whom he hid in his room.
Even when they were tied up, they always came back home and never left his nightmares.
Were they really his parents? The answer was no. They had died for Larry. So whatever stood before him now was only a memory torturing him.
When the parents tied up in the bedroom saw Larry, their eyes turned bloodshot. They thrashed about like fish thrown onto the shore, shaking their bodies desperately.
As they struggled violently, a hoarse voice began to emerge from their throats:
"Why weren't you home that night?!"
"You abandoned the family!"
"You should have died!"
Lighting a cigarette, Larry, with his small body, leaned against the doorway and silently observed everything.
These were his thoughts, hidden deep within his subconscious. The guilt he carried—every bit of it—was placed in this nightmare, hidden in the details.
After putting out the cigarette, Larry shoved the last two "parents" into the bedroom. The faces of all the mothers and fathers began to distort, as if unwilling to let Larry leave.
Every time Larry had one of these nightmares, the number of candles in the room increased. They weren't frequent, but lately, they were happening more often.
"I'll kill the killer and go home." When Larry locked his parents in the bedroom before, they had never reacted so violently. That, too, was proof that Larry was about to uncover the secret behind this nightmare.
After closing the bedroom door, Larry felt the temperature in the house begin to rise. The news on the television became clearer, and the heavy rain outside the window seemed just a bit more real.
"After I kill the killer… I'll be able to wake up."
Larry walked quickly to the security door in the living room and looked through the peephole. The hallway outside was no longer completely dark.
He had never left the house in his nightmares. But he was curious about what lay beyond.
The lights in the hallway gradually pushed back the darkness. Larry was about to open the door when suddenly he heard hurried footsteps outside.
"He's here!" Holding his breath, Larry stared at the corner of the stairs.
A moment later, a man in his thirties, about 180 cm tall and wearing a raincoat, appeared outside the door. He had a grim face and glanced at the nearby doors.
Larry narrowed his eyes slightly. The man in the raincoat looked nearly identical to the one shown in the surveillance footage released by the police.
This was the killer from the news reports.
And that's why, making a decision, Larry walked to the kitchen and opened the gas burners.
He found a bandage and wrapped it around his leg, pretending to be injured. Then he picked up the trash bag and opened the security door.
The damp, cool air rushed into the room, and Larry took a deep breath.
The man in the raincoat was about to leave when he heard the door opening. Raindrops slid down the brim of his hat. He tried his best to hide the excitement in his eyes as he turned around and grabbed the door.
"It's raining hard out there. You're soaked. Come on in."
The man in the raincoat hadn't even spoken before Larry took the initiative to invite him, then limped over to the table to warm up the food.
Seeing Larry's vulnerable appearance, the man in the raincoat stepped inside the house.
He glanced at Larry's "injured" left leg, then looked at the half-eaten cake.
The warm, cozy atmosphere of the house only fueled his urge to destroy, making a cruel smile creep across his face.
"This might be the last warm and normal night you ever have."