Maybe the Dream Knows What’s Real – Part Ten – Novella by Steve Grogan


Steve Grogan is an ongoing contributor to Writer to Writers. He has published several short stories on the site, which can be found on the main page under the heading “Steve Grogan’s Fiction.” He has had several poems and short stories published over the years, some of which are available on Amazon. (See the announcement at the end of this post.)

He is the writer and creator of the ongoing, zombie, post-apocalyptic, Romero-meets-Dungeons-and-Dragons webcomic REDemption. Alternatively, Steve describes the comic by saying, “It is to zombie fiction what KILL BILL was to kung fu movies: everything I love about the genre housed under one roof and mixed with my voice.”


We reached her house about an hour later. There were no cars in the driveway, but that didn’t mean nobody was home. Her brothers, Andy and Alan, didn’t drive so they might be there.

I parked my car down the street in an empty parking lot. I left Lindsay in the car to make sure no one was home before I dragged her along to watch me do my work.

A quick peek through the front door revealed nobody. However, the television was on, so somebody had to be there. Carefully, quietly, I made my way inside. Someone was singing in the kitchen. It was none other than Lindsay’s mother. With gun in hand, I made my way to her. She stood by the sink. Her back was to me.

“Hello, Mrs. Barber, how are you doing today?” I said.

She jumped twice: once because my voice startled her, and a second time because she noticed the gun in my hand, which was aimed at her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Where is Lindsay?”

“I have something to show you,” I said, “but I have to go to my car and get it. Do you have anything that I could use to tie you up?” She nodded. “Please get it for me, Ma’am. And don’t play any games or I’ll kill you right now.”

She went out on the back porch. I followed her to make sure she didn’t play any tricks while out of my sight. Mrs. Barber found some rope. It was weak-looking, but it would hold her steady if I tied it right.

I marched her into the living room. Soon she was tied up and sitting in her favorite recliner. Now there was only one more question to ask.

“When will that big racist husband of yours be home?”

“Soon,” she said.

I put the gun to her head. “I’m not playing any fucking games with you. Soon is no kind of answer! Now tell me when.”

Her voice quivered as she said, “In a half hour.”

“Okay. That gives us enough time,” I said. “Now don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

I ran back to my car and drove it down to Lindsay’s house. Although I thought it was a risky thing to do, I untied Lindsay’s feet so I wouldn’t have to carry her inside. (Silly me, forgetting I would have to do that anyway because she was short one knee!) When we got into the house, I dropped Lindsay on the living room floor.

“My God, what have you done to her!” her mother screamed.

“What I did is nothing compared to what YOU have done,” I said. “It is because of you and the shitty job you and your husband did as parents, you and your crazy overprotective bullshit. One time you had the nerve to complain about her friend Shauna not having basic social skills? Shauna is like a Girl Scout compared to your daughter! I often ask myself: why does Lindsay act the way she does? The answer is because she had YOU as a fucking parent, probably the worst mother in the history of mankind! No wonder she’s a space cadet, and no wonder she’s a whore! It’s your fault she grew up this way, thinking she can do as she pleases no matter who she hurts! Well, now I taught her the lesson that you failed to pass on.”

A second later I had my switchblade out and open. I kicked Lindsay in the stomach to discourage her from moving around. Then I got behind Lindsay’s mom. A handful of hair gave me the ability to pull her head back. Lindsay was on the floor, facing her mother and I.  Good, I thought, hope you enjoy the view, bitch!

“Say good bye to a horrible mom,” I said.

The blade slipped across her mother’s throat; the poetry of brutality echoed in the pulse of her veins. Arteries tore from the pressure of the razor-sharp metal. Being behind dear mother left me out of the path of the arterial spray. Lindsay started making idiot noises of agony while blood squirted out of her mom’s neck.

It didn’t take long for good old overprotective Mom to die. Once her body was done quivering, I put her up in her bedroom. Then Lindsay and I waited for her dad. While waiting for the fat racist pig to arrive, I positioned Lindsay so she was lying on the floor in front of me. She tried squirming away, so I placed my foot on her stomach to keep her still. With my gun trained on the door, I was ready for Dad to arrive.

As I sat there in silence, I started worrying that Alan and Andy might come home with their dad. They were young. Not even teenagers yet. There was no way I wanted to be a child killer. What would I do if they got home?

I tried to calm these fears by telling myself that question couldn’t be answered unless that was how it went down. And if they walked through that door with him, there was nothing I could do about it. No, I did not want to kill prepubescent children, but I didn’t want to get caught either. There could be no witnesses left. Well, other than sweet little whore Lindsay of course.

The minutes closed in on me.

Fear clouded my mind.

What was going to happen? Who was going to come home first?

I heard a car pulling in. Relief flooded my system when big bad Mr. Barber came lumbering through the front door alone. At first he didn’t notice his injured daughter on the floor or the gun in my hand; all he saw was me in the recliner, and a look of confusion filled his eyes.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” he bellowed.

I smirked. “What, no hello?”

Then he noticed the gun, and his daughter.

“Lindsay?” Mr. Barber said. “What the hell did you do to my daughter?”

I didn’t want to shoot him because this neighborhood was not like Bob’s. Next door neighbors really were right next door. My plan was to force him to kneel in front of Lindsay so I could cut his throat and hit her with the arterial spray.

Unfortunately, I was forced to abandon that plan when Mr. Barber started charging at me. For a big man, he sure did move fast: he was halfway across the room before I could fire a shot. The bullet crashed through his skull, but death didn’t stop Mr. Barber’s progress toward me.

Since I didn’t anticipate he would keep coming at me, I hadn’t made any preparations to jump out of his way. He collided with me, and his momentum knocked me back. The chair tipped over, and I lost contact with Lindsay.

With a grunt, I pushed her father’s corpse away. While I was struggling to free myself, Lindsay had gotten up and was limping for the front door. I grabbed her by the hair, and that was enough anchor to hold her still.

“Hey, how’s it going? Where do you think you’re going, babe? Oh, out to fuck Joel? Damn, he’s dead, although I certainly wouldn’t put corpse fucking past a weirdo like you. Come on, let’s go visit Grandma and Grandpa.”

Lindsay’s grandparents lived right across the street. I marched her around to the back door and knocked. Some guy I did not know answered the door. He was young and good-looking, with short black hair and light brown eyes.

“Hello, who are…hey, Lindsay…how’s it going?”

It took him a moment to realize Lindsay was injured.

“What the hell happened to you, Lindsay?” he asked.

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” I said.

I shot him point-blank in the chest; the bullet smashed his heart to bits. As I stepped over his corpse to enter the house, I thought this was a shame and a senseless waste of life. He seemed like a nice kid, and I never even learned his name.

By the time Lindsay and I entered the house, Grandma and Grandpa had come into the kitchen, panicking and screaming due to the sound of the gunshot.

“Hi!” I said. “Please, stop all that noise.”

I knew they wouldn’t follow my order, so I made quick work of putting them down with one shot each. This bummed me out because it was so anticlimactic. These two old farts meant the world to Lindsay, so I was hoping to engrave some long-lasting, horrifying images into her brain by tormenting them slowly, and for hours.

Saddened, I took Lindsay back to the car. As I tied her feet together (to prevent her from kicking me), I thought back on the conversation I’d had with her mother. Specifically, I dwelled on that moment when I mentioned Lindsay’s friend Shauna.

I looked up at Lindsay and said, “You know what? I think your friend Shauna’s house will be our next stop.”

It was easy to figure out why Lindsay and Shauna were friends: they were pretty much the same damn person. Shauna was a liar and a criminal, a sick bitch who was on probation because she bit one of her ex-boyfriend’s and DRANK HIS BLOOD. She even dressed like she thought she was a vampire.

I was going to prove to her that she certainly was not immortal.

When I got to her house, Shauna was the only one home. I parked in the driveway and rang the doorbell. She was shocked to see me.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a smile.

I returned the grin. “Just wanted to see you, babe.”

There was a brief pause. Then, to my surprise, she struck a sexy pose for me. I had always thought Shauna had a thing for me, but I never bothered trying to find out. My history with social cues was notoriously poor. It would have been a very bad scene if I’d made a play for her and was wrong.

She stood in the doorway, waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, she finally asked, “Do you like what you see?”

“I sure do,” I said, deciding to play along.

“I knew it. I could tell you liked me better than Lindsay.”

“That’s an understatement,” I replied.

Then we were in one another’s embrace. Her tongue and lips caressed mine. Hands and mouths roaming, minds scanning all the possible combinations into which our flesh could fit. My hand against her ass made me wonder what she would look like on her hands and knees. Probably one hell of a sight. Was it such a shame? Should I take the time to fuck Shauna’s brains out?

Behind her back I had fished out my switchblade. The sound of her moaning covered the sound of the blade clicking open.

I moved from her mouth to her neck. This aroused her, as I knew it would. It arouses every girl. My tongue knew how to explore the landscape of a female neck. Now I had to make my decision: should I fuck this freak and then kill her? Or was it better to just gut her and get on the move again? Well, she was sixteen, and I was feeling quite devious, but there was the worry about getting caught. They could not catch me, not before I knew Lindsay had learned her lesson.

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

We moved toward her front door. I fumbled with the knob and managed to twist it. The door opened and we stepped into the threshold. Then Shauna asked me a question that brought it all to an end, which was frustrating because I’d already developed quite an erection. It was a shame to see it go to waste, but I had no other choice once she asked:

“Hey, is that Lindsay in your car?”

I sighed. “Yeah, it is.”

“Let me go say hi.”

“No need,” I mumbled. “Say hi to this.”

There was no more hesitation on my part, no more hovering in empty moments. I plunged my blade into her gut repeatedly. For all I knew her parents were home, but it was too late to turn back; I was killing again, and now I had to see it through. Sometimes the blade got stuck, and I had to yank hard to get it out of her abdomen. Oddly enough, she made no noise when I stabbed her, nor did she struggle. I never thought I would meet anyone more passive than Lindsay, but Shauna stole the crown just as quickly as her slut-whore-bitch friend had earned it.

I laid Shauna down gently just inside the front door. On the way out I wiped my fingerprints off the doorknob. Then I went back to the car.

“Well, Lindsay, time to get moving again,” I said.

And then we were off, heading nowhere again. While we drove around the Tri-City area, I would abuse Lindsay every now and then: a slap across her face, a punch in her stomach, a terrifying sequence during which I pointed my gun at her cunt.

This last move gave me an idea. I got her pants down, exposing that pussy that had taken in so many cocks, and sank the barrel of the gun inside her. Then I fucked her with the gun. A mix of terror and pleasure spread across Lindsay’s face. It turned me on to watch her.

I decided to unload the gun, worried that it might go off and cut my fun short prematurely. The clip went into my jacket, and then the barrel-fucking resumed. Now she was getting aroused. Or was it another Lindsay act? Knowing her, she was faking it, just like she faked orgasms with me, just like she faked enjoying my cock inside her, just like she faked any interest in me, just like she faked caring for me. Cunt, bitch, slut, whore! Fuck you! People like you don’t deserve to live!

The urge to reload and blow her pussy to bits swelled up inside me. But I couldn’t do it. Lindsay had to live; I needed to be able to make her feel the humiliation that I had felt.

Suddenly, an unpleasant realization dawned on me: maybe I was partially to blame for all of this. If I hadn’t said “I love you” (as I always do), then I might not be in this mess. Now Joanna, who I mentioned briefly earlier…another Quest girl…the one I saw before Lindsay…she really did love me. She cared about me. And I threw her away for this slut. Well, there was no way Joanna would take me back. And who could blame her? I mean there are women who love criminals, but I knew she had more self-esteem than that. Besides, no one likes to be someone’s second choice.

Sitting in that driver’s seat, I began to see the truth. Joanna was the one I should have stayed with. We had gotten along so well together. I like to be affectionate with my girlfriend wherever I am, whether we are in public or at home, and she was always cuddling with me and holding my hand and squeezing my ass (a bit embarrassing, this last one, but it was good because I knew someone was attracted to me). Why was I so blind to kick her out of my life for this whore?

It was an answer I’d never get.


It seemed like ages until nighttime came. We were idling at a red light when I noticed a barber shop across the street. The owner was getting ready to close, and the neighborhood in which we were situated was deserted except for the three of us: barber, whore, and I.

An idea hatched in my mind, something that would be keeping in line with the theme of my warpath against Lindsay.

When the light went green, I went straight ahead. I stopped at a Stewart’s down the street to buy a can of gasoline and some matches. This purchase was made with cash. (Couldn’t have the police tracking my credit card trail, now could I?) Then I headed back to the barber shop.

Barber shop.

Barber, Lindsay. Lindsay Barber.

The significance could not be overlooked.

I parked my car across the street from the barber shop. There was no traffic so I hurried across the street, taking out my switchblade as I went. Holding it was like caressing a lover’s hand, a real lover, not someone like Lindsay who was more like an onion than a human, not someone who you really want to know but they hide behind layers so you start peeling away, mask after mask, act after act, only to find out they are not a person, they have no core, no center, no soul, and you keep peeling away to search for them, but the more you look the more you cry, and tears are your only reward.

I entered the shop. The barber took a second to notice me.

“Sir, I’m getting ready to close,” the barber said.

“That’s all right,” I replied calmly.

I closed the distance between myself and the barber before he could speak again. One hand covered his mouth while the other spun him around. At first the barber struggled. Then he felt the metal on his flesh, and he became compliant.

There was an office at the back of the shop, so I walked him back into it. When we got in there, I slit his throat, letting my hand linger against the wound to feel the blood gush out. And goddamn did it feel good!

Then I remembered the task at hand. Like a fool, I hadn’t brought the gasoline can in with me. No matter. It didn’t take long to retrieve it from my car.

I started dumping gasoline in the office first. Then I moved into the shop. After a while the stench got me high. Gasoline flowed through my veins, fueling me up and preparing me for whatever task might come my way next, and there was a whole universe of choices out there for me.

Less than five minutes later I was standing just outside the front door. My pockets bulged with money I had taken from the register. I hadn’t covered everything in the shop with gasoline, but I had spread it around enough to make sure the place would go up fast. The empty gasoline can was next to my foot. I held a book of matches in my left hand.

I lit one, holding it inside the doorway while I picked up the gas can. Then I dropped it and tore ass across the street. By the time I got to my car, smoke was already rising out of the building. There was the sound of shattering glass. Inside the shop, the flames were already leaping up to the ceiling.

After I drove a few blocks away from the blaze, I addressed Lindsay.

“Do you know why I blew up that business?”

She nodded. That was when I started to regret having cut out her tongue. I wanted her to TELL me why I burned down the store. I wanted her to say, “It’s because it was a barber shop, and that’s my last name.”

The lack of a tongue meant the bitch would never be able to verbalize things like that. Saddened by this realization, I drove on in silence.


A few days later, I felt the urge to talk to Lindsay on a subject that was incredibly relevant to our relationship. I wanted to bring it up a long time ago, but I kept pushing it to the back of my mind. Now that the flurry of my murderous activity had calmed down, I could finally address the topic.

“Narcissism, Lindsay,” I said. “It’s a fucking plague that is going to tear this country apart at the seams. That is the one flaw of a society where people can think however they want. You know, sometimes I hate freedom of speech and the spirit of individuality. Democracy allows people the chance to get an attitude problem. Cunts like you, for example. You think just because you’re pretty that the world revolves around you, right? Well, guess what, bitch?” At this point I paused in my soliloquy long enough to punch her across the face. “You’re dead wrong!”

I drove in silence for a while. Then my rant continued.

“That’s one thing I love about a country like China. Every Chinese girl that I’ve met feels like shit. Women born and raised in most communist countries don’t develop a high sense of self-esteem, but you’ve got to admire communism for that reason.  At least everyone feels like crap. In America, the people that SHOULD have high self-esteem are the ones that sit at home either writing about or attempting suicide while all the whores, rapists, thieves, and killers are out having a good time! Horrible people always live forever. Did you hear what I just said, Lindsay? All the fucking KILLERS!” I took a deep breath. The excitement of my revelation took me by surprise. “Well, this is one hell of a conclusion to reach, dear Lindsay. I’m one of them. The immortals, I mean. Don’t you see? I’m going to live forever now.  For every person I kill, I will absorb the years that my victim should have had left to them. Forever, Lindsay, and you are going to share the future with me. I don’t mean marriage because, let’s face it, whores like you don’t get married for two reasons: one, it’s not your style and two, you aren’t worth marrying in the first place! No, what I mean is you will live with me so you can experience everything that one of your fellow immortals does. You are a shitty person too, you see, so that means you are also immortal. And you and I are going to share eternity together.”

Her eyes went wide with terror, and all I could do was laugh

because I had centuries left to live,

because I had an attractive young woman by my side that I could beat and fuck and humiliate whenever I wanted,

because I had a car, a handgun, a switchblade, and a shotgun at my disposal,

because I had no more inhibitions to stop me from reaching my goals,

because I had freed myself from the boundaries of society,

because I was on a mad killing spree where I would kill anyone who tried to get in my way…

and I had found an address book in Lindsay’s handbag, which listed

all her family, all her friends,

all the cocks she had ever held or sucked or ridden, and they were now

destined to be violated by my rage.

Goddammit, it was a madman’s motherfucking fantasy,

and the nightmare had just begun

right there in the confines of my car

while Lindsay and I rode

on the highway to eternity…


If you like what you have read and would like to purchase this serialized novel as one complete PDF, then please send $2 to Steve via PayPal:

Also, don’t forget to check out his other writing at the following links below:


Steve’s Amazon Author Page

Steve’s Writer to Writers Publications

Author: Redemption Comics

Steve Grogan was born in the often-filmed city of Troy, NY. He has written in a variety of formats (novels, short stories, poems, screen and stage plays, blogs/articles) and genres (horror, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, drama).

Steve is also a father, a boyfriend, a musician, a fitness fanatic, and a martial artist. He has been studying Wing Chun Kung Fu since 1995, and he maintains a blog/YouTube channel that describe his training habits, epiphanies, and advancement. It also candidly discusses his stumbling blocks, such as his struggle with nutrition and mental health issues.

He is no relation to the New England Patriots quarterback from the 1980’s.

2 thoughts on “Maybe the Dream Knows What’s Real – Part Ten – Novella by Steve Grogan

  1. Well, there you have it, folks! This is the first time “Maybe the Dream Knows What’s Real” has ever seen publication, and you were all witness to it. Thanks to all of you who tuned in, liked, or commented. Up next is my novel THE SIZE CURSE.


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