My dream was split into two parts, both involving a little girl.
Part 1:
We have a serial killer in the neighborhood. It’s a little blonde girl, four years old. She breaks into peoples’ homes at night and stabs them with a butcher knife. We know who she is: she is the daughter of Allison, a girl Michelle and Anne went to school with. It was night and bedtime, so I methodically went around checking all the doors and windows in the basement and on the first floor to be sure everything was locked.
I was laying in my bed and sensed that somebody was moving through the house. It was dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t see. Even though worried, my dog (Grumpy Puppers) was completely asleep and unaware. Knowing what an excellent watch dog she is, I told myself that the sounds were just in my imagination.
Some amount of time went by, and then I realized she was standing beside my bed, breathing loudly. She was holding a large silver (stainless steel) butcher knife. I leapt out of the opposite side of the bed from her so that the bed was between us. Grumpy Puppers was still sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed. The little girl said, “You’re next,” which made me think she had already stabbed my dog. I looked down at Grumpy Puppers, and she stretched and yawned (a sense of relief washed over me). I grabbed a blanket off the bed to defend myself just as the little girl thrust the knife forward into my stomach. I woke up.
Part 2:
Otis and I are driving to the beach for vacation. We have a two-year old daughter in the backseat who is coming with is. We stop at rest area so that the little girl can stretch her legs and play with her dolls for a few minutes. I love the little girl and enjoyed watching her play and skip around through the trees (which impressed me that she knew how to skip at such a young age). Otis and I got back in the car, and for some reason, I assumed that the little girl was in the backseat.
We drove a bit, then exited the highway when we got to the town where the beach is. Just then, I could hear the little girl wailing desperately, “Mommy!! Mommy?” I turned around, but our daughter was not in the back seat. “Where are you?” I called back to her. She only said, “Trunk.” I order Otis to stop the car immediately, but he got visibly irritated. “She’s fine,” he argued, “We only have a few more blocks to go.” I woke up.
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