Little Nightmares Seven Novels & Stories

In any other context, like operating a high-performance vehicle at lethal speeds down an abandoned desert highway, that specific, adrenaline-inducing tempo would have been incredibly exhilarating. Forcing myself to shake away that distracting, reckless fantasy, I quickened my pace down the grand staircase, heading straight toward little Timothy’s bedroom. Peeking inside, I discovered him wrapped in a blanket, completely dead to the world, emitting soft, rhythmic snores. It was a genuine shock to realize that even a seven-year-old could maintain such a profound level of sleep amidst a sonic disturbance of this magnitude.

There were faint dark circles under his eyes, and there was a probing look in the way he watched me. "Did you sleep okay last night?" he asked. I yawned and rubbed my eyes. "Not really. I had a nightmare." "What did you dream about?" I looked at him, my eyes wide, innocent, and confused. "I dreamed about your brother, but it felt like he actually came by and kissed me." "Dante's" body went rigid, and his eyes behind his glasses narrowed sharply. "Are you sure it was a dream?" "I guess…" I said, sounding uncertain. "It just felt so real. He reeked of alcohol."

’ I asked my talented mate. ‘Yes. I’ll place my fingers against your temples, and it will project them. So, just be sure to think about the ones in particular.’ I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to focus on the nightmares. I felt Bellamy’s magic against my temples and remembered several nightmares. I had nightmares damn near every night since I was four. The first nightmare I had when I was four. It was completely dark and freezing. I heard whispers all around me, but I could not make out what they were saying except one phrase. ‘Belong to me.’

Claire lay on her side, facing him, one hand resting protectively on his back. I watched her for a long time. She didn’t fall asleep right away. Her eyes stayed open, unfocused, staring into the dark. When I shifted, she tensed almost imperceptibly before relaxing again. Pretending. Just like me. Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under. And the nightmare came. It always did. I was seven again. Small. Helpless. The room was dark, lit only by the flickering lamp on the dresser. My mother stood near the door, her face already bruised, eyes swollen with tears she refused to let fall. Sylvester loomed over her, his shadow monstrous, his voice low and venomous.

Mom glances over at me with a curious look and then states, "Breakfast will be ready in a minute. I threw some cinnamon rolls in the oven and they still have a minute or two before they are brown." Smiling, I reply, "Oh, that sounds yummy mom. Thanks." Sitting down at the table, I wait patiently as I drink my orange juice. Mom glances over at me again and asks, "Did you have anymore nightmares last night?" "Yes, I don't know what is going on. Ever since Billie gave me Charlie, I have been having this same bad dream over and over. It is so real that I peed the bed, I'm sorry."

SEVEN Despite Dad’s reassurances that night, I had a nightmare, one of the worst I’d ever had. We were all back at the Commons Yard Sale—me, Kevin and Jake—standing before Mr. Trung’s table. I couldn’t move, frozen in that way we usually are in nightmares. The air felt thick and humid. Everything sounded muffled, as if we stood underwater. Chanting guttural words, Mr. Trung laid tiles out in overlapping rows. I couldn’t see the engravings on them because they blurred and moved across the ivory. He laid the tiles, arranging them, preparing them . . .

Only four girls were present, sound asleep, a testament to the hour. As Rithanya prepared her bed, set her alarm for 7 am, and settled in, her thoughts began to cascade into her dreams. In her slumber, a vivid and unsettling dream took hold—a scenario where she entered an examination hall, slightly late, and was met with a room full of students fervently writing. The weight of time pressed upon her, and she struggled to finish her exam. The aftermath of her performance was a shock—she scored the lowest marks, her classmates mocked her, and her parents' disappointment was palpable. The dream painted a portrait of failure and humiliation that left Rithanya gasping for air as she jolted awake w

I jolted awake, trembling violently as cold sweat clung to my skin. A nightmare. Only a nightmare… though Hazel remained strangely restless beneath my skin. Suddenly, the door pushed open and Dominic crossed the room in seconds, concern darkening his expression. He was beside me before I could steady my breathing, his hand closing around mine. "Are you hurt, Natalia?" "I heard you from the room beside yours.” I turned my gaze to him as I regained my composure. "I–I'm fine. It was just a nightmare," I said, brushing away strands of hair from my face.

He just didn't want to see it. Now, on the forty-first night, the nightmare is worse than ever. His face is turning pale. His lips are blue. In his dream, he is drowning. I can feel it—the terror radiating from his small body like heat from a furnace. His heartbeat is a drum. His breath is a thread about to snap. I want to help him. I want to wake him up. I want to flip him over. But the blanket is pulled tight. And the rule is absolute.

She chuckled humorlessly, “So if there is anything you think can help then I will appreciate if you told me about it.” My mind instantly drifted to Adamaris but she isn’t available for the next week. “I’m sorry we caused you this much trouble.” I said softly, “But I don’t know how we can help. If we figure out anything then we’ll let you know.” She bit her lip for a second, “My son is having nightmares.” Evan shot her a dark look but she ignored him, “He wakes up at the same time every day crying but he can never remember what the nightmares are about. There has to be something that you think can help.”