Monday night, Ruth had one of those nightmares that psychoanalysts love to make a big deal out of. She dreamt that she was... no, it wasn't she. She dreamt that she was someone else, and she was naked in a public place, with everyone staring and pointing and making noise. She had some books, and a large notebook, and she tried to cover her breasts and crotch, but she dropped them, and people laughed when she couldn't cover herself with her hands. It was a frightening dream. It was just a fragment, really. Ruth figured that everyone has a dream like that sometime.

Tuesday, in Psychology class, they discussed ESP: precognition, telepathy, telekinesis, out-of-body experiences, paranormal things like that. Ruth said, "That's bunk. Prof. Lamachi, I challenge you to show some objective evidence of genuine ESP. If you can't, Dr. Lamachi, stop pretending that psychology is a science."

"Miss Minton," he said, "there is evidence and there is evidence. Some people just don't have the talent, and won't believe anyone has. Some probably have the talent, but just don't know it. Our culture, after all, does not hold it to be normal to be able to project one's thoughts, even though many people are convinced they can and are willing to tell us about it. Of course, the physicists and chemists haven't measured it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

He was speaking with passion, and he was looking right at her, singling her out. She almost blushed, seeing his eyes boring into her and realizing she might have dressed more modestly. Perhaps her taut T-shirt was a bit provocative. He was very handsome, in a somber, saturnine way: tall, well over six feet, but thin as a shadow, and given to wearing black, three-piece suits and black ties. His eyes were black. His bushy eyebrows were black. His hair was black. There was a little diamond-shaped mole on the tip of his nose. It was black. I could be attracted to that man, except he's so spooky, she thought.

"Anecdotal evidence has some value," continued Lamachi. "Do you believe that Jesus Christ ever lived? All we have is anecdotal evidence, and even that was based on hearsay, not eye witness accounts."

"I'll believe it when I see it," she replied, petulantly. She immediately regretted that, thinking: I'll probably drop a letter grade for that one; he says one third of the final grade is for class participation. For the remainder of the class, it seemed to Ruth that Prof. Lamachi was undressing her with his eyes. It made her want to squirm, to be so assaulted by this male authority figure. She forced herself to sit very still, trying not to call attention to herself and holding her notebook upright in front of her breasts, as if to shield them from his eyes. She knew the notebook wouldn't cover everything. Ruth was big for a female, big boned and "well upholstered." She squeezed her knees together, and as her eyes followed the professor, noting his every move, there was a strange tingle, there, between her legs.

As Ruth walked to her next class, down the gap between Wilkinson Hall and Edison Labs, there was a commotion behind her in the quad: people running, a siren, an ambulance. She decided she didn't have time to go back and see what it was about.

After class, someone who was waiting for Thermo 314 said, "You wouldn't believe what happened in the quad, less than a hour ago. Some female student was walking stark naked through the quad. Not a stitch on. Of course, a bunch of guys started whooping and yelling and pointing, and that poor girl looked like she'd die of shame, trying to cover herself with her books. And then she dropped her books. Oh, the look on her face. She curled up in a ball and just waited for them to come and get her. They took her away in an ambulance, probably to the psycho ward." Ruth shuddered. She knew how the naked girl must have felt.

Tuesday night, it was scarier. Ruth dreamt that she -- well it wasn't really Ruth -- it was a nurse, and Ruth was a student, not a nurse. The woman Ruth was dreaming she was, she was getting off from a night shift in the wee hours of the morning. She was going out to her car, and a man jumped out of the shadows and grabbed her from behind. So real, fingers digging into her arm, a forearm under her chin, squeezing, choking her, so she couldn't scream. Then there were others, and they were pushing her off balance and holding her down on the cold, hard pavement. It was too real to bear. She could feel gravel or broken glass grinding into her right shoulder blade, as one of the men pinned her shoulder down with his knee. She felt bolts of pain as her left arm was twisted over her head and the wrist bent nearly to breaking. She could smell the booze on their breath, hear the scrape of their shoes on the parking lot pavement, hear with startling clarity the rrrrip of her uniform as they clawed at her. She could taste the salt of the hand over her mouth, feel the chill of a blade, first at her throat, then at her bodice. It was still cold, as someone slipped it under her bra strap and pulled until the pressure was relieved. The cool air across her breast proved that she was totally vulnerable. A rough hand in the darkness seized her breast and squeezed. "MMMMPHuummmm" she groaned through the hand across her mouth, a stricken animal's cry of terror and despair. She could feel the point of the knife at her navel, and then the back of the blade sliding back and forth along the midline of her belly, as her assailant sawed through panties, pantyhose, and whatever was left of her uniform. Ruth felt the strain of a desperate heave, as she struggled to get free. She felt gravel gouging her hip, tasted salt as she bit the hand which gagged her, biting as hard as she could. "Bitch," she heard, and someone kicked her in the ribs. There was an audible crack and excruciating pain racing through her, a pain which left her gagging, limp, and helpless to resist.

It was more than Ruth could bear. She woke screaming. Her heart was pounding, and she tensed in terror for the next blow. She wondered how much more punishment she would have to endure, before they got down to... IT, that ultimate assault that she knew must come. But there was no next blow. She was in her own bed. She was not going to be kicked and tortured and subjected to humiliating, perverted, sexual violation. It was only a dream, a compendium of all her fears, a dream Ruth wished she had never had. What a cruel city this is, where a woman is so helpless, a ready victim, game for sadistic hunters who stalk the night. She lay for what seemed like hours, shaking, fearing sleep.

Wednesday, before Ruth left for the campus, she climbed the stairs to the apartment above hers, Mrs. Pronko's. Mrs. Pronko, only a few years older than Ruth, had two small children. There was no Mr. Pronko. "Mrs. Pronko, was there was anything in the morning paper about a rape?"

"No, Ruth," she said, "I didn't see anything like that, not on the front page, anyway."

Wednesday night, Ruth dreamt that she was some kind of feminist nut. She was stalking a guy who had been accused of date rape. Ruth, whoever she was in her dream, caught up with him in the shadows behind the field house. Ruth felt a thrill of satisfaction, as she struck, dropped him with a blow to the head. She used a bronze statue of Athena which "Ruth" had won as some sort of award. She examined it, in the dim light, to see if anything had broken or bent when she heard that THOCK, the sound of bronze meeting bone.

The young man lay unconscious on the ground. She rolled him onto his back and undid his belt, unzipped his fly. She tried to get his trousers off by pulling at the waist, but he was dead weight in them. Finally she took off his shoes and pulled his trouser legs, one at a time with both hands, until she had them off. His Jockey shorts came off, too. For the first time in her life, Ruth knew what it felt like to handle a man's genitals. She hefted his scrotum, like a little purse with the family jewels. She picked up his flaccid penis, so much dead meat, harder than bread dough, softer than a Polish sausage. Suddenly there was a knife in her hand, a serrated bread knife. She was pulling on his penis with her left hand while she sawed through it with the knife in her right hand. There was a strange smell there in the dark, blood, she supposed.

Serves the bastard right. He won't use that to rape again. She laid the severed meat on the man's belly and addressed his scrotum. The bread knife sliced it open easily. It was much easier than cleaning a chicken, but it felt much the same, the slimy feel of skin and... insides. She clutched his testes, like little eggs, and lifted. She had imagined they would just come free, but they were attached, and she gashed her knuckle as she hacked them loose. Ruth stood up, the rapist's balls in one hand. I am Woman; hear me roar. She put the knife and the statue in her carryall and calmly walked away. Fifty yards across the grass, rounding the corner of the field house and reaching the street, she saw a storm sewer grate. Almost like making poached eggs, she held her hand out and let one wet spheroid drop. Splash. She opened her hand entirely, feeling the wet organ peel off her skin and fall free. Plop. It had landed on the grate. With her toe, she nudged it off, into the slot between the bars. Plish. It was gone.

Ruth walked back a few yards, to where she could barely see the body in the gloom. Mindlessly, she wiped her bloody hands on a tissue, which kept sticking to her skin and shredding into wispy strands. A stray dog, some homeless mutt, was sniffing at the bastard's body. She walked back to the body. "Here, Doggy," she whispered, as she picked up the "sausage" with thumb and forefinger. "Here, here's a treat for you, Doggie." As the dog ran off with the penis in his mouth, Ruth had a fantastic orgasm.

Suddenly awake, sweating and shaking, her nipples erect and her vulva all wet, Ruth cried out loud, "NO. That's not me." She looked around the darkness of her little room, as if afraid of arresting officers. No. I've never actually hurt anyone. I'd never do a thing like that. I could never kill a man. Ruth couldn't get back to sleep. She squirmed in her narrow bed, trying to put the memory of that dream out of mind. How could she have a dream like that? Was she going crazy? She thought of going to the Student Health Office and asking for counseling, but she couldn't stand the thought of sitting there and telling all that stuff to some man. She could visualize it so vividly, even though she was awake. I can't, she told herself, I can't sit there, making eye contact with a man, and tell him I have orgasms from sicko dreams.

Thursday, it was Psych. class again. For some reason, Ruth had worn a pretty dress, one which had a scoop neckline that emphasized her cleavage. She sat there, admiring the way Lamachi paced like some caged black panther, as he went on about strange pathologies and mass hysterias, like people going ape over werewolves and vampires. She noticed every time his eyes dwelt on her bust, and she wondered what sort of man he was. Was he married? No, she thought not. Did he have a girlfriend? Would he be a good lover? Suddenly, he whirled and fixed his gaze on her. "Of course, Miss Minton is probably thinking that vampires are no more real than UFOs, yet many reputable people have seen UFOs." Yes, that's exactly what she was thinking, but she kept her mouth shut. Somehow, some little wedge of doubt was being insinuated into her logical model of the real world. There was something about Professor Lamachi. It was hard not to believe him.

Later, after her shift at Leno's Pizza Palace, Ruth saw Mrs. Pronko in the hall. "Ruth, you know you asked me if there was anything in the paper about a rape? Well, today's paper does have a little item about Mercy Hospital asking for more police protection. They said that the nurses are afraid to go out at night. They don't say there was a rape, but they say there have been some 'incidents', lately."

"Oh, just great."

"Great? How can you say that?"

"No, I didn't mean the incidents were great, Mrs. Pronko. I... I was worried that there might have been something serious. I saw some suspicious characters."

"You should report them to the police, Ruth," she said, turning a page. "Oh, here's another one. It says, 'University Chancellor Dr. Howard Pettrack refused to comment on rumors that a female student was the victim of date rape last night. The matter is under investigation.'"

"Any murders?"

"No, Ruth, no murders. What's with you, all this sudden interest in crime?"

"Psych. class," she said. "We're supposed to keep track of the local crimes, so we can discuss them in class. We're on deviant behavior now."

Ruth had brought a pizza home, and she pigged out, studying for a chemistry exam Friday morning. Finally, when she had actually memorized the last chapter, she glanced up at the clock and realized she had to get some sleep. No point going into an exam groggy. She brushed her teeth, used the bathroom, and crawled into bed. It seemed to her that she was instantly asleep.

Then the dreams began, wild dreams! She dreamt she was a freshman student, in Gibson dorm, and her roommate had left to go home for the weekend. The roommate lived in Cleveland. Ruth didn't know how she knew that. She dreamt that she put tape over the automatic lock on the east fire exit so her boyfriend could sneak in and come to her room. She pushed her room door closed and made sure it was locked. He put his arms around her. They kissed. He pulled her tightly against him, so she could feel his manly, athletic body pressed against hers. She felt his hands slide down to grasp her buttocks, and felt a little tingle as he squeezed. Then his hands took the waistband of her sweatshirt. His released his grip on her and lifted her sweatshirt. It caught for an instant, below her breasts, and then they were free, exposed. Ruth, whoever she was, knew he would do that, dreamt that she wanted it, and that's why she wasn't wearing a bra. "Mmmm," he said, softly, as he licked and sucked her breasts. She could even smell the beer on his breath; it seemed so real, yet so strange. In her dream, she was smaller and thinner, another person, not Ruth. He got his hand inside the waistband of her jeans, and it felt so real! The tingles from her breasts, radiating through her body, and the delicious pressure of his fingers between her legs. They tumbled onto the dorm room bed; she could hear it squeak in her dream and see the posters on the walls and ceiling of the room. He tugged at her jeans, but they wouldn't move far, until he managed to undo the button and the zipper.

"Don't," she breathed, softly. She felt her jeans being dragged down, over her hips, pushed down over her knees. He began to pull on her panties, and she felt the elastic pop. "No, Bill," Ruth said, in her dream, "I'm afraid." She could feel that her panties were no longer protecting her, that she was utterly naked to his gaze. Even in her dream, so vivid, so real, Ruth realized it wasn't herself talking; it was like tapping into someone else's brain, feeling the sensations of someone else's body.

"Don't be. I have a condom."

"No, not even with a condom." Ruth dreamt that she thought of saying that she was a virgin, and wanted to stay that way, but she actually said, "I don't want to take the slightest chance. It's my fertile time of the month." Then Bill picked her up and propped her up on the pillows, pulling her jeans and panties down around her ankles, then actually pulling them off over one foot, so that her right leg was entirely bare and her left foot was swathed in rumpled clothing. "Please, Bill, don't get me pregnant." She tried to clamp her knees together, but he pushed them apart, bent down between them, and put his tongue in her navel. Wow, it felt as if he'd pulled a string attached to her sex organs. Then she felt his breath on her thighs, and his nose in her short hairs, and his tongue... Wow! "Ohhh, Bill." Ruth had never had a guy go down on her, but it seemed so real, so believable, so detailed, in her dream. In seconds, it seemed, her insides were fluttering, as if her womb was a heart, beating, and she had a glorious orgasm!

Only then, the way it is in dreams, she was someone else, and she was in a car, sitting on some guy's lap, with her back to him and her skirt up around her waist and his hands cupping her breasts. He was inside her, bucking like crazy, and she was squirming and rocking. Ruth had another wild orgasm, and then another, except this time she was out in the woods somewhere, and she was on top. One after another, again and again, in her dream, Ruth was a different person, with a different man, in a different place, coming like crazy each time, until at last she woke, trembling from the exertion of a sexual marathon.

Ruth was drenched with sweat, all wet down below, feeling as if she couldn't stand coming one more time. What's happening? I'm a virgin. I've never gone all the way in my life. How can I dream such things? How can I know what it feels like? She fell back on her pillow and tried to reason it out. It seemed so real. She had been "touching herself" ever since junior high school. She had experienced an orgasm, but never so many, never such intense orgasms, not like these, which left her worn out. How could she dream so realistically, so vividly, about something she had never experienced? Lamachi, if he knew, would probably smirk and call it repressed sexuality, make some remark about dreams as wish-fulfillment. Ruth resolved never to tell anyone. She felt ashamed, dirty. At last she fell asleep again.

Somehow, Ruth got through that Chem. exam, but all Friday afternoon, working again at Leno's, she had a weird feeling that people were looking at her. It was as if they could tell she was some kind of nocturnal nymphomaniac, as if it showed. Ruth felt as if she were the victim of some huge injustice; she didn't even have a boy friend.

It was nearly midnight when the Friday night crush was over, and it was spooky, standing by the bus stop. Ruth shivered a little, standing there in her light waitress uniform. There was a big, bright full moon. She felt conspicuous and vulnerable. It would have been more sensible to change into my jeans, she thought. She could imagine a car full of men stopping and kidnapping her.

Finally, her bus came into sight, groaned and sneezed to a stop, and she got on, got into the warm security of the dark steel box with the familiar smells, body odor, diesel fumes, stale perfume, and she could see a few familiar forms of passengers stolid in their seats. In the anonymity of the dark bus, humming slowly through the darkened streets, she finally felt more secure. No one was staring at her. No one was threatening her.

When Ruth got home, Mrs. Pronko had left the newspaper by her door. The headline read, "Student Found Dead." Ruth hurried inside, locked the door, and read all about it. A student, just recently suspended, had been found behind the field house, his skull bashed in and the body mutilated. The police, the paper said, had arrested one suspect. The dead man was supposed to have raped the suspect's ex-girlfriend. However, the police had let him go. It seemed that, under questioning, the girlfriend, who wasn't identified, admitted that she had lied in accusing him. She said she thought her new man was making a play for her roommate, and, somehow, if she branded the guy a rapist, he'd have to stick with her. Sick. On the editorial page, some editor, who wasn't on top of the late news, had written about how the murder had all the earmarks of a homosexual falling out, and he called for the police to shut down all gay bars. Double sick. But, of course, the worst was that Ruth had dreamed about the murder, in detail, before it had happened.

The student exhibitionist, that could have been coincidence. The rape she dreamed about, with the nurse, that wasn't confirmed, and besides, "incidents" happen all the time. Dream about a rape, there's bound to be one soon, somewhere. All the orgasms Thursday night. Well, there are probably dozens of students out screwing each other, but there's no way to know whether what she had dreamed really happened, or was going to happen. But the murder, the crushed skull and "mutilated body," the location just where she dreamed it happened, that really made a believer out of her.

Ruth wanted to sleep, but she was afraid to lie down in bed. What would she dream tonight? She stayed away from her bedroom, prowling in circles in the other room, wringing her hands, picking up specks of fluff from the floor, washing the one dirty dish, a coffee mug. She adjusted the curtain on the window, sharpened a pencil from her student's desk, finally willed herself to sprawl in the broken down armchair. She could not relax.

Ruth went upstairs and knocked on Mrs. Pronko's door. "Mrs. Pronko, can we talk? Something has happened which has me all shook up."

The door opened a crack. "No, Ruth, I can't talk now." Ruth smelled tobacco smoke. She has a man in there.

"I understand. It's just that... well, I just can't get to sleep," Ruth whispered back.

"You can't sleep? I know just the thing for you." The door closed, then opened in a moment, just a few inches, as Mrs. Pronko handed out a bottle. "Drink this. Sleep well. We can talk tomorrow, if you have to." The door made a loud KECHUNK as it closed. Then there was the sound of the deadbolt lock, too. The bottle was half full of rum. Ruth drained it, there in the hall, surprised that it burned her throat. She wasn't used to alcohol, too law-abiding, under normal circumstances, to drink alcohol while underage. She left the empty on the floor, and headed down the stairs. The rum worked fast, allayed her apprehensions, banished fear. She shed her clothes onto the floor, shrugged into a night dress, and collapsed on her bed. Soon she was asleep.

Ruth dreamt that she woke up, and saw the moonlight on her bedroom wall, the moon shining through the window. In her dream, she sensed there was someone in her room, though she knew she had locked the windows and door. "Who is it?" she called out.

"It is I, Professor Lamachi," said the familiar voice, and a dark figure stepped into the moonlight, large as life. She noticed the mole on his nose.

"Get out!" she yelled.

"No, Miss Minton, I will not." Ruth tried to scream, hoping Mrs. Pronko would hear, but she couldn't; she couldn't make a noise. His eyes stared at her, and she felt as if she couldn't move, as if he had paralysed her with his stare. In her dream, he came to her, dressed in a big, black cloak. He slipped it off, and underneath he was naked. Scared as she was, she could still think: Ha, a flasher. It might have been funny, but this was too real, as real as her other dreams, and she was scared. He laid her out on the bed; she was powerless to resist him. He pulled her nightgown over her head, exposing her body. He hovered over her, caressing her breasts, stroking her body and legs, spreading her knees, so he could kneel between them. She couldn't raise a hand to push him off. She couldn't scream. She couldn't even move her legs. All she could see was those staring eyes, which seemed to glow in the dark.