Dream Student (Dream Series book 1)

by J.J. DiBenedetto

  (December 3-4, 1989)

  The day flies by. I lie in bed until ten o’clock or so and then it’s time for some work. I want to get my final paper for Science in Western Thought finished and out of the way. It’s not actually due for another week, but Beth very kindly agreed to read it over for me tonight or tomorrow. She’s a much better writer than I am, besides which she had the class last year so she knows exactly what Dr. Sorenson is looking for in a final paper.

  It takes me a good three hours, but finally it’s done, formatted, saved on disk and ready for Beth to go over it. By then I’ve missed lunch at Lardner Commons, and Beth walks into our room just as my stomach lets out a particularly loud growl. I talk her into taking a walk with me off campus, up Mayfield Road to Coventry for a meal and a milkshake at Tommy’s, which is absolutely the best place in the whole city to go for a milkshake.

  Of course, I know it’s not the milkshake that convinces Beth. It also certainly isn’t the half-hour walk in the cold on a day when the icy wind and solid gray sky make it feel like we’re living on Ice Planet Hoth. It’s only the prospect of getting a full report about Brian that makes her agree. I must still be glowing; she takes one look at me and she knows exactly what happened last night. But I know her; she wants to hear about it from my lips.

  By the time we finally get there, red-cheeked and shivering, she’s got her full report. She presses for every little detail as we enjoy our strawberry and vanilla (her) and chocolate and peanut butter (me) milkshakes. I finally tell her what I didn’t tell her Friday night, too. I tell her everything he said, and what it did to me. “Nobody ever looked at me like that. I felt it all the way down to my toes. It–I don’t even know how to describe it.” As I say the words, I feel dizzy and warm all over again, and my face is flushed. Beth is looking at me like she’s never seen me before.

  In a way, maybe she hasn’t; I don’t feel like myself, and I haven’t since Friday night. After a moment, Beth closes her eyes; I know what she’s doing. She’s calling up a mental image of Brian, and trying to square that with what I’ve just said and what she saw. She isn’t quite managing it. “If it was anybody else saying that…”

  “I wouldn’t believe it either,” I finish her thought. “But he–oh, my God. Maybe I am crazy, but I’ve never felt that before. And–I couldn’t tell you the other night. I–I needed to keep it for myself. You understand?”

  She reaches over, squeezes my hand. “Completely.” She sighs. “And let me tell you–you deserve to feel that way. If he…” she still can’t quite believe it, even though the evidence is sitting right across from her. She finally shrugs. “Well, I’m happy for you. And,” she pauses, shakes her head ever-so-slightly, “maybe a little bit jealous, too, if you want to know the truth.”

  She says it with a smile and a laugh, but I’ve known her long enough to tell that crack about being jealous isn’t just a crack. There’s some truth there. She’s never been jealous of me before–she’s never had any reason to be. And I have to admit, as much as I’m not proud of saying this, I kind of like it.

  I’m rescued from having to respond to her by the arrival at our table of Jane and Jessica, who live on the other side of the floor from us. They can see Brian out their window. I’m grateful for the interruption and even more grateful that they drove here rather than walked, because they very kindly offer to give us a ride home.

  Once we get back, it’s time to concentrate on physics. I spend the rest of the afternoon straight through dinner and until nearly midnight going over some of the (many) things I don’t understand. At around nine o’clock in the evening, just after I take a quick break to call Brian, I’m reduced to going down to the lobby and pleading for someone to help me make sense of torque and all the mystifying equations that go with it. A dozen of my so-called friends let me embarrass myself for a full five minutes before Julie Paschal from the fourth floor finally takes pity on me.

  We go upstairs to her room, which she shares with her boyfriend Glenn. I don’t know where Julie is supposed to live, but as a practical matter she lives here, the only girl on the whole floor (Carson House is co-ed by floor–it’s girls on the second, and guys on the third and fourth; obviously, Julie uses our bathroom and our showers). As far as I can tell, they might as well be married already.

  Anyway, she–and Glenn, before we’re finished–very kindly spends almost an hour trying to explain torque to me, with some success, although not nearly as much as I’d like.

  Finally, it’s time for bed, and as I get under the covers it hits me that it’s now been two nights in a row without the nightmare. It’s almost starting to fade out of my memory. The details aren’t as distinct, and the whole experience just isn’t as frightening as it was. I’m not worried about falling asleep. Not at all. Not even a little bit…

  ***

  …Sara’s sitting on her bed, listening to the radio. It’s a pleasant, restful Sunday afternoon. The door opens, and in walks her roommate.

  “So?” Beth says by way of greeting.

  “So what?” Sara answers back, even though she knows exactly what Beth is asking.

  “So what happened last night?”

  “We had a very nice time at dinner, and we both liked the movie.”

  “And?”

  “And we came back here, and we–well, we kept on having a very nice time.” Sara’s laughing, enjoying the attention.

  “Details! You owe me details, girl.”

  “Let me put it this way. If we were talking about sports, I’d call him rookie of the year. Is that good enough for you?”

  Beth considers that. “Rookie? You mean…?” Sara nods. “Wow. I hope you gave him a good introduction to the major leagues.”

  Sara goes serious just for a moment. “You know I’m not one to brag, but you’re damn right I did. And it was exactly what I needed, you were right about that too.”

  They both laugh at that, and they sit there and talk. Beth manages to finally draw some of the juicy details out of Sara…

  …Sara’s not talking anymore. She’s in a bedroom. The bedroom. The man and the teenage girl are there too; the man’s carrying her limp and lifeless body out of the room. Sara is carried along; she’s not walking, but she’s somehow moving just the same. Following the guy and the girl–no, not a girl anymore, a corpse.

  And then without transition she’s in the back seat of a big tan car–a Cadillac, Sara notices. Sara knows without knowing how that the girl’s body is in the trunk, and she can do nothing but sit and watch as the man–the killer–drives out of the garage, down the driveway, and onto a tree-lined street. She doesn’t bother shouting or trying to get out of the car or anything else; she knows it would be pointless. She’s just here to watch what happens. What finally does happen is that the car comes to a stop on Old Tree Road, and the man gets out, takes the body from the trunk. He dumps it on the side of the road and calmly drives off, as though he’s done nothing out of the ordinary, as though people left corpses by the side of the road every day.

  His nonchalance is what pushes Sara over the edge, and now she does begin to scream…

  ***

  …I wake up to the sound of my own screaming. Again.

  Goddammit!

  I thought it was over with. I thought there wouldn’t be any more nightmares. Obviously I was wrong. What the hell do I do now?

  ***

  So here I am lying in bed but not asleep, again. I wish Brian was here, I wish he was holding me, telling me everything’s OK. I’d believe it if he did. But he’s not here so I guess I’ll talk to Beth about it instead. She didn’t wake up right away from all the noise I made, but she’s stirring now.

  It takes a couple of minutes for her eyes to open, and then she sits up on her bed, takes one look at me and frowns. “Don’t tell me.”

  “I don’t want to, believe me. But I had the nightmare again last night. God, I’m
so sick of this!” I tell her about it, how it felt different than the previous nightmares. Neither of us has any idea what it means or what the hell I’m supposed to do about it. We stare at each other racking our brains, until Beth comes up with something. She’s got an “a-ha!” smile on her face.

  “Dr. Ritter! I don’t know why I didn’t think of him sooner!”

  “Who’s Dr. Ritter?” I can’t place the name.

  “He’s the professor in my Psychology of Personality class.” Right. Now I remember. “Last month he talked about his research. He studies dreaming and sleep patterns. You should go talk to him.”

  This idea doesn’t fill me with confidence. “What’s he going to do?”

  Beth throws up her hands. “How should I know? If he studies how people dream, maybe he’ll have some idea what’s happening with you. Look, it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

  She’s right, I suppose. What harm can it do?

  ***

  Here I am at the psych department office. Unsurprisingly, I’m very preoccupied and I almost walk right into someone. A man in a suit, very big, very tall, with a faint scar down his left cheek. It’s impossible not to notice it. He’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t immediately place him. Did I ever have a professor who had a scar like that?

  Out of nowhere, a name jumps into my head: Dr. Walters. Beth’s academic advisor until he left this year on sabbatical to write a book, if I remember right. He gave a guest lecture one class when I was taking Intro to Psychology freshman year; he’s looking at me very curiously right now. He can’t possibly remember me out of a roomful of people from one class session two years ago, can he?

  Apparently not; he mumbles an apology and continues on his way. Now that I’m thinking about it, I do remember that he had a scar. I think that at the time I thought it looked dashing, or something ridiculous like that.

  Anyway, I go into the office. It’s familiar territory; my work-study job freshman year was here. I recognize Ray the graduate student, buried in the Xerox machine. It seemed like that’s all he did two years ago and I see that nothing’s changed since then.

  Dr. Ritter isn’t in his office, so Ray and I chitchat for a couple of minutes and I ask him to look up his office hours. While I’m waiting I see there’s someone else in the office, another student. He’s obviously waiting for something or someone and reading the newspaper. I glance at the front page, and then I look again. There’s a photo there. I grab the paper out of his hands, completely ignoring his protest, and I look closely at it.

  I’ve seen her before.

  No.

  No. It can’t be. It’s not possible. The girl in the picture looks exactly like the girl in my dreams. It’s not possible, except that I’m seeing it with my own eyes. I start reading the story. “Seventeen year old Amelia Morgan–high school senior–found murdered–body discovered on Old Tree Road…” No, no, no.

  I read it again, and the words don’t change. Of course they don’t.

  No.

  Yes.

  I just start wailing, shouting nonsense. I’m standing in the middle of the room screaming my head off. Ray comes out to me, puts his hand on my shoulder, starts to tell me to calm down and I push him away, shove the newspaper in his face. “It’s her! It’s her! It’s her, and she’s dead!”

  She’s dead, she’s dead. She’s dead and I saw it and she’s dead and–and–that’s all I know. She’s dead and I saw it and it’s all real and–and what?

  I don’t know, so I keep on screaming.

  ***

  I’m sitting in a chair. I don’t remember sitting down. I don’t remember coming here–and I don’t even know where here is. Lots of books, a desk, a computer. An office? A doctor’s office? A professor’s office?

  Someone’s office, anyway. Someone who’s here. He’s sitting across the cluttered desk from me, he’s speaking to me. “Miss Barnes? Sara?”

  Who? Who’s Sara? Me, right? I think so. “Yes? I’m Sara. That’s right, isn’t it?” It sounds right–it feels right.

  “Sara Barnes. That’s what I was told, at any rate. I was also told you were here to see me.”

  Sara Barnes. Yes, that’s me. I’m Sara Barnes, and I’m sitting in someone’s office, someone I was here to see. Someone who was going to help me? “Um–I don’t know. Who are you?” There’s a glass of water in front of me on the desk. It’s only half full. I don’t remember drinking out of it, but I must have. I take another sip as he talks.

  “Michael Ritter. This is my office.”

  Ritter. Someone told me that name. Someone–Beth! Beth, Beth is my roommate. She’s taking a class, she told me about her professor. Her psychology professor. Everything comes back into focus.

  “That’s right. I was looking for you.”

  He doesn’t smile. “Good, we agree on something. Can you tell me what you wanted to speak to me about?”

  He’s holding a newspaper–today’s newspaper, with the picture, with the article that set me off. The girl, the dead girl. “Her!” I point to the picture in the paper. “I saw it! It was a nightmare, every night I’ve seen it. I saw her, I saw him kill her, and I saw him dump the body!”

  “Calmly, please.”

  I take a deep breath, try to find some composure. I don’t really succeed. “The girl in the article, that picture there. I’ve been having the same nightmare, over and over, every night. I see that girl, and this guy–he–he–he kills her, and last night when I had the nightmare it kept going and I saw him dump the body. I saw him, it was exactly where they said in the paper.”

  He gives me a nasty look, as though I just insulted him or something. “This isn’t something to joke about, or pull some stupid undergraduate prank, Miss Barnes. Someone was killed.”

  You asshole! “I know that! I know it better than anyone! Do I look like I’m joking? You think I freak out and start yelling and crying just for fun? You think I’m getting a laugh out of this, you creep? Well, fuck you, then!” I get up and head for the door.

  God, where did that come from? That isn’t like me. I never talk like that, not to anyone, certainly not to a professor! I hope I don’t, anyway. That doesn’t seem like something I’d want to do.

  “Miss Barnes–Sara–please.” He’s almost pleading all of a sudden. I guess he can hear in my voice that I’m serious, that it’s not some stupid horrible joke or something. I stop two steps from the door. “I’m sorry. Please sit down. You’re very upset and I shouldn’t have accused you like that.” Well, that’s something. I walk back to his desk, sit down again.

  “Thank you. And I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have said–I never–this has been so stressful.” He looks at me a little more seriously now. Maybe he’s actually considering what I said.

  I take a deep breath, and I go on. “I only came here because Beth–my roommate–said maybe you could help me with this nightmare. I didn’t know it was real until just now, when I saw the newspaper. But it is, it’s all really happening.”

  He asks me to describe the nightmares in more detail, and of course it’s awful but I do. Finally: “You’re sure the girl in the article is the one you saw in the nightmares? Really sure?”

  I’d bet my life on it. “I know that two plus two equals four. I know the sky is blue. I know my little brother is a pain in the neck. And I know the girl I saw is the same girl in the picture! OK?”

  It’s OK with him; at least he says it is. From his expression, I think he at least believes that I believe what I’m saying. There’s nothing else I can say anyway if he doesn’t. I have no way to prove what I saw.

  He is still listening. I guess that’s worth something. He asks about specific details of the nightmares and I tell him everything I remember. Then he asks if I’ve had any other unusual experiences recently and I tell him about that first dream with Brian and then meeting him at the club
a few nights later. He asks for more details, and I tell him those too, leaving out Saturday night of course.

  When he’s satisfied, he ticks off what he sees as the possible explanations on his fingers:

  “One, nothing at all is happening. You’re consciously making everything up,” I start to protest, but he sighs and holds up his hand. “I don’t think that’s it. I’m just laying out all the possibilities.” I nod my head, and he goes on. “Two, you’re unconsciously convincing yourself that your nightmares have some connection to this story in the newspaper. Perhaps you read an article about the girl’s disappearance, or you saw a flyer her family put up in the neighborhood and it so upset you that it worked its way into your dreams.” If it was anybody else telling all this to me, that explanation would make sense. But I know that’s not it. The dreams are so real. It’s not just my subconscious making stuff up!

  “Three,” he continues. “You saw something you don’t even realize you saw. It’s possible you actually saw the girl herself, perhaps you saw her getting into a car with an older man. Your conscious mind may not have registered anything odd about it, but you subconsciously knew you’d seen something wrong, something criminal. And now your subconscious is trying to get through to your conscious mind in your dreams.” I could almost accept that. Almost. Except…

  “But last night, I dreamed–I saw where he left the girl, and it was Old Tree Road, just like in the paper! How could I come up with that on my own?”

  “Are you sure you’re remembering the dreams accurately? Most people have great difficulty remembering dreams even five or ten minutes after they wake up.”

  I wish! “I told my roommate about it. I woke her up at four o’clock in the morning. You can ask her. And we didn’t see any newspaper or TV or anything, so I don’t think it’s any of those explanations you said.”

  He shakes his head, sighs again. “Well, your roommate is correct that I do research with dreams and sleep patterns. Actually, I run the Sleep Lab at University Hospital. I can bring you in for a night, monitor you while you sleep, and we’ll see what the data shows. Would you be willing to do that?”