Chapter 11: What Have I Done?

I opened my eyes, but I didn’t move. Although I felt my neck, ears, and head snuggled on a comfy pillow, my brain ached as if I had just woken up from a bender. I raised my hand to my face and gently rubbed it downward. The grogginess was almost tangible, but at least the pain had subsided.

It still seemed plausible. I was dreaming, because my awareness shifted from glancing up at the wooden planks of the vaulted ceiling to seeing myself as Malvic, my role-playing character, purging the campus with a terrifying beast by my side. I lay there for several minutes, not stirring, quietly resting in the space between dreaming and being awake.

Is this the Awakening?

The heaviness of that thought sank me even further into my bed. But there was a scarier reason I hadn’t budged. I was avoiding something fantastic, but I knew it was time to rise and face the music. I turned my attention to the window on the right side of my bed to verify that it was sunny outside. It was. But I also looked to reaffirm a hazy memory of returning home. As I feared, the window hung open, and from it, a mud trail and bloody footprints led to the bed.

I slowly rose, rubbed my eyes, and propped myself against the headboard. When I finished my final stalling tactic, I looked down. Shellie was in my bed, still nude but curled up and sleeping. Blood graffitied her entire body. The excess of the darker stains around her hands and feet spoiled the pure white sheets.

She was why I wanted to stay asleep and, hopefully, dream off this absolute shitshow.

I wanted to act—leap from the bed, scream like an idiot, run away—but I couldn’t. Shellie looked at peace, sleeping. Rather than focusing on the apparent terror, I allowed my memories of her sweet and loving nature to replace the fear.

Shellie Allaire was my first best friend. At least, that’s how I liked to recall it. People, especially my mother, never wasted a chance to remind me that Shellie was my nanny.

“Caring is one of her job prerequisites,” was a minimizing phrase my mother would say whenever I spoke highly of Shellie.

Yes, I was reminiscing through the eyes of a six-year-old; yes, she had been my governess. But in the four years we spent together, we formed a bond—a real friendship. I owed my love for pop culture to her. We lost countless hours watching movies and cartoons, playing video games, and reading comics.

I smiled because I recalled her trick of turning on the nightlight and telling bedtime stories that empowered me to conquer monsters from my nightmares.

The thought caused me to peek over at a framed picture on my nightstand. It was the only existing picture of us together—regrettably, my only image of her. Under the guise of helping to alleviate my depression after Shellie’s death, my mother destroyed all my photos of her.

Fortunately, I had stashed away a photograph from our last winter adventure. Shellie and I appeared overdressed in our fluffy winter attire and accessories. I was positively awkward, as always, but beamed with happiness. Shellie, on the other hand, despite her beautiful, closed smile, had sadness in her eyes.

Thinking, it dawned on me. When Shellie died, she was the same age I am now: twenty-two. I glanced down at the bloody woman sleeping at my feet and then at the picture. There was no denying it. The woman who taught me not to fear monsters had somehow returned.

But the terrifying part wasn’t her reappearance. No, that belonged to the absolute, chilling fact that Shellie was now a monster herself.

Yesterday evening, something nasty happened to me after I read “Manifesting Your Companion” from Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users. A simple visualization session went from relaxing meditation to inexplicably addling my senses.

I wanted to retreat into that confusion. Use it to write off the madness I’d witnessed, which was sketchy because I had floated in and out of consciousness throughout it.

Despite the implausibility, I reeled back my recollection to examine what had happened.

***

Following the fright of seeing Shellie rise, possessing glowing eyes, to be straight-up honest, I passed out like a chump.

Not too long afterward, the sensation of a tongue licking my cheek woke me up. When I opened my eyes, I immediately wanted to shut them again, but I didn’t. Shellie, hunched over me, eyes still glowing, and licking my face, probed me with an expression of concern.

I cautiously pushed her off but stood up quickly, pressing into a tree behind me. Maybe because of waking up to a dead girl licking my face, or the life-affirming touch of her wet skin under my palms, or simply because I stood up too fast—probably all of them—I instantly felt dizzy with the onset of a burning headache.

I gazed down at Shellie. She sat crouched, arms between her legs and hands on the ground. Twigs jetted from her wildly big, flowing black hair, and remnants of leaves and mud scattered across her drenched, naked body. She looked utterly feral, yet, she sat perfectly still, looking at me with an innocent stare that only pets gave their owners.

I felt compelled to lower myself to her, but before I could, I was interrupted.

“Malvic. Give us The Tome, and we won’t harm you.”

I scanned outward into the distance. Luckily, the torrential rain had softened to a steady flow, making it possible to see three fully cloaked aggressors emerging from the thick foliage.

Looming menacingly, they stood about three to four feet apart, dressed in black ritual robes with hoods up and a thin, black material hiding their faces. The aggressor who spoke held a sacrificial blade, pointing it toward me.

Why did he call me by my role-playing name?

“Do you know me?”

“We don’t have time for games, man! Give us the damn The Tome!” His tone turned spiteful and violent, and his body language matched as he stepped forward and poked the blade in the air several times.

My curiosity turned to panic.

Reacting to my fear, Shellie finally turned. Staying low and hunched over on her hands and feet, she repositioned herself to face the mysterious persons and immediately started…growling.

One of them dismissively chuckled, but the one standing on the opposite side of the aggressor with the knife noticed Shellie’s inhuman attribute.

“Shit. Her eyes are glowing,” said the astute one in an agitated tone.

“Stop being a wussy. Haven’t you been to the cons lately? Those are glowing contacts. Besides, it’s pretty damn obvious they’re out here doing kink,” said the aggressor in between the others.

“Hey! That’s not what’s happening,” I snapped defensively, but quickly followed with a softened admission. “I don’t know why she is growling.”

“Shut up! I don’t give a fuck about your freaky activities. We just want the The Tome.”

“Tome?” Truthfully, when I replied, my mind was miles away from Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users, but within seconds I made the connection.

“Hey, it’s the—”

Before the aggressor could finish their sentence, the one who I thought was smart shouted, “The Tome!”

I looked to the right. Only six feet away, Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users peeked out of the high grass and weeds.

In an instant, almost as if it were a competition, the two aggressors sprinted toward the book, both eager to claim it first. The one holding the knife held his position.

Shellie’s human-sounding grrrs then transformed into an unearthly, beastly growl. All at once, and even more ghastly, her body shifted into a gigantic, hairy beast-dog. Incidentally, her enormous, wagging tail struck me after its sudden appearance, flipping my body damn near six feet back.

I landed badly, banging my head on the base of a tree. Before I lost consciousness, I saw her lunge forward and, with her gigantic paw, eviscerate the aggressor closest to the book.

I had one thought that accompanied me into the darkness. Guess he wasn’t so bright after all.

When I woke, it was still raining, and the taste of mud danced on my lips. The right half of my face felt numb, pressed into sludge and itchy grass. From a ground-level perspective, my unobscured left eye widened and gaped at the gory aftermath. A mauled, severed head within touching distance and still leaking blood sat among a garden of flesh, crushed bone, and shredded clothing.

I struggled to stand; screaming pain coursed through my body each time I tried. I couldn’t even rise from my stomach. Earlier, I had incessantly complained about my ailments, but at that moment, I was experiencing the pinnacle of agony.

My breathing was off, and I was alarmed that I might pass out again. I had to get away from the murder scene. I tried again. Once I finally sat up, I saw Shellie in beast-dog form, guarding me and the book resting between us.

I’m not crazy. Everyone wants my book. Why did some New Age occult wannabes threaten to hurt me for it?

At the time, I had no brain power to analyze my question. So instead, I tried to ground myself by getting a sense of the time. I read my watch. 4:00 a.m. displayed under its cracked faceplate.

I’ve been gone for over nine hours.

I feebly swiped at the mud on my face, but all I managed to do was aggravate the wound near my temple. Shellie heard me stirring and whipped around to face me. I felt small as she stared down her snout at me.

Peering back up at her massive structure was a feat, especially from my vulnerable position on the ground. She was as wide as a grizzly and easily five feet, nine inches on all fours. The volume of her dense, black mane, similar to that of a Tibetan mastiff, but blood-stained, accentuated her height even more.

Although there was an imposing look on the beast’s face, I saw something warmly familiar.

Again, I attempted to stand, but my bruised legs felt like jelly. Surprisingly, my beastly protector seemed to understand my actions and propped her face under my arm so I could lean my weight against her and stand. I grabbed Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users off the ground as I accepted her assistance.

As soon as I was on my feet, the beast-dog shifted back into Shellie and propped herself underneath me. Even in her small, five-foot seven-inch form, she easily anchored me and helped me wade through the field of minced bodies. From our point of view, the carnage was insanely overwhelming. Although I had no idea who the dead were, I felt sorry for them.

Directing Shellie out of the woods, I struggled to stay conscious. I know I blacked out for a few seconds or more, at least a few times.

Once we made it to the clearing, I had her stop. I stood against her, breathing heavily, afraid to step out of the woods. I couldn’t leave Shellie behind, but I didn’t know what to do with her. Hell, I wouldn’t make it home without her.

I tried to focus on what to do. However, the only coherent thought in my wrecked brain was, How will I get home unnoticed, walking with a naked, wet, bloody woman?

Luckily, as late as it was, my roomies had to be sleeping, and no one would possibly be out strolling. Plus, the building was only forty yards or so away.

Erring on the side of caution, I stood there watching for any possible night owls and, more importantly, any more freaks dressed as if they had just left an occult ceremony.

Looking into the mist-filled atmosphere and the way the dim orangish light from the street-lamps meshed with the surrounding collegiate gothic buildings of the old campus, I realized Jana was right. It was creepy here.

After a bit, I decided it was time to make a move.