Chapter 11: What Have I Done?

I opened my eyes, but I didn’t move.

My head ached as if I’d just come to after being knocked out in a car crash.

I raised my hand to my face and pressed gently into my skin.

The soreness stirred, but at least the pain had subsided.

It still felt plausible that I was dreaming.

My awareness shifted from the mundane wooden planks of the vaulted ceiling above me to the wicked sensation of being Malvic—my role-playing character—as I purged the campus with a terrifying beast at my side.

I lay there for several minutes, emotionally detached, quietly resting in the space between dreaming and waking.

Is this the Awakening?

The unreality of it all made me sink even further into my bed.

But there was a darker reason I hadn’t budged. I was avoiding something impossible… something I knew I had to rise and face.

I turned my attention to the window on the right side of me to verify that it was sunny outside.

It was.

But as I feared, the window hung open, and from it, a mud trail and bloody footprints led to my bed.

I slowly rose, rubbed my eyes, and propped myself against the headboard.

After stalling, I looked down.

A guest was in my bed, nude, curled up, and sleeping.

Blood graffitied her entire body.

The heavy dark stains around her hands and feet spoiled the pure white sheets.

I wanted to react—leap from the bed, scream like an idiot, run away—but I couldn’t.

I owed her more than a coward’s flight.

She had saved me.

I glanced over at a framed picture on my nightstand, where I was a nine-year-old boy with naïve eyes and a crooked smile, squeezed close to a beautiful woman with sad eyes and a closed lip smile, both of us overdressed in fluffy winter attire.

My guest didn’t have sad eyes. But other than that, her face was identical to the woman in the photo.

Shellie Allaire, my first best friend.

I couldn’t stop myself from comparing my guest and the image, over and over again, matching every little detail.

The facial resemblance was uncanny—almost one-to-one, down to the violet pupils.

I had to let go of what I knew and didn’t want to face.

My bloody, sleeping guest was Shellie. The woman who taught me not to fear monsters had somehow returned to life.

But that wasn’t the terrifying part.

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 ‘creative’ session went from relaxing meditation to an experience that inexplicably addled my senses.

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

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

***

To be straight-up honest.

Following the fright of seeing Shellie rise, eyes glowing, I passed out like a chump.

Not too long afterward, the feel of a tongue on 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, came into focus—her eyes white, devoid of pupils, and still glowing.

As soon as she noticed I was conscious, she stopped licking and twisted her head as if she were examining me with concern.

“What are you doing?” I said, swallowing hard and releasing a faint gasp.

I slowly pushed her off, then stood up too quickly, accidentally bumbling into the tree behind me.

I instantly felt lightheaded as I gazed down at Shellie.

She sat crouched, arms tucked between her legs and hands firmly on the ground, slow blinking as if she were trying to make out my question.

After sniffing deeply, she scooted closer but didn’t speak a word.

Twigs jutted from her wildly big, flowing black hair, and remnants of leaves and mud stuck to her drenched body.

She looked utterly feral, yet she sat perfectly still—like a dog…? The strange look on her face beamed with innocence—the type that pets give their owners.

I felt compelled to lower myself to her, but before I could, a voice—loud, disembodied, undeniably aggressive—wrecked our moment.

“Malvic. Give us back the Tome!”

Malvic?

The unfamiliar voice using my role-playing name made my face squinch as I searched the distance.

Since the torrential rain had eased, I spotted three fully cloaked figures emerging from the thick foliage.

They loomed menacingly, spaced about three to four feet apart.

Their cloaks, stark black and unmistakably ceremonial, were worn with the hoods up.

Black masks etched with a white angry-eye symbol hid their faces.

First the open-mouthed symbol. Now an angry-eyed one.

The aggressor in the middle leveled a sacrificial-looking blade at me.

“Do you know me?” I asked, racking my brain, trying to make sense when there was none.

“Yes, Malvic. No tricks. Just hand over the damn Tome! And we won’t hurt you.”

His tone dripped with uncertainty, even as his body language brimmed with violence—he stepped forward, stabbing the air with his blade.

Apprehension swiftly eclipsed my curiosity. In quick succession, Shellie sensed my unrest.

Still low and hunched on all fours, she turned to face them and began… growling?

Seeing her, one of them chuckled dismissively.

But the one opposite him caught sight of Shellie’s inhuman attribute.

“Her eyes are glowing,” he said, his voice cracking with nervousness.

“Stop acting scared. Obviously, they’re glowing contacts—you can get those at cons. Look at her. She’s growling and naked. They’re definitely out here doing anime kink stuff.”

“Hey. Nothing kinky is happening and those… aren’t contacts,” I snapped defensively.

“Shut up. The Tome.”

Reacting to the rise in his tone and the shift of his knife, Shellie flipped out and scratched at the ground, ripping large patches as if she were marking territory.

“She’s a maniac. Look at her—kill’s written all over her face.”

Full of misgiving, he stumbled backward.

“You’re twice her size. You seriously can’t be scared of that?”

“Tell the girl to stop or I’ll gut her.”

Shellie was freaking out. The cultists were fracturing, getting amped.

My head was on fire.

But I had to act—something bad was about to pop off.

“Okay. Okay… I’ll give you the Tome? Just tell me—what is it?”

There was an eerie pause.

The angry-eye symbol on their masks pulsed with spectral light and they went limp, eyes blank, as if they had fallen into a hypnotic state, before all of them spoke at once—loudly, in zombified unity—”The Tome you’ve been carrying is not yours. It belongs to me. The Eye sees, and the Eye wants,” and within seconds, it clicked.

My mind had been miles away from Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users, but now I understood.

Stupidly, acting on impulse, I turned my head toward the distant shrub where I’d left the book.

Before I could speak, an amped declaration rang out, “Hey, it’s the—”

“—Tome!” another voice yelled.

In an instant, the two aggressors burst into a hostile foot race, dogging one another, eager to claim the prize first.

Their movement incensed Shellie.

Her human-sounding grrrs deepened into guttural gurgling, pitched with an uncanny, feral inflection.

The jarring animalistic switch snared my attention—something inexplicable was happening to her.

All at once, her body convulsed, releasing wet, squishing sounds as swift, violent tremors coursed through her, making her muscles spasm, twisting her head and limbs into beastly anatomy. In harmony with the crushing and reshaping of her skeletal structure, her flesh expanded until her skin gave way to fur, erasing everything human.

A massive, monstrous beast-dog now stood among us, letting out a terrifying, beastly growl.

I sank into paralysis; the others sprang into action.

The ringleader shouted, “We’re too late! He’s unleashed the unholy beast. We can’t let the Malvic keep the Tome. Get it!”

And as crazy as it was, they all made a mad dash for Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users, right into the towering beast.

The beast-dog dug in against the attackers.

In the frenzy, her enormous, wagging tail struck me, 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.

Another cultist screamed, “Eye save us!”

When I woke, it was still raining, and the taste of mud soiled my lips.

The right half of my face felt numb, pressed into sludge and itchy grass.

From a ground-level perspective, my uncovered left eye widened and flinched 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.

My breathing was off, and I was afraid that I might pass out again. Only one thought beat at my core—getting away from the murder scene.

I tried again.

Once I finally sat up, I saw Shellie was still in her beast-dog form, guarding me.

The book rested between us.

I checked my watch. 4:00 a.m. glowed faintly under its cracked faceplate.

I’ve been gone for over nine hours.

I feebly brushed at the mud on my face, but all I did was aggravate the wound near my temple, and the unexpected sting made my feet jerk against the ground.

Shellie heard me stirring and whipped around to face me.

I felt small as she stared down her snout at me. Large gushes of air from her massive nostrils rolled over 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 foot nine inches on all fours. The volume of her dense, bloodstained, black mane, similar to that of a Tibetan mastiff, 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 tucked 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. Even in her small, five-foot-five form, she easily anchored me.

“We have to get out of here.”

She stared up at me intently. Her eyes—no longer washed in white, no longer pupilless—looked completely normal.

“Us. Leave.”

I edged forward, and she followed my lead.

To my dismay, we had to wade through the field of minced bodies.

I couldn’t put it into words—the carnage was insanely overwhelming.

Although I had no idea who the dead were, I felt sorry for them.

Even so, directing Shellie out of the woods took all my focus.

Attempts at conversation dwindled to a few words and pointing. She understood gestures perfectly, but questions and explanations only earned puzzled looks.

And I really can’t say how coherent I was while guiding her.

I must’ve blacked out a few times, but I did remember that we stopped right before the clearing.

I stood against her, breathing heavily, afraid to step out of the woods.

A part of me wanted to shoo her back into the woods; I couldn’t.

Hell, in my condition, I wouldn’t make it home without her.

I tried to focus on what to do, but my wrecked brain stuck on one thing: How will I get home unnoticed while 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, home was only forty yards or so away.

Erring on the side of caution, I stood there watching for any more freaks dressed as if they had just left an occult convention.

Scanning, I caught how the mist and dim orangish light of the streetlamps blended with the collegiate-gothic buildings of the old campus, and realized Jana was right.

It was creepy here.

After a bit, I decided we had to make our move.