Chapter 11: What Have I Done?

I opened my eyes, but I didn’t move.

Although my neck and head were snuggled on a comfy pillow, they ached as if I had just woken up from 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—purging 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 surrealness sank me even further into my bed. But there was a darker reason I hadn’t budged. I was avoiding something fantastic… something I knew it was time to rise and face. I turned my attention to the window on the right side of my bed to verify that it was sunny outside. It was. But it reaffirmed 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. After stalling, I looked down. Shellie was in my bed, still nude, 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 away this absolute dumpster fire.

I wanted to react—leap from the bed, scream like an idiot, run away—but I couldn’t. Shellie looked at peace. Rather than focus 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 remembered it. People, especially my mother, never wasted a chance to tell 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 relying on memories of a nine-year-old with naive eyes; 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 could vividly see her trick of turning on the nightlight and clearly hear her tell bedtime stories that empowered me to conquer my monsters—my nightmares.

The thought made me glance over at a framed picture on my nightstand. It was the only existing photo of us together—regrettably, my only image of her. Under the guise of helping to whisk away my depression after Shellie’s death, my mother had destroyed all my other photos of her.

Fortunately, I had stashed away a photograph from our last winter adventure. Shellie and I were overdressed in our fluffy winter attire and accessories. I wore awkwardness like a badge, as always, but beamed with happiness. Shellie, on the other hand, despite her beautiful, closed-lip smile, had sadness in her eyes.

As I reminisced, it dawned on me: when Shellie died, she was the same age I am now—twenty-two. I glanced down at the bloody woman still sleeping at my feet and then over 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 ‘creative’ 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 at best, since I’d floated in and out of consciousness throughout.

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 naked 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 tucked between her legs and hands firmly on the ground. 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, beaming at me with a kind of innocence only pets give their owners.

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

“Malvic. Give us The Tome!”

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 their hoods up. A black mask, with the white symbol of an angry eye, hid their faces.

Open-mouthed symbol. Now an angry-eyed symbol!

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?”

“Yes, Malvic, we weren’t sent to kill you. But we’ll hurt you if you don’t hand over the damn Tome!” His tone dripped with spite, and his body language brimmed with violence as he stepped forward, stabbing the air with his blade.

My curiosity turned to panic.

Shellie responded to my fear. Still low and hunched over on all fours, she turned to face the figures and began… growling?

One of them chuckled dismissively, but the one opposite the knife-wielder caught site of Shellie’s inhuman attribute.

“Her eyes are glowing,” said the astute one, his voice cracking with nervousness.

“Stop acting scared, initiate. His girl’s got glowing contacts—you can get those at cons. Look at her, growling and naked. They’re nerds. Definitely anime kink stuff,” said the skeptical aggressor, nestled between the others.

“Hey! She’s not my girl, and those… aren’t contacts,” I snapped defensively, but quickly followed with a genuine, softened admission. “I don’t know why she is growling.”

“Shut up! The Tome.”

At the rise in the leader’s tone, Shellie flipped out and scratched at the ground, ripping large patches as if she were a dog marking its territory.

The astute initiate began backing up. “She’s an absolute maniac. Look at her—kill’s written all over her face.”

“For god’s sake, don’t say another word, idiot. Look how small she is. What’s she going to do?”

“Tell her to back down and shut up. I’ll happily gut her.”

My head was on fire. Shellie was freaking out. The cultists were fracturing, getting amped. I had to act—something was about to pop off.

“Okay. Okay… The Tome? Umm, what is it?”

There was an eerie pause. The angry eye on their masks pulsed with spectral light. Then all of them spoke at once, loudly:

“The Tome you’ve been carrying is not yours. The Eye sees, and the Eye wants.”

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

Before I could speak, the skeptic blurted, “Hey, it’s the—”

—but the initiate cut him off, yelling, “—Tome!”

I looked to the right. Only six feet away, my book peeked out of the shrubs.

In an instant, almost like a ritual contest, the two aggressors sprinted toward it, both eager to claim it first, as if it were a prize.

Shellie’s human-sounding grrrs deepened into guttural gurgling, pitched with an uncanny, inhuman inflection.

All at once, and even more ghastly, her body shifted. Flesh gave way to fur. Within, her muscles twisted and swelled in harmony with the bellowing, crushing, and reshaping sounds of her skeletal structure. In a matter of seconds, she stood: a massive, hairy beast-dog unleashing a terrifying, beastly growl that made everyone freeze.

The ringleader holding the knife 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, the three of them made a mad dash for Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users, right into the towering beast. Incidentally, as she dug in against the attackers, 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 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, and those New Age occult wannabes were willing to die for it! Malvic can’t keep it—what the hell does my roleplaying character have to do with this? 

At the time, I had no brainpower 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, 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 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 five-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 streetlamps 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.