Harold Girard's right foot collided against a large stone in the shadowy blackness of the cavern and he went sprawling on the ground as excruciating agony stung and bit and crunched on his toes intensely like a stray dog was gnawing at them.
He sat alone, in the mysteriously dark cave, nursing his toes which he knew must be bleeding hard through his sneakers. His nose twitched uneasily at the unusual whiff of the cave that seemed to have been heightened considerably over the minutes. It was as though the pong was overhanging from the high walls like ghosts floating around.
What was the university holding back from the thousands of undergraduates that was so important it had to be stashed far away underground in a cave?
Harold Girard couldn't push the hundreds of thoughts that flooded his subconscious per nanosecond out of his head as he sat on the earth, so he stood up to continue his journey.
A new wave of sturdy, unshakable courage and fiery anger swelled in him and he understood why all along, he had kept on pushing when he could turn back. He was tired. Wearied. Beaten and exhausted of being a pushover. He wanted more to his life. More purpose and importance, and although he was an Omega, he was the pup of an Alpha! He was a machinery built for battles and combats and warfare! He had to prove it; his worth.
With a throbbing leg supported by the pristine walls of the grotto, Harold continued in the darkness while the strong stench that oozed and danced around his nostrils, pricked the insides like little needles.
The cave seemed to become a labyrinth as Harold tunneled deeper into it. It arched a semi-circle and Harold with it—still with his hands tapping here and there on the walls, laired on. If there were sconces like the ones that hung on the walls of his hostel were available; metres underneath the school, buried in a cavern—with him, he'd have felt a lot better, but the school apparently misplaced its priorities and that was why they were up there, useless.
As he came to the other side of the arc, he halted, and the blazing fire which was aflame in his heart a few minutes ago quenched as bewilderment with a tint of fear deluged it.
A miscellany of white and blue light glutted and burst forth—like a torpedo, from a very high opening up above. The walls that had expanded from the semi-arc as Harold came around the corner, moulded in—towards each other, as it hiked upwards, to the opening like a volcano. The only missing features was the absence of red, boiling lava churning and scorching the insides, and it was replaced by two great waterfalls that protracted out from above—close to the hollow.
Harold gasped at the sight before him. The water gushed and jutted out from above, heeded gravity's decree, sloped by hundreds of metres along a craggy rock that slanted downwards before colliding with the earth and splashing all over as droplets—like a faulty fountain. The liquid which Harold suspected to be crystal clear and drinkable was bright blue; the hue of a newly found gem, due to the luminescence that bath everything within reach—Harold's skin included. But that was not what held Harold Girard's attention.
In the middle of the beautiful chaos was peace—like a garden dotted with butterflies and caterpillars feasting on green leaves in the middle of a warfield. There was a stool, a few inches shorter than him, and fixed to it was an auspicious bowl that threatened to make Harold go blind; on an exalted surface.
The spilled liquid from the waterfall teemed a circlish drain that encompassed the sublime commode on an elevated plain, and a plank of wood; quite long, connected the dry land where Harold was, to the ‘island’.
It took a lot of spirit and intrepidity, spunk and nerve, too, for Harold to walk on the stout plank that extended to the other side—threatening to turn over, time and time again.
After a wobbly two minutes for Harold Girard, he got to the other side.
As his bleached sneakers touched the ashen ground after successfully sauntering over the lath, a fast-growing, aggressive and belligerent voice like the clashing of all the world's oceans against each other whammed, threatening to grind and disintegrate the cavern.
“You came a few weeks early, that's strange. What do you have for me?”
Harold's heart began to drum roll against his ribcage and he could feel his veins and arteries which extended down; to the back of his leg, and limbs, too, stretch and contract—a consequence of the bloodcurdling voice.
“Nothing?” The voice boomed louder than the first, with more intensity.
Harold was scared. Terrified. Panic striken and aghast, and the dread which had clenched every molecule of his being heightened when he looked into the auspicious bowl and saw blood; human blood—red gore drained from the insides of a human—a student—students, perhaps, dancing left and right sluggishly, in the dish.
“You do not belong here!” The feminine voice screamed. An earache which Harold was sure will last for a couple of days echoed, using the antiquated walls as the material of reverberation.
Harold's eyes which had adjusted to the whitish-blue radiance from above, rapidly shifted from the bowl of blood to the cascades. The water was no longer crystal clear and drinkable. It was a meshed slimy goop of black and red.
There were shadows, too, lots of them and they encircled him and hovered on a spot like a troop of soldiers waiting for a command from the leader. Just shadows, no body—no human flesh.
Harold's broad eyes shifted again to the blood in the bowl. As he did, an invisible, floating frame rammed into his stomach, pushed all the air in him out through his lungs and sent him sprawling on the quiescent ground, almost off the elevated plain and into the reddish-black goo which encompassed him.
“You will never see the sun again. Neither will you have a chance to smell the coolness of the firs that rim this school,” the shrill feminine voice chanted in a sick and sluggish manner which caused Harold to grow dizzy as a milky daze cloaked his sight. “This is your end.”
Then the sensation came upon Harold Girard like an hawk plunging, sinking and descending to seize a chick!
For a few seconds, Harold's emotions were as distorted and scattered, strange, too, and unexplored like the billions of stars dispersed all around our cosmo and he wreathed and curled in pain, trying to keep himself; attempt to keep his wolf confined.
“Any last words?” the voice joked. “My bad, you can't speak.”
As she said that, another shadow—invisible, too, gripped his oesophagus with its hands which felt like cold wind. Harold knew his throat will compress if the pressure was kept up and if increased, his lungs will be badly damaged and serious injury will be done to his jawline and other parts of his skull. Then he lost it.
A throaty howl escaped his trembling lips as his last resort to remain a human crumbled, and his body parts began to transform and remodel. His leg skin tore open; with a revolting shredding as his bones enlarged then bent inwards—forming his hind legs. His hands followed the same procedure as his legs and his fingers squeezed in before taking the cast of paws. His throat expanded considerably and he felt the grip of the ‘shadow’ loosen, and his nose pinched on his face as it turned as hard and dark as a rock. Then Harold Girard got on all four in grandeur and magnificence while the shimmering whitish-blue light casted from above, dousing his black fur. The Alpha's pup.
“Who are you?” He heard the feminine voice whimper like an injured puppy.
At a daunting velocity, he leaped onto the timber which was beginning to submerge into the reddish-black gunk and he leaped off it and into the dreary darkness of the cavern.
He could easily see in the dark and it didn't take him up to a minute before he got to the ladder where he transformed painfully back into a human.
He climbed the chill ladder hurriedly and came up on the other side. He reclined the upper part of his body on the ground and wriggled the lower part free; from the warm, dark and mystifying hole. He was safe—for now.
Drops of sweat trickled down his face as he jugged over to the hole in the wall and tugged at the metal string. The welcome noise of the hole closing up filled the room then he heard footsteps at the front door.
He clumsily raised the pile of books to put them back in their place and as he did, the door opened, revealing a short man with a thick nose and full lips. He had a frown on his face.
As Harold stole a glance at the scenic, breathtaking and all-embracing nature from the window, the man who was filled with suspicion asked the same question the lady down below in the cavern had asked.
“Who are you?”
Harold Girard; through lies, managed to abscond from the queer-looking midget who came into the pedantic office of his lecturer, a minute after he crawled out of the benighted cavern.If he had been as much as three minutes later than he was, he would have been seen at the very moment of his writhing out of the opening like a worm, and even worse, he'd have been expelled-or killed-and his blood fed to the brutes in the cavern, solely because of the information that was now microfilmed in his memory and etched in his heart.On the outside of the mysterious office, Harold saw students going about their businesses-which was making most gaiety of the winsome sundown, in troops and 'gangs' and dressed in fancy garbs and distinct attires, after a long day of erudition.His hazelnut-coloured eyeballs chaperoned a group of four that bantered and quipped as they sauntered down the hallway; not minding the large quota their voices added to the forthcoming ca
Trisha McLeod's stein slipped out of her shaky fingers at the sudden realization that a student's life was coming to an end—in a matter of minutes—or seconds!Driblets of the liquor; that glowed of crimson—due to the sunset's filter—which doused every physical objects within reach, lubricated the limpid surface of the cup and the ‘greased’ beer mug which still had an ample quantity of booze in it, skidded from her grip before ramming into the cold tiles and splitting into hundreds of tiny fragments with a strident noise.Regrettably, the bump of Trisha's wine's glass on the inured ground brought a lot of attention their way; that of their Geography professor included, and that was when another chain of problems began.Harold and Trisha crouched into the indistinct shadows of the deftly pared gorse bush that separated them from the rest of the swimming tract like a fort breaking up a warzone from the territory of impoverished locales. Unf
Hastening away from the uninhabited natatorium and towards a small cabin—built with bricks and sturdy planks of wood; for the pool's paperworks, was a waitress. Her small, well carved palms which were ornamented with silvery beads that simulated the sunset's beauty, held a salver that had a couple of steins in it, and with each step she took, the glass cups clanked into the serene atmosphere like the death bells of undertakers; which was what attracted Harold and Trisha's attentions like bees to honey.Trisha, who was the first to pick up the orderly sedating tolls with her acute sense of hearing, ran in its direction, leaving Harold to the still blue body of water on which the empty bottle water floated and danced with the miniscule waves the howling wind caused.The waitress who was golden-haired looked like she was dressed for a summer vacation. A skimpy crop top hugged the upper part of her well enriched frame and her long, beautiful
*THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO THE NIGERIAN ?? YOUTHS WHO HAVE IN ONE WAY OR THE OTHER, STOOD AGAINST THE GOVERNMENT AND BRAVELY AIRED THEIR VIEWS AND OPINIONS FOR (POSITIVE) CHANGES DESPITE THE MASSACRES AND HOLOCAUST CARRIED OUT ON HUNDREDS OF YOUTHS AT LEKKI TOLL GATE ON THE 20TH OF OCTOBER, 2020.*Trisha McLeon knelt hurriedly and with a thud, her knees touched the coarse ground—over Catherine's motionless body. She looked behind her, hoping to see Harold or anyone that'll be of help but they were both alone. The environ was as deserted; and noiselessless, as an eerie catacomb. She plucked her eyeglasses from her face and placed them on the ground, beside the waitress' numb frame. Her mum although was a witch—like her, had been a top-ranked nurse in the human world. Hence, she was lucky enough to have seen some acts her mother carried out on her patients on countless occasions. Trisha pl
The vampire, Wilkes Milton, was partially carried—in the middle, with one of his arms around Harold's sweaty neck, and the other wrapped the way an anaconda will encircle a prey before devouring, around Trisha, who was greatly disturbed with thoughts of Catherine who had ‘disappeared into thin air’ and left no clues or trails or hints that she'd ever existed.They hobbled and staggered out of the swimming vicinity like soldiers who had just fought—and won a war for their motherland and were returning back to their families bruised and in dire need of medical attention.The trio were tired. Exhausted, to be precise. And dazed, too. They'd each had more than their fair share of mind boggling ‘adventures’.After ten long minutes which was made more difficult by the dimness that had cloaked Golden Lake University, they got to the fountain the ‘tour guide’ had shown to them on their first day. The fountain which attracted the attention
Harold put one feet on a wooden cabinet that wasn't more than two metres tall and tied his sneakers' shoelace. He dropped the leg, put the other on the same cabinet and repeated the same action as he'd done the first time.As he stood up with a sigh escaping his pink lips, he smartened out his shirt which was crisscrossed with diverse dyes, by tugging it downwards on its hem for the umpteenth time. That was when Wilkes came out of the bathroom with a white towel round his waist and shampoo and water matting down his long, jet black hair.“Still meeting at the cafeteria at 12 PM, yeah?” Wilkes asked to ascertain what they'd arranged before he went into the bathroom. His abdominal muscle glistened as droplets of water skidded down his frame before being soaked by the towel.“Yeah. Trisha will be there, too. I know you barely remember what she looks like but she helped you, still, and deserves to hear what I have to say. I got her num’er la
*THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO MY STRONG BROTHERS AND SISTERS FROM THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO FOR SURVIVING THE HARDSHIPS THEY'VE HAD TO ENDURE FOR CENTURIES IN SILENCE. MAY THE LORD HEAL YOUR LAND SOONEST, AMEN.*#CongoIsBleedingHarold Girard's brown pupils surveyed the thoroughly illuminated aisle—that possessed a cream-coloured filter enhanced by the bulbs that shone a milky radiance—from above, for an hint on who could have dropped the ‘letter’ in his bag.He sensed his heart pumping blood more than it ever had, and he felt the red liquid that trickled through his veins and arteries at a frenzied tempo, flow to his knuckles, and palms, and brain as well, as one hand held the crisp, white paper whose contents had spun his life around in mere seconds.His other hand weakly gripped his reddish-brown bag as his eyes switched from one student to another for whoever seemed most likely to have played the ‘prank’ on him.&nb
Harold Girard, Trisha McLeon, and Wilkes Milton were still gathered together in the lunchroom; like a litter of pups nuzzling each other—and their mother. They debated and gave oral reviews of the letter Harold had read out to them quietly for the umpteenth time— undauntedly, even as his voice got drowned several times in the cacophonies that rose from other students; like a sea wave washing over a ship set on sail.It made absolutely no sense to any of them and even Trisha who had a knack for history—and was very much smarter than the other two, couldn't decode what the puzzling letter was warning Harold about. To the best of her knowledge, it was more of a threat than a warning, and for Harold who hadn't spent up to a week in the school, that wasn't a good thing.When they'd almost spent almost all of their break time discussing the letter that had seemingly stolen the shine and attention off the main theme the