She is so hungry.
Sometimes she loses control to the hunger and when she wakes up she is still hungry. She is trying very hard not to think about the possibility that she may have eaten anyone while she was out. She has definitely eaten a nonzero amount of non-people stuff. Sometimes people come looking for her and she runs away.
The people sound angry.
Wilbur is probably dead.
He left to try to steal the Necronomicon because they wouldn't let him in to see it again. And he didn't come back. And he didn't come back. And she outgrew the house and got so, so hungry, and he didn't come back. He was almost certainly dead.
But it was only almost, and if she left Dunwich entirely, he wouldn't have any way to find her again. And she didn't have anywhere to flee to. If Wilbur was dead then she was all alone. There was nobody else who loved her, who wouldn't scream and try to shoot her--probably someone, somewhere, would, there were other magicians in the world, but--where? Nowhere near here.
She did not have anything to do but hide, and wallow in her grief and despair and fear, and weep.
Eventually they come. Not a mob, just three men; not shouting angrily or hissing in fear; they look determined, and resolute.
She is so lonely, and she has no idea what to do. So she lets herself hope. She lets them get close.
It is a mistake.
It is probably going to be the last mistake she ever has the chance to make.
She doesn't know what spell it is that one of them uses. She just knows that everything hurts, that she can feel herself coming apart at the edges.
She does not have the wits to pull a spell together out of her memory. She tries anyway--tries anything--
"Eh-y-ya-ya-yahaah—e'yayayaaaa . . . ngh'aaaaa . . . ngh'aaa . . . h'yuh . . . h'yuh . . . HELP! HELP! . . . ff—ff—ff—FATHER! FATHER! YOG-SOTHOTH! . . ."
And everything goes black.