Page 11 of The Flesh Remembers

The clinic pulsed like a beating heart—not Eleanor’s, but something else's.

Its pulse was an electric thrum that reverberated through the stone walls.

Eleanor moved deliberately, her bare feet brushing against the cold floor.

Her body was already alive with anticipation, the silver disk at her throat buzzing faintly, teasing her senses.

It had been days since the last partial awakening, but the memory lingered: James’s cold hands gripping her hips, his lips crushing hers in an unholy imitation of passion.

The man she loved was trapped in that decayed shell, and every step she took brought her closer to freeing him.

She hoped.

Eleanor had now moved into the clinic full-time.

However, it was not something she had expected to do.

Eleanor had tried to leave after the last failed reanimation process.

She had packed her small satchel and made her way through the corridors to find the way she had first come to the clinic, which seemed like a lifetime ago.

When she had finally found the door, it was locked up tight with no way to open it.

Eleanor at first thought she might search for another way out and make a run for it back to her townhouse across the city.

But, in the end, Eleanor simply returned to her room within the clinic and sat at the small desk.

She was trapped here in more ways than one.

Ultimately, she wrote a letter to her housekeeper, Mrs.

Allen, to advise her that she was going on an extended holiday and was unsure when she would return.

She would wire her two months' wages to start, but more if she extended her stay.

She just asked that Mrs.

Allen to check on the house once a week until she returned.

Eleanor sighed and wondered if she would ever see Mrs. Allen again.

As Eleanor walked, her dark green dressing gown rustled behind her, the velvet flaring out as she descended the stone corridor.

Eleanor allowed herself to think of James as she loved him, his boyish grin and soft blonde hair that would always grow unruly throughout the day, no matter how many times he tried to tame it with a comb.

Usually, Eleanor would not allow herself to think about their time together when they were happy and felt nothing but love and hope for the future.

The pain of that unlived life was too great for her.

But now, Eleanor took a single sip of the beautiful memory of James and his love for her, fully feeling the exquisite anguish of love and loss together in a single rush of emotion.

The thought of how much he had loved her when she had felt certain no one would ever love her again and then losing that love made it all the harder to bear.

She stifled a sob and stopped to lean against the stone wall, her eyes blurring from the tears that threatened to fall.

No, she could not fall apart now; she had too much work to do.

So, Eleanor put the sweet, painful memory away and conjured another, only this memory was all pain.

No gentle, hopeful whispered words of love, just raw, unfiltered anguish.

They had gone for a picnic in the park on a beautiful sunlit afternoon in spring.

Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, had prepared enough food to feed a dozen or more, and Eleanor recalled how they had laughed about it, unaware of what was to come.

There had been a commotion that caught their attention.

Two young men were fighting, a young woman beside them screaming to stop.

One of the men was bigger and stronger than the other and was pummelling him mercilessly.

Eleanor had suggested that James try to intervene and offer medical assistance as one of the men appeared near unconscious from the beating.

James never saw the knife the other man had pulled from his pocket, and as he had lunged to strike his opponent, James had moved forward to render aid, and the knife blade sank into his abdomen.

The man had fled after stabbing James, who lay bleeding heavily and clutching his abdomen.

Eleanor screamed as she ran towards him, an unfathomable desperation filled her as she knelt by her fiancé and began to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt so that she might see the wounds.

Eleanor saw a deep puncture in James’s belly, and he was bleeding heavily, and at that moment Eleanor knew.

She was a doctor; she had seen such wounds before and knew the outcome.

Death.

James was going to die.

There was no way to prevent it.

The wound was fatal, and as James wearily gazed up at Eleanor, tears slipping down his cheeks, she could see that he knew it too.

“El,”

James whispered as she cradled his head in her lap.

“Dear, sweet El.”

“James, James,”

Eleanor whispered, wiping the blood from his mouth with her handkerchief.

“You’re going to be alright, James, yes, you’ll be fine. Just fine.”

Eleanor’s tears fell in a steady stream from her cheeks down onto James’ bloodied body as she continued to say the words over and over again like a mantra, as if her words alone could keep him alive.

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

James took her hand and brought it to his bloodstained mouth and kissed it.

“My darling, I’m afraid there’s no help for it. You and I both know it.”

James’s voice was growing weaker and more unsteady.

“I’m done for.”

Eleanor let out a loud wail of despair as James’ beautiful sky-blue eyes began to flutter and then fell closed. His breathing became more laboured and shallower.

“No, James, no! You cannot leave me. You cannot leave me here alone! James! James!”

Eleanor sobbed now, throwing herself over James’ prone body, his blood mingling with her tears. Eleanor thought she would follow James into death at that moment, for surely no one can feel such pain and live. The searing hot pain of loss and grief filled her body until there was no more room for it, and the only thing she could do was to scream. Eleanor screamed and screamed, her despair seemingly endless. That man may as well have ripped Eleanor’s heart right from her chest with that same knife. The pain was so great, she feared it would consume her, believing that surely, she too would die, unable to bear the agony of a world without him.

Dr. Fairfax met Eleanor in the anteroom, his face pale and drawn. His hands trembled as he adjusted the dials on the ledger’s control console, the pages glowing faintly under the dim light.

“Eleanor,”

he began, his voice shaking.

“We need to talk before we proceed. The ritual tonight… It’s beyond anything we’ve attempted before.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean?”

Fairfax hesitated, his gaze darting to the ledger.

“Lord Blackwood has designed a new process. It requires your physical connection to James and a complete merging of your essence with his. The machine will amplify the exchange, pulling energy from both of you until your souls are… entwined. At least, in theory. I cannot say with certainty that the process will work or be without risk.”

Eleanor’s stomach twisted, a mix of fear and excitement rippling.

“What does that mean?”

Fairfax’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“It means you’ll become part of him. Your life, your memories, your very being will feed his resurrection. And… there’s a chance he’ll take more than you’re willing to give.”

“How is such a process even possible?”

Eleanor asked incredulously. She understood the basics of how Dr. Fairfax and his research on aging and death had assisted him in creating the machine that they now used to resurrect James. It provided power, which reanimated the cells. Logically, this made a kind of sense to her. Blackwood’s dark rituals and magical incantations were more complicated to reason about and required a certain leap of faith, which she admitted was not her strong suit. But Eleanor had used the rationale that millions of people pray in churches to God daily, and many are convinced that miracles occur. Perhaps it was not so farfetched to think that these darker, more unholy rituals conjured up another sort of God with a power just as great?

But this? The melding of their souls. It seemed impossible, ridiculous.

“Eleanor, I understand your hesitation. And if you prefer, we not continue, we can end this now and find someone else to continue the work with.”

Fairfax looked at her with a mixture of guilt and sympathy. No doubt, the emotional toll this process was having on her was becoming very obvious.

“No!”

Eleanor said sharply, “No, we aren’t going to stop. We can’t stop. The whole thing feels like a dream, and I am half convinced that in a moment I’ll just wake up and all this will have been some awful, wonderful dream.”

“Blackwood’s rituals are real. I know it seems like a lot of nonsense, but I have witnessed firsthand, we all have in fact, that his rituals combined with my machine can bring life back to the dead.”

She swallowed hard, her resolve tightening.

“If that’s what it takes, then I’ll do it. Nothing will stop me from seeing this through to the end.”

Eleanor was firm in her resolve, and for the first time, she saw something close to fear in Fairfax’s eye when he looked at her.

The lab was unrecognizable. The Transductor Chair had vanished, replaced by a towering dais encircled by galvanic rods that hissed and sparked like caged lightning. Chains dangled from the ceiling, glinting in the flickering light, their sinister purpose shrouded in shadow.

Lord Blackwood stood at the console, his dark gaze glinting with a cruel, almost gleeful anticipation.

“Dr. Ashcroft,”

he purred, his voice silky and sharp as a blade.

“Tonight, the veil between life and death will be torn apart. You will be the bridge, the vessel through which James returns to us fully.”

Eleanor’s eyes locked on the dais. James’s body lay strapped down, rigid and pale, his head tilted just so. His eyes, unseeing and lifeless, seemed to track her, watching her every move.

She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the tremor in her limbs.

“What do I need to do?”

Blackwood’s smile spread, slow and deliberate, a predator cornering its prey. “Disrobe.”

He gestured toward the dais, the galvanic rods humming louder.

“Lie with him. The apparatus will do the rest.”

Energy crackled through the air, sharp and electrifying, as Eleanor hesitated, a whirlwind of fear and resolve churning inside her. The machine's hum deepened, a promise of power and something far darker waiting just beyond.

Excerpt from the journal of Lord Alastair Blackwood

The process has been going excellently.

Eleanor Ashcroft has proven to be an excellent conduit for our work. I must confess that I lust for her and look for any reason to touch her. I have seen her in such vulnerable states at this point, naked and chained. She does not submit easily, but it is so beautiful when she finally submits to my will. Her love for the dead man makes sure of her submission. I see the two opposing sides warring within her. But she wants him to return so badly that it has become a true obsession for her. Well, her obsession is no greater than my own. We will bring this man back from the dead just as Christ did to Lazarus in the bible, and then no one can question my power.

The rituals create a heightened atmosphere of lust and depravity throughout the facility. I fuck one or two of the maids nightly, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. My cock seems hard constantly and the growing need to fuck and then destroy has increased tenfold since we began the rituals. I would love to fuck Eleanor, but I fear that it might temper the sexual and erotic tensions needed for the rituals. Perhaps Marian would be willing, although she usually occupies Fairfax’s bed, but now I see her little sidelong glances at Eleanor when she thinks no one is watching. I would not oppose their union if I could watch it.

We are headed into the final stages of the work, and soon, we will know for sure if they worked as intended. Of course, it is possible for things to go wrong. I have seen it happen badly, but I am confident the process will work now.

And, if it doesn’t, we can merely start again as we did before.