Page 19 of The Flesh Remembers

Dr. Fairfax stumbled back from the console, his face white as the apparatus stuttered and smoked.

“Something’s overloaded,”

he began, his voice drowned out by the chaotic roar.

The entire clinic seemed to lurch, its walls groaning like the building might collapse.

Eleanor clutched James’s shoulders, which still twitched with the remnants of the violent convulsions that had passed through him.

For one brief, searing moment, his gaze locked onto hers, a shocking lucidity shining in his eyes.

He’s alive, allowing her to revel in that moment of pure hopeful happiness.

Then, with a final, deafening crack, the coil collapsed.

The shockwave tore through the hall, scattering bodies and collapsing them into a confused heap.

The lights flickered, plunging the room into near darkness, broken only by sputtering torches and the faint, dying crackle of electricity.

Amid the chaos, Eleanor heard James’s strangled moan, his newfound consciousness faltering.

She scrambled to her feet, her eyes darting frantically as smoke and shadows swallowed the dais.

When the haze cleared, James slumped against the straps, his limbs trembling, his eyes rolling back into his skull.

Around them, the staff flailed in panic, their cries of terror mingling with the lingering echoes of dismay and lust.

The near-ritual had ended, neither in success nor failure, a moment frozen in limbo, its outcome uncertain.

And yet, Eleanor couldn’t tear her eyes from James, her heart numb, chilled to the core by the moment's stillness.

The clinic echoed with the raw aftermath of the debauched gathering.

Floors and cushions remained strewn with remnants of the ceremony gone cataclysmically wrong.

Torn garments, half-burned candles, scrawled runes smudged across floors sticky with wine and sweat.

A heavy silence weighed on every corner, broken only by the faint moans of those still lost in feverish dreams or the ragged breathing of the staff, all grappling with the consequences of the failed near-ritual.

Eleanor drifted through the halls, eyelids heavy from exhaustion.

Every muscle ached; bruises mottled her arms and thighs, raw souvenirs of the night’s frenzied contact.

She’d spent hours helping the stunned participants find blankets, water, or a discreet corner to recover in.

Despite the horrors, a certain shameful glow lingered in her thoughts, recollections of the potent, dark erotic charge that had peaked at the ceremony’s final moments.

She wondered if she was any better than those still sprawled on the floor; her moral boundaries felt equally shattered.

By the time dawn’s light tinted the windows, the remaining outsiders, some half-naked, others limping, began a quiet exodus, led by robed acolytes who promised them future invitations.

A pervasive emotional confusion clung to everyone.

Eleanor, leaning against a pillar, felt as though her soul was being pulled in conflicting directions: James was so close to complete reanimation, yet the clinic had descended into a swirl of violence, jealousy, and twisted sexual mania.

How had it come to this?

She exhaled shakily, pressing a hand over a bruised patch on her forearm.

At least James was not lost entirely.

Even now, he lay in a locked chamber below, half-revived and still half-feral, waiting for the next inevitable attempt.

Despite the terror in his undead eyes, she longed to see him, to cling to the shred of love he still recognized.

The remaining staff moved like shadows.

Some bore fresh welts on their backs or thighs, the stinging marks of ritual punishments disguised as pleasure.

Others walked with limps, their bodies stiff and broken from hours of frenzied indulgence.

Their eyes flitted nervously from one another, haunted by acts they could no longer explain or justify.

Others bore the mental scars of being seduced into extremes they never thought themselves capable of. The fiasco of the near-ritual had pushed them beyond the brink, leaving them battered by excess and guilt.

Eleanor paused outside the makeshift infirmary, where Marian crouched, disinfecting her scratch-laced arms.

A faint pallor tinged her cheeks, and tears rimmed her eyes.

Marian offered Eleanor a tremulous half-smile, silently acknowledging their shared downfall.

Before they could speak, Frye appeared, stalking down the corridor with a fierce scowl.

His clothing torn, a dried streak of blood marked his temple.

The raw tension in his posture made Eleanor’s pulse quicken with unease.

He caught her wrist as she turned the corner.

“Where were you going?”

Frye asked, his voice low.

She tried to pull away. He didn’t let go.

“To breathe,”

she hissed.

“You can’t follow me everywhere.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I don’t follow you. The walls do.”

She stilled.

Frye leaned in.

“You know what this place is, what it’s doing to you. And you’re still here.”

He pressed her back against the stone, the texture rough through her nightgown.

“I’ve seen the way you walk now,”

he growled.

“How your hips sway, the look in your eyes when you pass the ritual chamber.”

His mouth brushed her ear.

“You’re aching to be touched. And not by James.”

She slapped him.

But her breath was shallow. Her cheeks flushed. And her hand lingered for a second too long against Frye’s chest.

Frye’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist before she could retreat. She let out a startled cry, stumbling as he shoved her roughly against the wall. Marian gasped, standing to intervene, but Frye’s glare held her back.

“This was my ticket," Frye snarled, his breath scorching her cheek. "You think I went through hell for these filthy rites just to watch you and that rotting beast wreck it all? I won’t let you ruin this.”

His eyes gleamed with a twisted mixture of white hot anger and barely suppressed fear.

A sliver of genuine fear pierced Eleanor’s exhaustion. She tried to twist free, but he pressed a forearm to her chest. The coldness in his look sent a chill down her spine. In another time, she’d have rebuked him with moral outrage; now, morally frayed, she still felt a sick jolt of arousal at his domineering threat. Have I become so warped that even this stirs me?

Marian darted forward, heart pounding.

“Frye, stop this!”

she pleaded.

“Leave her be!”

But Frye only sneered, glancing from Eleanor to the nurse.

“Oh, I see,”

he spat out in a mixture of anger and something else. He tightened his hold, forcing Eleanor’s back against the unyielding wall. She winced as her bruised shoulder flared with pain.

Frye’s free hand slid to Eleanor’s waist with a punishing grip. The moment bristled with non-consensual tension that left her trembling. She hated the adrenaline rush, the heated flush crawling over her skin. The entire clinic reeked of raw sexual violence in the aftermath of last night, and she found herself trapped in its vile current yet again.

For a heartbeat, it seemed he might assault her. But then, a slash of movement from behind. Marian lunged in a surge of protective desperation, brandishing a small scalpel she must have taken from the infirmary tray. She pressed it to Frye’s neck, voice trembling with rage-laced bravery.

“Let go of her. Now.”

Frye let out a snarl but hesitated, eyes flicking to the glinting blade at his throat. He released Eleanor with a violent shove, sending her stumbling into Marian’s arms. The nurse tightened her grip on the scalpel, fury and fear mingling in her expression.

“I’m done watching you exploit this chaos. Touch her again, and I swear”

Frye stepped back, glowering, the near-assault turned on its head by the nurse’s intervention. For a moment, it seemed the confrontation might escalate to lethal violence.

But with a curse, Frye pivoted and stormed off, muttering something unintelligible as he slammed the door behind him.

Eleanor collapsed to her knees, tears burning her eyes, battered by exhaustion and confusion. Marian dropped the scalpel, sinking beside her, voice trembling with emotion.

“He’s out of control. We all are.”

She paused, pressing a trembling hand to Eleanor’s cheek.

“Are you hurt?”

Shaking her head, Eleanor whispered, “No. Thank you… You saved me.”

She shut her eyes, reeling from the leftover erotic terror that still tingled in her limbs, as if her body couldn’t discern threat from a sick sense of twisted desire. She despised how her heart still pounded with faint excitement, a testament to how deeply these vile sessions had corrupted her.

Marian exhaled a shuddering breath.

“We can’t keep living like this, on the brink of devouring each other. Frye might attack again. Others… might do worse.”

Her gaze fell to the scalpel on the floor.

“The madness is strangling the clinic.”

Yet even in that moment, neither could entirely deny the lure that had brought them all here. The same mania that overshadowed decency also promised the final act that might raise James to true life.

A rasp of footsteps broke their hush. Dr. Fairfax approached, eyes red-rimmed, expression grim. He’d heard the shouting.

“I tried to find Lord Blackwood; he’s vanished for the moment. But I overheard Frye leaving, ranting about taking James for himself.”

A bitter edge stained his tone.

“The clinic is fracturing, Eleanor. I can’t see how we can avoid complete collapse.”

She pulled herself upright, leaning against the wall, mind whirling with the last vestiges of adrenaline.

“We can’t collapse now. James is closer than ever. We must attempt another resurrection soon, before everything falls apart.”

Marian stared at her, raw disbelief flickering in her eyes.

“After all this horror, you still want to push forward?”

Eleanor’s bottom lip wobbled slightly, tears brimming.

“He’s my reason,”

she murmured.

“I can’t let him remain a husk, or a beast prowling the halls. We have to try at least once more. We do it properly, with all the apparatuses ready. Maybe we can break this cycle and return him to his original form.”

Dr. Fairfax met her gaze, pity and reluctant respect etched on his face. He glanced at Marian, who silently nodded. Despite her near meltdown, the nurse recognized that no other path was left.

“If that’s your vow, we stand with you,”

the doctor said quietly.

“But the moral cost… It's staggering. I didn’t start my research all those years ago to bring such abominations into the world. I wanted to save husbands and wives, parents and children from having to experience the loss of age and death. And now, it seems, that death is all we are consumed with now.”

Fairfax sighed heavily, running a hand through his pale hair.

Eleanor drew a slow, deliberate breath, her resolve pressing down on her chest. Moral cost. The words echoed in her mind, a grim tally of Frye’s twisted aggression, the bruises on her arms from nights of “fuelling,”

and the guttural moans that haunted these corridors, born of necromantic hunger. Yet, through the haze of depravity, James’s stolen kisses lingered, his undead eyes searching hers, pleading silently for salvation.

Her vow solidified, sharp as a blade: she would see James fully alive, no matter the cost, even if it meant sacrificing the last fragile remnants of her innocence.

“We will do it soon,”

she said, her voice steady and unyielding. We gather the staff, we steady the coil. We face whatever mania awaits us. James is trapped within that shell, and it is my duty to bring him back. I caused his pain; I cannot abandon him now.”

Marian’s voice cut through the silence, soft yet weighted with doubt.

“No, you can’t. But what if we fail? What if we lose him, and ourselves? Is it worth your life, Eleanor? Is it worth all of ours?”

Eleanor turned to her friend, her gaze hardening, her heart following suit. The answer came without hesitation, quiet yet resolute, like closing a door. “Yes,”

she said. “It is.”

Heavy with unspoken fears and the promise of what would come, the air seemed to shift. Marian’s expression faltered, but she said nothing more. Eleanor’s grip tightened around the coil in her hand, her pulse steadying as she stared into the abyss ahead. There was no turning back now, not for James, not for Marian, and certainly not for herself.

Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft

Frye nearly slit my throat tonight. His eyes burned with a madness I’ve never seen before, but perhaps that’s no surprise. Madness has consumed us all in its way. This entire process, this grotesque, unholy endeavour, is madness incarnate. And yet, it works. James is returning. Piece by piece, he is coming back to me.

Frye rages that the work is corrupt, that the rituals are tearing open something spoiled and unnatural. I can’t dismiss his fears entirely. The forces we call upon are not merely dark, they are unknowable. What listens to our chants, our whispers, as blood spills and bodies writhe in sacrifice? What watches from the shadows as we offer up these rites, not in reverence but desperation? Is it the devil? Some ancient, forgotten god? Or something far worse, something beyond comprehension?

I don’t know. And perhaps I don’t want to know. But the question lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind. What price will we pay for James’s return? What will we unleash in the process?

The Weight of a Thousand Unspeakable Acts

The clinic lay shrouded in an unholy quiet as midnight approached, the silence thick and heaving, alive with the weight of a thousand unspeakable acts. Its corridors seemed to quiver, not just with memory, but with a pulsing energy that pressed against Eleanor’s skin, a damp, stifling heat that wrapped around her like a living thing. Her breath carried the cloying tang of incense, mingled with an undercurrent of sweat and iron, suffocating and inescapable. Shadows twisted across the walls, their forms flickering like mocking phantoms under the erratic dance of candlelight. The silence seemed to exhale softly, its humid breath laden with the echoes of past depravity, whispering, tempting, and daring her forward.

Her breath quickened. She’d seen James’s transformation progress over the past days. His reanimated form was both a triumph of their unholy rites and a condemnation of everything she’d once held sacred. His movements had grown smoother, his eyes sharper, and his presence oh, his presence—was a narcotic pull that left her knees weak. He was no longer merely James. He was something more—something monstrous, something magnetic.

Eleanor found the door to James’s cell ajar, and a thrill of terror and excitement shot through her. The heavy iron chains lay broken, scattered like brittle bones. She ran her fingers over the cold steel, her mind racing with questions. Where was he? What would she find? The answer came in the form of a faint chorus of moans drifting through the stone corridors, a sound both familiar and grotesque. It was the sound of bodies in surrender, the unmistakable melody of lust teetering on the brink of agony.

Following the sounds, she found herself at the entrance of a side chamber. She felt a sudden constriction in her throat. Inside, James stood at the centre of an orgiastic maelstrom, his bare chest streaked with the sweat and desperation of his acolytes. His dead flesh seemed to glow with an unnatural vitality, veins pulsing as he drank deeply from the scene around him.

One woman clung to his waist, her cries muffled against his chest as her nails raked across his pallid skin. A man knelt at James’s feet, his face pressed reverently to James’s thigh, while another acolyte trailed trembling fingers down the ridges of his spine. Their faces wore expressions of ecstatic torment, as though their pleasure was entwined with pain so exquisite it threatened to unmake them. One of them sobbed, her cries a mix of shame and helpless desire, a haunting sound that stirred an eerie dread deep in Eleanor's core.

James turned his head, his eyes locking onto Eleanor. The intensity of his gaze was physical, a searing brand that held her in place. His lips curled into a feral, knowing, and achingly seductive smile.

“Eleanor,”

he said, his voice a rasp that somehow carried the weight of a command.

“You’re just in time.”

Her legs felt unsteady, as if they might give out on her at any moment. Every rational part of her screamed to turn away, to flee the room and abandon this nightmare. But her body betrayed her. She stepped forward, drawn by the gravity of him, the dark promise in his eyes.

“This is madness,”

she whispered, her voice all but frozen in fear and guilt as she fought to keep her composure.

“You can’t keep… draining them like this. They’re not… they’re not your playthings, James.”

He laughed, a sound brimming with cruel delight. It prickled at her nerves and sent an icy tension curling deep in her stomach.

“Aren’t they?”

he asked, gesturing lazily to the writhing bodies around him. They came to me. They wanted this. They wanted me. You made me into this, Eleanor. Did you think I wouldn’t embrace it?”

Emotion clawed at her throat, trapping her voice between shame and desire. She had brought James back, yes. She had performed the rituals, whispered the incantations, and poured her love into the forbidden acts that tethered his soul to this half-rotted vessel. But she had never imagined… this. How could she have known it would make her want him more?

James closed the distance between them in a single, predatory step. His cold fingers brushed her cheek, leaving a trail of ice and fire in their wake.

“You’ve been so brave, Eleanor,”

he murmured, his voice curling around her like a dark caress.

“So faithful. But this isn’t about control anymore. It’s about surrender.”

“I…”

Her voice broke as his lips brushed her ear, his breath cool and damp against her skin. The smell of decay clung to him, but beneath it was something else, something heady and intoxicating.

“This isn’t you,”

she managed to whisper.

“This hunger… this darkness. I can still bring you back.”

James laughed again, a sound so cruelly erotic it made her knees buckle.

“Bring me back?”

he echoed.

“You think I want to go back to who I was? To be small? Weak? I’ve tasted power, Eleanor. I’ve tasted… everything. And I’m not finished yet.”

Behind them, one of the acolytes whimpered, drawing Eleanor’s attention. The young woman’s face was flushed, her eyes half-lidded as she reached for James. But there was something in her gaze, a flicker of doubt, of fear that stirred a sickening unease deep within Eleanor. Was this devotion or coercion? The line had become so blurred in this place of shadows and sin.

James noticed the hesitation and grinned.

“Watch closely, Eleanor,”

he said darkly, grabbing the acolyte by her chin and tilting her head to meet his gaze.

“There’s no resistance here, only submission.”

The woman quivered all over, breathing shallowly as James’s hand tightened her jaw. The sharpness of his grip left faint marks on her skin, and Eleanor’s stomach twisted as she saw the tears glistening in the acolyte’s eyes. Yet the woman didn’t resist, her body going limp under James’s touch.

“They don’t all want this,”

Eleanor said sharply, her voice cutting through the haze of moans.

“You’re twisting their minds, their desires.”

James tilted his head, his expression inscrutable.

“Do you think any of us are free here?”

he asked softly.

“You, them, me… we’re all slaves to something. To love. To power. To need.”

His words struck a chord she couldn’t deny. And yet, the sight of the trembling acolyte haunted her.

“Perhaps you need reminding of your place,”

James said, his voice laced with venomous seduction. His hand shot out, gripping Eleanor’s wrist with an unrelenting force. He pulled her forward, dragging her to her knees before him. The room seemed to spin with his power, like a suffocating weight that pressed down on her.

“You brought me back,”

he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

“Now prove to me you’re worthy of staying by my side.”

Eleanor’s heart pounded as she grappled with the humiliation and her aching desire. His control over her was absolute, and as much as she hated herself for it, she couldn’t fight the pull.

Lord Blackwood's arrival shattered the moment. The cult leader strode into the chamber, his dark robes billowing like storm clouds. The remaining acolytes parted for him, their sweat-slicked bodies trembling as they slumped against the walls in exhaustion. Blackwood’s eyes gleamed as he surveyed the scene, a twisted smile on his lips.

“Magnificent,”

he said, his voice low and reverent.

“James, you’ve exceeded my every expectation.”

James turned to face him, his smile fading into something harder, more dangerous.

“You’re late, Blackwood. We’ve been busy.”

Blackwood chuckled, unperturbed.

“So, I see. But we mustn’t lose focus. The next ritual is at hand, and there is much to prepare.”

He turned his gaze to Eleanor, his expression softening into something almost paternal.

“My dear, your devotion has brought us to this point. But now you must make a choice.”

“A choice?”

she echoed, her voice hollow.

Blackwood’s smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than they should be.

“Yes. To cross the final threshold, we need one last act of sacrifice. A pure life force freely given, bound with the energy of the ultimate release.”

His eyes glittered as he spoke, his voice thick with promise and menace.

“A lifeforce still unformed and malleable that can be absorbed through the dark rites of our ritual.”

Eleanor’s heart stopped. The room seemed to tilt around her as realization dawned. “No,”

she whispered.

“You can’t mean”

“Oh, yes,”

Blackwood said, stepping closer.

“The child she carries,”

he said, gesturing to a pregnant acolyte trembling near the wall, her hands clutching her swollen belly.

“The life she carries within her, this child contains the necessary raw materials we can draw upon to feed into James and stabilize his resurrection. Two souls entwined in sacrifice, birthing a power beyond imagining.”

Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face as the woman’s wide eyes met hers.

“You can’t do this,”

Eleanor said, her voice horrified and frightened.

“You’re monsters.”

“And yet, you brought him back,”

Blackwood said smoothly.

“Your hands are already stained. What’s one more step into the abyss?”

Eleanor’s protests faltered as Blackwood’s eyes bore into hers.

“You love him, don’t you?”

he continued.

“This child, this vessel, can be the piece needed for him to return to this world. You wouldn’t dare deny him this gift.”

James stepped closer, his voice calm, but his pale blue eyes were pleading.

“Eleanor, please, my love. I understand your hesitation, but this can be the ultimate act of devotion, to offer what can never be replaced.”

His cold fingers grazed her cheek, sending chills through her.

“Don’t you want to prove your love? To make me whole?”

Tears blurred her vision as Eleanor turned back to the trembling acolyte, the weight of James’s words crushing her resolve. The pregnant woman sobbed, clutching her belly, whispering pleas that tore through Eleanor’s heart. But James’s presence loomed behind her, unyielding.

“Choose, Eleanor,”

Blackwood commanded.

“Prove to us and him that your love is stronger than morality and fear.”

Her hands shook wildly as she agonized over the choice placed before her. This was a step too far, even for James. But then, why did she have such difficulty in making her decision? It should be easy. An innocent child, a life not yet lived. Such a sacrifice was too much.

Eleanor closed her tear-filled eyes and let out a long, painful sigh. “Yes,”

she whispered, “do it.”

Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft

Madness. It is pure, unrelenting madness.

How can I endure after what transpired tonight, after what I permitted to happen? I can no longer claim the title of doctor; it feels like a cruel masquerade. Everything I once was, untainted, has now been swallowed whole by my choices. Bringing James back has cost me more than I ever fathomed.

Being a doctor was my anchor to decency, the last shred of my humanity. And now, even that is gone.

I stare into the mirror, but it is not my reflection that gazes back. It is a stranger, hollow-eyed and grotesque. I thank God, if He even still hears me, that my parents are not alive to witness this travesty. My sweet mother, who loved my father as fiercely as I loved James... She would never have sunk to such depths for her love. Her kindness, her empathy, she would rather endure heartbreak than trade another's life for her selfish desires.

And my father. The man I so admired, the man I once hoped to emulate. He dedicated his life to healing, to saving others, while I... I have become his antithesis. He would look upon me now not with anger, but with sadness, a profound disappointment at how I’ve squandered my calling. He was a man who gave life. I am a woman who takes it.

The pendant at my throat has become my tormentor, a constant reminder of the damnation I cannot escape. It burns, pulsing with a malevolent energy that eats away at my sanity. How I long to rip it free, to destroy it, but Blackwood’s words haunt me: there is no undoing this bond. To break it would be to forfeit everything, the work, the lives, and the unspeakable sacrifices.

Yet the thought gnaws at me: what if everything I have done and become was for nothing? Could there be a fate more damning than futility?

And so, I let the pendant remain, though its weight crushes me. I try to forget it, but it will not let me. It whispers, it hums, it owns me. Blackwood is the architect of this nightmare, and I am the puppet. The strings tighten every moment, binding me closer to the abyss.

How could I allow my love to corrupt me so? How did I lose myself so completely?