Page 23 of The Flesh Remembers
I don’t know who I am anymore. It feels like pieces of me are falling away, slipping into the abyss, never returning. And James... James is vanishing too, but not entirely. There are fragments of him still there, flickers of the man I knew, moments when his eyes soften and I can almost pretend it's him again. But it’s not. Not really. The Other dominates him now, like a shadow that has swallowed him whole. The Other terrifies me. I cannot shake the thought that our story will end like Rebecca’s, a tale of blood and horror. I can see it so clearly in my mind, James tearing me apart, his hands drenched in my blood as he loses what little remains of himself.
I’m haunted not just by James, but by myself. Strange fits consume me. I drift into those moments where I feel outside my body, staring into nothingness, my mind gripped by a haze I cannot escape. Is it the pendant they forced upon me? I feel its weight constantly, cold against my skin, a reminder of their power. Whatever vile ritual they wove into its essence, I believe it is working, its grip tightening around me like a chain. Or perhaps it’s merely my fractured mind convincing me of its influence. I no longer know where belief ends and madness begins. I doubt everything. I believe in nothing.
I don’t know what lies ahead. Perhaps there is a chance that we will restore James fully. Possibly one of these rituals will free us both from this nightmare. But even as I cling to that fragile hope, the truth gnaws at me: I cannot leave him. Not now. Not ever. We are bound, twisted together in a way no force can untangle. We will see this through, together. Whether we rise or perish, it will be James and I always.
Walking into Hell
The smell of spices and sweat thickened as Eleanor approached the south wing, where half-lidded novices sprawled on velvet cushions or huddled in corners, coaxing one another into explicit acts that fed the night’s decadent gloom. Whimpers and moans reverberated, forming a tapestry of pleasure and terror that sizzled against Eleanor’s already fraught nerves.
She spotted James at the far end of a corridor, partially illuminated by a flickering torch. His skin, though now smooth and whole, was still the ghastly color of death. But even still, the partial reanimation had given him an eerie vitality which caused his pale skin to almost glow in the torchlight. A novice clung to him, eyes glazed with near-fatal devotion, nails digging into his arms. James let out a husky chuckle, pressing the novice against a marble bust, lips grazing her neck in a half-kiss, half-bite that made her whimper in a strange mix of pain and ecstasy.
Eleanor's lungs froze mid-inhale, the ache of jealousy and heartbreak rippling through her body. She recalled the gentle lover James used to be, and now she saw him revel in depravity, enthralling others with a casual smirk. A spark of arousal twisted within her, the same morbid fascination that had plagued her for weeks. She despised how her body responded to his display, how her pulse quickened at the savage glint in his eyes. In her most secret heart, Eleanor wondered if she had known that James would end up this way if she had gone along with the process from the beginning. Was having any version of James, even this primal, inhuman one, better than not having him with her? And as Eleanor watched James, he lifted his gaze and their eyes met, a jolt of electricity passing between them. As she lost herself in those sky-blue eyes, Eleanor decided that she would do it all over again, even knowing how it would end.
“Eleanor,”
he rasped, his voice husky. You look shaken.”
A trace of dark humour laced his words, as though a part of him relished her discomfort.
She swallowed.
“I’ve been searching for you. We can’t keep letting you… feed on them. The final ritual is almost here. We need you to be stable.”
He released the novice in a burst of movement, who slid bonelessly to the floor. James lunged, grabbing Eleanor’s wrist, yanking her against him. She gasped, her robe falling open to reveal bare flesh beneath, bruised from prior rites. The collision of their bodies sent a wave of forbidden longing through her.
“You want me stable?”
he snarled, pressing her against the wall with alarming strength. She felt the cool, waxy texture of his chest and suppressed a shudder of revulsion-laced desire.
“Are you sure you aren’t drawn to my chaos, my hunger?”
His hand travelled down, grazing the bruises on her hips from their last encounter. A half-smile ghosted his lips, daring her to deny it.
She let out a long breath.
“I… want you alive, truly alive. Not this twisted half-state.”
Tears pricked her eyes.
“James, please, remember who you were?”
For a moment, she could see it, a flicker of the man he once was sparked in his gaze. A soft smile played upon his lips, and he reached out and touched Eleanor’s cheek in a soft caress. He was there, somewhere in that cold, ashen body, her James still waiting for her. Then, as quickly as it had come, his gaze twisted into maddening lust. He leaned down, claiming her mouth in a brutal, demanding kiss that tasted of rot and raw passion. His lips were cold, and the faint tang of decay made her stomach twist, but her body would not obey her and continued arching into him.
James’s hands roamed her body with a feral hunger, nails grazing her flesh hard enough to leave marks. Eleanor moaned against his mouth, torn between pleasure and shame. His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her hips against his, and she gasped as his teeth grazed her neck. The mix of pain and pleasure sent waves of heat spiralling through her, every rational thought drowned out by the primal pull of his undead allure.
In the corridor’s half-light, Lord Blackwood emerged, quietly observing the scene with a predatory fascination. He let out a soft, approving chuckle, stepping around the half-conscious novice on the floor. “My, my,”
he murmured, eyes flicking between James and Eleanor as they tangled in a savage embrace.
“I’m thrilled to see you both harnessing the potent energy of erotic fury and necromantic hunger.”
Half-mortified at the lurid spectacle she must be making, Eleanor caught his gaze mid-kiss. Yet part of her responded to the dark thrill of being watched, fuelling the twisted desire in her loins. James, too, seemed aware of Blackwood’s presence. He glanced over his shoulder, lips curled in a silent challenge, as if to say, "I belong to no one’s control, but I’ll let you watch if it amuses me."
Blackwood stepped closer, voice silky with manipulative glee: “Such raw fervour is exactly what the final rite requires. Let me facilitate.”
He produced a small copper rod from his robes, etched with runes, its tip crackling faintly with galvanic sparks. Setting it near them on a small side table, he smirked.
“Your passion can feed the coil even now, forging the heightened bond we need.”
James’s hold on Eleanor tightened, nails digging into her shoulders. He pressed his lips to her ear, whispering in a low growl, “You hear that? Even our sin is fuel for their obsession.”
She whimpered, half in pain, half in uncontrollable pleasure. The rod sparked a little brighter, as if gleaning the electricity of their collision. She realized with a twisted sense of excitement that every wave of lust, every groan, fed the impending reanimation more power. We’re all complicit, she thought, a tear sliding from the corner of her eye.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the haze.
“Enough! Stop this madness!”
Dr. Fairfax burst into the corridor, breathless and dishevelled. His clothes were torn, and his face glistening with sweat. It had been days since anyone had seen Fairfax, and Eleanor had worried that he had perhaps succumbed to madness or even taken his own life. But it appears now that he had tried to escape the clinic at some point, perhaps in a last attempt to save his soul. He must have re-entered the clinic, perhaps moved by guilt or terror. Whatever his reason, the shock on his face at seeing James nearly devour Eleanor was palpable. He advanced, trying to wrench them apart.
“Let her go, damn you!”
James let out a low growl, eyes narrowing as he snapped with feral annoyance. He released Eleanor just enough to pivot and seize Dr. Fairfax’s wrist, twisting it. Eleanor collapsed against the wall, chest heaving as she tried to regain composure. She saw the flick of galvanic arcs dancing around the corridor lights, responding to their emotional crescendo.
“F-Fairfax,”
she gasped, voice shaky. “Don’t”
But the doctor was fuelled by a final desperate moral outrage.
“This is a plague upon us all,”
he spat, glaring at James, then casting a horrified glance at the nude novices moaning nearby.
“I won’t stand by while you degrade everyone for your undead lust.”
James barked a cold laugh and flung Fairfax against the adjacent wall. The doctor gasped, knees hitting the floor. Before he could rise, Lord Blackwood smoothly intervened, grabbing Dr. Fairfax by the collar with one hand, smirking as the doctor struggled.
“Why return here if not to see how far we’ve gone? Perhaps your moral sense can’t resist the lure, hmm? You know you wish to witness the success of our years of work. You are not so very different from me, though you would like to believe it. Eh, dear doctor?”
The tension soared, a hush of disbelieving shock among the gathered staff. Eleanor realized Dr. Fairfax was cornered, orchestrated by Blackwood. Some primal part of the night’s mania latched onto the confrontation. She glimpsed robed acolytes approaching, eyes glazed with erotic frenzy. They pressed upon Dr. Fairfax, forcibly tugging at his clothes, their murmured chanting swirling into a half-lustful haze.
The entire scene threatened to become another forced display: Dr. Fairfax forcibly drawn into an erotic ritual he fiercely opposed. He struggled, voice ragged, as multiple hands pinned him, half threatening to tear his garments. James watched with a sardonic tilt of his head, as though curious whether the doctor would succumb or fight.
Eleanor felt a surge of pity and alarm. She tried to step forward, but James clasped her arm, shaking his head in silent command. The moment bristled with explosive tension. Would they force Dr. Fairfax into compliance? Or devour his spirit if he resisted?
Just when it seemed Dr. Fairfax might be battered or coerced into a humiliating act, Lord Blackwood raised a hand, halting the acolytes. He turned to the doctor, voice cruelly calm.
“Don’t fret, dear Fairfax. Your role in the final ceremony is not to be squandered here. We have bigger plans, tomorrow night,”
he announced, his tone ringing through the corridor.
“That is when we complete the final reanimation. And you all shall attend or be consumed.”
A hush settled, each occupant trembling with conflicting waves of terror, arousal, and exhaustion. Dr. Fairfax sagged, chest heaving, relieved that Blackwood had stayed the staff’s assault. Yet the knowledge that tomorrow’s rite promised an even more monstrous ceremony overshadowed any fleeting sense of safety.
James licked his lips, turning back to Eleanor, his half-living flesh pressing warmly against her once more. She shivered, caught between the horrifying spectacle of near sexual violence around them and her unstoppable craving for him. Blackwood nodded smugly.
“So, we have our final date. No more trifling. No more escapes.”
He turned to Dr. Fairfax.
“Stay or go. But know if you attempt sabotage, you will meet a far harsher end.”
Eleanor shut her eyes, her pulse a drumbeat of dread and defiance. The corridor stank of sweat and blood, the cloying musk of decay mingling with the acrid bite of burnt incense. The air felt alive, pressing against her skin, heavy with the weight of unspeakable acts yet to come. Tomorrow would be the breaking point: a ritual steeped in savagery that might tether James to life, or damn them all to an abyss they couldn’t escape.
She inhaled shakily, the sour tang of fear thick on her tongue. There was no turning back. No escape. Whatever James had become, whatever she had allowed herself to want, it had already bound her to him in ways she could no longer deny. She found resignation and resolve in the devastating collision of desire and despair.
When the morning came, she would face it. And if hell awaited them, she would walk into it willingly, hand in hand with the monster she could not let go.
I can no longer deny it; Lord Blackwood is the very essence of deceit and cruelty. My fury toward him grows with each passing moment, blazing hotter than I thought possible. How many lives has he twisted; how many fates has he destroyed in his quest for power? And I, like a moth to the flame, have been drawn into his web of lies. Every step of this journey has been manipulated, every choice I thought was mine, steered by his invisible hand. How dare he presume to control me, to bind me to his monstrous designs?
Yet, beneath this anger lies something darker, something I am ashamed to acknowledge. It feels like the pendant forced upon me feeds this fire within, stoking my hatred and twisting it into something nearly feral. Its weight hangs heavily around my neck, a constant reminder of his dominance. I can feel it pulsating, as though alive, whispering poisonous thoughts into the recesses of my mind. The necromantic sigil etched upon it seems to crawl beneath my skin, amplifying my rage, distorting my perspective.
I hate him, I genuinely do. But how much of this hatred is my own? Is this fury born of my heart, or has Blackwood’s cursed pendant poisoned even this? The thought terrifies me. I cannot trust my emotions, not anymore. The lines between what I feel and what the pendant wants me to feel blur more with each passing hour.
Despite everything, I must keep my focus. The ritual looms ever closer, with it, the chance to save James or lose him forever. I cannot allow Blackwood’s machinations or this accursed pendant to distract me from what truly matters. I must stay strong, though the storm within me threatens to tear me apart. For James, for the man he was, I will endure.
But I will not forget. Blackwood has underestimated me, and when this is over, he will answer for everything he has done. I swear it.
The Walls Have Ears
The city surrounding the clinic buzzed with unease. In taverns and alleys, whispers of grotesque rituals and unspeakable orgies had begun to spread. A gravedigger claimed he’d seen corpses exhumed by shadowy figures late at night, their broken forms dragged into the clinic’s unknown depths. A prostitute spoke of clients with strange markings on their bodies, murmuring about “feeding the dark field”
as they shivered in lustful delirium. Even the clergy muttered warnings of a cursed place defiling the sanctity of life.
The authorities, initially reluctant to investigate a facility with such a previously pristine public fa?ade, could no longer ignore the rising tide of fear. A magistrate dispatched two constables to inquire under the guise of a routine inspection, their approach veiled but their intent unmistakable.
Eleanor stood at a window overlooking the city, her pale fingers clutching the edge of the sill. She could see them: two men in black coats speaking with a merchant whose stall faced the clinic’s gates. Every word exchanged seemed to sharpen the tension suffocating the clinic’s inhabitants.
Behind her, Blackwood’s voice hissed like a serpent.
“The walls have ears, Eleanor. Do not give them reason to hear us.”
She turned, startled by his sudden proximity. His piercing gaze pinned her to the spot.
“Do you doubt our secrecy?”
she asked, worry cracking her voice.
Blackwood’s lips curled into a cruel smile.
“I doubt nothing. But I punish doubt mercilessly."
The clinic’s interior had transformed into a hive of frantic activity. Blackwood’s robed acolytes swept through the halls, gathering novices and staff into darkened chambers where whispered loyalty oaths were extracted. Any hesitation, even the flicker of a nervous glance, was met with swift and merciless correction.
Eleanor stumbled upon one such correction as she wandered the halls, her mind clouded with visions of James. A group of acolytes stood encircling a trembling novice, his tear-streaked face pale with terror. Blackwood’s voice echoed through the room, low and commanding.
“You whispered to an outsider,”
Blackwood intoned, his tone devoid of anger but heavy with promise.
“Do you know the price of betrayal?”
The novice fell to his knees, sobbing.
“I swear I didn’t mean”
"Silence." Blackwood’s hand rose, and the room stilled as if the air obeyed him. "Your tongue spun threads of doubt. Now your body will bind them into the fabric of our resolve."
At his command, the novice was stripped and bound to an iron frame etched with necromantic runes. Blackwood motioned for an attendant to bring a ceremonial whip, its tails tipped with shards of glass that glimmered like stars. Yet it wasn’t the physical pain alone that made the punishment unbearable.
As each lash struck, the runes on the frame glowed, somehow siphoning the novice’s pain and sexual desire into the very air. A low hum filled the room, and a peculiar, throbbing warmth spread through the assembled crowd. Eleanor shivered, feeling the galvanic energy seep into her skin, igniting those forbidden desires she had tried to forget.
Blackwood stepped closer, his voice silky.
“Every cry feeds the field. Every moan strengthens our cause. Give yourself fully, and you may yet find absolution.”
The novice’s cries of anguish turned to something almost erotic as the energy coursed through him, his body betraying him in a grotesque display of submission. The acolytes watched, their breaths quickening as they pressed closer to one another, hands wandering, feeding off the dark energy saturating the room.
Eleanor turned away, her cheeks flushed. She hated how her body responded to the scene, the forbidden allure seeping into her veins. She felt that she was truly lost now. There would be no going back to normal life after this. No happy Sunday dinners with James and their sweet children. No more picnics in the park or sitting in the happy little back garden with the wildflower patch her father had created for her when she was just a little girl. Eleanor hoped to share that special place with her sweet little daughter one day. But she knew now, in this moment, that she had secretly been holding onto those dreams. Hoping that an everyday, happy life would still be possible. She had to admit now that those dreams were dead. They had died with James. She would have to envision a new life with James. A different life, but it may still be a happy one.
Blackwood’s voice followed her as she fled.
“Remember, Eleanor: loyalty is not merely a choice. It is a state of being.”
Eleanor found James in the clinic’s dimly lit atrium, his silhouette framed by the flickering glow of candles. He stood motionless, gazing at a grand painting of the old estate when it was first constructed, his pale hand tracing the edge of the gilded frame. When he turned to her, his eyes burned with an intensity that made her knees weak.
“You shouldn’t be here,”
he said, his voice low and gentle. She stepped closer, her heart pounding.
“And yet, here I am.”
James’s expression softened for a moment, his blue eyes gazing into her own, searching for something before the feral look of hunger returned. He reached for her, his fingers cold and unyielding as they brushed her cheek.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Eleanor. Loving me means becoming part of the darkness.”
Eleanor sighed heavily and closed her eyes. The guilt of what she had become, all in the name of reuniting with her lover, consumed her.
“I already am a part of the darkness,”
she whispered. Her hands found his chest, the cold, smooth texture both revolting and intoxicating.
“I know now, I’d do anything for you, James. Anything.”
He pulled her against him, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was both brutal and tender. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching into his as his hands explored her with an urgency that bordered on desperation. In that moment, she felt her soul tether itself irrevocably to his, their bond forged in the crucible of love and horror.
Outside, the tension reached a boiling point. The magistrate’s constables returned to their offices with troubling reports, their hushed conversations laced with fear.
“It’s a fortress,”
one muttered, shaking his head.
“Whatever’s happening inside those walls… It’s not natural.”
Word spread quickly, and soon the city’s streets were alive with speculation. The clergy called for intervention, urging their congregations to pray for salvation. Merchants whispered warnings to their customers, advising them to avoid the clinic at all costs. Even the brothels nearby saw a decline in business, their patrons too frightened to stray near the ominous building.
Meanwhile, Blackwood’s paranoia deepened. He convened his inner circle in the clinic’s underground chamber, a cavernous space lit by flickering torches and filled with the hum of galvanic energy.
“The city is against us,”
he said, his voice a venomous growl.
“But they cannot stop what has already begun. We must tighten our grip. Silence all dissent. And prepare for our next grand ceremony.”
The acolytes nodded, their expressions grim.
Eleanor stood among them, her gaze fixed on James.
She felt the weight of her choices pressing down on her, but she refused to falter.
This was her path now, for better or for worse. If she stopped now, she’d have nothing to show for her descent into this madness, which was unimaginable.
As the night deepened, the clinic’s halls buzzed with frenetic energy.
Blackwood issued orders with ruthless efficiency, his acolytes scrambling to prepare for the ceremony.
Novices adorned with intricate runes, their bodies trembling as the galvanic field surged around them.
The air itself seemed to vibrate, thick with the promise of transformation.
Eleanor found herself alone in the atrium once more, her thoughts consumed by the impending ritual.
She knew the risks.
She’d read the diaries, seen the horrors that came before.
But none of it mattered. James was her world; she would burn for him if it meant keeping him alive.
The distant sound of footsteps pulled her from her reverie.
Blackwood appeared, his expression unreadable.
“The time is near,”
he said, his voice a low, resonant echo that seemed to vibrate through the walls.
“Are you ready to give everything?”
Eleanor locked eyes with him, her trembling uncertainty masked by a veil of fierce resolve.
“I already have.”
Blackwood’s smile widened, sharp and predatory, sending a cold shiver down her spine.
“Good. Then let us begin.”
As the clock struck midnight, a distant bell tolled, its mournful clang swallowed by the night like a harbinger of doom.
Outside the clinic, shadows moved in the darkness.
Armed men assembled with grim determination, their whispered plans slipping through the cold air.
They knew what lay within, and yet no prayer could prepare them for the horrors they would face.
Inside, the air felt thick, alive with an unnatural charge.
Blackwood and his acolytes moved with chilling precision, their preparations fevered and methodical.
The sigils carved into the floor glowed faintly, pulsing like the beat of some malevolent heart.
The clinic groaned under the weight of unseen forces, as if recoiling from the blasphemy unfolding within.
Eleanor stood motionless, James at her side, his half-living presence a cruel contradiction.
The warmth of his touch was deceptive, masking the monstrous reality lurking beneath.
She felt the pull of his love, obsession, and despair, all tangled together like a rope tightening around her throat.
At the centre of it all, their connection burned like a fragile flame, a light in the darkness and a spark that could ignite the world.
The grand ceremony loomed, a maelstrom waiting to swallow them whole.
Its shadow stretched over the city like an oncoming storm, the air heavy with the promise of blood and ruin.
The final confrontation was no longer inevitable, it was here.
And as the first haunting chant rose, Eleanor’s breath hitched.
This was the moment everything would change.
The world would either be remade… or destroyed.
Excerpt from the journal of Lord Alastair Blackwood
That bitch, Eleanor Ashcroft, had the audacity to slap me.
Even as I write the words, I cannot believe I let her walk away after that.
I can’t say why I did, exactly, only that she seems quite changed in her own right.
There is a power within her that I did not foresee, which makes the idea of getting rid of her much more difficult.
She will not go down easily, and the bond between her and the subject remains strong.
If something happens to her, I fear what the subject will do in retaliation. By her account, the subject is different from his previous self, but he is not yet the feral monster that Subject A was.
Only time will tell if we can fully bring him back or if he will remain in this twilight space between life and death forever.
I have also rooted out the betrayer and made her suffer sufficiently.
The Devotion Trial was conducted, and fortunately for the girl, she did pass.
But she suffered greatly as she should.
Her soul rejoiced at the prospect of suffering for our cause.
I could see the devotion in her eyes, the sweet expectation of release to come if she endured.
Brave girl. I may have to reward her.
I look forward to continuing our journey as we venture deeper and deeper into that mystical realm.
Bringing back the dead was just the beginning.
We will create a whole new world and bring every human being a new way of life. Those out there will be tearfully thanking me on their knees once they learn to embrace their fate fully.