Page 24 of The Flesh Remembers

The air in the underground chamber clung to Eleanor like a second skin, thick, humid, and suffused with a dark, acrid scent that burned the back of her throat.

The damp stone walls seemed to glisten, slick with moisture that oozed like perspiration from the room.

Torches sputtered weakly in their brackets, their flames throwing erratic, menacing shadows that writhed and coiled as though animated by the chamber's will.

The oppressive heat pressed inward, each breath a struggle against the weight of the room’s suffocating presence.

At the center stood Blackwood, his towering figure draped in ceremonial robes that seemed to breathe with him, the runes adorning them pulsing faintly with galvanic energy, alive, malevolent, and watching.

"Brothers and sisters," his voice boomed, carrying the weight of command. "Tonight, we face an infestation of doubt. Doubt is a contagion, a poison that festers and spreads if left unchecked. We must root it out at its source to ensure our unity."

The gathered acolytes murmured in agreement; their faces mixed with anticipation and fear. At Blackwood’s signal, two attendants dragged a bound figure into the chamber. It was Clara, a novice known for her quiet demeanour and pious devotion. Her tear-streaked face was pale, her eyes darting wildly as she struggled against her restraints.

Eleanor lingered in the crowd, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She knew what was coming. The "Devotion Trial" was a ceremony whispered about in the clinic’s darkest corners, a grotesque spectacle designed to purge disloyalty and strengthen the cult’s hold.

Blackwood turned his piercing gaze toward Clara. "You have been accused of harbouring doubt, of questioning the sanctity of our mission. How do you plead?"

Clara’s voice trembled as she stammered, "I… I’ve done nothing wrong! Please, I swear my loyalty!"

Blackwood’s lips curled into a cold smile. "Then prove it."

Blackwood stepped aside, revealing an elaborate contraption at the centre of the room. It was a towering frame of wrought iron; its surface etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly. Chains hung from its arms, ending in cuffs lined with silk, a disturbing juxtaposition of softness and restraint. At the base of the frame was a shallow basin filled with a viscous, dark liquid that seemed to shimmer unnaturally. Small metallic appendages buzzed with faint vibrations along its sides, their shapes explicitly designed to stimulate.

"The Devotion Trial is simple," Blackwood said, addressing the room. "You will submit yourself fully to the will of the collective. Your body, your mind, and your soul will be laid bare. If your devotion is true, the field will accept you. If not…" He let the words hang, the unspoken threat more chilling than anything he could have said.

Clara’s breath came in quick, erratic pants as she was dragged toward the frame. The attendants secured her wrists and ankles in the cuffs, her trembling form splayed and vulnerable. Blackwood approached her, his fingers tracing the runes on the frame with an almost reverent touch.

"Begin," he commanded.

The room fell into a tense silence as an attendant stepped forward, holding a ceremonial blade with a jagged edge. He cut away Clara’s robes with practiced precision, exposing her to the leering crowd. Her skin glowed faintly in the torchlight, marked by faint scars and the beginnings of runes etched into her flesh during previous rites.

The first part of the trial was the "Ritual of Exposure," a symbolic act designed to strip away any pretence or hidden disloyalty. Blackwood stepped closer, his voice low and commanding.

"Do you feel the eyes upon you, Clara? Do you feel the weight of their judgment?"

Clara’s lips quivered as she nodded, her tears glistening like jewels.

"Good," Blackwood said. "Now, let us see if you can bear the weight of your devotion."

An attendant approached with a vial of the dark liquid from the basin. He poured it over Clara’s chest with a twisted smile, the substance clinging to her like a second skin. The liquid began to glow, and Clara gasped as it seeped into her flesh, the runes on her body lighting up in response. She writhed against the restraints, her cries a mix of pain and something disturbingly close to ecstasy.

The metallic appendages along the frame began to hum, their vibrations intensifying as they moved along her thighs and torso. Clara’s gasps turned into involuntary moans, her body responding to the stimulation despite her visible anguish. The crowd watched in rapt silence, their breaths quickening as the galvanic energy in the room thickened.

The next phase of the trial required the audience's involvement. Blackwood turned to the assembled acolytes, his gaze sweeping over them like a predator selecting its prey.

"Devotion is not a solitary act," he said. "It is a collective bond, forged in the fires of shared sacrifice. Who among you will step forward to guide Clara through her trial?"

The room hesitated, the acolytes exchanging nervous glances. Finally, a man stepped forward, it was Frye. He approached the frame with a hungry gleam in his eyes, his hands trembling with anticipation.

"I will," Frye said, his voice steady despite the slight tremor of his hands. Eleanor was shocked at Frye’s consent. He had been so against what they were doing, so sure that they were bringing something monstrous and evil into the world. What had changed within him? In truth, Frye succumbed to one of the oldest motivators in history. Money. Blackwood had offered Frye more money than he could have ever imagined if he remained until after the experiment. Frye would never have to work again, never want for anything, and for once, live a life of comfort and leisure. Such things never stood a chance against Frye’s tenuous morals. But too, the more he saw the power in these rites, the more he believed that Blackwood would succeed in his plans, whatever they might be, and Frye knew enough to be on the winning side of history.

Blackwood nodded approvingly. "Then proceed."

Frye’s powerful hands roamed Clara’s body, tracing the glowing runes as he murmured softly. His touch was firm but disturbingly reverent, as though he were worshiping a divine artifact. The metallic appendages adjusted to Frye’s movements, enhancing the stimulation until Clara’s cries of protest dissolved into whimpers of unwilling pleasure. The galvanic field seemed to react to Frye’s movements, amplifying the sensation and drawing gasps from the audience, who leaned closer as though pulled by an unseen force. Frye picked up two long, thin metal rods that sparked with a blue electric current as he brought them close to Clara’s pale face. The terror in her eyes illuminated in the blue glow as Frye continued to bring them closer and closer until they were mere inches from her tear-filled eyes. Clara squeezed her eyes shut tight, bracing herself for the inevitable shock.

“No, no, eyes open,”

Frye said to her softly, his gaze intense with anticipation.

Young Clara opened her eyes reluctantly, and Frye smiled.

“Yes, that’s a good girl.”

Frye then brought the two metal rods to the tips of her pink nipples and watched with a smile as the blue current crackled, striking the tender flesh there. Clara cried out in pain, but the crowd watched in hushed fascination as her nipples hardened under the current, and Clara unconsciously arched her back in a silent plea for more.

“Mmm, yes.”

Frye began rubbing the metal rods over the pink pebbled flesh faster, the only sound that could be heard in the room was the crackle of the current as it connected with her flesh and Clara’s cries of pained ecstasy.

Eleanor watched in horrified fascination, her body responding with a flush of heat. She hated how the ritual affected her, how the dark energy in the room seeped into her veins and ignited forbidden desires. Around her, other acolytes began to murmur prayers or press against one another, feeding the collective frenzy.

As the trial climaxed, Blackwood raised his arms, the runes on his robes blazing with power. The room vibrated with energy, the air thick with the scent of sweat and incense. He turned to Clara, his voice rising above the cacophony.

"Now, Clara, you must make your final offering. Prove your devotion by surrendering your last shred of resistance. Give yourself fully to the field."

Clara’s eyes widened, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I… I can’t…"

Blackwood’s expression darkened. "You will."

With a gesture, he activated the frame’s runes, and a surge of energy coursed through Clara’s body. Her scream echoed through the chamber, a raw, primal sound that chilled Eleanor to her soul. Frye, still holding one of the slender metal rods, began to rub it up her pale thigh, inching closer and closer to her aroused centre. With a nod from Blackwood, Frye smiled as he slipped the delicate tip of the rod between Clara’s legs and into her wet opening.

The metal rod worked with the galvanic energy, forcing Clara to the brink of physical and emotional collapse. Her eyes widened as the electric current sizzled within her body, and her eyes rolled back into her head until only the whites of her eyes could be seen. Her body convulsed, her cries of unwilling release blending with the hum of the field. Each surge of energy drew gasps and groans from the crowd, who seemed entranced by the ritual’s dark power.

Frye began to pump the rod in and out of her luridly, watching her face with a rapt expression. He was clearly enjoying the entire experience. His breath was coming faster, and he began to pump the rod with a frenzy as the electricity crackled and the smell of ozone filled the air. Clara gave one last long scream, her entire body convulsing and shaking in an unnatural way before she at last was still.

When the ritual ended, Clara hung limply in the restraints, her body shaking and weak but alive. The basin beneath her collected the glowing liquid that flowed between her legs, a mixture of her essence and the energy siphoned from the crowd.

The room erupted into applause, the acolytes cheering as Blackwood declared her absolution.

Eleanor remained rooted to the spot as the crowd dispersed, her mind racing. She couldn’t shake the image of Clara’s broken form, the haunting mix of relief and despair in her eyes. She turned to James, who had watched the trial with an unreadable expression.

"Do you think she’ll survive this?" Eleanor whispered, barely daring to breathe.

James shrugged, his full lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. "Does it matter? Blackwood got what he wanted."

A shiver crawled up Eleanor’s spine. She knew he was right, but accepting it felt like surrendering a part of herself. The thought of becoming like Clara, reduced to nothing more than a vessel for the cult’s twisted hunger, made her stomach twist. And yet, she couldn’t walk away. Love, warped, unrelenting, held her here, bound to James and this nightmare.

"I won’t let you end up like them," she said, her voice raw with defiance.

James tilted his head, studying her. His gaze softened, but only slightly. "We’ll see."

The Devotion Trial had ended, but the air still hummed with its dark presence. The acolytes moved through the clinic in silent reverence, their eyes gleaming with the promise of the grand ceremony to come. Blackwood’s grip was unshakable, his power fed by their devotion, their fear.

Eleanor inhaled sharply, tasting the weight of inevitability. No turning back. No salvation. Only the final act, and the horrors it would unleash.

Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft

The clinic is quiet now.

Only the echoes remain, the cries, the devotion, the breaking of flesh and will. The Trial is over, but its spectre clings to me, curling around my thoughts like smoke. I still hear Clara’s voice, raw and ruined, spilling into the humid air. Her suffering, her surrender.

I watched. I did nothing.

What does that make me?

I tell myself I am not like them that I am here for reasons beyond the cult's twisted hunger, that I have control, that I am choosing this. And yet, that lie unravels with every breath I take. I remain because I cannot leave, not truly. Not with James standing beside me, his gaze unreadable, his touch the only warmth in this suffocating void.

There was a moment when I thought he might say something, break that careful mask, and acknowledge the horror of what we saw. But instead, he just watched, detached yet knowing, as Clara was stripped down to something less than human—a vessel—a prize.

Will I share her fate?

Blackwood’s grip tightens around this place, around all of us. The acolytes whisper in reverence, their eyes gleaming with unholy purpose. They are eager, ready. I should run. I should fight. I should reclaim the parts of me that still shrink from the depravity I have accepted as reality.

And yet, I stay.

Because something in me, a darker, quieter part, wants to see how it ends.

What Love Requires

Weeks ago, two of the most devoted acolytes were chosen to become what Blackwood referred to as living effigies, their skin completely transformed with their most sacred symbols. The effigies no longer stood as mere symbols of devotion, they had become almost living deities, grotesquely beautiful in their stillness. The glowing runes on their bodies began to pulse in time with the apparatus overhead, casting shimmering red light across their painted skin. The cultists had moved beyond worship; now, they crawled toward the effigies in feral desperation, their hands outstretched like beggars pleading for salvation.

Eleanor stood frozen as she watched the effigy marked with Desire, a man whose golden runes seemed to ripple with an unnatural heat. His lips parted in a silent sigh, his head tilting back as two cultists knelt before him. Their hands caressed his thighs, trembling as they pressed their mouths to his skin, licking away the sticky blood-wine mixture that coated his legs.

The air grew heavier with every moan and whispered incantation. The line between devotion and animalistic hunger had blurred completely. One of the cultists, the younger of the two, lifted her head, her lips slick with blood, and began to sob, her body wracked with the overwhelming pleasure of her proximity to the effigy. The man’s hand fell to her head, stroking her hair tenderly and commandingly.

Blackwood’s voice rang out, his words drenched in reverence.

“Do not hold back. They are vessels, and you are their lifeblood. Pour your souls into them. Let them consume you.”

The cultists obeyed with renewed fervour, their cries growing louder as the room became a maelstrom of writhing bodies and trembling devotion. Eleanor’s heart pounded as she felt herself pulled into the tide, her body responding against her will. The heat radiating from the effigy seemed to seep into her skin, igniting something primal within her.

Overhead, the apparatus roared to life, its coils sparking wildly as if feeding on the energy saturating the room. The shadows it cast on the walls twisted unnaturally, growing darker and distorted with every pulse of light. Eleanor squinted as she watched the shadows begin to take on vaguely human shapes, their limbs writhing and merging like a tangle of desperate souls.

A low hum filled her ears, building into a deafening crescendo. Then, she heard it: James’s voice.

“Eleanor,”

he whispered, his tone soft but laced with something unrecognizable.

“Do you see now? Do you see what we’ve become?”

She turned, her eyes scanning the room, but he was nowhere to be found. The voice came again, louder this time, echoing from within the apparatus.

“Look closer.”

Eleanor’s gaze snapped upward, horror twisting her insides as she saw faces within the coils, distorted and anguished, their mouths open in silent screams. The realization hit her like a thunderclap: these were the souls of the sacrificed, trapped within the apparatus and fuelling its power. Their eyes seemed to follow her, pleading for release even as their forms flickered and shifted.

“Don’t look away,”

James whispered, his voice curling around her like black smoke.

“This is what love requires.”

Eleanor’s knees buckled. She clutched her chest, desperate to steady the storm brewing inside her. Nausea tangled with something far worse, an aching, unwelcome desire. Was this truly what love required? The thought clawed at her, unravelling years of fragile belief. Love had been a sanctuary; a dream she’d clung to after losing the only people who had ever loved her. As a child, she had searched for it in empty spaces, aching for someone to hold onto. When she found James, she thought she had finally grasped happiness. And now, she stood at the precipice, staring into the abyss of what that love had become.

The apparatus pulsed again, vibrating through her bones, a rhythmic call to surrender. Shadows writhed within its coils, faces flickering in tortured silence. She couldn’t turn away. Their eyes, pleading, accusing, held her captive.

James’s voice was velvet-soft, but it cut deeper than any blade.

“Do you see now? Do you see what we’ve become?”

A breath hitched in Eleanor’s throat. The warmth was spreading, seeping into her skin and clouding her thoughts. It was intoxicating and unnatural, blurring the edges of her fear and twisting her into something unrecognizable.

If love demanded sacrifice, could she bear its weight? Could she give herself over to it, knowing it meant unmaking the last pieces of who she once was?

The machine pulsed again, its hum now indistinguishable from the rhythm of her own racing heart.

And Eleanor realized she was already too far gone.

Final letter from Marian Collins to her mother

Dearest Mama,

This may be the last letter I can write you for some time. Things here have been progressing badly. Lord Blackwood is not the sort of man Dr. Fairfax should have ever gotten mixed up with or accepted money from. But, there is no help for it now. He is the benefactor, and so we must follow his orders.

I am afraid, Mama. I fear that something terrible is going to happen. I have done such things, Mama, such terrible, wonderful things that I shudder to think of them, but also cannot stop thinking of them. I know I have done evil, that we have all done evil here, yet the bliss I have experienced was unlike anything I have ever felt. I know there is evil here, but I am drawn to it. I want to become a part of it.

I went to Eleanor’s room last night. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was frightened and lonely. She looked so beautiful in her sheer nightgown. I could see the outline of her body through the fabric, and it stirred me. That must shock you greatly, but I am different now, Mama. Eleanor and I have lain together. We have touched and explored one another’s bodies in a way I didn’t think possible. The pleasure I have felt with her is greater than I have ever known.

But I am also drawn to her fiancé, James. His power is undeniable and absolute. I want him, Mama. I want him to ravish me and destroy me utterly. I want to be broken by him and remade into whatever he wishes me to be.

I know you will not understand these words, and that is all right. I have done my best and did what I thought was right. I hope to see you again one day soon. Please kiss Papa for me.

Your loving daughter,

Marian