Page 4 of The Flesh Remembers

The clinic was silent. Too silent.

Eleanor had awoken sometime past midnight, though she could not recall falling asleep. The lamp by her bedside still burned low, casting a sickly green glow through the room. Her fingers drifted to the pendant at her throat. It throbbed—not pulsing like a heartbeat but vibrating, like something inside was scratching to get out.

A strange hum sounded beneath the floorboards. Low, soft… rhythmic.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor sending a jolt up her spine. The hum grew louder. It was almost melodic now, like a chant heard underwater. She tiptoed to the corner of the room, crouching where the sound was strongest. She pressed her palm to the wood.

James.

She held her breath. The word hadn’t been spoken aloud… but it had been heard.

She pressed her ear to the floor. Static burst against her skin, warm and tingling. And then the voice came again.

“Ellie… You wore red the night we first made love. You spilled brandy on your collar and I licked it off you in the dark.”

Her eyes widened. No one else knew that memory.

“James?”

she whispered, trembling. The pendant burned against her skin.

She should have run. Should have called for Marian, Frye, or Dr. Fairfax. Instead, she stayed on her knees, pressing her chest harder to the floor as though she might melt through and reach him. Her pulse thrummed as she held her breath, waiting.

The voice turned low. Velvet. Hungry.

“You begged me that night, remember? You said you wanted me inside you before the storm passed. You wrapped your legs around me like a noose.”

Eleanor gasped.

Suddenly, pain.

A bite.

Not imaginary. Real.

She staggered back from the floor, clutching her side. Her nightdress was torn. And on her hip, a crescent of red puncture marks bled gently. She touched them, heart galloping.

No one was here. Yet someone had left teeth marks.

The floorboards beneath her creaked. Not from her weight. From something… shifting underneath.

She scrambled back into bed, panting, pulling the sheets to her chest.

The room began to warp. The shadows on the wall slithered downward like black oil. Her reflection in the mirror shifted, her lips too red, her eyes too wide, her chest rising and falling like she was mid-climax. But she wasn't touching herself. Yet she felt it.

At the centre of her pleasure, a throb. Deep. Gnawing. The kind of ache that made her mouth fall open and her legs clench in shame.

She looked back at the mirror. The version of herself in it… was moaning.

“No,”

she whispered.

“No, no, no”

The mirror-Eleanor smiled. And then mouthed a name. Frye.

Eleanor screamed. She leapt up, ran to the sink, splashed water on her face, and stared at her reflection. It was back to normal—pale, sweating, and terrified. She looked down.

The crescent bite was still there.

James had possessed an unassuming grace, neither tall nor particularly muscular, but with a nimble confidence that made Eleanor’s heart pound.

She pictured his boyish smile and the softness of his hair between her fingers.

More than once, as they grew comfortable in each other’s embrace, he had teased her for being far too clinical in describing desire, calling her “my scholar of the flesh.”

That memory made her chest tighten.

If only he knew how far she would take her medical mind to bring him back.

But the nights they spent together, truly together, haunted her now.

She recalled one evening in the small carriage house where they had sought refuge after getting caught in an unseasonable autumn storm.

James had embraced her with uncharacteristic boldness, pressing her against the wooden wall.

Rain hammered the roof overhead, while each clap of thunder spurred them to greater frenzy.

His lips had been everywhere, searing paths along her neck and collarbone, igniting a heat deep within her core.

She remembered how his hands had slid so sweetly as they roamed her body, as though reverence and hunger warred within him.

They had tumbled onto a makeshift bed of old horse blankets, their hands fumbling in their urgency to strip away the barriers of clothing.

The smell of rain-soaked hay, the rasp of his breath against her cheek, every detail etched itself into her mind.

The first press of his skin against hers was electric, their mingling warmth dissolving her inhibitions.

She flushed deeper, recalling how she had guided his hand along her body, showing him exactly where to touch, to stroke, to coax a gasp from her lips.

The taste of his sweat on her tongue, the friction of their bare skin sliding together… it was a dance of discovery and surrender.

When at last he was inside her, the mix of pleasure and closeness nearly overwhelmed her senses.

They had moved in perfect rhythm, a crescendo built and built until it shattered, leaving her gasping and satiated.

A sharp pulse of desire radiated through her now, as her nipples strained against the fabric of her blouse, so sensitive it was maddening.

Her breaths were quick and unsteady, each release carrying the smouldering ache that pulsed low within her.

Her hand drifted almost unconsciously to her abdomen, lower, tracing the curve of her hip and teasing toward the ache that demanded relief.

The phantom sensation of James’s hands his firm grip, his fingers delving into places only he had known, made her shiver and quake.

Her imagination betrayed her further, conjuring the rasp of his lips against her skin, the scrape of his teeth grazing the tender slope of her neck.

Her back arched slightly at the thought, a desperate attempt to recreate the touch that lingered only in memory.

The yearning within her continued intensifying as her hand slid lower, grazing the edge of propriety, testing the limits of restraint.

A strangled sound escaped her lips as she surrendered to the torrent of need coursing through her.

The idea of succumbing, of letting herself be consumed by this overwhelming hunger, was both terrifying and intoxicating.

Her fingers teased the hem of her skirt, slipping beneath to brush against her inner thigh, the heat of her skin almost unbearable.

She let her eyes flutter closed, her mind lost in the fantasy of James’s touch, his voice a husky whisper in her ear, his body pressing her down, claiming her completely.

A shiver ran through her, sharp and electric, as her hand moved higher, closer to where the ache burned hottest.

Her other hand gripped the table's edge beside her, knuckles white as she fought to balance on the knife’s edge of longing and restraint.

The memory of James was no longer just a recollection; it was alive, pulsing through her veins, consuming her with every beat of her heart.

The scent of rain and hay, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his body, she could feel it all, and it drove her mad with need.

Eleanor touched the pendant at her throat.

The disk warmed as her thoughts darkened.

Each pulse of pleasure made it throb faintly, humming like a living creature thrilled by her descent.

Eleanor felt a ferocity within her now, an unstoppable force that needed to be released at any cost.

She had never felt such powerful, overwhelming arousal before.

It consumed her completely until there was nothing left but this throbbing, demanding need that would not be silenced back into its corner.

Eleanor continued her exploration until her fingers found the wetness between her legs and slipped her fingers within the wet and swollen folds.

She moaned softly as her fingers moved deftly first around the edges and then in ever-narrowing circles until she found that swollen and sensitive spot that begged for her attention.

She cried out loudly now, rubbing in a circular motion with increasing pressure as the pleasure coursed through her body like electrical currents.

Eleanor gasped and cried, her head tossing against the pillow as her other hand clutched the blankets.

“James,”

she called out breathlessly, trying to imagine he was there with her, over her, inside of her. “James!”

Finally, the orgasm overtook her, and she felt the rolling waves of ecstasy start in her belly and then spread down her legs and arms.

Wave after wave clenched her muscles, causing her back to arch violently, her hands and feet to clench involuntarily.

The orgasm was so intense that tears sprang to her eyes and continued for so long that she worried that it might never stop, and she would be stuck in this purgatory of unbearable pleasure forever.

And then it was over. The silence that filled Eleanor’s head was profound. All her muscles felt loose and rubbery, and she doubted her legs would hold her should she try to stand. As she lay on the bed, completely spent, her eyes closed, her legs still splayed apart, Eleanor thought she heard something. A voice. A voice she knew.

“What a sight you are, Ellie,”

James, or something pretending to be James, said with a laugh.

Excerpt from the Diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft

What is happening to me? I scarcely recognize the woman I’ve become. I have done things I hesitate to write down, lest the mere act of putting them to paper brands me with the shame I already feel. And yet, here I am, my hand trembling not from regret but longing and longing for more.

Why do I enjoy these things? That question gnaws at me, pulling at the edges of my sanity. Is it because it is something forbidden and dark? Perhaps it is the thrill of stepping so close to ruin, of being consumed by a force beyond my own will.

And still, the guilt presses down upon me. What would James think if he saw me now? Would he forgive me? Or would he turn away, no longer able to see the woman he loved? I cannot forgive myself, yet I cannot stop myself. Something has been awakened deep within me, a part of myself that frightens me, but one I cannot silence.

I am at war with myself—a woman who clings to propriety and grief, and another who dares to ask for more. I don’t know which will win.

You Taste Ready

Eleanor wandered the corridor searching for Fairfax, her skirts whispering against her legs in the dim gaslight. The building had quieted since dinner, yet the air felt warmer, more humid, as though the clinic exhaled around her.

She paused beneath a rusted arch where two walls met in shadow. Her fingers brushed the seam of the wallpaper. It gave beneath her touch, yielding. Almost soft.

She frowned.

It wasn’t just warm, it was wet.

Her heart pounded. She tried to step back, but her hand sank into the wall only slightly. The texture was fleshy, almost pulsing, and it held her.

A sound behind her made her freeze—a low, wet groan, like something sleeping just beneath the floorboards.

She yanked her hand free, cradling it to her chest. Her fingertips tingled. Her wrist burned. She turned to flee and stumbled into a patch of air so hot and fragrant it made her knees buckle.

The scent was overwhelming—like metal, cinnamon, and bare skin. Eleanor gasped. Her body surged with heat. Her breasts swelled. Her thighs clenched involuntarily. The pendant around her neck buzzed and warmed, then pulsed once, like a kiss on her collarbone.

“No, this isn’t real,”

she whispered.

But it was.

She staggered to the nearest wall, bracing herself, and nearly screamed. The wood beneath her palm shivered. She felt a long, slow drag beneath her hand, like a tongue tracing her palm.

Her pulse throbbed in her throat, her core tightening. Her breath came fast. Her legs shook.

And the whisper came again.

Not James’s this time.

Just breathe. A long inhale. Then

“You taste ready.”

She bolted back to her room, hand still buzzing, the evidence of her shame dampening her undergarments.

The gentle knock on the door startled her, pulling her from her anxious thoughts on what had just occurred in the corridor. Composing herself with a sharp inhale, she called out, “Yes?”

Nurse Marian Collins appeared, stepping in with her usual soft-spoken courtesy.

“I hope I’m not intruding,”

Marian said, eyes tinged with concern, “but Dr. Fairfax asked me to fetch you. We need to outline the procedure for tonight’s attempt.”

Eleanor nodded, slipping the burning disk beneath the edge of her blouse.

“Of course.”

As Marian led the way down the dim corridor, Eleanor tried to calm her rapid breathing, smoothing her hair back as they walked briskly along the cool, damp hallway.

“Have you worked with Dr. Fairfax long?”

Eleanor asked Marian as they turned a corner.

"Oh, about five years now," Marian said, her smile soft yet deliberate as her gaze lingered on Eleanor. "He's quite the mind, isn't he? I first met him at the Campbell Institute while nursing in the children’s wing. His research, well, it had everyone talking. I couldn’t resist asking him a few questions, which led to some... intriguing conversations." She paused, a flicker of nostalgia crossing her face.

"My father was a scientist too; his work centred on blood disorders. Leukaemia, haemophilia... Those were his life's crusade. Some might call it obsession." She let the word hang for a moment, her smile deepening. "Perhaps that’s why I understand Dr. Fairfax so well. That focus, that drive, it’s a rare gift. My mother understood it too; she spent hours transcribing for my father, supporting his work. A good scientist, you see, needs someone who knows how to steer things in the right direction quietly."

“It must have been a bit lonely for you to have your parents so occupied with work all the time,”

Eleanor commented, offering a sympathetic look. Eleanor understood lonely childhoods, having endured her share of loneliness growing up as she did.

“Well, yes, it was difficult at times, but I understood the gravity of their work. How could I possibly demand their attention for something trivial like a game of hopscotch in the garden when they were striving to save lives?" Marian smiled, her expression tinged with a distant sadness.

"Dr. Fairfax and I often spoke at length about his research, the study of aging, the theories, the bold ideas of reversing time's toll. When he invited me to join his work, I couldn’t refuse. Helping children was meaningful, of course, but the doctors in the children’s wing lacked the fervour I saw in him. Dr. Fairfax’s passion was contagious, igniting my own. Together, I thought, perhaps we could unlock answers to why our cells falter, why time wears us down."

Marian’s smile softened as she spoke, a trace of warmth in her gaze that lingered as she mentioned Dr. Fairfax. It made Eleanor wonder if her admiration for him ran deeper than mere professionalism.

“Why did you leave the Campbell Institute? I know it is one of the top research facilities in the country. Surely working in a place like that would have more advantages than working in a place like this? Even with a wealthy benefactor like Lord Blackwood.”

Marian paused and turned to face Eleanor, her expression sombre yet steady. "There were experiments conducted at the Institute, unsanctioned ones. Dr. Fairfax was exploring blood transfusions, transferring vitality from healthy children to elderly patients. It wasn’t without consequences. Two children and one elderly patient succumbed to septicaemia." Her voice wavered briefly, as though tasting the sorrow anew. "He was devastated, of course. But in his heart, he understands, progress often demands sacrifice."

She sighed, a flicker of resolve in her eyes. "I couldn’t abandon him after all we’ve accomplished together. He needs me, you see. Without me, the man wouldn’t even remember to eat a proper meal, let alone take a moment’s rest." Marian laughed softly, the edges of her sadness smoothing into warmth, her gaze brightening as she spoke of him.

Eleanor walked the rest of the way, wondering if she felt better or worse about Fairfax and his methods. It seemed she had walked straight into the lion’s den where limits had already been pushed and boundaries already crossed.

Moments later, they joined Dr. Fairfax in the corridor outside the central laboratory. He held a thin sheaf of notes, tapping lightly against his palm.

“Prepare yourself, my dear. We have his body,”

he began carefully, “We acquired it through connections Lord Blackwood maintains. We seldom question the details. The point is to confirm we can maintain a stable reanimation window longer than a few minutes, fuelled in part by your… emotional impetus.”

She swallowed.

“You want me to provide that impetus?”

He offered an apologetic nod.

“Yes. The apparatus is attuned to you, especially through the device you wear. Tonight, we will attempt to stir his body’s systems momentarily. It won’t be a full resurrection, merely a test of how strongly your energy influences the galvanic current.”

The realization roiled her stomach. They would attach her body’s heightened emotions to the corpse of her dead lover, push it beyond natural death… and see if he moves? The concept appalled her, yet somewhere beneath the revulsion lay a lurking sense of excitement at being integral to bending mortality. She forced herself to remain outwardly calm.

“I will do what’s needed.”

Marian stepped forward, setting a comforting hand on Eleanor’s arm.

“I’ll be here for you. If you tremble or slip, I’ll be here to catch you. Don’t worry.”

Marian smiled at Eleanor, her hand stroking her arm with gentle encouragement.

Eleanor managed a stiff nod. She heard the subtext: Use your lust for James like a power source. The idea both roused and unsettled her. She felt her cheeks flush just at the thought of feeling physically aroused in front of Fairfax and Marian. Still, the idea of being that way in front of Frye and Blackwood seemed mortifying, but dare she say, also slightly titillating?

As Dr. Fairfax excused himself to arrange final details in the lab, Marian lingered, guiding Eleanor down a quieter corridor. The nurse seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, lips parted as though she fought to find the right words. Finally, she paused before a half-open door cramped but tidy supply room.

“Would you… Come in here for a moment?”

Marian asked quietly.

Eleanor followed, shutting the door behind them. The small space smelled of gauze and antiseptic. Dim lamplight cast a glow that accentuated Marian’s anxious features.

“I… needed to speak with you away from Dr. Fairfax and the others,”

the nurse began, wringing her hands.

“It’s about the reanimation process. And my involvement.”

Eleanor tilted her head.

“You seem uneasy. Are you… Afraid of what we’re doing?”

Marian let out a shaky laugh.

“In a sense, yes. But there’s more to it. At first, I was purely fascinated by the science reanimation seemed a chance to conquer tragedy, to do the impossible. But then… as I witnessed how emotional and carnal energies fed the apparatus, I started feeling… drawn in ways I never anticipated.”

Her voice quivered on that last phrase.

“What do you mean?”

Eleanor asked softly.

Marian lowered her voice, gaze darting nervously.

“I can’t deny the rush I feel when I watch the experiments… and you. Your grief and determination… resonate in ways I don’t fully understand.”

Eleanor’s pulse quickened as their gazes met, an unspoken tension filling the tiny room.

Marian stepped closer, her voice trembling.

“I just needed you to know… you’re not alone in this.”

Eleanor reached out, brushing Marian’s hand. Their fingers touched, a jolt of understanding passing between them.

“Thank you,”

Eleanor whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“We’ll face it together.”

Marian squeezed her hand gently, a faint smile tugging at her lips before she stepped back. The moment passed, but its weight lingered as they rejoined the others.

Back in the lab, Marian excused herself from Eleanor and rushed over to aid Fairfax, her eyes focused lovingly on him as he worked, which made Eleanor smile slightly for being correct in her assumptions about the two.

Eleanor walked toward the dais, her feet drawn by some unseen gravity. The room was warmer than before, and the scent of copper and jasmine clung to her skin. The apparatus pulsed softly, its low whir vibrating through the floor, her boots, and her thighs. The table itself gleamed under low light, almost wet. When her fingers brushed its edge, she gasped. The metal was warm—almost… welcoming.

This dais is where they would bring James and strap him down to administer this mysterious “process.”

Eleanor noted the thick leather straps in place, no doubt for keeping James immobile should the process cause the body to jerk and flail about. But as Eleanor stared longer, she noticed what appeared to be other smaller straps that dangled from the platform. These seemed not to be in current use, but by the wear on them, they had been used once. The size difference in these straps was significant, and it appeared that perhaps these had been made for a small woman. Or, even more horrifically, for a child.