Page 9 of The Flesh Remembers

Dearest Mama,

I know you must be in utter shock to receive another letter from me so soon after my last. I have been more introspective lately and thinking quite a lot about the work I do here, and I felt the need to express some of my feelings. I hope you don’t mind or think me a bother.

The process is slow, and after some initial success, our work has had a few setbacks. It is very disappointing, to be sure. But Dr. Fairfax believes we will succeed in our next attempt, and I am sure he is right.

Do you recall the friend I spoke about in my last letter? Eleanor Ashcroft. She and I have become quite close, and I worry about her and this process. She will have to play a very intimate role in the experiment, and I don’t want to see it hurt her. The process is emotionally draining as it involves someone she was close to. Some things have happened, Mama, things that I don’t fully understand, and I wish I could explain to you. But I don’t know if I can even explain them to myself. The things I feel when she and I are together…I don’t know how to word it to you in a way that won’t unduly worry you.

The men want to use her for their own purposes, and her interests are secondary to theirs. Dr. Fairfax is a good man, but ambitious, and his work has always come before any moral objections. Blackwood and Frye seem focused on themselves and what they want from this process. I feel the need to help her, make sure they don’t use her. Just know that I am doing everything I can to do what I believe to be right, and I will continue to do so just as you have always taught me.

I will go for now. All my love to Papa and Snowy.

Your loving daughter,

Marian

The Sting of a Whip, the Heart of a Ritual

An unsettling hush coiled around the old cellar stairs, as if the walls had drawn in a breath to watch Eleanor's every move. The steps beneath her feet groaned faintly, their protests mingling with the rhythmic drumbeat of her rising anticipation. Each creak seemed more than an echo, it felt like a whisper passed through the clinic's ancient bones. The air grew heavier with every descent, pressing against her skin with a damp, metallic scent that seemed to cling to her senses and thoughts. It reeked of blood and something raw, something ancient, like the exhale of a creature long buried but not at rest. The building seemed to pulse faintly around her, alive and watchful, amplifying the primal fear that clawed at her, and stoking the far darker curiosity that simmered, unbidden and inescapable, beneath it all.

Lord Blackwood had explained to her, as they had descended the damp stone steps, a bit of what would happen that night and how he had come to practice the strange rituals.

"I told you I was always restless as a youth, drawn to the strange, the extreme. Remote places, forbidden ideologies, figures teetering on the edge of human understanding. The church of my childhood? A quaint distraction at best. But my travels... they taught me something far greater. There’s a spiritual plane most never dare to touch. Dark energies, ancient, potent, ready for those who know how to unlock them."

“And how did you learn?”

Eleanor asked, her fingers trailing the rough stone wall as they descended deeper into the earth.

Blackwood chuckled, his hand firm on her elbow as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "The shaman in the West Indies, the one I mentioned? He took me under his wing, let me glimpse what few dare. For a year, I immersed myself in every ritual, every sigil to access these energies and amplify emotions, the strongest of which are lust and desire."

He paused, his voice lowering as the corridor stretched ahead. "When I returned to England, I knew I needed a grander purpose to anchor this power—something transformative. That’s when I heard whispers of the Campbell Institute and Fairfax's intriguing research on human aging and death. I approached him and proposed a partnership."

“You mean bringing back the dead,”

Eleanor murmured, her eyes flitting to Blackwood as their footsteps echoed in the corridor.

"Precisely," he said smoothly, his lips curling in a faint smile. "Fairfax balked at first. Utter nonsense, he called it. But I showed him proof."

"Proof?" Eleanor’s voice wavered, her surprise unhidden. "You had proof?"

"Oh yes," Blackwood said, his tone velvety with triumph. "While studying with the shaman, we resurrected a child who had drowned, just for a moment. She opened her eyes, sat up, and then collapsed back into death. But I had been prepared for such fleeting results. I filmed the entire process with a Cinematograph from France, every step, every moment."

“Surely the child was never truly dead,”

Eleanor offered as they halted before a heavy wooden door.

Blackwood turned toward her, his eyes sharp, his voice cold. "You'd think so, but no. We filmed her burial three days prior and dug her up for the ritual. The family, of course, knew nothing. They wouldn’t have consented. But the shaman was clear: fresh death is crucial. And so, she was."

He lingered, watching Eleanor’s reaction before continuing. "Fairfax saw the film, and he was speechless. Quit his position at the Institute by nightfall. Within a week, we were here."

“But why involve him if the ritual alone works?”

Eleanor asked, her defiance flickering against Blackwood’s overpowering gaze.

"Because the ritual is a spark, nothing more. It flares, but it cannot sustain. I realized quickly it required a catalyst, something to amplify and bind. That’s where science came in. That’s where Fairfax became... indispensable."

Eleanor was silent as Blackwood pushed the thick oak door open and ushered her inside the dimly lit room beyond, where the robed figures of his followers were waiting for them.

Two robed acolytes approached her; their hands raised in silent invitation. She stiffened as they guided her to the platform, her feet brushing against the thick cushions on the cold stone floor. Every movement felt deliberate, every step a descent into something darker, more profound. Her breath quickened as they began to secure her, their touch firm yet reverent.

A wide leather strap circled her waist, binding her to the iron post at the platform's center. Her arms were raised overhead, the cool bite of manacles closing around her wrists.

The position was humiliating, exposing her in a way that sent a rush of heat coursing through her veins. Her gown slipped from her shoulders, baring the curve of her collarbones and arms. She gasped, not in pain, but in the sheer vulnerability of it.

The chanting grew louder, a hypnotic rhythm that reverberated through her core. The flickering candles cast monstrous shadows on the walls, their shapes writhing like living things. One acolyte approached with a slender riding crop, the sound of it slicing the air sending a jolt through her. Behind her, another acolyte pressed a warm hand to the small of her back, steadying her.

Blackwood’s voice rose above the chant.

“Tonight, we tear the veil between your body and soul, fear and desire. Pain and pleasure are but mirrors of the same truth. Let them guide you.”

The first strike of the crop against her thigh was a whisper, a tease. Eleanor gasped, her body jolting against the restraints. A sharper strike followed, sending a spark of sensation spiralling through her. Pain bloomed, but with it came an unexpected heat that surged through her. Her lips parted, a soft moan escaping before she could stop it.

“Good,”

Blackwood purred, his voice close to her ear.

“Feel it. Let it consume you. Think of James. Think of what you’d give for him to touch you again.”

The disk at her throat flared hot when Blackwood’s eyes met hers, almost as if it recognized him. Or wanted him.

She bit her lip, her mind flooded with memories of James: the way his hands had gripped her hips, the way his lips had devoured hers. The sting of the crop became a counterpoint to the ache of longing in her chest. Her gasps became soft moans as the strikes continued, each one sharper, each one drawing her deeper into the abyss of sensation. Tears stung her eyes but so did a familiar and shameful throbbing between her legs.

Blackwood motioned to the acolytes, who wheeled forward a massive iron apparatus. The structure was terrifying in its intricacy: a latticework of wires, clamps, and levers glinted menacingly in the candlelight. But it was the centrepiece that drew Eleanor’s gaze, a pulsating black crystal embedded in the device, its light twisting unnaturally as though it drank the shadows around it. This was no mere machine; it was something alive.

The acolytes affixed cold metal cuffs to Eleanor’s wrists and ankles, her body stretched taut within the apparatus. The crystal’s light flickered, casting eerie shapes against the stone walls as the machine hummed to life. Blackwood stepped closer, his hand brushing against her cheek.

“This is the heart of our ritual,”

he said.

“The crystal feeds on extremes, fear, pain, ecstasy. You will give it everything, Eleanor. Every part of yourself.”

Her heart thundered as the first shock of energy surged through her body. It wasn’t just sensation; it was a force that tore through her, stripping away layers of restraint and igniting something primal. Her mind screamed in protest, but her body betrayed her, arching into the machine’s relentless rhythm.

The crystal flared brighter as the sensations intensified, dragging Eleanor to the edge of her limits. Blackwood watched with rapt attention, his eyes gleaming with reverence and dark satisfaction. She screamed out, her voice raw, as the device forced her into a release so violent it left her shaking, her tears mingling with sweat. The chamber’s chanting grew deafening, the voices merging into a single, otherworldly roar reverberating through her soul.

But the machine didn’t stop. Another surge ripped through Eleanor, shattering any semblance of control. Her cries echoed in the cavernous space, raw and unrestrained. The crystal pulsed, feeding on her, consuming every ounce of her fear and desire until she was utterly spent.

The acolytes, however, did not halt. One moved forward, removing a small, curved blade from the table and carving a delicate symbol into her shoulder. Eleanor’s scream tore through the chamber, though she barely felt the pain; the overwhelming haze of sensations the crystal invoked drowned it out... She could feel the blood pooling against her skin, warm and sticky, as the chanting grew louder still.

A second acolyte approached with a small vial filled with a shimmering black liquid. With calculated precision, they painted the symbol on her shoulder, the liquid seeping into the fresh wound. The pain was immediate and searing, but what followed was far worse. A dark heat coursed through her veins, filling her with a foreign presence that clawed at the edges of her consciousness. She whimpered, her body writhing as the chanting swelled to an unbearable crescendo.

“Now she is marked,”

Blackwood intoned, his voice echoing triumphantly.

“Bound not just by will, but by blood and soul.”

The crystal’s light pulsed violently as though it fed on her life force. Eleanor’s mind wavered on the brink of unconsciousness, her body a trembling wreck of nerves and sensations. She had been consumed, wholly and utterly, and the ritual had left her changed in ways she could not yet comprehend.

When the machine finally stilled, Eleanor hung limp in her restraints, her body trembling and her mind a haze. The acolytes moved silently, releasing her from the apparatus and gently lowering her to the platform. She felt stripped bare, her very essence laid open for all to see.

Blackwood knelt beside her, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.

“You’ve crossed the threshold,”

he said softly, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

“You’ve given everything. And now, the crystal is ready. Soon, James will walk among the living again.”

Freed from the restraints, Eleanor collapsed onto the cushions, her limbs weak, her body aching. An acolyte offered her a goblet of water, which she drank greedily, wincing at the throbbing welts across her skin. Marian knelt beside her with a basin of cool water and a soft cloth.

“Let me help,”

she whispered to Eleanor as she dipped the cloth in the water, brought it to Eleanor’s fevered brow, and gently let the cool cloth caress her skin. She let the fabric slip down Eleanor’s cheek and neck, the cool water feeling so good against her overheated skin.

Eleanor let out an involuntary moan of pleasure, and Marian gave her a knowing smile.

“Rest,”

Blackwood said softly as they ascended into the clinic’s cooler air.

“You’ll need your strength for what comes next.”

Eleanor’s lips curled into a faint, bittersweet smile. Whatever came next, she would face it for James.

Eleanor heard it as she closed her eyes and tried to quiet her mind for sleep.

“Ellie…”

The softest of whispers tickled her ear. Eleanor shot up in bed and stared wildly around the room's perimeter. No one was there. It was just her mind playing tricks on her again. But then…

“Ellie, look at me…”

The voice was so close behind her that she could feel the air near her ear stir with the phantom breath. If she turned, would she see him? Would James be there?

Eleanor turned and saw only the opposite wall of her chamber. There were no phantoms of James, just shadows dancing upon the stone wall. Eleanor relaxed and let out a breath. She turned back to lie back down in the bed when she saw the faint outline of a man across the room, shuffling towards her.

“Ellie…”

the ragged whisper came again.

Eleanor screamed.

Excerpt from the Diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft

My God, what have I done? How could I have allowed such a thing to happen? Even as I write that question, I already know the answer. James.

But the things I have done for him.

My father would have thought I had lost my mind to put faith in such superstitious nonsense: my father, a man of science who believed in what could be proven and studied.

And up until a few days ago, I would have said that I felt the same.

But now, I have an occult sigil carved into my flesh, I have whip marks up and down my skin, and I have unabashedly lost myself in the throes of passion in front of strangers, all in the name of resurrecting James.

I should leave, shouldn’t I? But yet, I know I cannot.

I will not.

I cannot allow James to be used by these men who would serve only their own pride and arrogance.

Yes, I am also arrogant for even starting this journey and expecting a result.

Nevertheless, we did achieve some results, and I will not rest until we bring him back to full life. James will live again, even if it means condemning my soul to hell.