Page 17 of The Flesh Remembers
But the room, suffused with the acrid scent of oil and smoke, felt heavy with a darker promise. Blackwood’s grin gleamed like a predator's, his words curling around her like chains. Even Dr. Fairfax’s uneasy silence added to the weight pressing down on her chest. She was plunging headlong into a mystery far greater than she could grasp, yet the thought of turning back never once crossed her mind.
The shadows in the laboratory seemed to pulse, alive and watchful, as if they, too, hungered for what came next. Eleanor’s voice was barely audible as she whispered, "Just two days." She clenched her fists as fire burned behind her eyes. This was no longer longing. It was a gamble that might cost her more than her heart.
Letter from Marian Collins to her mother
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 theplatform, 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.
