Page 19 of The Flesh Remembers
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.
Kiss with Death
Eleanor stood amidst the storm of flickering shadows and electric whispers in the laboratory, her breath shallow as the galvanic apparatus thrummed with life. The air was tense, a wicked, forbidden promise that crept under her skin, tightening around her heart. Sparks leapt from brass coils, casting brief flashes across the faces around her: Dr. Ambrose Fairfax, his hands trembling slightly as he lovingly adjusted the wires; Nurse Marian Collins, her pale features betraying dread and curiosity as she prepared her serums; Assistant Edgar Frye, pacing with barely-contained fury, his gaze flicking between Eleanor and James with contempt; and Lord Blackwood, cloaked in shadow, his piercing gaze pinning Eleanor with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.
James lay bound at the dais, his once-vital body now a grotesque echo of life. The marks of decay were undeniable:the sickly pallor of his flesh, the blackened tips of his fingers, the way his limbs had stiffened into a grotesque rigidity. Yet Eleanor’s entire being vibrated with an almost unholy anticipation. She didn’t care about the decay. It was proof of her power; of the boundaries she had already shattered. Tonight, she would bring him back, he would once again be as he was. Loving, devoted, hers.
Dr. Fairfax’s voice was clipped and sharp, his words slicing through the tension like a scalpel. “Eleanor, the apparatus feeds on intensity. Every emotion, every desire. You must let it consume you.”
Fairfax had said the device measured resonance, but sometimes, Eleanor wondered if it did more than that. Some nights, it felt like it was recording her, rewriting her.
Her fingers fluttered, kindled by an ember of hope, as she adjusted the silver disk around her neck. Its vibrations warmed her skin, a pulse of possibility. It felt like a chain, binding her not to James, but to the machinery, the ritual, and Blackwood. She stole a glance toward the shadows, where Blackwood watched her with an expression of equal parts amusement and hunger. Her body ached with the bruises he had left, the remnants of his earlier "preparations" to heighten her emotional state. She could still hear his voice, low and mocking:If you are to bring him back, you must break yourself first.
Blackwood stepped forward now, his voice dripping with a stern authority. “You’ve prepared yourself, Eleanor. Show him your devotion. Show all of us.”
Her gaze locked on James. His lifeless form was both terrifying and magnetic. She needed him back, no matter the cost. She could not live without his love, without his touch. The memory of his touch haunted her, possessive, consuming, alive. She wanted that touch again, even if it meant dragging him from the depths of hell itself.
Frye's voice sliced through her reverie, low, guttural, and seething with contempt. "You're dragging yourself into the pit with him," he growled, each word bristling like a wolf's snarl. "Do you even know what you're waking up? Look at him! He's rotting, Eleanor. A shell. A corpse."
She turned to Frye, surprised by his outburst. “That’s not for you to decide.”
Frye’s gaze burned into her. “It’s not about me. You’re tearing yourself apart for this... thing. Why? Love? Power? What’s it going to get you?” His words struck deep as she turned them over in her mind. Power? No, it was love, only love that fuelled this obsession. Only love took her to the edge of every ideal and virtue she had ever held dear. It didn’t matter. She wanted James, and she would have him.
“I can’t turn back now, surely you see that,” Eleanor said softly to Frye as he glared at her. “I’ve come too far, and we’ve seen that it worked. That was proof that we could do it and bring him back. Don’t you want the process to work?” Eleanor was almost pleading with him now, hoping that somehow Frye would see how important this was to her.
“I don’t bloody care if it works," Frye snarled, grabbing her arm. His grip was rough, but his voice cracked around the edges. "This is just a job to me, but you? You’re softer, Eleanor. It’ll tear you apart." Frye reached his hand to her face as if he meant to touch her cheek, but he stopped himself just before his fingers grazed her skin.
The two stood silently staring at one another for a moment, and perhaps some sort of understanding lurked in the silence. Eleanor might have been convinced to give up this folly had Blackwood not stepped in when he did.
“Frye, get back to your work immediately. Enough of these delays. Eleanor has made her decision, and youwouldn’t want all that she went through earlier tonight to be in vain, now, would you?”
Frye took a step back, his dark eyes boring into Eleanor. A knowing look filtered across his face as he looked again between Eleanor and Blackwood. Then, with a bitter laugh, he turned his back and returned to his station next to Dr. Fairfax.
Frye made no more attempts to delay the process. He concentrated solely on his work, throwing the switch and plunging the laboratory into chaos. The coils hissed, spitting electric arcs into the air, illuminating the room in violent flashes of blue and white. Marian approached James with trembling hands, plunging the needle into his vein with clinical precision. The serum inside glowed faintly, an unholy concoction designed to defy nature.
Dr. Fairfax turned to Eleanor. “Voltage is live. Attach the leads.”
Her hands shook as she affixed the electrodes to her forearms, collarbone, and temples as Dr. Fairfax had instructed her earlier. Each connection buzzed with an almost erotic intensity, heightening her senses until every nerve in her body felt aflame. The silver disk at her throat pulsed in time with her quickening heartbeat. When she placed her hand on James’s chest, the cold stillness of his flesh sent a chill of fear through her body, but with that fear there was also hope.
The current surged, and Eleanor shuddered. Pain lanced through her body, so sharp it brought tears to her eyes, but with it came a pleasure so profound it left her trembling. The apparatus fed on her grief, her yearning, and her twisted devotion. She let it take everything, pouring herself into the circuit between them.
James’s body convulsed violently. The veins beneath his skin darkened, twisting like black roots. A guttural sound tore from his throat, raw and animalistic. Eleanor’s heart leapt.
"James?" she whispered, leaning closer, her voice quivering with a raw, unspoken ache.
His eyelids fluttered, his fingers twitching as though trying to remember how to move. Then, with a shuddering arch of his back, he gasped, his chest heaving as life tore throughhim. His eyes opened, bloodshot and wild, and locked onto hers. Recognition flickered, but it was laced with something darker, something wrong.
“E-El-Elea-nor,” he rasped, his voice cracked and guttural.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she cupped his face, ignoring the cold, clammy texture of his skin. She didn’t care. He was here. He was hers. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’ll always be here.”
But his gaze wasn’t only tender. There was a hunger to it. Something almost predatory. His lips parted, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than they should have been. “It... burns,” he growled, his tone dripping with pain and something far more sinister. “I need... more…”
