Page 43 of The Flesh Remembers
Sparks erupted from his body, crackling like a living storm and sending waves of electric force rippling through the air. The crowd staggered, some shrinking back in terror while others, drunk on the room’s dark energy, leaned in as though drawn by an invisible tether. His chest heaved, a grotesque ripple swelling outward in waves, his form distorting as if struggling to contain the raw power surging within.
James threw his head back and roared, a sound so primal and inhuman it seemed to tear through the very fabric of the room. Eleanor cried out, her pulse hammering in her ears as the sound reverberated through her chest. Around her, the crowd froze, caught between awe and dread.
Then, with a deafening crack, the air seemed to split apart. An explosion of light and sound sent sparks cascading likemolten rain. Lightning struck the rafters with a force that shook the ground, splinters raining down in a deadly shower. The hall erupted into chaos, screams of terror mingling with cries of ecstasy, the line between fear and desire obliterated.
Eleanor stumbled back, her eyes locked on James as his form twisted and writhed, barely recognizable. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something darker, something alive. As the world seemed to collapse around her, Eleanor realized with chilling clarity that there was no turning back.
Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft
I am shattered once again. I have allowed myself to go down such a dark path to bring James back to me. I fear there is no coming back from it.
Blackwood stated that tonight was his most “holy” ritual, which would secure the necessary emotion and life force to regenerate James fully. Nothing about what I saw tonight was holy, I can tell you that. Depraved, debauched, yes. I saw such things tonight that seared into my soul. Things I had no idea human beings could or would want to do to one another.
Watching Marian succumb to the depravity made me recall our night together. Nothing could have been more different. This was about raw, unapologetic sex in all its glorious depravity, but the night we had spent had been about tenderness, gentleness, comfort. I wonder if Marian thinks about that night as I do.
A malfunction in the equipment cut short the ceremony. I cursed and cried, but Fairfax assured me we would try again. I do not think he is happy with this process or the morals he has had to relinquish to put it into motion. But he is stuck, just as we all are. We can’t stop now, not when we are so close. But will going forward cause even more harm in the long run?
But I can’t shake the question that gnaws at the edges of my mind: if we press forward and succeed, will the cost be greater than we can bear? Will we destroy what little remains of ourselves in the process? I don’t know if I can face the answer.
The Aftermath of Debachery
Dr. Fairfax stumbled back from the console, his face white as the apparatus stuttered and smoked. “Something’s overloaded,” he began, his voice drowned out by the chaotic roar.
The entire clinic seemed to lurch, its walls groaning like the building might collapse. Eleanor clutched James’s shoulders, which still twitched with the remnants of the violent convulsions that had passed through him. For one brief, searing moment, his gaze locked onto hers, a shocking lucidity shining in his eyes.
He’s alive, allowing her to revel in that moment of pure hopeful happiness.
Then, with a final, deafening crack, the coil collapsed.
The shockwave tore through the hall, scattering bodies and collapsing them into a confused heap. The lights flickered, plunging the room into near darkness, broken only by sputtering torches and the faint, dying crackle of electricity.
Amid the chaos, Eleanor heard James’s strangled moan, his newfound consciousness faltering. She scrambled to her feet, her eyes darting frantically as smoke and shadows swallowed the dais.
When the haze cleared, James slumped against the straps, his limbs trembling, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Around them, the staff flailed in panic, their cries of terror mingling with the lingering echoes of dismay and lust.
The near-ritual had ended, neither in success nor failure, a moment frozen in limbo, its outcome uncertain. And yet, Eleanor couldn’t tear her eyes from James, her heart numb, chilled to the core by the moment's stillness.
The clinic echoed with the raw aftermath of the debauched gathering. Floors and cushions remained strewn with remnants of the ceremony gone cataclysmically wrong. Torn garments, half-burned candles, scrawled runes smudged across floors sticky with wine and sweat. A heavy silence weighed on every corner, broken only by the faint moans of those still lost in feverish dreams or the ragged breathing of the staff, all grappling with the consequences of the failed near-ritual.
Eleanor drifted through the halls, eyelids heavy from exhaustion. Every muscle ached; bruises mottled her arms and thighs, raw souvenirs of the night’s frenzied contact. She’d spent hours helping the stunned participants find blankets, water, or a discreet corner to recover in. Despite the horrors, a certainshameful glowlingered in her thoughts, recollections of the potent, dark erotic charge that had peaked at the ceremony’s final moments. She wondered if she wasany better than those still sprawled on the floor; her moral boundaries felt equally shattered.
By the time dawn’s light tinted the windows, the remaining outsiders, some half-naked, others limping, began a quiet exodus, led by robed acolytes who promised them future invitations. A pervasive emotional confusion clung to everyone. Eleanor, leaning against a pillar, felt as though her soul was being pulled in conflicting directions: James was so close to complete reanimation, yet the clinic had descended into a swirl of violence, jealousy, and twisted sexual mania. How had it come to this?
She exhaled shakily, pressing a hand over a bruised patch on her forearm.At least James was not lost entirely.Even now, he lay in a locked chamber below, half-revived and still half-feral, waiting for the next inevitable attempt. Despite the terror in his undead eyes, she longed to see him, to cling to the shred of love he still recognized.
The remaining staff moved like shadows. Some bore fresh welts on their backs or thighs, the stinging marks of ritual punishments disguised as pleasure. Others walked with limps, their bodies stiff and broken from hours of frenzied indulgence. Their eyes flitted nervously from one another, haunted by acts they could no longer explain or justify. Others bore the mental scars of being seduced into extremes they never thought themselves capable of. The fiasco of the near-ritual had pushed them beyond the brink, leaving them battered by excess and guilt.
Eleanor paused outside the makeshift infirmary, where Marian crouched, disinfecting her scratch-laced arms. A faint pallor tinged her cheeks, and tears rimmed her eyes. Marian offered Eleanor a tremulous half-smile, silently acknowledging their shared downfall.
Before they could speak, Frye appeared, stalking down the corridor with a fierce scowl. His clothing torn, a dried streakof blood marked his temple. The raw tension in his posture made Eleanor’s pulse quicken with unease. He caught her wrist as she turned the corner.
“Where were you going?” Frye asked, his voice low.
She tried to pull away. He didn’t let go.
“To breathe,” she hissed. “You can’t follow me everywhere.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t follow you. Thewallsdo.”
