Page 48 of The Flesh Remembers
Inside the clinic, the descent was absolute. The halls were alive with the sounds of pleasure, pain, and despair, a symphony of humanity unravelling. The walls themselves seemed to pulse with the energy of the rituals, the runes carved into them glowing faintly with each scream that echoed through the stone corridors.
The staff had long since ceased to function as medical professionals. They moved like puppets, their bodies marked with bruises, runes, and scars from rituals that broke their spirits and reshaped their souls. The rituals were no longer confined to the chambers; they spilled into the hallways, the dining areas, even the clinic’s gardens. Novices found writhing in the dirt, their bodies entwined, their cries of ecstasy mingling with the soft hum of necromantic energy.
Eleanor wandered the halls, her eyes wide as she took in the sights. A nurse was pinned against a wall, her uniform torn, her lips parted in a silent moan as hands roamed her body. An aide knelt in the corner, his trembling hands clutching his chest as he whispered broken prayers to whatever gods still listened.
James had become the centre of this world. He no longer needed to command; his presence alone was enough to make those around him collapse in submission. His once decayed body now radiated power, his eyes once again the colour of that perfect summer sky, gleaming with a hunger that seemed to pull at the very fabric of the clinic. Novices flocked to him, their trembling hands reaching out to touch his flesh, their lips murmuring pleas for his attention.
Eleanor had once thought herself above this madness. But now, she wasn’t so sure. Her latest dream about him wasproof to herself that madness was seeking her out and perhaps making a home within her.
It began like all her other dreams of James, as of late, in her father’s townhouse on the other side of the city. James and Eleanor sat in the back garden enjoying the warm spring breeze. James sat on a bench looking up at Eleanor, perched on her childhood swing, which still hung from the large oak tree that dominated the garden. She swung lazily, barely moving, unlike when she was a child, when she tried to swing as high and fast as she could manage.
She smiled at James, who now held a glass of lemonade in his hand. He saluted her with the glass and then sipped the tangy liquid. Eleanor’s smile faltered a bit. Something seemed wrong, but she could not place what it was. She felt sure that something was wrong, that something terrible was going to happen, but she had no idea why she felt that way or what might happen.
Just then, a voice from inside the house called out to them, jerking Eleanor out of her fearful thoughts for a moment.
“Eleanor! James! Dinner is ready! Come on in now before everything gets cold.” It was a woman’s voice that called to them. A voice that sounded very familiar, but she could not quite place it.
“Shall we go in?” James asked her, rising from his seat and holding his hand to her. Eleanor could only stare at him and the hand reaching for her momentarily. What was wrong with her? Why was she acting this way?
“El? Are you alright?” James’s face darkened with concern as he stepped closer to her, gently taking her hand.
Eleanor gasped at the touch of James’s hand. It was as cold as ice. No person could have a hand that cold and live. It made no sense.
“James, why are you so cold?” She asked him, pulling her hand away.
“I’m not cold, El. Now come on, let’s go get some dinner.” James did not reach out to her again but turned and walked to the house.
Eleanor followed behind James and entered the house a few moments later. She walked through the kitchen and into the dining room, where dinner was set out on the large mahogany dining table: roast chicken and baby potatoes in a sage butter sauce. It smelled heavenly.
“Finally, Eleanor! I thought you were going to stay out there all night.” The same female voice from before laughed at these words and looked up at her expectantly. It was her mother.
“Mummy?” Eleanor asked, her voice trembling. She was nine years old when she last saw her mother, but here she was, alive and well at the table.
“Mummy? You haven’t called me that since you were a little girl. Sweetheart, are you feeling alright?”
“What are you doing here?” Eleanor whispered, her throat gone dry and hoarse.
“Darling, I think we should have your father take a look at you. You don’t seem well.”
“Papa?”
A deep voice came from behind her then. A voice she knew but hadn’t heard in so long.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Eleanor’s father strode into the room, the evening paper tucked under his arm.
“Something is wrong with Eleanor,” James spoke now, settling down at the table and beginning to heap potatoes onto his plate.
“Yes, something is very wrong with her.” Her mother smiled, sat down, and began cutting into the chicken still steaming on the table.
“Well, James, what do you think? You’re a doctor now. What do you think is wrong with her?” Eleanor’s father sat down next to his wife and began to serve himself as well.
“I should think it is fairly obvious,” James said with a laugh.
“James, what are you saying? There is nothing wrong with me. But there is something wrong here. Something is wrong with all of you!”
“No, Eleanor, nothing is wrong. We are all fine. Fine and dead, just as we should be. But you, my dearest, you have gone mad, I’m afraid.”
As Eleanor watched in horror, her parents and James began stuffing the food from their plates into their wide, grinning mouths. They used no utensils but greedy handfuls into their now unnaturally large mouths.
