Page 47 of The Flesh Remembers
“Calm yourself, my dear,” James spoke softly, his hand sliding up her neck to caress her cheek. “You are helping to usher in a new world. You offer the greatest sacrifice, and your true devotion is rewarded.” James bent his head then to kiss the woman on the lips, and Eleanor watched with a twinge of jealousy but also utter amazement as all the fight and despair left the woman completely. It was as if a curtain fell over the young woman’s eyes, and she was blind to all but James and his power over her.
“Yes,” the young woman replied, a beatific smile lighting up her pale, tear-stained face. “Yes, my lord, take everything from me. My body is yours!” The young woman bowed down before James and touched his feet, her hair falling around her nude body like some sort of deviant Madonna.
“Yes, my dear, yes, give yourself to me freely.” James motioned for Eleanor to stand next to him.
“Now it isyourturn,” he murmured, his voice soft but steel-laced. “Prove your devotion.”
A chalice brimming with a thick, dark liquid was passed into her hands. Its surface shimmered with eerie light, like molten obsidian. Blackwood’s voice rose, urging her forward.
“Drink deeply, Eleanor. Let his essence merge with yours, and bind your soul to his forever.”
Her fingers tightened around the chalice as she brought it to her lips. The liquid burned as it slid down her throat, igniting a fire that coursed through her veins. She gasped, her knees buckling under the intensity. James caught her, his grip firm but not comforting. His eyes burned with expectation, with hunger.
Blackwood extended his hands toward James and Eleanor, his voice a thunderous declaration. “Strip away the barriersof flesh and doubt. All must witness the union of body and soul. Only then will his rebirth be complete.”
The acolytes surged forward, chanting louder, their movements synchronized as they surrounded the sigil. Eleanor swallowed the threatening nausea as James turned to her, his expression predatory yet tender. He reached for the ties of her robe, undoing them with deliberate slowness. The fabric fell away, leaving her bare beneath the glow of the sigil.
“Eleanor,” he whispered, his voice low and commanding. “Look at me.”
Her eyes met his, and the weight of his gaze held her captive. The room seemed to fade away as they both knelt onto the glowing sigil with the pregnant young woman between them. The heat of the energy beneath her skin mingled with the coldness of his touch. The dual sensations were overwhelming, blurring the lines between pain and ecstasy.
James leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that felt like a vow. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though savouring each moment of their union. Around them, the acolytes chanted louder, their voices reaching a fever pitch as the sigil’s glow intensified.
Blackwood’s voice rose above the chaos. “With this act, the boundary between life and death shatters. Let his resurrection be absolute!”
James clasped Eleanor’s hands, guiding them to rest on the swollen belly of the young woman before them. The child within thrashed violently, its movements chaotic and desperate, as though it sensed the horror about to unfold. The sigil ignited in a blinding eruption of light, swallowing them whole.
Eleanor’s world fractured. Her soul unravelled, twisting and merging with James’s in a divine and grotesque union. Every nerve screamed with sensation, devotion, agony, ecstasy, as the ritual surged to its crescendo.
When the light receded, James emerged transformed. He stood tall, his presence radiating an unnatural authority, his flesh restored, his eyes ablaze with a power that made Eleanor gaze at him in awe. She collapsed to her knees, shaking, her body and spirit irrevocably altered.
Blackwood’s laughter sliced through the silence, sharp and triumphant. “It is done,” he declared, his voice dripping with malice. “The world will never be the same.”
Letter from Marian Collins to her mother
Mama,
Please forgive me! I have done such terrible things. I cannot explain, so please do not ask me, but just know that I have done things I would never have imagined were possible. I only ever wanted to help people and make a difference in the world. I swear it to be true, Mama. But now, my sins have become so great, I fear that even if I do manage to leave this place, I would never be able to look you or Papa in the eye again.
I know you want to come here once you get this letter, but I beg you not to. Please let me deal with the mess that I have made for myself. I will do what I can to finish this project and then come back home to you and explain everything.
I must try to help my friend, Eleanor. They are using her to further their pride and ambitions. I cannot leave her here alone with no allies. Her fiancé is, well, he is not himself, and I don’tknow if he can be trusted. I promised Eleanor that I would be here for her and do all in my power to help her through this time. I must try to see that through, if I can.
I will do all I can to appeal to Dr. Fairfax's goodness. I know he is a good man, but I fear that the wealth and debauchery of his benefactor, Lord Blackwood, have tarnished some of the goodness in his soul. I can find it again, though. I must try, at least.
I will write to you when I can, but it may be difficult for the next few weeks as I try to get things back on track. Please tell Papa not to worry; I will return to you soon.
With all my love,
Marian
Don’t Resist
By now, the nearby city wasn’t just drawn to the clinic, it had become a reflection of its corruption. The townsfolk no longer feared the rituals on the hill; they yearned for them. Whispers had turned into public discussions, and public discussions had turned into an underground cult of their own. Vendors at the marketplace sold trinkets and symbols, claiming they could replicate the clinic’s dark power.
Many citizens seemingly abandoned their former lives to seek enlightenment from the house on the hill. A schoolteacher, a policeman, and even the mayor had all disappeared mysteriously, only to show up days later covered in strange symbols, their eyes wide and staring, strange unknown words whispered from slackened lips.
Meanwhile, children began to sing eerie nursery rhymes about the clinic. “The doctor on the hill will take your painaway,” one rhyme began, sung in a sing-song tone as they skipped in circles. “But you’ll never be the same, and you’ll beg for him to stay.”
