The_Resurrectionist_The_Lost_Work_of_Dr

that mother of nature every night until my time arrives; I will hear her calling. That
wretch, that filth-soaked thing whose foulness is exceeded only by her demon song.
Death, so terrible an object; you look away from it, fearing that it may see you
and call your name. I have seen many die, scream, and many more writhe in
anguish at the hands of disease, injury or healing. I am shamed to confess that
when a patient screamed I was relieved some––I know their agony was less than
what it could have been. But know this: if they knew what horrible things were
available to them, they would take comfort in their own suffering.
We are living creatures, and within us is more than we know; the seed of life and
death, together. It’s sewn into our bodies at birth; it can live and die without us. I
have seen it and nurtured it and fought and defended it. I have sacrificed and bled
and now I, too, will perish for it, because of it––I know not how to destroy it. I can
hear her, that sound––I can hear the screaming––soaring in the darkness,
searching for me. I can hear Hell calling my name. Elise, my dear wife! I resolved
to save her. I chose to give her a great gift, an ancient past resurrected. She was a
descendant of a powerful species, the Fury. Elise is now no longer the same woman,
nor is she the one in the cracked body of burned flesh. She has emerged, she has
awoken like the cicada.
I learned many things, I wield a mighty sword now. I have taken her, as a worm,
an opium-addicted wretch, writhing in a scorched body; listen to me Bernard, I
write only truths. She now pounds the air with her wings and bellows Hell’s song in
hunger. I baptized her; with my knife, I saved her … again, I saved her.
The last stone I unturned in my quest was the tombstone … Come quickly.
Bernard never returned to his wife, Emma, in New York.
—S. Black.