Beautifully Dead - Chapter 37
An Immortal Affections serialized novel
March 12, 1862
Nothing.
Void absolute. The space where being itself ceases and all that remains is—
Nothing.
Yet a fragment persisted. A spark refusing dissolution.
No thought. No identity, no memory, no understanding of self or circumstance. Only existence stripped to its barest essence. A point of being suspended in darkness so complete that darkness itself seemed inadequate description.
Time held no meaning in this state. Seconds might have been centuries. Hours might have been heartbeats. All measure dissolved in the absolute.
But gradually—so gradually the change might have occupied moments or months—that spark began gathering other sparks unto itself. Fragments collecting, patterns forming where none had existed. Structure emerging from chaos.
Tissue that had ceased all function began—through mechanisms no natural philosophy could explain—to rebuild itself. Changed at the most fundamental level.
Memory flickered. Not as narrative or sequence. Just flashes:
Auburn hair across a pillow. Canvas screens in gaslight. Iron taste coating the tongue. Hands restraining. Voices urgent. Pain.
So much pain..
The darkness remained absolute. But within it, something gathered itself toward becoming.
At the periphery of this void—if such a place existed where nothing was—there came the first sensation beyond mere existence.
Scent.
Pure information, flooding whatsoever remained of awareness. Rich. Copper. Salt. Iron.
Life.
That smell pulled at the gathering fragments as lodestone pulls at iron. Drew consciousness toward coherence with mounting urgency. The reconstruction accelerated, driven by scent as plants grow toward sunlight.
More emerged from darkness:
Sweat. Soap. Wool. Lamp oil. Carbolic solution.
Fear.
Each thread pulling awareness back from the void. Each adding substance to the gathering whole.
I perceive scent. Therefore something remains to perceive. Therefore I persist in some form.
But identity had not yet returned. There was scent. There was darkness. Time passed, impossible to measure.
Sound came next. First felt rather than heard—vibrations through whatsoever lay beneath. Footsteps distant. Voices muffled. Floorboards creaking. A door closing somewhere within the building.
I perceive sound. Therefore I exist in relation to other things that move and speak.
The reconstruction continued. Accelerating as though the framework, once established, could be more rapidly completed. Tissue that had died now replaced by tissue functioning differently.
And still that scent. Blood. Growing stronger. Pulling with mounting urgency at the gathering consciousness.
Hunger.
Fundamental, cellular, the hunger pulled. And consciousness followed its demand.
Somewhere nearby, church bells struck nine. The vibration traveled through brick and timber and reached what had been Eleanor Caldwell’s corpse, laid out in the side room these twelve hours past.
Deep within that corpse, in tissue that had been dead since before dawn, a heart that had ceased beating suddenly contracted. Once. Weakly. Barely a spasm.
Then again. Stronger.
Blood that had begun separating and settling moved sluggishly through vessels that should have not maintained integrity past death. The blood carried no oxygen. It moved through a system that violated every principle of natural philosophy. But it moved nonetheless.
Another heartbeat. Another.
A body that had been cooling began—by infinitesimal degrees—to warm.
In the darkness behind closed lids, consciousness gathered like storm clouds forming. No longer fragments. No longer scattered sparks. Whole now. Aware. Driven by that overwhelming, undeniable hunger.
Yet still unthinking. Still without name or identity or history. Only:
Hunger. Darkness. Waiting.
The body lay immobile beneath its shroud. Canvas pulled over the face just so. Arms crossed upon the chest. The attitude of death maintained according to custom.
The hunger grew.
Through canvas, through closed lids, some awareness of light and shadow began registering. Passing heat. Movement.
Footsteps approached. Light. Quick. Hesitant.
A young woman’s voice, scarce above whisper: “Lord have mercy, they have just left her here with that man. Both of them covered like yesterday’s laundry awaiting the wash.”
The footsteps came nearer. Stopped beside the cot where Eleanor’s shrouded form lay.
“All those fine dresses and fancy notions, and here she lies. Dead as any field hand, and not a soul staying vigil.”
Bitterness carried clearly in that voice. Resentment. Envy. Something darker still.
“Well now. What she does not require any longer, others might put to better purpose.”
Fabric rustled. Fingers—warm, alive, trembling—touched the edge of the shroud.
Every sense focused upon those fingers with sudden, terrible precision. The warmth of blood flowing beneath skin. The rhythmic pulse at the wrist. The scent—oh, the scent—of life so near, so accessible, calling to the hunger with overwhelming intensity.
The fingers gripped canvas, began pulling it back from the face.
That awareness—that gathering, hunger-driven consciousness—calculated with pure predatory precision:
Wait. Not yet. Wait. Wait.
The young woman muttered as she worked: “Dr. Merriweather keeps such careful watch usually. But not this morning, is it? Off making arrangements while these two lie here unguarded.” She pulled harder at the canvas. “Pretty she was, before the fever took her. Well-connected too—doctor’s daughter from one of the good families. Never did a full day’s work, I’d wager, not like the rest of us—always special duties, private consultations with the doctor. And here she lies now.”
The resentment in her voice was palpable. Envy mixed with satisfaction at Eleanor’s fall.
“Let us see what pretty Miss Eleanor Caldwell wore when death came calling. Might be something worth salvaging before they plant her in the dirt. That brooch mayhap, or the fancy bracelet. Must have been worth something, and it is not like she has use for them now.”
She pulled the shroud entirely away from Eleanor’s face. Leaned closer to examine what lay beneath.
Reached down to touch Eleanor’s wrists, checking for anything that might possess value.
Leaned too far. Overbalanced. Caught herself with one hand upon the cot’s edge and the other still tangled in Eleanor’s dress.
Now.
Eleanor’s eyes snapped open.
The young woman had time for one sharp inhalation. Not even a proper scream. Just that sudden intake of shock and terror as she registered that the corpse beneath her hands was not a corpse at all.
Eleanor moved with speed no human frame should possess. She rose, one hand seizing the woman’s hand—the one still roaming for treasures—with strength that shattered bone instantly. The other catching the back of the woman’s head and pulling her down, pulling that screaming mouth close, that living, bleeding throat within reach.
The woman tried pulling away. Tried screaming. But Eleanor’s grip was iron absolute and the movement concluded almost before it commenced.
The scream died as Eleanor’s teeth found the jugular and bit down with force that would have horrified any conscious version of herself. Impossible for any normal human jaw. But Eleanor was not conscious. Was not normal. Was not human any longer in conventional sense.
She was hunger. And hunger fed.
The blood sprayed hot and alive in her mouth. The meat rich and thick, as she ate with desperate, mindless intensity, holding the struggling form against her with inhuman strength, feeling the frantic heartbeat hammering against her chest as the woman thrashed and weakened and finally went still. Her life drained away with each swallow.
Eleanor fed. And as she did, something changed.
The mindless hunger began receding. Pure instinct driving her from death into this terrible awareness started yielding to something more complex. More horrifying.
Memory. Identity. Self.
Oh Providence. Oh merciful God. What am I doing?
Eleanor’s eyes—which had been clouded, unfocused, purely predatory—suddenly cleared. Widened. Registered the woman lying limp in her arms, the blood upon her mouth and hands, the torn flesh at the throat where her teeth had—
No. No. This cannot be. This is not—
She released her grip as though burned. The woman—Anne Crawford, some distant part of Eleanor’s returning consciousness recognized her, a young volunteer from the wards—slumped sideways, fell against the cot, then slid to the floor with a soft impact.
Still breathing. Barely. The pulse at her throat fluttered weakly beneath torn skin.
I have killed her. Dear God in Heaven, I have—
Anne’s chest rose. Fell. Rose again more shallowly.
Eleanor scrambled backward on the cot until her spine met the wall, staring at her hands. Blood upon her fingers. Blood beneath her nails. Blood upon the canvas shroud, upon her dress, upon everything.
The taste in her mouth. Rich. Satisfying. Her body singing with sudden vitality and strength and—
I desire more.
The horror of that realization—the terrible, undeniable truth of it—crashed through her returning consciousness in a sensual wave.
I desire more.
Anne’s hand spasmed weakly toward her throat. Her eyes fluttered but did not open. Blood pooled beneath her on the floor, spreading slowly across the boards.
Too much blood. Too much damage.
Eleanor stared. The hunger remained present. Quieter now but persistent. And some new portion of her—some predatory thing wearing her identity like borrowed garments—considered finishing what she had commenced. Considered taking just slightly more. Considered—
Footsteps in the corridor beyond the canvas partition. Multiple sets. Voices.
Dr. Merriweather’s distinctive cadence: “This way, Mr. Talbot. I appreciate your promptness in this matter.”
Another voice, deeper: “No trouble at all, Doctor. Unfortunate business, losing two in one night. But the good Lord calls us each in His time.”
“Indeed. Though our volunteer’s death grieves me particularly. Such promise. Such dedication to the work.”
The footsteps approached. The canvas screen that separated this space from the corridor shifted slightly as someone brushed against it.
Eleanor froze. Every sense focused upon those approaching steps with desperate intensity. Anne lay dying—perhaps already dead—upon the floor between Eleanor and the canvas partition. Blood everywhere. Eleanor’s dress soaked with it. Her hands. Her mouth.
No explanation possible. No excuse conceivable.
She was discovered. Exposed. Monstrous.
The canvas screen began to part.
Dr. Merriweather entered first, still speaking over his shoulder to the undertaker behind him. “—grateful for your discretion in this matter, Mr. Talbot. The girl’s family will appreciate—”
He stopped.
His eyes found Eleanor first—sitting upright upon the cot, shroud fallen away, blood upon her mouth and hands and dress. Alive. Conscious. Staring at him with an expression of absolute horror.
Then his gaze dropped to the form upon the floor. The spreading pool of blood. The torn throat. The chest that no longer rose.
For one long moment, James Merriweather simply stared. His face passing from shock to genuine surprise at finding her conscious and aware rather than dead or mindless. Then calculation overtook his expression with almost frightening speed.
His hand shot up, gesturing sharply for silence. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible: “Do not move. Do not speak.”
Behind him, the undertaker’s heavier tread approached the partition. “Doctor? Is something—”
James moved with sudden, decisive speed. He stepped fully into the partitioned area, letting the canvas fall closed behind him, leaving just enough gap for his voice to carry. “Mr. Talbot, forgive me. I find I require a moment to... to compose myself before we proceed. Perhaps you and your assistant might wait in my office? I keep a bottle of decent whiskey in the lower drawer for... difficult cases. Please, help yourselves. I shall join you momentarily.”
“Of course, Doctor. Of course.” The undertaker’s footsteps retreated. “Take all the time you require, sir. I understand entirely.”
James waited until the footsteps faded entirely. Then he secured the canvas partition and turned to Eleanor, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Can you stand?”
Eleanor stared at him. Her mouth worked but no sound emerged initially. Finally: “I... I killed her. I murdered—”
“Can you stand?” he repeated, more insistently. “We have perhaps five minutes. Can. You. Stand?”
The command in his voice penetrated her shock. Eleanor nodded once. Pushed herself upright. Her legs trembled but held.
“Good.” James moved to Anne’s body, knelt, checked for pulse. Found none. His expression flickered briefly into satisfaction, then he continued with clinical efficiency. “You are going to do exactly as I instruct. Do you understand?”
“She is dead. I—”
“She came here to rob you,” James said flatly, slipping something from Anne’s hand and beginning to unfasten her dress. “Her death is unfortunate. You were not conscious. You were not in control. The transformation drives pure instinct in its first moments.” He worked quickly, removing Anne’s outer dress, her apron. “Now. Do you understand what must happen?”
Eleanor stared at him. At Anne’s body. At her own blood-soaked dress.
Understanding penetrated the horror.
“You mean for me to exchange garments with her.”
“Precisely. There is nothing to be done for her. This body becomes our dead volunteer. You become Anne Crawford for the day.” James held out Anne’s dress. “The undertaker knows I summoned him for two bodies. He will collect two bodies.”
“This is monstrous—”
“Listen to me.” James’s eyes met hers with terrible intensity. “Nobody witnessed Eleanor Caldwell’s death except myself. As far as anybody will know Eleanor Caldwell survived and is now home, recovering. People forget. Hospital rumors are notoriously unreliable. Volunteers come and go. But this body—” He gestured to Anne’s corpse. “This body requires explanation. Help me lift her.”
Eleanor looked at her blood-stained hands. Thought of Thomas. Of her father. Of Sarah and little Charles waiting for news.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.
“Remove your dress. Quickly.”
Eleanor’s hands moved to her buttons with shaking fingers. The dress was soaked with blood, stiff with it, difficult to manipulate. James helped her with the fastenings, his movements swift and professional, his eyes averted from her undergarments with punctilious propriety despite the circumstances.
“Your petticoats as well,” he said.
They worked in silence, exchanging garments between living woman and corpse with horrible efficiency. Anne’s dress hung loose on Eleanor’s frame—the girl had been more substantially built—but James cinched the apron tighter to compensate.
“The blood upon your face and hands,” he said, producing a handkerchief. “Let me—”
He stepped closer, and Eleanor’s enhanced senses registered his scent with overwhelming clarity. Soap. Wool. The faint metallic tang of old blood on his clothes from other patients. And beneath it all—a slow pulse. Warmth.
She went rigid.
“Be still.” His voice was barely audible as he wiped her face with methodical care. “I know what you are feeling. You must learn to control that instinct, or it will destroy you.”
His matter-of-fact tone penetrated her horror. He knew what she had become. Knew what the hunger was.
He was not surprised.
The realization unsettled her. When he had entered and found her conscious, blood-covered, with a body at her feet—he had not reacted with shock or disgust. No fear or condemnation. Only surprise at finding her awake at all.
He expected this. He knew this would happen.
“Your hands.” He cleaned her fingers one by one, removing the evidence from beneath her nails.
Eleanor’s mind reeled even as she stood docile beneath his ministrations. The Matthews attack. The fever. The isolation. James’s careful monitoring. The iron test months ago.
I should be dead.
“There.” James stepped back, examining his work. “You appear appropriately plain now. Just another volunteer.”
Eleanor stared at him. Her mouth opened. Closed. The questions were too large, too terrible to voice. What happened to me? What have you done? What am I? Did you know I would kill her?
“Eleanor,” James said, his voice dropping to barely audible whisper. “I will leave you now, and return with Talbot and his assistant to collect the bodies. You will stand quietly in that corner. Keep your head bowed. Your hands folded. Say nothing. Do nothing. To them, you are invisible. Do you understand?”
Eleanor managed a single nod.
“Good. After they depart, you remain here. This evening, after full dark, I shall return. Bring you to Sarah’s house where you will be safe. Where I can teach you what you must learn to survive.” His eyes held hers with terrible intensity. “Can you wait here alone? Can you remain still and silent until I return?”
The hunger coiled beneath her ribs, and with it anger. Anne’s blood still coated her tongue with its richness. James’s warmth so close, his pulse visible at his throat—
What have you done to me?
“Yes,” she whispered.
—
Footsteps approached from the corridor. Talbot’s voice, slightly unsteady from whiskey: “That was most appreciated, Doctor. Shall we proceed?”
James moved to the partition’s opening. “Indeed. Two for collection, as discussed.”
Eleanor kept her eyes down as they worked. The assistant lifted Matthews first, maneuvering the stiffened body onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Then Talbot moved to Anne’s corpse, grunting slightly as he lifted the dead weight.
And they were gone. Footsteps receding down the corridor. Voices fading.
The canvas fell closed.
Eleanor sat in the dim partition, wearing a dead woman’s clothes, tasting blood on her tongue, waiting for darkness.
Waiting for answers she was not certain she wished to hear.
to be continued…
© 2025-26 E.M.V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.