Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Dragon Fire Frights: The Resurrectionist

This is the property of Doctor Agatha Krause. If found, please burn. No good can come from knowing its contents.

November 8th, 1930

It was always in the back of my mind—sometimes creeping into my fading consciousness, during the moments before sleep. For I knew the darkest day of my life was out there, waiting for me to step out from the light so it could finally say hello.

November 9th, 1930

Can't go on; it hurts too much.

November 10th 1930

I walked to the bluffs and stood for a few hours, inching ever so closely to the edge. With just one more step, I would no longer have to fear tomorrow. I closed my eyes and stilled my mind. Faint sounds became amplified: the leaves brushing across the cold earth, the ocean waves crashing against the rocks below turned into a thundering chorus, but something else emerged—something that hadn't been there before. At first I thought it was just the wind, but the more I concentrated, the louder it grew.

It was a whisper; it was an offer. A voice that promised to take my pain away. And all I had to do was follow its instructions. I agreed.

November 11th, 1930

I buried my son and husband, today. They were both found together in Harrow's Field, stripped of all clothing with no signs of injury. A detective for the police department, Thomas Wakefield, has vowed to bring whoever is responsible to justice, but I find the police rather inept when dealing with the obvious, let alone the mysterious. But it hardly matters anymore; I have too much to do.

August 21st, 1934

I found this journal in a box under the stairs. Reading this is quite odd for me as it feels like a lifetime ago. With my studies finally complete, I think documenting my work could be useful, and I will dedicate this book to that purpose; for none of us can ill afford to waste even a small scrap of paper, let alone an entire book, nowadays.

September 17th, 1934

I have successfully procured a most interesting specimen: male, approximately 25, skinless, with both muscular and skeletal structure intact. Apparently, he died from mania, induced from an infection of some sort which had compelled him to tear off his flesh. And interestingly, this affliction has preserved his remains from decay—even though the pungent smell would suggest otherwise.

I must make a note to thank my mortician cousin, Maxwell. If it were not for him, I might never have gotten to this point in my research. Now I must get back to my work.

September 19th, 1934

It was two days ago when I began the first tests on the body, and I'm proud to say that today I have successfully revived him! And despite the constant screaming and lack of skin, his vitality remains stable; this is the breakthrough I've been waiting for. I took a tissue sample and examined it under an electron microscope. Perhaps if the hospital had such a device, they could have seen this and possibly saved him. I doubt it, though. To my astonishment, I beheld an entire colony of tiny tentacled parasites secreting and proliferating all across him.

The parasite's affliction, which I now call Kalamicrosis, ended up being synergetic with my resurrection syrium, and this allowed for the effects to finally last. So it appears that my new friend will not be dissolving into a puddle of acidic slime, anytime soon. Oh, I have so much more to do.

September 21st, 1934

I have created a sedative that numbed his senses and quelled his violent temperament. He was able to speak to me for the first time. However, the only words I could discern from his incoherent rambling were "help me." So it seems that some amount of linguistic ability is still existent within him, which has piqued my curiosity of the effect the parasite has on the human brain; this warrants further experimentation.

September 22nd, 1934

I awoke to a crashing sound coming from the laboratory. Broken beakers, test tubes, and bacteria cultures were scattered about the floor. Something remarkable happened, during the night. The subject had grown a strange type of skin that seems to be its own entity. I found part of it stretched outward, from his chest to the other side of the room. My laboratory looks as if it were tossed, like someone was searching for something: perhaps the key to the shackles?

Another interesting aspect of his new flesh was its ability to defend against my attempt to extract a sample. For as I moved a scalpel toward it, the skin recoiled back to his body, narrowly avoiding the edge of my blade. And his eyes were locked on it, like a sort of hypnotic trance; wherever I moved the knife, he followed closely.

It's now later in the day. I've attempted to communicate with the creature, but I've gotten no response. The skin, however, did leave some tissue cells where it had laid. But upon examination, I found nothing out of the ordinary. By all accounts, this skin should be no different than my own. How is this possible?

September 23rd, 1934

I fear I should have done something more. For when I awoke this morning, the creature was gone. The shackles had been broken, and a pile of dead, eyeless rodents was all that remained in my subject's place. Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk. I have a culture of the parasite and will continue on with my experiments, just on a more manageable scale.

He came back for me in the evening with a new face, claiming to be a vacuum cleaner salesman. When I denied him entry, his flesh lashed out from his arm, like a whip, and cracked me over the head. I stumbled backwards then grabbed for my pistol.

I fired several shots toward him at point blank range, but he only laughed as if being tickled. He calmly stepped over me, sat down in a chair, and asked for something to drink. After getting him a glass of water, the following conversation took place.

"I sure hope nobody saw or heard that. I really want to keep our little affair a secret," he said.

"Why did you come back here; what do you want from me?"

"I've returned to collect my brothers and sisters from your petri prison and to tell you that you've completed your end of the deal."

"We never had any deal."

"No, we don't. But my master and you did. "

"Your master? Do you mean the voice?"

"No need to be obvious, doctor. You've done well."

"What are you?"

"I'm no longer your business is what I am."

"Then why have this conversation?"

"You've got a point," he said with a grim smile.

His arm then formed into a tentacle with several eyes lining the edge. And like a flash of lightning, it whipped toward me, piercing above my breast and narrowly missing my heart. I pretended to die whilst grasping the wound, and the monster went about his business, taking my samples, and leaving me without a care.

The entire time, I had applied pressure to the gaping hole in my chest. And this is why I'm still around to write in this entry. I managed to hobble down to my lab and stitch myself up. But after the shock wore off, so did the spell I was under. Years and years of suppressed emotions came out, in an instant. And I'm still crying now.

September 24th, 1934

In the past four years, I had not visited their graves. Today, I finally did. The grief I'm experiencing now is as if the funeral were today. But I have something else that I didn't back then: knowledge. And not of the terrestrial kind. What I know was never meant for man, and I was never meant to keep it. If I am to survive, for surely the master will send his pet back for me, I must leave now. Where I go, I do not know. But I will send back what I have unleashed upon our world before my life is through.

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