Evelyn had always been fascinated by the strange and arcane. As a young girl, she would comb through the dusty tomes in her grandfather’s library, delighting in the tales of forbidden knowledge and occult practices. The endless worlds of magic and mystery beckoned her with an irresistible allure that came to an abrupt end when she turned sixteen, and her grandfather succumbed to a sudden illness. The library, once a sanctuary of adventure and possibility, turned into a mausoleum of memories. There she had found a leftover relic: an ancient book, its leatherbound cover cracked and weathered with age. Frustratingly, the spine had been difficult to pry open, and the faded ink on the yellowed pages had been a challenge to decipher. Through the years, Evelyn found herself unable to shake off her curiosity about that tome—it haunted her dreams with whispers of power yet to be unveiled.
Several years later, Evelyn was a qualified biologist, her dreams of darker magics now buried beneath the weight of laboratory work, data analysis, and peer-reviewed publications. The rigours and mundanities of scientific life had forced her fascination into a darker recess of her mind. But, late one night, she found herself standing in her dimly lit flat, staring at the tome she had stowed away for years. Something unshakable urged her to revisit the book, perhaps as a way to escape the frustrations of academia, the incessant grind that had overshadowed her youthful curiosity.
As she flipped through the pages, her heart raced with anticipation. Each line seemed to recount ancient rituals, the mechanics of life and death, flesh and spirit. What ensnared her the most was the passage entitled “Flesh Rewritten,” which described a method to alter the bonds of flesh, to rewrite one’s very form. Scientific forums had often dabbled in genetic engineering, but this promised something different—an alchemy of the body, an art form combining science with the unexplainable. She could almost feel the compelling energy trickling off those words as she read.
Evelyn was alerting herself to the dangers of the unknown, yet a dark curiosity nestled in her heart, fuelling flames of intrigue. The more she read, the more she felt entwined with an otherworldly force, almost spiritual. With a deep breath and an adventurous spirit, she set about preparing the materials outlined in that chapter—an infusion of herbs, bone ash, and a fragment of her own hair.
What was it about human desire that often propelled individuals into acts of folly? As she stood in her cramped kitchen, the clock struck two in the morning, the rhythmic tick-tock accompanying her anxious heartbeats. She mixed the contents methodically, as instructed, the smell filling the air with a putrid sweetness that made her stomach churn. Was it a fear of failure, or a yearning for something extraordinary? The answer eluded her, just as shadows danced along the peeling walls.
With every minute that passed, Evelyn found herself more enthralled—manipulating life itself was within reach! She hesitated for hardly any time before placing her fingertips over the mixture as the chant embossed in her memory escaped her lips. The air thickened around her, charged with a tension that buzzed as if electrified. Her vision blurred, everything around her shimmering into a distorted haze.
Time folded and stretched in a wrapping cocoon, trapping her in a cocoon of black before bursting apart once more. She awoke in the same place, but the world felt altered, and a disorienting sensation roiled in her gut. It was not a grand transformation she felt; no wings, no ethereal glow, but rather a faint prickle at her fingertips and a strangling of skin along her shoulders. She cast a quick glance into her cracked mirror—nothing appeared changed at a glance. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. Perhaps it had all been in her head.
Yet as days drifted past, Evelyn began to notice subtle shifts. Her skin glimmered strangely in certain lights, hues unfurling in the way the moonlight danced upon a still pond. Then, one night, she awoke to find her reflection not just shimmering but pulsating. The skin seemed to swirl like living water, morphing in disconcerting patterns as if it carried with it the shadow of something more.
No amount of scrubbing could wash away the terror creeping into her mind. Each observation spiralled into nocturnal tortures, gripped by visions of grotesque wings and secreting tendrils. Helpless and afraid, she began isolating herself from the outside world, her insatiable quest twisting into an obsession she barely understood. Evelyn sought the book again, desperate to mend the rift that seemed to grow wider with each day. But where once it had provided clarity, now it revealed only chaos, lines blurring between ancient spells and utter madness.
On a particularly bleak evening, perfumed with the metallic scent of rain, she could no longer repress her panic. Desperation clawed at her insides as she flipped the pages; her hands trembled, absorbing truths meant for no mortal soul. She stumbled upon rituals of transmutation not just of flesh but of the very soul. Horrified, doubts seeped into her consciousness. What had she awakened? Was this an accident of her own design, or was there a darker force within the book itself?
Panic surged in her chest like a tide—her heart raced furiously as she pondered ways to reverse the curse she had unwittingly unleashed. She turned the old pages, her lips moving against the worn paper until one stanza caught her eye: ‘To reclaim thyself, one must offer that which is taken.’ Her stomach roiled, dread trickling coldly through her veins. What could she possibly sacrifice to defy what she had invoked?
Her nights became visits to the deep recesses of her own psyche, confronting a horror reflected in the mirror: a creature that wore her flesh like a mask, eager to burst free and consume not only her soul but those she cherished. It longs to taste blood, to breathe life anew, and yet all it craved was an escape from the chains of her mind.
The shadows became more pronounced. Friends began to drift away. The nights filled with tumultuous fears, stretching veins of paranoia deep into her bones. One evening she stumbled upon a family photo taken just months prior, where her smile appeared genuine, untainted by oncoming despair. She pined for that life, a hollow phantom in her own existence. Evelyn tried to reach out to an old friend, but each call would descend into a choking silence. Had she frightened them away with her ramblings? Or was it feasting on them as she mindlessly flickered through social media, incandescently aware of the void in her life?
Haunted by nightmares that ensnared her, she sought refuge within the book once more. She could not escape the unfurling dread creeping upon her life, yet she could not abandon what held the very essence of her becoming. Clutching it tightly, she found herself ensnared in an elaborate web of incantations that blurred into a haze.
Days slipped into weeks, lost in dread, until the awakening happened on a particularly dark and stormy night. Bolts of thunder created a symphony, wrapping her tightly in fear. Evelyn peered into her mirror, noticing the grotesque limbs emerging from her skin, coiling and unfurling beneath the surface like snakes eager to be unleashed. Instinctively, she recoiled, the reality crashing down upon her. She was becoming the monstrous creation woven from her desires—a twisted vessel, losing what remained of the human she once was.
With frantic breaths, Evelyn steadied herself, resisting the primal urge clawing at her psyche. She needed to make a choice, and fight against the shadow clawing at her soul. In morbid determination, she resolved to reclaim her life. She went back to the passage of sacrifice, knowing she had to unveil her innermost fear but unwilling to succumb to its whim as creature and creator danced closer together.
The days morphed into a tense anticipation as she prepared for the only way to rid herself of that suffocating terror. In a final act of desperation, she gathered what remained of her fading sense of self in that kitchen—the same place where it all began. Staring into the swirling reflection, furrowed brow glistening with perspiration and fear, she grasped a blade and pressed it upon the pulsing flesh, forcing it to bleed.
The pain ignited a power she had grown to dread—the physical wound was the least of her concerns. In that moment of sacrifice, she felt her heartbeat slow, a shudder running through her. She chanted fiercely, raw emotion clawing at the fabric of her being, reflected in the flickering light cast from the ancient tome. Her sacrifice unbound the tether between her and the creature within, unleashing a cacophony of twisted screams echoing from deep inside, mingling with the storm outside both ferocious and freeing.
As dawn broke with the lamenting of the fallen rain, Evelyn awoke upon the floor, clutching the worn book. No shapeshifting terror met her gaze in the mirror. But she was no longer the same. Inplace of flesh that once felt suffocating, a lingering shadow remained, reminding her of the rickety lines danced between creator and creature, a tension that lay beneath each breath.
The book lay closed upon her desk, the room basking in the softened blues of morning light as she contemplated whether the echoes in her mind signified an ending or perhaps a new beginning—a harrowing freedom burdened by shadows of her past. Flesh rewritten would always echo in her consciousness, a memory entwined within and never truly forgotten.
