Trigger Warning: This story may contain sensitive content.

Cut and crimp and fold and stitch…

Louise's filthy hands ached, her fingers cramped and numb. But still, she worked; after all, it had to be perfect. Rachel deserved only the best, and it would never do to miss even a single stitch. A single misplaced cut would ruin something so… tricky. Louise wiped the sweat from her brow, pushing the oil lantern just a bit closer to the sketches strewn across her desk. Working at night, in her basement, was never a good idea. But she wanted it to be a secret. Wanted it to be done soon.

Cut and crimp and fold and stitch…

The materials were tricky to work with; unlike any other fabric, so varied in texture and thickness and elasticity. They weren't rare— quite the opposite, in fact. Louise could find them anywhere. But getting ahold of them... well, that was the hard part. And finding the right pieces required so much time.

Cut and crimp and fold and stitch…

Red and brown stains covered her ruffled shirt. Her fingers were slick with the same. She worked harder and sewed faster, pulling her needle through the tough hide. The frame had been the worst, getting all those pieces to line up. She was a tailor, not a model maker. The ghastly smell filled the room. An iron tang thick enough to taste, and the fishy stench of raw meat. The sight was worse. Somehow, seeing everything splayed out as a work in progress made her stomach turn more than harvesting each individual piece. But it would be fine. Her gift would be perfect. Louise had made absolutely sure. A quick glance over at the anatomy books soothed her nerves.

It would be perfect. It had to be perfect. Rachel deserved perfect.

Cut and crimp and fold and stitch… over and over to push the screams from her mind.

If they had known, they would have been willing. They would have been sympathetic. But no one could know! Louise wiped the scalding tears from her eyes. Took a deep, shuddering breath. Steadied herself. Just a few more stitches. She'd used her finest thread, found the closest looking parts she could, and drawn out every little excruciating detail from her memory.

Rachel's gift lay on the table: a perfectly still, enormous doll. Skin pallid and cold to the touch. Its sharp cheeks lacked the right rosiness. Hazel eyes stared dully upward. Long brown curls straggled around the beautifully sculpted head. The hair had taken so long to find; the poor girl Louise stole the locks from had such a pretty voice. She would have gone far as a singer, perhaps. But her throat had been slashed anyways; Louise had already found a neck that matched Rachel's.

The dead thing in front of her was a horror. But Rachel would make it beautiful.

Louise rinsed her shaking hands in a little metal basin. But the blood stained her fingers, tattooed her skin. That was fine; she needed some of it anyway. She flipped through the yellow pages of the ancient tome she had so reverently placed on the desk. The book was old and dangerous. Forbidden. The red ink and twisted diagrams had drained the warmth from her very soul the first time she'd opened the pages. But she'd steeled herself and read the dark words within.

A prayer painted in blood over the heart. A ring of runes around the forehead. A stream of dried black blood along the major veins and arteries. Every letter infused with the lifeblood of the person it had once belonged to. A price needed to be paid, and Louise had paid it tenfold. She would pay it a thousand times over if she needed.

She was trembling. Terrified. All her work had been for this, and if something were to fail…

It would never fail. She wouldn't allow it.

Louise read the black tongue, spat their evil meanings. She recited dirges and prayers and calls to the spirits that prowled beyond the veil. She begged and threatened and commanded the ghosts and devils. And the dark gods whose whims shaped the shadows.

The lantern dimmed. Louise's hair whipped around her as a fetid wind tore through the room. Whispers and screams and cries for mercy roared in her ears, but still, she recited. Word by word, the world bent and quaked. The last word tumbled off her lips, and the room fell silent.

She waited. And waited. Until finally, something else drew breath.

The tome tumbled to the floor as Louise flung herself onto the body. There was warmth. Pulse. Breath. The thing beneath her jerked, pushing them both upward. The eyes opened, the limbs shook. Louise cupped the face, crushed their lips together. It wasn't the same as before— the lips were dry and waxy— but it was enough.

But Rachel wasn't kissing her back.

Louise pulled away, cradling the delicate fingers. Her wife blinked down at her naked body, the dark room, the blood. So much blood.

"It's okay…" Louise whispered, "It's okay, I saved you. I saved you. The consumption took you from me, but I found a way."

Rachel's sparkling hazel eyes stared unblinkingly at the tiny stitches over her knuckles. Her rosy cheeks turned pale again. Hot tears started to drip down her pale cheek, catching on the pinpricks around her nose. She turned to Louise, her perfectly formed lips gaping for a moment before her new mouth could make a single, croaking word.

"Why…?"

By Sam McQuail (He/Him)
Twitter: @Sam_McQuail

Sam McQuail is a freelance LGBT ghostwriter, jeweller, and full-time autistic smartarse. A self-described cryptid, he frequently draws on both his love of the occult and his MSc in psychology, blending the mystical and mundane into a world of the uncanny. Best tempted to social events with cheesecake or cats.