The implications of Dr. Emrick's suggestions were too terrible to contemplate, and I found myself sputtering for words before asking inanely, "What are you talking about?"

He gave a soft laugh and looked at me, swinging his bucket of foul, raw meat like a swain with a picnic basket. "I think you understand. And if you are really that dense, let me spell it out: the woman you have been so worried about was dead, but now, thanks to me, lives again."

"I can't believe you would be so unethical to experiment on human beings."

"Come, come. The use of cadavers for science is commonplace. How many times have you yourself dissected a corpse?"

I had no argument for this. Still, what he was proposing was ghastly, "But without permission...I mean, who's to say that this is what she wanted?"

"Does a doctor ask permission to save the life of an unconscious man? How is this any different? Besides, I think we can agree that living is a superior condition to being dead. Would you not say it is?" He stepped in closer and posed this last question rather pointedly.

"Yes, but from what I've observed of her condition—wandering filthy through the woods in nothing but night clothes--it hardly strikes me as a desirable condition. Although I haven't examined her, I'd say she was suffering from severe psychosis."

A sneer bent his mouth, and spittle gathered in a froth at the corners. "I did not know that psychoanalysis was one of your specialities." Then, regaining his calm demeanour, he said, "I have to admit, there are a few kinks to iron out. I've had considerable difficulty maintaining their higher brain functions. But progress is being made, each new subject has been better than the last. I believe the key is in the freshness of the specimen."

"You're a madman. You do this to these poor people—Oh God, it is people, isn't it and not just a single person? Failure hasn't restrained you, has it? So, you do this reprehensible thing to them, then what? Cast them out of doors helpless and afraid?"

What was I doing standing there arguing? I should have been running to the house to telephone the police. But before I could move, Emrick said, "They are hardly helpless. Or afraid." He reached out and gripped my arm. "Shh. Quiet. They're coming."

Flashes of white passed between the trees around us, small glimmers moving swiftly and breaking the deep, impenetrable shadows. Sounds of rustling undergrowth filled the night. How many people had he experimented on? How far had this gone?

My foot took an involuntary step back, and Emrick Grabbed the sleeve of my jacket. "Stay close. They won't harm you if you're with me."

A woman stepped into the clearing ahead of us. My terrible, tragic beauty stood regarding us with her wide haunted eyes.

Except, I was mistaken. It was not the woman I had seen in the garden.

A mass of curly brown hair hung in snarls around her shoulders. She stood bent forward wraith-like and hissed. Her dirt-smeared fingers were held out in front of her and curled like claws.

As though following a command, Dr. Emrick pulled a long strip of crimson beef from his bucket and threw it at her feet. Before it hit the ground, she pounced and snatched it from the air. Her hands twisted it as though trying to wring the life from an animal even while her teeth tore into the flesh.

Seeing her fed, the others came forward from the shelter of the eaves. Their pale skin glowed in the moonlight. Men and women, filthy and ragged, walked hunched over in mockery of evolution. Eight of them snarled and yelped, begging for food.

When Emrick had emptied his bucket, he took mine. My muscles were slack and offered no resistance. Not that I had tried to keep my hold. Rather, I had ceased to be aware of the pail or the doctor. All my concentration was on these people (although that hardly seems the right word). I tried to quantify and rationalize what I was seeing. I could no longer deny that an experiment had taken place. Yet, they seemed more like victims of some other terrible act than recipients of a cure.

From a distance, I examined them as they fed and fought each other over scraps, But I have to confess, most of my attention was devoted to her.

The blonde woman I'd seen from my window had been the last to arrive. She alone stepped along the path, upright. Although her movements were of one in a trance. Or perhaps, the sway of her arms and hips were designed to entrance me. She caught a kidney in both hands the way I have seen small children catch a ball, then she retreated from the others and ate her prize by the shelter of a large stone. I was horrified to watch her bury her mouth in the soft organ, but I could not look away either. She devoured it, and blood coating her face, making her lips look wide and bright red, something worthy of a performer in a circus of nightmares.

Still chewing, she met my eyes. The stark hunger in them was terrible to regard, but it hinted at other appetites beyond food.

My stomach churned, and I clutched it, trying to focus on my nausea and ignore the excitement.

Emrick sidled up next to me, observing the spectacle. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, "When they first wake, they're well enough, you see. A bit of short-term memory loss, but it's not much worse than the effects of a strong anesthetic. But then they deteriorate. My first few attempts..." He indicated a shirtless man with a Y-shaped autopsy incision stitched with black thread and another with severe burns. "They didn't last all of two hours before they devolved to the primitive state you see here. But I have been improving the process. That girl you have your eye on is quite recent. She came from a hospital in Brookline. Well, her body did, anyway. She maintained speech and rational thought for almost a week. And even now, she retains a trace of humanity. She remembers staying at the house and keeps returning, although she doesn't like being inside."

His casual air in which he described these poor wretches' abhorrent circumstances made me want to grab him and scream in his face. But my anger was siphoned off when a young man, barely out of short pants, crawled up to us. He looked up at Emrick and mewled for more food. One eye was a yawning socket, while his skull was malformed, and the skin had been stitched back together in several places. At the edges of the wounds, necrotic flesh puckered. The brutal and grievous head trauma was obvious. Yet, he lived.

Had Emrick truly done it?

I reached a hand out, my senses needing more proof than my eyes could provide. The creature snapped, and I jerked back from his feral teeth.

"Careful," the doctor said, nudging me out of the way and insinuating himself between the young man and me, to whom he offered the last slimy shred from the bucket. The boy reached up and snatched it with his mouth, then darted back to the pack.

"Why don't they attack you?" I asked.

"Have you never heard the expression don't bite the hand that feeds you." He chortled to himself, finding far more amusement in his words than I did. "But seriously, it's a bit of a mystery. My guess is that the ritual I've adapted contains precautions to ensure the subject doesn't turn on the practitioner. I would ask the author to confirm this, but he's been dead for centuries, and unfortunately, reviving him would be beyond my abilities even if I had the remains."

My mind was swamped. All the questions vying for attention edged out my hatred for Emrick. "Are you saying this is all the work of your witchcraft?"

He waved his hand at the word as though dispelling a bad smell. "You may call it that, but it was only the science of the day. Remarkable science at that. If it had not been for the small-minded..." Here, he gave me a withering glance. "The world might be so much more advanced than it is today, but so much of it was buried and lost simply because men feared what they did not understand. But in answer to your question, the ritual is but a part. I have added to it with elements from my studies. Not to mention from the scientific community at large. I admit I've even borrowed a little from your work on tissue preservation."

I blanched at the reflexive surge of pride I felt at this. I wanted no connection to this atrocity. But it was so close to what I had striven for myself all these long years.

I pointed to the man with the long cut along his sternum. "Why don't they heal?"

"Even with life restored, the subject's ability to repair itself is stunted. The ones you see with visible damage are my early efforts. I've since learned that for the best results, more intact bodies are desirable. Catching them closer to the time of death also improves the outcome. Although I have not had the chance to do the experiment, I believe were I to initiate the procedure moments after death, they would not suffer from this mental degeneration. But of course, this is not a simple situation to orchestrate, especially here, so far from a hospital."

He bit his lip as if pondering a problem. The people—the animated corpses were done with their meal and melted back into the forest.

"There are still many things I'm working out," Emrick said. "For instance, why are they nocturnal when they return? How come they eschew bread and greens, preferring a carnivorous diet? And why does this preference eventually grow into a need for only uncooked meat? Is it another byproduct of the spell or something primal that the mental degradation triggers? What do you think?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"I thought you might be able to provide some insight. No matter." He clapped me on the shoulder and directed me back toward the manor. "I'm sure, in time, I will surmount these obstacles. And even if I don't solve all of them, limits on sunlight and diet are a small price to pay for immortality. Wouldn't you agree?"

The woman's face arose in mind, her tongue running over her blood-stained lips. Who had she been? Somebody's daughter? Certainly. Somebody's wife or sweetheart? Perhaps. She did not deserve this fate. To be reduced to an animal in the woods. A pet to this madman.

He had to be stopped.