Dr. Alistair Voss was a man of reason, not madness. At least, that was how he saw it. Medicine had its limits, and he had spent a lifetime pushing against them. He had healed the sick, saved lives, and watched countless patients slip away despite his best efforts. Death was an insult—one he refused to tolerate.
The solution was simple: if the body failed, it could be repaired. If the heart stopped, it could be replaced. If life left the flesh, why not steal it back?
Under the cover of night, he ventured into the graveyards. With steady hands and a surgeon’s precision, he unearthed the recently deceased, selecting only the freshest, strongest pieces. A hand from a pianist, legs from a dancer, a heart that had once beaten in a body filled with passion. His creation would not be an abomination. It would be a masterpiece.
Chapter 2: Stitching a Soul
The laboratory beneath his home was cold and sterile, its walls lined with books on anatomy, electricity, and the occult. He had mapped the nerves, woven the veins, and fused together skin from a dozen different donors. The face was beautiful in its asymmetry, eyes mismatched but piercing, lips sewn with the gentlest touch.
But a body, no matter how perfect, was nothing without life. That was the true challenge.
Dr. Voss had studied ancient texts, theories discarded by modern medicine. He had devised a method—an elixir infused with chemicals to awaken dormant flesh, combined with a surge of electricity to ignite the heart.
As the storm raged outside, he injected the fluid into the veins of his creation and threw the switch. The room filled with the sharp tang of ozone as blue lightning danced over the lifeless corpse.
Then, a twitch. A slow inhale.
And the eyes opened.
Chapter 3: The Man That Was Made
The being sat up, its breath shallow, its body shivering. It did not scream or thrash—it only looked at him. The doctor felt no fear, only triumph.
“You are Lazarus,” Voss whispered, pressing a hand to the creature’s stitched-together chest. “You are my greatest work.”
Lazarus blinked slowly, the two different eyes seeming to process him. A hand lifted, touching his own face, fingers tracing the seams.
“Laz…a…rus…” the creature rasped, voice raw from disuse.
Dr. Voss smiled. He had given it life, and now he would teach it how to live.
For weeks, Lazarus grew stronger. He learned to walk, to speak in fragmented sentences. He listened as Voss read to him, examined himself in the mirror, even began to mimic human expressions. The doctor’s heart swelled with pride.
But the world beyond the walls of the lab would not understand. It would only see a monster.
Chapter 4: A Curious Visitor
The knock at the door came late one night. Dr. Voss rarely received guests.
“Doctor,” said the man standing on the threshold, rain dripping from his hat. “I am Inspector Hargrave. There have been… disturbances at the cemetery.”
Dr. Voss’s pulse quickened. “Disturbances?”
“Graves, exhumed. Bodies missing.” The inspector studied him. “I am speaking with all the physicians in town. You understand why.”
Voss forced a frown. “Horrible. Absolutely horrible.”
“Indeed.” Hargrave glanced past him into the dimly lit house. “May I come in?”
A sound—quiet but unmistakable—rose from the basement. A shuffle. A breath.
Voss’s fingers tightened on the doorframe. “I’m afraid I must decline. My work… I have patients who need me.”
Hargrave’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, Doctor. I will return.”
As the inspector walked away, Voss closed the door with shaking hands. He turned toward the basement stairs.
Lazarus stood at the top, watching.
Chapter 5: A Father’s Love
Lazarus understood now. The fear in the doctor’s eyes, the way he kept him hidden. He was unnatural to the world. Unwanted.
“I am… wrong,” Lazarus murmured.
“No,” Voss said, gripping his arm. “You are perfect.”
But Lazarus knew the truth. He had heard the whispers through the floorboards, felt the tension in his creator’s voice. No matter how gentle Voss was, how much care he took, the world would never see him as a man.
So he made a choice.
That night, as Voss slept, Lazarus took his first steps outside. He would not let the doctor suffer for him.
The town awoke to screams.
Voss ran through the streets, his breath ragged, until he found them. Lazarus stood in the town square, villagers surrounding him with torches and pitchforks.
“Monster!” someone cried.
Lazarus looked at him, silent. He did not run, did not fight.
“He is not a monster!” Voss shouted, pushing through the crowd. “He is mine!”
But the first torch was thrown. Then the next.
Lazarus did not scream as the flames took him. He only looked at Voss, lips forming silent words:
"Thank you."
And then he was gone.
Dr. Voss fell to his knees, silent, staring at the ashes.
A masterpiece destroyed by lesser men.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
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