She

A man wants a woman to be his bride to extent of bringing her back from death

The antechamber to Joseph’s laboratory reeked of ozone, embalming fluid, and something subtly metallic, like old blood. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light filtering through a grimy skylight, illuminating shelves filled with labelled jars and an assortment of antique surgical tools that gleamed with a malevolent polish. Joseph himself, a man whose gaunt frame and wild, ink-stained hair spoke of long nights fueled by ambition rather than sleep, paced restlessly. His latest experiment required a fresh specimen, unsullied by embalming chemicals or the ravages of time. A recent death, preferably sudden, preferably young.

Then the call came. A whisper through the medical examiner’s back channels, a morbid rumour quickly confirmed: Delores Martiz, twenty-four, heart attack, at the altar, on her wedding day. A perfect specimen. Not a mark on her.

Within hours, a discreet, unmarked van delivered a gleaming white casket to Joseph’s hidden, sub-basement entrance. The air grew heavy with the scent of lilies and the cloying sweetness of fresh death as Joseph’s assistants carefully maneuvered the coffin onto a hoist.

“Gentle, fools! Gentle!” Joseph hissed, his eyes alight with a feverish intensity. “She is a vessel of great promise.”

Delores Martiz lay within, still clad in her pristine white wedding gown, veil artfully arranged, a wreath of white roses crowning her dark hair. Her face was serene, almost beautiful, a waxy pallor the only indicator of her transition. Joseph ran a gloved finger lightly over the lace of her sleeve. “Such a waste,” he murmured, not to the deceased, but to the promise of her untapped potential.

He had her lifted onto the chilled steel operating table, the pure white of her dress a stark contrast against the clinical grey. For hours, Joseph worked. Not dissecting, but preparing. Fine, almost invisible conduits were threaded into arteries and veins, a network of wires connected to a monstrous array of ancient dynamos and humming coils. His instruments were not scalpels, but a strange assortment of electrodes and needles, syringes filled with viscous, shimmering fluids of his own concoction. The lab pulsed with an unholy hum, the air growing thick with the tang of ozone.

Finally, Joseph stood back, a wild grin splitting his face. “Awaken, Delores,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with anticipation.

He threw the master switch. Lightning cracked across the heavy wires, arcs of violet energy dancing around Delores’s still form. Her body convulsed, a single, violent twitch that rattled the table. Then, with a choked gasp that was more a rattle, her eyes snapped open.

They were unfocused, glazed, but undeniably open. A low, incoherent moan vibrated in her throat.

Joseph took a step closer, his heart thrumming. “Delores? Can you hear me? You are awake. You are… mine.”

Her head turned slowly, a creaking of cervical vertebrae. Her gaze, flat and uncomprehending, swept over him, past him, settling on something unseen in the shadows. Her lips parted, revealing teeth that seemed a shade too long.

“Mi…chael?” The sound was a dry, scraping whisper, barely audible, utterly devoid of emotion.

Joseph’s triumphant smile faltered. “Michael? No, Delores, Michael is gone. You are here with me. You are safe. You are… new.”

Her eyes, still wide and empty, slowly rotated back to him. There was no recognition, no fear, no understanding. Only that flat, unsettling stare. Then, with a sudden, jerky movement, she tried to sit up. Her limbs were stiff, uncoordinated, like a marionette whose strings were snarled. She fell back, hitting the table with a dull thud. A faint, earthy smell, like overturned grave soil, began to emanate from her.

Joseph frowned. “She’s… disoriented. The shock, of course.”

For days, he tried. He spoke to her, coaxed her, even played gentle music. He presented her with food, which she ignored. He tried to teach her to walk, but her movements remained stiff, her gaits a lurching, uncoordinated shuffle. Her skin, once so smooth, began to take on a waxy, almost translucent quality, faintly tinged with a spreading network of lividity beneath the surface. Her voice, when it came, was always the same raspy whisper of “Michael,” or sometimes just a low, guttural moan that sent shivers down Joseph’s spine. She was alive, yes, but she was not Delores. She was an echo, a broken puppet, tethered to a name and a love that was not his. He couldn’t win her, not even a flicker of her attention.

One morning, he found her slumped on the floor beside the table, utterly still. The earthy smell was stronger now, mixed with something sickly sweet. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, but they were dull, utterly lifeless. The last spark of unholy animation had faded.

Joseph raged. He had poured so much into her! He had brought her back! It couldn't end like this. He would not be denied!

He began again, this time with a frantic, desperate energy. He refined his concoctions, increased the electrical charge, pushed the very boundaries of his forbidden science. He replaced the fine conduits with thicker, more robust tubing. His face was grim, his eyes bloodshot. This time, there would be no whispers of a dead lover. This time, she would be his.

The second reanimation was not a subtle flicker, but a violent, jarring convulsion. Delores’s body arched, every muscle taut, then slammed back down against the metal. A low, guttural shriek tore from her throat �" not a human sound, but something primal, guttural, like an animal in agony.

Her eyes snapped open again, but there was no blankness this time. They were pupils like twin abysses, reflecting nothing, seeing everything. Her flesh had changed. It was no longer waxy and translucent, but taut, unnaturally pale, with veins standing out like a dark roadmap beneath the surface. Her lips, blue-tinged, pulled back to reveal teeth that had sharpened to a subtly unnatural point.

She rose from the table, not slowly, but with a sudden, jerky speed that defied the rigidity of death. Her wedding dress, once pristine, now hung in tatters, mottled with ancient bloodstains Joseph hadn’t noticed before and the tell-tale signs of decay that had begun to creep in before his second intervention. A strand of her dark hair, formerly soft, was brittle, almost like straw.

She didn't speak. She didn't seek Michael. She simply stood, swaying slightly, then fixed those abyssal eyes on Joseph. Her head tilted, a slight, almost imperceptible movement, and a low, wet gurgle emanated from her throat. It was not a greeting, nor a plea. It was a sound that articulated a profound, bottomless loathing.

Joseph felt a cold dread seep into his bones, colder than the chilled steel of his lab. He had brought her back, yes. He had won her from the grave. But he had not won her for himself. He had brought back only the shell, suffused with a malevolent imitation of life, imbued with a hatred that felt ancient and personal.

She took a step towards him, her bare feet making a wet slapping sound on the floor. The decaying lace of her gown rustled. There was no Michael in her eyes, no love, no memory. Only an empty, terrible hunger. Joseph had created something, but it was not Delores. It was a revenant, a ghoul, a twisted mockery of the woman he had sought to possess.

He backed away, fear finally eclipsing his ambition. She was a fresh corpse no longer. She was a fresh nightmare. And he, Joseph, the master of life and death, was trapped in his own creation, alone in the chilling silence of his lab, with a bride who would never be his, and who would never truly rest until he became like she once was undead.

As he stated into her eyes all that reflected back was blackness ,She then leap upon him and preceded to test no apart limb from limb,then she went towards the lab door and left to go out into the world where to is not know