The Resurrectionists Read online

  The Resurrectionists

  The Salem Hawley Series, Book One

  Michael Patrick Hicks

  About The Resurrectionists

  The Salem Hawley Series, Book One

  Having won his emancipation after fighting on the side of the colonies during the American Revolution, Salem Hawley is a free man. Only a handful of years after the end of British rule, Hawley finds himself drawn into a new war unlike anything he has ever seen.

  New York City is on the cusp of a new revolution as the science of medicine advances, but procuring bodies for study is still illegal. Bands of resurrectionists are stealing corpses from New York cemeteries, and women of the night are disappearing from the streets, only to meet grisly ends elsewhere.

  After a friend’s family is robbed from their graves, Hawley is compelled to fight back against the wave of exhumations plaguing the Black cemetery. Little does he know, the theft of bodies is key to far darker arts being performed by the resurrectionists. If successful, the work of these occultists could spell the end of the fledgling American Experiment… and the world itself.

  The Resurrectionists, the first book in the Salem Hawley series, is a novella of historical cosmic horror from the author of Broken Shells and Mass Hysteria.

  Also by Michael Patrick Hicks

  The Salem Hawley Series

  The Resurrectionists (Book 1)

  DRMR Series

  Convergence (A DRMR Novel, Book 1)

  Emergence (A DRMR Novel, Book 2)

  Preservation (A DRMR Short Story)

  Other Novels

  Broken Shells: A Subterranean Horror Novella

  Mass Hysteria

  Short Stories

  The Marque

  Black Site

  Let Go

  Revolver

  Consumption

  THE RESURRECTIONISTS

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael Patrick Hicks

  High Fever Books

  First Edition: June 2019

  Edited by Red Adept Editing

  http://redadeptpublishing.com/

  Cover artwork by Kealan Patrick Burke

  http://www.elderlemondesign.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-1-947570-12-2 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-947570-11-5 (ebook)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  100 Dollars Reward

  From The Daily Advertiser

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Salem Hawley Will Return…

  A Note From The Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also Available From High Fever Books

  Broken Shells

  Mass Hysteria

  Revolver

  Black Site

  The Marque

  Praise for The Resurrectionists (The Salem Hawley Series, Book One)

  “The Resurrectionists is a stunning achievement — an effective historical novel AND a brutal horror story. Salem Hawley is a fantastic protagonist I look forward to following in future stores.”

  John Hornor Jacobs, author of The Sea Dreams It Is the Sky: A Novella of Cosmic Horror

  “Grim, perverse, and written with literary panache, The Resurrectionists sets the bar high for modern authors of Lovecraftian horror. With its mix of Lovecraftian and human monsters, this opening chapter in the Salem Hawley series will delight readers of both cosmic horror and the morbidly beautiful works of Clive Barker.”

  Glen Krisch, author of Where Darkness Dwells

  “A masterful juxtaposition of human empathy with cold, ravenous destruction. The ending definitely leaves you wanting more!”

  Somer Canon, author of Killer Chronicles

  “Gritty, grand and grotesque, The Resurrectionists is a mind-bending, Lovecraftian myth set in the murky underbelly of post-Revolutionary War Manhattan. It played out in my imagination in a palette of reds and browns like a lush Hammer horror film. Salem Hawley is a riveting avenger, and I’m eager to follow him on further macabre adventures.”

  Chris Sorensen, author of The Nightmare Room

  “As terrifying and action-packed as a slasher flick, but also saturated with literary merit at its core, exploring social issues like racism, classism, and the ramifications of medical experimentation. It was such a fun, provocative read. I can't wait to see what direction he steers the plot in the second book.”

  Jeremy Hepler, Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of The Boulevard Monster

  “A perfect blend of historical and cosmic horror. Hicks has definitely created something special here, simultaneously authentic and otherworldly. Great characterization, vivid descriptions, and a cast of villains that will make your skin crawl.”

  Tim Meyer, author of The Switch House

  “A gritty, grisly historical fiction with poetic prose and plenty of heart and guts. A mesmerizing, cosmic horror tale channeling elements of Lovecraft and Chambers with a dash of Poe. I can't wait for the next chapter!”

  Chuck Buda, author of Tourniquet

  “With echoes of LaValle’s The Ballad of Black Tom, Michael Patrick Hicks’s The Resurrectionists conjures a unique and horrifying vision from the void beyond. I can’t wait to see where the series goes next.”

  Todd Keisling, author of The Final Reconciliation and Ugly Little Things

  “I had a BLAST reading this book. This novella captivated me from the get-go, introducing me to an array of characters that were fascinating in their own right. The last chapters held a special kind of mayhem, and I was in my element throughout.”

  Red Lace Reviews

  “One of the best Lovecraftian books I’ve read in quite some time. Fans of the sub-genre should find this book right up their alley... Michael Patrick Hicks captures the sense of helplessness, dread, and the smallness of Man in the universe very well.”

  Real Dead Reviews

  “Cosmic horror at its finest!”

  Zen Bookworm

  “An intriguing tale of cosmic horror and grave robbing… a very entertaining read and deserves to bring the fiction of Michael Patrick Hicks to a wider audience.”

  Ginger Nuts of Horror

  “I could nearly smell the blood and feel the tentacles reaching for me from the void. The Resurrectionists is a great story on its own, but also serves as a stellar introduction to a series that makes this ‘series shy’ reader excited for what's to come.”

  Biblioculus

  Praise for Broken Shells

  “A fun and nasty little novella...If you’re a big creature-feature fan (digging on works like Adam Cesare’s Video Night or Hunter Shea’s They Rise) you’re going to love this book.”

  Glenn Rolfe, author of Becoming and Blood and Rain

  “An adrenaline-fueled, no punches pulled, onslaught of gruesome action! Highly recommended!”

  Horror After Dark

  “Lightning fast...high octane fun.”

  Unnerving Magazine

  “Broken Shells is a blood-soaked, tense novella that is sure to appeal to a wide variety of horror fans, especially those that dig an old-school feel in thei
r novels.”

  The Horror Bookshelf

  “The very definition of a page-turner. Michael Patrick Hicks delivers right-between-the-eyes terror.”

  The Haunted Reading Room

  “Unnerving! ... It truly is the perfect blend of gore, horror and action.”

  PopHorror.com

  “Michael Patrick Hicks has managed, in only 120 pages, to craft a terrifying, steamroller of a story. The author makes you immediately connect with the main character Antoine, who is down on his luck and just looking for a possible break. When Antoine is thrust into the dark, you are along for the ride, whether you like it or not. And in the dark is where this story shines. Hicks makes you feel dread, like the walls are closing in as you read.”

  One-Legged Reviews

  “Hicks does a fine job of emotionally grasping the reader with his character creation. You’ll come for the story of survival, and stay for the darkness and gore. If you enjoy extremely gruesome creature horror and pitch black underground tunnels, then Broken Shells is right up your alley.”

  FanFiAddict

  Praise for Mass Hysteria

  “Brutal horror. Raw. Animalistic. I couldn’t put it down!”

  Armand Rosamilia, author of the Dying Days series

  “Mass Hysteria is a hell of a brutal, end of the world free for all. A terrifying vision of a future gone mad with bloodlust, Mass Hysteria will haunt your nightmares.”

  Hunter Shea, author of Creature and We Are Always Watching

  “A mindfuck of a story masquerading as an apocalyptic thriller. Once it takes its mask off, it’s Night of the Comet meets Pink Flamingos.”

  Chris Sorensen, author of The Nightmare Room

  “There are horror novels, and then there are HORROR novels. You know, the ones with blood dripping off the letters (and pages) and sinking deep into the pit of your soul, causing you to question the decency of humanity and existence itself. Mass Hysteria, by Michael Patrick Hicks, certainly falls into this latter category. Masterful storytelling, but NOT for the faint of heart. You’ve been warned.”

  The Behrg, author of Housebroken and The Creation series

  “Fun, horrible fun, from start to finish.”

  Horror Novel Reviews

  “It’s fast paced, action-packed, and bloody. Really, almost everything a horror gore-hound could want. ... Undeniably talented, Michael Patrick Hicks shows evidence of a rather deliciously depraved mind...”

  SciFi & Scary

  “Mass Hysteria was a brutal horror novel, which reminded me of the horror being written in the late 70’s and, (all of the), 80’s. Books like James Herbert’s The Rats or Guy N. Smith’s The Night of the Crabs. There are a lot of similarities to those classics here-the fast paced action going from scene to scene-with many gory deaths and other sick events. In fact, I think Mass Hysteria beats out those books in its sheer horrific brutality.”

  Char’s Horror Corner

  “I’m telling you now, this book isn’t for readers with weak stomachs. It is brutal in all the right ways.”

  Cedar Hollow Horror Reviews

  “If you are an aficionado of author Richard Laymon, you undoubtedly will like this book. This is horror at its bloodiest, guttiest and most shocking.”

  Cheryl Stout, Amazon Top Reviewer

  To my wife and kids, always.

  Chapter One

  The young woman’s stays, its bindings cut with a surgeon’s scalpel, sat in a heap on the floor. Her gauzy dress had been tossed aside. Eyes closed, she lay atop the table. Thick leather straps secured her wrists and feet to either end. Her dark scarlet hair hung in loose, springy curls around her face. The wound to her head and the blood that had issued forth from her scalp were hidden beneath the sprightly mound.

  Her name was unimportant to the man standing over her. Her profession was equally irrelevant, as was the means by which she had been procured. Jonathan Hereford had paid twelve dollars to the team of resurrectionists he routinely hired to bring him bodies. Whether the bodies were living or deceased when the resurrectionists procured them typically made little difference to him, as the end result for the bodies was the same. However, some occasions dictated that the subject be delivered alive and in sufficiently good health.

  The woman’s eyelids fluttered, chasing consciousness like a moth to an evening light. In the flickering candlelight illuminating the room, one eye twitched open, followed slowly by the other. Her mouth tried to form words around a wooden bite block, then as the sight of the figure before her crystallized, she tried to scream. Her teeth and mouth worked furiously to dislodge the bite block, already well-scored by dozens of sets of teeth, but the hunk of wood was wedged tightly, affixed to her straining, shaking head by leather straps buckled behind her skull. Spit leaked from the corners of her mouth, staining the wet wood black.

  Her eyes were opened wide in disbelief, and her freckled face contorted with fear, her lips pinching against the bite block as her nostrils flared, her breathing hitching through her nose in a loud, windy panic. A slender man draped in a thick, waxed overcoat stood over her, his hands gloved in shiny black leather to match the coat. His face was hidden behind a large-beaked mask. She shook her head in violent denial, the cords of her neck standing on end as she strained against her bonds. Hereford knew what she was seeing. He understood the fright she felt as she caught sight of her reflection in the black glass eyes on either side of the long, pointed beak. He saw similar reflections in the eyes of the masks around him. When her eyes finally found the blade, her bladder emptied.

  Hereford said not a word. Ignoring her, he turned to his five similarly dressed companions standing opposite the operating table, half hidden in the shadows as the penumbra of candlelight failed to fully reach them.

  “Begin,” a soft voice directed.

  Hereford tilted his head in acknowledgement of the command. Beneath the mask, he smiled.

  Curiosity overcame the woman’s fear, if only briefly, and she turned toward the voice. A tiny flicker of hope touched her eyes then fled immediately. The sight of the beaked masks, her supine form mirrored in each darkened eye lens, was enough to rekindle her horror. The five plague doctors stepped fully in the light, encircling her. Their faces leaned in, cocked slightly, birdlike, to take in the death of her hope and relish the fright that seized her. Her screams were muffled by the bite block as she, again, tried to free her arms and legs, but the straps stuck her fast to the table. Hopelessness washed through her as the gallery of birdmen watched her choke back her sobs. One figure leaned in closer, nearly beak to nose with her, and she could almost see past her reflection in the darkly tinted glass of the eyepiece, but what she saw only quickened the pace of her nightmare. She caught a glimmer of a dark eye, hungry and lecherous.

  Hereford savored the sight of the naked woman, his breath quickening as his penis lumbered to life. He studied her milky pale skin and the smattering of freckles across her face, chest, and limbs. Her nipples were such a soft pink that they nearly disappeared into the creamy complexion of the fatty mounds surrounding them. Her large breasts had fallen to either side of her ribs, and his eyes followed the doughy curve of her belly down to the deep triangular patch of bright-red hair between her shapely thighs. Behind the mask, he smiled in anticipation.

  She fought against the restraints, thick ropes of saliva trailing down from the bite block to pool at her neck. He did not need to understand the words to know she was urgently begging him. Her heart would be racing, he knew, the blood pounding through her veins to create a thunderous pulse. Even through the oiled leather, he could feel the maniacal pumping of her heart as he pressed his palm to her sweat-slickened chest. Behind the mask, Hereford smiled and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of lemon and herbs housed in the beak. His groin ached for release.

  He pressed the scalpel to her chest, the blade biting into skin just beneath the hollow of her throat. In one fluid motion, he cut a clean straight line down to her pubis. The woman fought harder, her screamin
g louder and pained. He had opened the flesh down to the muscle. Her body needed a moment to understand what had happened, then blood began to pool in the wound and overflow the edges of the fresh trench, sheeting across her torso. He made a second, deeper pass to cut through the muscle.

  Her head lurched off the table, her teeth embedded in the wooden block. She howled around it, red-faced and soaked in sweat.

  Hereford’s fingers dug into the narrow wound, widening the gap as he stretched apart the woman’s flesh. Her skull crashed onto the tabletop, and she went still once more. He wondered if she had knocked herself unconscious or merely passed out from the extraordinary pain. He pried away the meat from her sternum, exposing the bone, and then reached for his chisel and hammer. He made several solid blows down the length of bone, cracking open her chest, then inserted a metal hinge stained a ruddy brown from old blood. He cranked it so that the jaws spread her ribs wide with a rusty squeal.