In his endeavors to restore life to deceased human forms, West's attempts were …lacking in success, to say the least. At best, there were less than pleasant effects, murderous creatures being the least of them. West had learned the hard way that giving psuedo-life to anything larger than him was not a good idea.* Since the cult texts had mentioned later on within its pages that Atrenis was just the height of the average thirteenth century woman, Herbert assumed that he would have a better chance at controlling her should something undesirable occur. West decided that he would perform this experiment without help of any kind, based on his experiences with his last and only assistant. Perhaps the fools at Miskatonic would take him more seriously when they saw his serums perform successfully on a more adequate specimen. Assuming that he could even find a physical form of Atrenis, the form may not necessarily be quite as fresh as he needed it to be. However, Herbert was quite sure that he could come up with a mean to his ends.
West's fingers dug tightly into the stomach he held, his nails securing it, digging deep grooves into the cold form until it burst, spreading its contents onto Herbert and his work area. "Damn", he sighed, using his forearm to push his now bloodied hair away from his face, succeeding only in smearing the remains of the tissue across his glasses. "Now I have to go and find another specimen." A shame. That had been the best one yet.
Through perfectly logical assumptions, Herbert believed that by swapping out old organs with newer ones – from bodies donated to science, of course, by choice or no – with the exception of the brain, the form should retain a somewhat normal quality of "life" without severe repercussions. West had also learned that it was most unwise to reanimate corpses which were heavily damaged, whether through outward problems such as missing limbs or through internal damage. He lifted a scalpel from the worktable beside him and prodded the remains of the now-ruined stomach experimentally. He imagined that if he were somehow able to replace Atrenis' organs – if she had any – with those of a human he may be more receptive. Only a theory, but all theories must be tested before they are accepted as fact. Was he mad? Yes, quite mad. But from Herbert's point of view, nothing else mattered aside from one thing – success.
As with any venture, certain ... items ... would need to be procured. Therefore, West had taken in upon himself to venture to various cities and homesteads away from Arkham to gather his needed instruments without the bother of curious fools. He bought only a little of what he needed here and there to make sure that he did not to incite suspicion, and always payed in cash. On he had filled up his modest car with the necessary items from his last stop, he returned to his home in the Layman's Apartments. The apartments had been run down for quite some time, and various parts of the walls were coming apart on the outside. It may not survive an air strike, but at least it was sufficient for his purposes. Dark, gloomy, creepy enough to ward off any passerby, and with enough floors for him to shot any fool that would dare come near. A small family of cats had taken up residence in the first floor rooms - he found no need to be rid of them since they kept down the rat and mice population that would be disastrous to his work. Herbert and the cats viewed each other with the same air of indifference - you keep to your area, and I'll keep to mine. Occasionally, one of the kittens would stumble over to him when he arrived, and he often found himself stroking them in a seldom seen display of affection from the man.
After moving everything up to his room after several trips, Herbert decided that he was done for the day and retired to his bed. After all, Atrenis was eternal, and he had waited long enough to prove those Miskatonic fools wrong- a few days more would make no difference.
*When I typed this, I immediately thought of a large elephant.