Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter
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LIZZIE BORDEN,
ZOMBIE HUNTER
C.A. Verstraete
White Wolf Books
LIZZIE BORDEN, ZOMBIE HUNTER
Copyright © 2016, 2018 by Christine (C.A.) Verstraete.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and in the public domain. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Thanks to the Kenosha Critiquers and friends, for feedback and support: Doris, Janet, Jean, Stephen S., Steve R., and Vicki.
Second Edition, White Wolf Books
www.cverstraete.com
Cover art and design: Juan Villar Padron, www.talenthouse.com/jotapadron
Printed in the USA
Praise for
LIZZIE BORDEN,
ZOMBIE HUNTER
“A good yarn told in a well written and engaging style.” —The Rotting Zombie, 7 of 10 zombie heads
“Historical fiction without ruining the original story or creating an entirely false world… A cool twist on an old mystery.” —Melanie, FangFreakinTastic Reviews, 4 fangs
“I’d definitely have to recommend this book to any horror, history, or zombie lover. Very much worth the read.” —Stormi, Boundless Book Reviews
Praise for
LIZZIE BORDEN,
ZOMBIE HUNTER 2
“Lizzie Borden is back, and so are the zombies shambling their way through this fun and engaging book. Lizzie has lost none of her bad-assitude!”—Angela, Horror Maiden’s Book Reviews
Praise for
THE HAUNTING OF DR. BOWEN
“The imagery in this book is brilliant… and creepy!”
—Rebbie Reviews
For Lizzie Borden fans who wonder, what really happened that day?
Now you know.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Message from the Author
The Real Life Crime
Sources
About the Author
Excerpt, Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter 2: The Axe Will Fall!
Excerpt, The Haunting of Dr. Bowen
Chapter One
Q. You saw his face covered with blood?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Did you see his eyeball hanging out?
A. No, sir.
Q. Did you see the gashes where his face was laid open?
A. No, sir.
—Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11, 1892
August 4, 1892
L
izzie Borden drained the rest of her tea, set down her cup, and listened to the sound of furniture moving upstairs. My, my, for only ten o’clock in the morning my stepmother is certainly energetic. Housecleaning, already?
THUMP.
For a moment, Lizzie forgot her plans to go shopping downtown. THUMP. There it went again. It sounded like her stepmother was rearranging the whole room. She paused at the bottom stair, her concern growing, when she heard another thump and then, the oddest of sounds—a moan. Uh-oh. What was that? Did she hurt herself?
“Mrs. Borden?” Lizzie called. “Are you all right?”
No answer.
She wondered if her stepmother had taken ill, yet the shuffling, moving, and other unusual noises continued. Lizzie hurried up the stairs and paused outside the partially opened door. The strange moans coming from the room sent a shiver up her back.
When she pushed the door open wider, all she could do was stare. Mrs. Abby Durfee Borden stood in front of the bureau mirror clawing at her reflected image. And what a horrid image it was! The sixty-seven-year-old woman’s hair looked like it had never been combed and stuck out like porcupine quills. Her usually spotless housedress appeared wrinkled and torn. Yet, that wasn’t the worst. Dark red spots—blood, Lizzie’s mind whispered—dotted the floor and streaked the sides, of the older woman’s dress and sleeves.
Lizzie gazed about the room in alarm. The tips of Father’s slippers peeking out from beneath the bed also glistened with the same viscous red liquid. All that blood! What happened here? What happened?
She gasped, which got the attention of Mrs. Borden, who jerked her head and growled. Lizzie choked back a cry of alarm. Abby’s square, plain face now appeared twisted and ashen gray. Her eyes, once bright with interest, stared from under a milky covering as if she had cataracts. She resembled a female version of The Portrait of Dorian Gray. Another growl and a moan, and the older woman lunged, arms rigid, her stubby hands held out like claws.
“Mrs. Borden, Abby!” Lizzie yelled and stumbled backward as fast as she could. “Abby, do you hear me?”
Her stepmother shuffled forward, her steps slow but steady. She showed no emotion or sense of recognition. The only utterances she made were those strange low moans.
Lizzie moved back even further, trying to keep out of reach of Mrs. Borden’s grasping fingers. Then her foot hit something. Lizzie quickly glanced down at the silver hairbrush that had fallen to the floor. Too late, she realized her error.
“No!” Lizzie shivered at the feel of her stepmother’s clammy, cold hand around her wrist. “Abby, what happened? What’s wrong with you?”
Mrs. Borden said nothing and moved in closer. Her mouth opened and closed revealing bloodstained teeth.
“No! Stay away!” Lizzie yelled. “Stop!”
She didn’t. Instead, Mrs. Borden scratched and clawed at her. Lizzie leaned back, barely escaping the snap of the madwoman’s teeth at her neck.
“Mrs. Bor—Abby! No, no! Stop!”
Lizzie’s slight advantage of being younger offered no protection against her stepmother’s almost demonic, inhuman strength. The older woman bit and snapped like a rabid dog. Lizzie struggled to fight her off and shoved her away, yet Mrs. Borden attacked again and again, her hands grabbing, her teeth seeking the tender flesh covered by Lizzie’s long, full sleeves.
The two of them grappled and wrestled, bumping into the bedposts and banging into furniture. Lizzie yelped each time her soft flesh hit something hard. She felt her strength wane as the crazed woman’s gnarled hands clawed at her. How much more she could endure?
Her cries for help came out hoarse and weak. “Em-Emma!” She tried again. “Help! Help me!�
� Lizzie knew her sister had come in late last night from her trip out of town. But if Emma already woke and went downstairs, will she even hear me?
Lizzie reeled back in panic as her spine pressed against the fireplace. She pushed and fought in an attempt to keep this monster away, yet Mrs. Borden’s ugly face and snapping teeth edged closer and closer.
Then Lizzie spotted it: the worn hatchet Father had left behind after he’d last brought in the newly chopped wood. No, no! Her mind filled with horror, but when her stepmother came at her again, Lizzie whispered a prayer for forgiveness and grabbed the handle. She lifted the hatchet high overhead and swung as hard as she could. It hit her stepmother’s skull with a sickening thud.
As impossible as it seemed, Mrs. Borden snarled and continued her attack.
Lizzie hit her again and again and again. The blows raked her stepmother’s face and scraped deep furrows into tender flesh. The metal hatchet head pounded her stepmother’s shoulders and arms, the bones giving way with sickening crunches. Mrs. Borden’s broken arms dangled, hanging limp and ugly at her sides… and yet, dear God, she continued her attack.
With her last bit of strength, Lizzie raised the hatchet again, bringing it down on Mrs. Borden’s head. Only then did her stepmother crumple and fall into a pile at Lizzie’s feet. It took a few minutes for Lizzie to comprehend the horrible scene. It didn’t seem real, but it was.
With a cry, she threw the bloodied hatchet aside. She gagged as the weapon caught in the braided artificial hairpiece hanging from the back of Mrs. Borden’s gore-encrusted scalp.
Retching, Lizzie ran to the other side of the bed, bent over, and vomited into the chamber pot. She crossed the room and leaned against the wall, her shoulders shaking with each heartrending sob.
Her hands trembled so hard she could barely hold them still, but she managed to cover her eyes in a feeble attempt to block out the carnage. It didn’t stop the horrific images that flashed in her mind, or the many questions. And it certainly did nothing for the soul-crushing guilt that filled her.
“Why?” she cried. “Why?” Dear God, what have I done? What have I done?
Chapter Two
Q. What time did you come downstairs?
A. As near as I can remember, it was a few minutes before nine.
—Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11, 1892
L
izzie staggered to the bureau mirror and stared. A wild-eyed woman gazed back. Mousy brown hair stuck out around her head in a disheveled halo. Spots of blood and gore dotted her clothes and face. She broke from her trance and looked up in alarm when someone called from downstairs. Oh, no, Emma! She couldn’t let her sister come up here!
“Lizzie? Is everything all right?” her older sister called. “What’s Abby doing up there?”
“It’s nothing.” Lizzie forced herself to sound cheery. She acted like nothing was wrong. “No need to worry. I’m helping Mrs. Borden pick up a box she spilled while cleaning. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Lizzie hurriedly ran back into the room, grabbed a cotton gown, and dipped it in the jug of water on the bureau. She rubbed the bloody streaks from her face, hair, and hands. Her blue morning dress was too soiled and stained to fix. It would have to be discarded. For now, she put on the old pink wrapper Mrs. Borden had left hanging in the closet and tied it around her waist.
She inspected herself again for any errant spots, and seeing none, rushed from the room. It was only when she got halfway down the stairs that she saw the red blotches on her shoes. Oh, no! She looked around and seeing nothing of use, pulled down her plain white petticoat and thoroughly wiped the tops of both of her sturdy black shoes. She breathed hard, fearing Emma’s appearance any minute. The bloodied undergarment tucked out of sight under her voluminous skirt, she almost got down the stairs when she remembered—the hatchet!
Every nerve on edge, she rushed back upstairs and peered into the room. Mrs. Borden’s body lay slumped on her knees beside the bed, like she’d been praying. Choking back tears, Lizzie pulled the hatchet free from where it had hooked her stepmother’s raggedy hairpiece and let the blood-drenched braid drop to the floor. A jagged Z remained on the back of the dead woman’s scalp, a gruesome memento of her fate.
A horrific image of a gory Mrs. Borden flashed in Lizzie’s mind. “No, please, no,” Lizzie muttered. She pressed her temple. “I can’t think of that now. I can’t.”
Forcing herself to stay focused, she wiped and wrapped the hatchet in a towel before hiding it between the folds of her skirt. With each step, her heart hammered in her chest. All she had to do was make it downstairs without Emma paying attention.
To her relief, she managed to slip into the kitchen unnoticed while Emma dug around in the icebox. It gave her a scant few minutes to shove the hatchet out of sight behind the containers of lard Maggie had failed to put away.
Emma still paid no mind, instead rummaging around for who-knew-what, given they’d breakfasted not more than an hour ago. No wonder she’s getting a tad pudgy, Lizzie thought. She took another deep, cleansing breath, and struggled to calm herself. She couldn’t let Emma know what was going on! She had to act like everything was normal.
“Emma? What are you looking for? Mrs. Borden said she felt a cold coming on so we should all fortify ourselves. Care for a cup of tea and honey?”
Emma ended her rooting around and bit into an apple with a shrug. “Maybe a few sips. I am feeling a bit sluggish. It’s so hot. Where’s Maggie?”
“Still sleeping, I suppose. She mentioned feeling sick after washing the windows in this heat.”
“I’m surprised Abby isn’t yelling for her to get out of bed. You know how she feels about sloth.”
Lizzie merely nodded, and bit back a retort about her sister’s own habits, when a noise in the adjacent sitting room caught her ear. Was Father back from the bank? She glanced quickly at Emma, who paid no attention to the sound of furniture moving in the other room. But then she heard something that sent a shiver up her back—a low moan.
The sound even got Emma to stop munching her apple and look up. “What was that? Is Father sick?” She took a step toward the kitchen door. “Maybe I should see—”
“No, wait,” Lizzie warned, trying to rein in her panic. “You sit and have your tea before it gets cold. I’ll check on Father and bring a cup in to him.”
To Lizzie’s relief, Emma agreed and plopped into a kitchen chair. Lizzie hurriedly grabbed the tea kettle, poured hot water in the cups, and added some sliced lemon. She paused as the gruesome image of Mrs. Borden came to mind. What if something was wrong with Father, too? She had to keep Emma here until she could check if everything was all right! But how?
Lizzie went to the pantry and grabbed the jar of honey when she spotted the answer—a small bottle of Laudanum tucked behind the baking soda and jars of spices. Father must have left it there for use when he couldn’t sleep. Much less than the usual dose should do the trick, she guessed. All she wanted was to keep Emma out of the way for a while.
After putting a drop in one of the three cups, she quickly put the bottle back and finished her preparations, being sure to add a pinch of cinnamon and a good dollop of honey to mask the bitterness. The room filled with the crisp scent of lemon and the spiciness of the cinnamon as she let the tea steep.
Everything ready, she set the tray on the table and gave Emma her tea before sipping from her own cup—undoctored, of course. “Mmm, this new English Breakfast tea with cinnamon has a very nice flavor to it, don’t you agree?”
Emma took two unladylike slurps before nodding. “Hmm, it’s not bad. I like the honey in it, but it has a bitter aftertaste I think.”
Lizzie stirred hers and took another taste. “Maybe there’s too much cinnamon, or it could be the lemon. I think that can make it a trifle bitter at times, but you know Father likes his strong. I’ll take his cup—”
Hearing another sound in the sitting room, Lizzie nearly dropped her spoon in alarm. This time, her sister didn’
t seem to notice. Her eyelids drooping, Emma slurred her last few words, “Getting kind of shleepy,” and with that, she dropped her head on her arms.
Lizzie pushed the chair in a bit closer to the table to be sure her sister wouldn’t fall to the floor. Emma remained slumped at the table, her soft snores filling the room. Lizzie moved quickly. She took the hatchet in hand and stuffed the bloodied towel inside a bag of refuse that had to be burned.
A quick peek through the doorway told her Father had returned home, or maybe as she suspected, he might not have ever left. How odd to find him still sprawled across the old black settee this late in the morning. She tiptoed into the room and set the hatchet by the fireplace before approaching him.
“Father? Are you ill?”
He moaned in response. Lizzie moved closer. Her heart beat like a marching band in her chest. Her nose twitched at the odd smell in the room, like something foul, or meat going bad. “Father? Are you—?”
She gasped as he turned enough for her to see the ghastly grin on his face. Horrified, she stumbled away from him as fast as she could. Dear God! Whatever could cause such an awful change?
Her father’s face, never handsome yet commanding just the same, resembled an image from one of her childhood nightmares. His open mouth revealed rows of yellowing teeth that chomped at the empty air. His eyes had rolled back, showing the whites. Lines of red-tinged drool dribbled down his chin and spotted the brilliant white of his Lincolnesque beard.
Usually a fine dresser who took pride in his appearance, his once pristine vest beneath his black coat now looked like he had worn it on a battlefield. The shiny, yellow-gold fabric was crinkled and splotched with spots of what she recognized as blood. She crept a few steps nearer and stared, trying to understand what had happened to him. Did he, too, become ill with whatever Mrs. Borden had?