Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter

by C. A. Verstraete

  She had no time to admire the rows of stately homes lined with fine green lawns and full trees, which formed a lush canopy over the street and darkened houses. Others would think her hard, heartless, and worse, she knew, if they saw the two of them together as John carefully guided the carriage into the shaded garden and yard. He told her to wait a moment and jumped out to make sure the horse was cared for by the stable boy. Minutes later, he returned and guided her to the house.

  Once inside, he became the gracious host. He offered a drink and other refreshments, but when he helped remove her coat, Lizzie impulsively turned toward him. She boldly made it clear she wanted him to do much more.

  She’d been courted before, mostly by much older men, usually Father’s business associates, men who did nothing but annoy her with their fumbling attempts to steal a kiss or an embrace. She’d been quick to ward off their misguided efforts to get their hands on either her chastity, or Father’s money. At age thirty-two, she’d always expected to remain a spinster.

  Now, Lizzie decided if she was going to spend the rest of her life in jail, or worse—best to not think of such things—she wanted to experience everything possible first. The offer of drinks forgotten, they did just that.

  Chapter Eight

  A. I don’t know what I have said. I have answered so many questions and I am so confused I don’t know one thing from another. I am telling you just as nearly as I know how.

  —Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11, 1892

  L

  ater, as she sat beside John on the settee and sipped a glass of wine, Lizzie felt no shame or regret about being alone with him, even at the risk of her reputation being ruined. There was simply too much else going on. Nor did she feel bad about her role in the night’s attack, and said so.

  “I was thinking about what happened,” she said. “It was shocking, but I realized I’m glad I could help. Really glad. If I can stop any of those horrid creatures from attacking anyone else, then I want to. I have no intention of simply standing on the sidelines and watching. I hope you don’t think badly of me.”

  John cleared his throat. “Badly? No, never. You did well.”

  “Then you think I can accompany you again?”

  He held up a hand. “We shall see. First things first. We have your situation to be most concerned about. I’ll let your sister Emma know of the Society so she understands what’s going on. We have to remain strictly professional after this in case I’m needed to serve in a legal capacity, but I suspect Andrew may want me to be available on a consulting basis instead. If, or when, you’re arrested, we don’t want your name to come to anyone’s attention for any other reason outside of the trial, or be linked to our work. You understand we cannot allow that to happen.”

  “I understand.” She sighed and pulled from his embrace. “Then you think they’ll arrest me?”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid it’s likely. We should leave soon.”

  Emboldened, she leaned in to kiss him. “Then we’d better not waste more time.”

  Seated again in the carriage, they made their way quietly to her house via the back roads, each lost in their own thoughts. Lizzie dreaded the public display most, and the way people would view her if she were arrested. Since the murders, she’d already noticed the curious glances, the sidelong stares, the whispers… and she suspected it would get much worse before long. Local gossip had never interested her, but she’d never been in such a position before. She sat back and let out a breath. It was a lot to consider.

  And, truth be told, now that she’d found John, she mostly did not—or could not—think of parting from him. Maybe their relationship had ended even before it really began, but she hoped not. Her mind swirled as she considered the impossible—what if I’m convicted? What if I have to go to jail? Is my life over?

  And worse… the ultimate punishment. Lizzie began to hyperventilate at the thought, the panic choking her. What-what if they find me guilty? Would they—could they—hang me?

  John brought the carriage to a stop in a shaded corner, just out of view of the house. His hand on hers stopped her inner turmoil for a minute. She tried to focus on him, on his fingers wrapped around hers.

  “Lizzie, are you all right? Calm yourself. Take a deep breath, that’s it. Now another.”

  She did as he suggested. The panic began to subside. “Yes, I-I think so. I was just thinking, what if…” She bit back a sob. She couldn’t say more.

  He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “Don’t. We’ll know in time. Focus on the positive, on the present. Let’s only think of good for the future, shall we?”

  That he said “we” made her feel much better, a tad hopeful even. Her analytical mind soon took over, however. I must be mad! If I’m charged, and even if I’m declared not guilty, how would it look for him to consort with someone like me—an accused killer? She gasped as the reality of that hit her. It would be professional suicide for him!

  She gave a weak smile and took another cleansing breath as he patted her hand again. Either way, she realized, the options were few. Maybe it sounded wanton, scandalous even, but if their future relationship went no further than an occasional stolen moment together… She paused and thought about it. Yes, I can accept that.

  “John, I wanted to say—”

  He reached out and pulled her close in a tight embrace, kissing her neck lightly. “Before you say anything, know that I’ll be thinking of you. I’ll be working behind the scenes for your welfare,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m hoping for the best of outcomes for you, for us.”

  “Yes.” She agreed and slipped from the carriage into the shadows. “I’ll be thinking of you also.” Then she remembered and ran back to the carriage. “Wait! You never told me what you meant about Father? About his not working with you?”

  A confused look came over his face for a moment. “I almost forgot. Well, I guess you should know. I don’t want you to stay out here too long. I’ll make it quick.” He sighed, and then began, his tone serious. “Your father is, sorry, was, such an influential member of the business community, we felt it important to ask him for his help. We thought there may come a time, if we needed any financial or other backing, he could be an important asset.”

  She nodded. “That makes sense. And?”

  “He turned us down. Said he had no time, and I quote, ‘for secret societies, and people with nothing better to do but chase nonexistent monsters.’ His exact words. So, we left it at that, and hoped he’d keep our inquiries to himself. I told him that even if he doubted our veracity, it was of the utmost importance nothing be said of us, or our meeting.”

  “What did he say?”

  John shook his head. “He said he had no intention of sharing such balderdash, and stormed off. I must have visited him on a bad day. You’d better get inside. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “I hope so,” she added, saying goodbye with a half-hearted wave.

  Watching the carriage drive off, she headed unseen into the backyard, certain that even the most stalwart of nosy neighbors wouldn’t be spying out their windows. She went inside, a whispered prayer on her lips that the police hadn’t been back to check on her whereabouts, either. She hoped to have at least a little time to digest the probability of her arrest first.

  John’s words troubled her. Her father could be stubborn, even a bit prickly at times. Yet when it came to business, if he saw any kind of advantage he’d never been the type to let an opportunity slip by.

  The whole idea sounded odd; almost far-fetched. She thought her father would’ve changed his mind if he could present himself as someone helpful. Maybe it might’ve given him the chance to ingratiate himself with other businessmen and community members he hadn’t worked with before. Apparently not, but something still felt wrong. What could Father have been thinking?

  A darker thought occurred to her; a possibility that she would never have considered, but for recent events. Could it be true? Was her father up to something that conflicted with
the Society’s plans?

  Taking off her coat, she slipped her hand into the pocket and felt the package still resting there. Her curiosity mounted as she went to the kitchen, lit the lamp, and pulled it across the scarred wooden table. Picking up a knife, she slit the string wrapped around the package and unfolded the heavy white paper. Inside sat a plain, flat wooden container. It had no description or label. Nothing was written on the inside of the packaging, either.

  Being extra careful, she grasped the box and slowly pulled it open. She stared at the contents, surprised, but also a little disappointed. That’s all it is? Just a key. A plain, utilitarian key. Picking it up, she noted the lack of any kind of imprint or name. What would it open? Maybe a small chest? A desk? A secret door?

  Not sure what to think, Lizzie slipped the key back into the box, then rewrapped and retied it. Looking for something to write with, she spotted a pencil on the table and scribbled a message on the paper, just in case: Emma, give to John. For a second she considered putting the package back in her coat pocket. No, no, that won’t do, she realized. If—or when—I’m arrested, they’ll find the box and confiscate it. Then we’ll never know what it opens. She suspected it needed to remain in the possession of someone who was aware of the bizarre events that had occurred here at home.

  Where to put it? She went to the hall closet and spied Emma’s favorite black cloak. Yes, perfect! She hurriedly stuffed the package deep in the inner pocket and hoped for the best. It seemed important for Emma to find it in case she had no chance to pass it on herself.

  Heading upstairs to her room, she tried to block out the horrible images in her mind. How could such ghastly, monstrous things be real? How? Her head began to spin. Taking deep breaths, she clung to the rail and tried not to fall.

  A few seconds later, she plopped down on the stair and waited for the vertigo to pass, but this time she couldn’t stop the tears. Her head in her hands, she tried to regain her composure, hating the feeling of helplessness that flooded in. Her life had not been exactly idyllic, but for the most part, she’d been comfortable.

  Still, she had hoped, and longed, to be more in control, and have fewer restrictions on her life. With neither she nor Emma expecting to be married anytime soon, at least not in the near future, the two of them had discussed taking the liberating step of living together in a small house of their own. Father owned enough properties around town that they thought one of them surely would be a suitable place for two spinster women living together.

  Lizzie rose and trudged up the stairs, bemoaning the loss of her family life, maybe even the loss of her future. Anger stirred in her breast. Why did this have to happen? Why did it happen to me? Why, why?

  She felt herself begin to unravel and grabbed the handrail for support. Steady, now steady. I have to keep myself in order. I must. The sigh she released came from the depths of her soul. I have to stay strong. I have to—for Emma. But can I?

  Chapter Nine

  Q. Did you give to the officer the same skirt you had on the day of the tragedy?

  A. Yes, sir.

  Q. Do you know whether there was any blood on the skirt?

  A. No, sir.

  —Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11, 1892

  August 6, 1892

  “T

  here she is! She-devil! Monster!”

  Tears stung Lizzie’s eyes as she peeked beyond the edge of the curtains at the growing mob gathered in front of the house. It had begun with a few curious onlookers. She expected the crowds to grow larger and surlier by the time they left for Father and Mrs. Borden’s burials.

  Emma walked over and squeezed Lizzie’s shoulder before pulling her sister away from the window. She yanked down the shade with a mumbled curse. “Liz, don’t listen to them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Lizzie let Emma draw her back into the kitchen and tried to blot out the slurs, though they still pierced her like fishing barbs. Part of her couldn’t dismiss the hateful words so easily. “I know, I know, but…”

  “You have to let go of it,” Emma advised. “You have to stay strong. You can’t let it eat at you.”

  Further discussion would have to wait as someone knocked at the back door. Emma motioned her to stay put and hurried to see who it was. Lizzie tensed, hoping it wasn’t another one of those pesky reporters. They’d gotten bolder, and even more egregious, in their speculations in recent days. Lucky for them, Mr. Jennings handled most of the press inquiries, making it easier to withstand, at least most days.

  Every now and then one boldly appeared at the door, seeking some lie they could print. Just the other day Lizzie spotted a shocking example Emma had tried to hide, the rag trumpeting the preposterous, most scandalous idea that she’d killed their parents because of anger over a love child. John, and his fellow Society members, fortunately did have friends in the press, and in higher places. He told her nothing had been said about the horrible creatures, or the fight at the cemetery because of that. No one had to tell her that the current preoccupation with her was likely the real reason, but at least it took attention away from their cause. But how long could that last?

  A greeting from their older neighbor, Dr. Seabury Bowen, his face serious but kindly as he stepped in, halted her woolgathering. The well-dressed gentleman tipped his hat. “Thank you, Miss Emma. I contacted the marshal about this group out front. He said he would send out police to clear the walks, and send them on their way.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Emma responded. “It really is getting out of hand, I think.”

  “Very well.” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I would like a few moments with your sister.”

  Dr. Bowen dipped his head at her in greeting as Emma left them alone. “Miss Borden? I wanted to check on you, and see how you were holding up. How are you doing?”

  Lizzie feared her attempt to act cheerful failed to go over well. “I confess it’s getting more difficult. I feel like I’m drowning. By the hour, it becomes harder and harder to bear.”

  He set his worn, black doctor’s bag on the table, asking without words for permission to look her over. She agreed with a nod. He peered at her eyes, and felt her pulse. During his examination he said nothing, but gave the occasional grunt or a muttered, Mmm-hmm.

  “Well.” He finally stepped back and began rummaging in his bag. “Are you eating? Getting enough sleep?”

  She shook her head to both.

  “Hmm, given your situation, I’m giving you medication to relax, so you can get some rest.”

  The doctor drew out a syringe and small vial from his bag, and filled it. Dabbing her skin with an alcohol-saturated cotton compress, he inserted the needle into her arm. When he was done, he instructed her to hold the cotton in place for a moment.

  “The morphine will help you feel calmer. I will be back to give you more as needed.”

  Lizzie sat stunned for a moment, thoughts of all the terrible stories she’d read in the newspaper about morphine fiends going through her mind. One of the papers just last week had a story about a man who’d committed suicide because of his drug use.

  “Doctor, is it safe? I don’t want to become—”

  He patted her hand and cut her off with a wave. “There now. Don’t be concerned. You leave the worrying to me. A small amount won’t hurt you.”

  She supposed he was right, his words making her feel better. “Thank you, Doctor. The-the burials will be later.”

  “Yes, I will be there. Good day for now.”

  To his credit, the doctor never seemed to pass judgment, or treat her as anything but a patient, and a neighbor he had known for years, which helped immensely. Within minutes of his leaving, Lizzie leaned back in the chair and gave in to the dreamy feeling. Her whole body relaxed as the drug took effect. She nearly fell into a doze right there at the kitchen table but for Emma’s interruption.

  “Lizzie? Are you awake?”

  Lizzie stirred, her movements slow and deliberate as she lifted her
head. It almost felt like treading water, or fighting against an unseen current. “Mmm, yes, the doctor gave me something to relax.” The clank of tea cups prompted her to rise, but the motion went no further than her thoughts. “Ah, I think I’ll sit here a while.”

  “Yes, sit there. I’ll get you some tea, and then we need to work on an advertisement for the newspaper. We should provide a reward, so it’ll be taken seriously. How much should we offer? Is two thousand dollars enough?”

  Emma’s words made Lizzie look up. Neither of them dared voice their thoughts aloud—that no one would ever catch the real killer. No, not her, but whoever had passed that dreadful illness, or whatever it was, on to Father and Mrs. Borden.

  Lizzie sighed, closed, and then barely opened her eyes as she slid the pen and paper across the table to Emma. Her words sounded slurred, even to her. “No, make it five thousand,” she answered. “Have Mr. Jennings handle the inquiries.”

  Emma nodded and read back what she’d written: “A Reward of Five Thousand Dollars is Offered for the Arrest of the Man or Person Responsible for the Deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Borden. Contact Mr. Andrew Jennings…”

  Lizzie nodded her approval, though it felt more and more like she was being sucked down in quicksand. She stumbled to her feet, her legs wobbled like jelly. “Emma, I need to lie down for a while. Can you help me to the staircase?”

  The way Emma tsk-tsked made the walk to the stairs feel like a miles-long trek. “The doctor should have made sure you ate something first. I will tell him that.”

  All Lizzie could do was nod. She grabbed the banister, hanging on as she slowly made her way upstairs. “I just need to lie down,” she mumbled.

  “I’ll wake you in a half-hour and make sure you get some food in you before everyone arrives,” Emma said.

  Emma’s words swirled in her mind as Lizzie fell into a deep sleep… wanted for the killings… murders… murderess…

  She sighed and sat up an hour later, not sure whether she could stand the judgmental stares of others. Would she be able to hold up under the increasing pressure? Emma’s call from downstairs interrupted her musing. Stumbling to the door, she called back, “Coming. I’ll be down in a minute.”