Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter

by C. A. Verstraete

  John pursed his lips as he thought. “Hmm, then maybe one of those women had access to the warehouses. They knew where the keys were. They might’ve known what kind of security was, or wasn’t, there.”

  She saw where he was going with his reasoning. “The women were either threatened, or maybe their families were, for them to decide on providing such information. Or maybe they’d been mistreated, or released from their employment.”

  “It opens up a whole other avenue for us to look into,” John added. “Do you remember the names of the women you recommended?”

  “I think so. Emma will be a big help. She has access to the program records at the church. No one will think anything of her looking around.”

  John rose to his feet and straightened his coat. “Good, good. This sounds like something we’ll get some answers from, and soon.”

  “One more thing,” Lizzie added. “Tell Emma to look in her top bureau drawer. I saved a list of women who either dropped out of the project, failed, or were to come back at a later date. Perhaps one of them could’ve been angry enough to resort to other circumstances if they were contacted and persuaded.”

  “All right, then.” John gave her hand a squeeze and sidled close to whisper in her ear. “I would much rather have you in my arms instead of saying goodbye like this, but we must be professional. Remember, the walls have eyes and ears.”

  A different matron glared at her before shutting the heavy cell door and escorting John out. Lizzie sat on the bed and stared at the drab, medicinal gray-green walls, feeling as alone as she had ever felt in her life. With the threat of tears pricking the backs of her eyelids, she took a deep breath. “Get yourself together,” she muttered.

  To keep her mind off her problems, at least for a while, she pulled over the bulging folder and began to pick through the voluminous contents. Bills of lading. Receipts for mortuary supplies. Wood, jars, bottles. Hmm, he bought a lot of bottles, she saw. The growing stack of bills piqued her interest. She pulled a pad of paper over and a pencil. Glass bottles, nearly three-inches tall, she wrote. For what? She considered it and made a note.

  In spite of her dismal surroundings, Lizzie suspected John was right. It was a good idea to have something to occupy her thoughts for a time. She pulled the thin, scratchy blanket over her shoulders, stuffed the hard pillow behind her back, and tried to get somewhat comfortable as she leaned against the wall to read.

  Soon, she yawned and set the papers aside, a bit disappointed that nothing beyond those bottles stood out so far in the stack of papers and bills she had sifted through. She thought of giving up for now, as she’d already been at it for a couple hours, when the light faded, leaving her sitting in an eerie dimness. Bedtime, even if it felt way too early for sleep. She sat in near darkness except for the ray of moonlight streaming in through the one small window on the cell’s rear brick wall.

  Her thoughts jumped around until she settled on an appealing mental image of a bare-chested John lying in bed, his hair tousled, when something slammed against the outer wall with a bang. BAM! She bolted from her near-dream state with a cry and sat up, fully aware again of her dismal surroundings. BAM! Something hit the outer wall of her cell again. BAM! Then the yells, taunts, and laughter began.

  “Killer—murderer!” More laughter.

  “Help, what’s going on?” she cried out, her fear of being attacked in the dark growing. “Is anyone there?”

  The silence mocked her. Lizzie tried to settle her nerves when something scraped down the hall. Mice?

  Something scraped again.

  Then she heard something else and her heart froze.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fall River appears to be prolific in the way of hatchets…

  —Ex-Governor George Robinson for the defense,

  Trial of Lizzie Borden, July 20, 1893, The Omaha Bee

  L

  izzie pressed against the cold, damp wall next to the bed, listening, her heart pounding in fear. Then she recognized it—a distinctive shuffling, sliding sound. Slide, scrape. Slide, scrape. Her mouth went dry as the sounds grew louder, accentuated by a low, uneven moan.

  Terror gripped her.

  It was one thing to be outside, fighting off the undead creatures with others around to help. It was something else entirely to be stuck alone in a small, dark cell the size of a closet, waiting for a monster to attack without anything she could use to defend herself.

  She jumped to her feet, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest, and cursed as the folder fell to the floor with a thud. The creature down the hall must have heard it, too, and increased its shuffling. UNNNNNHHH. Its long, low moan filled the air even as a horrific stench of spoiled eggs, decay, and rot drifted her way.

  It’s getting closer! Frantic, she scanned the room, looking for something to use as a weapon other than a plain old pencil. Given she was locked away behind sturdy iron bars, she had a good chance of remaining safe without the creature getting near her. Still, Lizzie felt quite like a mouse stuck in a trap.

  Not sure what to do, she leaned against the door and peeked out, trying to see as best she could. To her horror, she felt the door move. It slowly opened with a low, eerie creak. OH DEAR LORD PLEASE, NO! It opened further. Oh, no! The matron had left the door unlocked!

  The undead creature’s moans increased. She realized she had minutes, if not seconds. She could stay here, take the chance that the creature wouldn’t be able to get inside, but she hated the feeling of being a sitting duck.

  Lizzie peeked through the bars again when she remembered the emergency axe. The jail had to have one in case of fire. It had to be somewhere at the end of the hall near the exit! Thank goodness she wasn’t stuck in a center cell.

  Holding her breath, she pushed the door open a little more, praying it didn’t creak again. She had just enough room to peer to the right and saw the ghoul advancing. It shuffled on at a slow pace, intent on its deadly mission. Seeing it still four cells away, she knew this was her chance—maybe her only chance. She shoved the door fully open and lunged out.

  UNNNNNHHH! The creature saw her and moaned, growing even more agitated. It tried to move faster, though it was still three cells away. Lizzie took in its gray body pocked with black holes, peeling hunks of dead skin hanging like rotted tree limbs, and pockets of black gook oozing from holes on its body. If that wasn’t terrible enough, the nasty, rotten stench drifting her way provided more than enough motivation to get her moving. She ran in the opposite direction, frantically scanning the walls for the axe, another weapon… something to protect herself.

  GRRRRRN.

  The creature moaned again and shambled closer. Lizzie tried not to breathe in as the horrible rotten smell filled her nostrils. Shuffle, slide. It was two cells away now.

  Lizzie ran to a battered old wooden desk at the end of the hall and frantically began searching the drawers, scattering papers and what-not. She grabbed the pair of scissors from beneath the mess.

  The creature shuffled closer. Shuffle, slide, shuffle, slide. Now it was one cell away and moving steadily in her direction.

  Panic squeezed her chest. “Oh please, God, please help me,” she whispered. Where was that axe?

  Ever more frantic, Lizzie scanned the floor and walls, sweat popping out on her forehead, when a shape sticking out on the upper wall near the exit caught her eye. She ran into the small alcove and looked up. Yes! Relief flooded her to see the emergency fire axe hanging from two hooks on the upper wall.

  UNNNHH.

  The low moans made her turn to check the ghoul’s location. Lizzie gasped in shock. The monster stood only feet away and rounded the desk. Its body scraped against the wood, leaving horrible gobs of itself behind.

  Her panic in full bloom, Lizzie jumped and tried to pull down the axe. It got stuck. Jumping up again, she stretched and reached. This time she did it. Her fingers wrapped around the axe tight, she yanked it from the hooks holding it to the wall.

  Her feeling of triumph faded as
a stench like dead, stagnant water enveloped her. Taking a firm grip on the axe handle, she ignored the sudden feeling of déjà vu, turned, and braced herself just in time. As if sensing its victory, the creature shuffled faster, dragging its bony feet across the paving stones with a sickening scrape.

  Two feet… It kept coming. One foot…

  Lizzie took a deep breath, moved into position, and swung like she was one of the Boston Beaneaters hoping to make a hit. WHAM! Home run! The axe glanced off the monster’s head with a loud crack, hitting bone and jolting her arm like she’d slammed into a brick wall. To her relief, she hit it with the side of the axe head and didn’t have to yank the blade free.

  Hurrying, she wiped the gook from the side of her face and swung again. WHACK! Brain matter splattered the wall. She gagged, swung, and hit. WHACK.

  She swung and hit again. WHACK. WHAM. WHACK.

  The swings became automatic. She no longer saw the bloodied thing in front of her, the horror of it sending her into near hysterics. She kept at it, tears running down her cheeks, until she heard a voice call her name. The sound of running, and the jangle of cell door keys, broke into her hysterical fog. Giving one last cry, she let the axe fall from her gore-encrusted hands.

  Stunned, Lizzie stumbled away from what was left of the creature, a gory pile of massacred, bloody pulp. Breathing heavily, she turned and leaned against the other wall, resting her head on the cool stone.

  Someone touched her shoulder, making her jump. She looked up, surprised to see John there. “Liz! Are you all right?”

  She took several deep breaths and let herself calm down before answering. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “My God, what happened?”

  “I wish I knew. After you left, the matron, a heavy woman I never saw before, left the door open. Then that came along.” She pointed at the remains of the horrid intruder.

  “At least you weren’t hurt.” John gripped her shoulder and led her down the hall, not to her cell as she expected, but to the shower room. There, the matron who first checked her in, handed her a towel and a set of new clothing.

  John tried to reassure her. “I fully intend looking into this. The only matron on tonight was this woman, who was stationed on another cell block. I’ll talk with the warden and ask him to put on extra guards. You shower and change, then the matron will take you to another cell on a more populated block so something like this doesn’t happen again. Will you be all right?”

  Lizzie nodded, wiped her hands, and gripped the clothes, her terror waning. She felt tired and numb. “Yes, thank you. I-I’ll be fine.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you in court tomorrow. Don’t worry. You’ll come to no more harm.”

  Not from them, she knew.

  The thought stayed with her as she showered, dressed, and trudged with the matron down the hall to another cell block. She entered the new cell, relieved to see one thing familiar: the folder of papers waiting for her on the bed.

  As the door shut behind her, this time the matron double-checked that it was locked. Lizzie knew all she had to fear now were the people who would be in court tomorrow, the ones in the jury box deciding whether she was a killer or innocent. Fit to live—or die.

  Those she feared most would be issuing the verdict—guilty or not guilty. As if to accentuate the point, the silence filled with the eerie, non-human keens of the undead emerging outside. There could be no more fitting end to the night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Those who saw Miss Borden for the first time were very much astonished. Her newspaper portraits have done her no justice at all. Some have made her out a hard and hideous fright, and others have flattered her. She is, in truth, a very plain-looking old maid.

  —The Boston Daily Globe, June 5, 1893

  L

  izzie held her head high as she rose and addressed the court to formally enter her plea. “Not guilty,” she stated, her voice and conscience clear. “If you please, I will rely on my attorney, Mr. Andrew Jennings, to speak for me from now on.”

  With that, she sat down to the sound of pencils scratching across paper as the court artists faithfully replicated her every feature and article of clothing. As the reporters wrote about the least of her reactions during the legal proceedings, she took care to keep her face emotionless. She ducked her head to stare at her hands clasped firmly together in her lap. How long she could maintain such behavior was yet unknown, though she knew her very life depended on her looking calm—not like the prosecution’s image of a crazed killer.

  That didn’t mean it came easy. She smoothed the front of her plain black brocade dress, a fashion some would call rather schoolmarmish; even old-fashioned. True, maybe, as she was never a slave to the latest fashion trends, though she did appreciate looking presentable. What she did resent was one newspaper’s description of her as “a plain old maid” and detailing a look of wear on her face. Well, given what she was going through and the night’s horrific encounter, she suspected anyone would look tired and far from their best.

  Of course, this was only the start. Lizzie tried not to fret, especially as the daily barrage of newspaper reports and speculations kept on. Add to this the stress from the nightly noises of the other inmates housed near her, the taunts—Chop-chop, Lizzie, they’d yell—and the undead creatures parading outside the cell, and it all took its toll. Even the carriage ride to a larger cell in New Bedford, normally used for the ill and infirm, offered its stresses. She felt like a museum specimen, but remained stoic and outwardly calm. It all amounted to pretty good reasons for having perpetually dark circles under her eyes.

  Interestingly, despite the jailhouse noises, the curious eyes peering at her window from outside, and the way some jail staff eyed her though they tried not to show it, Lizzie felt almost glad for the semi-privacy her cell offered after a day in court. At least she was away from the public and the newspaper writers’ constant prying.

  As she spent another grueling morning in court, listening to her attorneys haggle with the district attorney over appropriate jury choices and such, her mind wandered in illogical directions. At one point she wondered—would any women in the temperance union, or her church associations, sit on her jury if they could? What did they say about her as they talked with their husbands at home? Of course she’d seen enough cold stares and unfriendly faces to guess the answers to both questions. She decided not to dwell on that further lest she fall deeper into the black hole of melancholy beckoning her.

  Back in her dreary cell, Lizzie walked aimlessly in a circle as exercise and tried fluffing the rock-hard pillow in an attempt to use up her nervous energy. Minutes later, the jingle of the matron’s keys let her know she had a most-welcome visitor, likely John or Emma, the only two besides Mr. Jennings she could count on these days.

  She stepped back and waited, hands folded primly in front, as the door swung open to the mood-lifting sight of her sister.

  The matron relocked the door with her usual warning, “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Lizzie reached out and gave Emma a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

  Of course, when she glanced over the courtroom each day, she saw Emma faithfully seated in the first row. But being able to converse with her sister and touch her, to feel like someone cared, was much different. To Lizzie, it felt wonderful to be in contact with someone who would offer cheery conversation, even if was often one-sided. It still helped to hear about some bit of news; anything, besides her grim situation.

  Emma returned her hug and after a minute pulled back, waving the woven basket in front of her. “So, what do we have for today’s special?”

  Lizzie crossed the room in a few steps, patted the bed, and urged Emma to sit down. She eyed the basket with a big smile, followed by a grimace. “How about cranberry-apple-prune?”

  She laughed and removed the cloth napkin cover from the basket, revealing a pile of nicely browned cookies. Even if she could eat just about anything at this point other than what passed for
meals here, nothing equaled Emma’s homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. She grabbed one and bit into it, savoring the sweetness and the chewy texture.

  “Emma, these are wonderful, thank you. I never thought a cookie could taste so good. Do you have any news? Find anything of interest in the papers from the warehouse?”

  “I have some names.” Emma offered a paper covered with neatly written rows. “Well, they’re mostly the initials and first names of persons I found in the papers. I also listed the activities or goods linked to them if it was included. Most involved office supplies or unspecified items.”

  Lizzie looked at what Emma had carefully recorded. Her hopeful feeling soon turned to disappointment. “Yes, I see here, SS, wooden crates. BC, shipping containers. Well, more initials, not much hope there, I fear, unless we can positively identify the person.”

  Letter after letter flew past her eyes. She saw nothing but initials, until she turned to the other side. “This looks more promising. Adelaide, typewriting.” Lizzie glanced up at Emma. “No surname, no initial. Did you look at the class list I had in my drawer, or the potential applicants list from the church? Maybe there aren’t many Adelaides who expressed interest.”

  Emma shook her head. “Not yet. I haven’t had a chance. I hope to do it next if I can. With everything going on…”

  Nothing more needed to be said, of course. Lizzie went back to the list. “Wait, here’s one thing. Bottles, Samuel S. The other warehouse we were at…” She paused and tried to remember. “Yes, Samuel Smith. He was listed as the owner of that dreadful place. We’ll have to look through the rest of the papers, see who else he’s connected to. Father bought a lot of bottles, I see. I can’t imagine why.”