Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter

by C. A. Verstraete

  Emma muttered a soft, “Oh.”

  “So, do you still want to help me?” Lizzie asked. Emma gave a tepid nod.

  “Look, I won’t force you to do this if you’d rather not. I decided that, no matter what, I intend to make myself stronger and see this through. It’s been going on far too long. It’s time we find out who’s behind this and see what they’re truly up to. Whoever it is has a connection with Father and those creatures in the warehouse. Somehow this is all tied together. That’s why I had this built. What do you say?”

  “You sound so positive. I can’t let you do this alone.” Emma hesitated and finally nodded. “I want to help.”

  Lizzie motioned Emma to follow and hit the button again before turning to a switch under it. “Good. I already arranged for us to take special fighting lessons with one of the Society’s members. Mr. Pierre Moret is an expert knife thrower and self-defense teacher. He will come here two or three days a week. Then, once we’re ready, we’ll join him and a few others in our own patrols. I have no intention of sitting around doing nothing but knitting or needlework.”

  With that, Lizzie hit the other switch. Emma’s gasp made the moment even more poignant as the second paneled wall slid open, revealing a small space completely enclosed by the sturdy, shiny bars of a steel cage.

  “We-we have our own jail cell?” Emma squeaked. “Liz, I thought you would’ve had enough of jail by now.”

  Her mouth fixed in a grim line, Lizzie shook her head. “As long as I live, I intend to never set foot behind bars again. This is our emergency holding cell. You know, just in case.”

  Emma grew thoughtful. “Yes, I understand.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Many Points of Resemblance Found Between the Manchester and Borden Murders.

  —Headline, The Boston Daily Globe, June 1, 1893

  T

  he two of them did a quick run-through of all the equipment, with Emma’s halfway decent aim and accuracy coming as a welcome surprise. Even if she still questioned the need for the training room, Lizzie expected her sister to view it differently once she glimpsed more of what was going on outside the front door.

  They went upstairs, where Lizzie grabbed a cool glass of lemonade. She stopped to peer out the front parlor window when something most unsettling caught her eye. “Emma, take a look at this.”

  None of the regularly occurring events surprised her anymore, but it still alarmed her all the same to see a man standing in the middle of the road madly swinging a cane. The man swung and when he missed, his attacker swung back with his arms in a wild, windmill motion. The assailant’s choppy, uneven movements told Lizzie he was no longer human, but undead. The man swung again, this time connecting with the creature’s head. The ghoul lurched and wobbled awkwardly in typical undead fashion.

  Emma joined her, sucking in her breath in alarm. “Oh, no. We can’t escape it, can we? Should we go out and help?”

  Lizzie followed the battle for a minute, wondering the same thing, but the man seemed to be holding his own. “Wait a few minutes. He seems to have it under control.”

  As they watched, a wagon pulled up. Two other men jumped out and made a quick end of the undead attacker. Emma grew bored and went to the kitchen as the men loaded the body into the wagon and took off.

  Lizzie stayed at the window a few more minutes. As the wagon passed by, she got a glimpse of the driver and his younger passenger. Neither of them looked like someone she’d seen in the Society, and she knew most everyone. Maybe they added a few new members, she mused.

  Only when the wagon was almost past did she catch sight of the faded placard on the side of the wagon: A.B. and C. Tonic, Good for Whatever Ails You. She tried to read the rest, but only caught a few of the letters at the bottom of the sign as the wagon sped up.

  These days you couldn’t read a magazine or go to the druggist without being overrun with advertisements for new medicines. Tons of new tonics, elixirs and bitters aimed at treating or supposedly curing nearly every ailment sprang up overnight. No reason why this one should be any different, but as Emma called from the kitchen, for some reason, Lizzie tucked the name and slogan away in the back of her mind.

  “Liz, did you hear? Did you want to look at some of those papers, or should we wait?”

  “I guess we can look through the stack, if you like. There are several people whose backgrounds I really want us to look into also.”

  The room fell silent as Emma entered the room and stared at her.

  “Oh? Who?”

  “We need to find our typewriting source and then we have to locate Samuel Smith. I found his name on quite a few papers. It makes me think he had more going on than just ordering in supplies. What, I don’t know. Then I think we seriously need to find out who that man was at the courthouse with the mayor.

  She fell silent, not sure if sharing her experience was a good idea, but Emma needed to know. “I never told you. He threatened me.”

  Her statement made Emma almost drop the box in her hands. “What? You should have said something!”

  Lizzie shrugged. “He approached me after the verdict. He said I should mind my own business. Whoever he is, he doesn’t look the type to take no for an answer. Rather unwholesome. We need to find out what’s going on.”

  “I agree. He could be dangerous.”

  Lizzie shook her head and frowned. “He unnerved me, I admit, but I figured we can’t go complaining about people without first learning more about them. He seems of a different class. I have no idea how, or why, the mayor seems to know him. I would say it’s to our advantage to first find out if anyone in the Society knows more about him.”

  Emma nodded and wiped a hand across her forehead. “That may be the best solution. I’m surprised you can think so clearly about this. I always want to jump right in. What about the mayor?”

  That stumped Lizzie. She had no idea what to think about the city’s leader. “His showing up in court the last day and his continuing reactions to me are most puzzling. As far as I know, he and Father weren’t close personally. Maybe they were working together professionally beyond the usual bank boards and other business organizations Father was involved in. There must be some reason he doesn’t seem to like me outside of his being angry that the jury decided in my favor.”

  “Hmm, well, most politicians have something secret going on, am I right?” Emma asked sarcastically. “We had no thought of anything out of the ordinary going on with Father either, until we found that warehouse, not that I believe he was really involved in anything more than that. Do you?”

  Lizzie shrugged. “Who knows what to think anymore?” She tapped her finger against the side of her face in thought. “The warehouse…” A shiver hit her. “That place disturbs me. I think we’ve hardly begun to learn what goes on there. Whatever it is involves Mr. Smith and our elusive office worker, Adelaide—and Father. I don’t have the answers right now. But I will.”

  Emma set the box down, a determined look on her face. “Maybe you’re right. We should do some checking around instead. The papers can wait.” She paused. “Perhaps we should have someone from the Society go with us, you know, in case we need help. Why not call John?”

  Her sister’s expression couldn’t seem more innocent, but Lizzie did wonder if this was Emma’s way of getting her and John back in contact. Sneaky. She didn’t want to share the details of their estrangement, but realized maybe Emma had a point. I suppose the two of us do need to clear the air, she thought. He’d yet made no effort to contact her, so she probably had to make the first move. That did annoy her, but she gave in. “All right. I’ll call him while you get ready.”

  To her surprise, the conversation went better than expected. John seemed genuinely happy to hear from her, or else he should have pursued a livelihood on the stage. Ten minutes later, a knock on the door interrupted her musing. Emma grabbed the knob first and opened the door ahead of her.

  “John! How good to see you. I’ll leave you to Liz.”
/>
  With that, to Lizzie’s chagrin, Emma walked out ahead of her and climbed into John’s carriage to wait. Lizzie waited for him to say or do something.

  He smiled in greeting. “Liz, you’re looking well.”

  He’s being so standoffish, so formal, Lizzie thought. She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her. So be it. Well, I can act the same way.

  She nodded in greeting. “John, it’s good to see you.”

  “Where are we off to? I have an appointment later this afternoon.”

  Lizzie tried not to sound perturbed at his seeming impatience. “We only need to go out for two or three hours. There are a couple addresses we need to visit.” She handed him the paper.

  He perused the addresses as she locked the door. “Very well. Who are you looking for?”

  “I wanted to find out more about some of the women who took the typewriting courses,” she said, allowing him to help her into the carriage’s comfy padded seat. “Hopefully we can question those who dropped out, as well. Maybe we can locate our mysterious Adelaide.”

  He got into the front seat of the carriage and made a point of letting both of them know he hadn’t been idle. Lizzie felt a little better knowing she wasn’t entirely out of his thoughts, even if for another reason. Still, she had no need to grasp at crumbs.

  “I had the Society secretary looking into some of the names, also,” he added. “She hasn’t found out anything yet.”

  She? Lizzie wondered, more surprised at the way her mind went in an entirely different direction than his lack of news. Is she the pretty lady he sat with in the courtroom? Are they friends outside the office, too?

  “Thank you.” Lizzie settled her skirts around her legs and gave herself a good, sharp pinch as a distraction from this self-destructive train of thought. Stop it! It’s none of my concern what he does, or who he’s spending time with. This wasn’t something she needed to think of at the moment—and maybe never.

  The horse trotted down the road, past the stately edifice of St. Mary’s Church. The landscape gradually turned more timeworn the further they went. Patches of dirt replaced green spots of the well-manicured lawn. Bits of newspaper and refuse skittered along the street, or leapt into the air on the breeze. Her nose wrinkled at the strong odor of cooked cabbage, rotting garbage, and an under-layer of decay.

  After several streets, John turned at the corner and stopped the carriage in front of a fading gray storefront, the façade missing chunks of wood. Lizzie climbed out and gave a curt “be back in a minute” to stop anyone from accompanying her. She felt the need to do this first interview alone.

  Seeing no doorbell, she knocked, and getting no answer, tried the doorknob. The door opened into a plain, but clean, shop. Several sewing machines sat idle near the back wall. Piles of fabric cluttered the front counter. She couldn’t determine whether the dressmaking shop had closed or was still in operation.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” Lizzie glanced at the list in her hand again, noting the name. “Mrs. Alves?”

  Lizzie almost turned to leave when a little dark-haired lady, her olive complexion indicating her Portuguese ancestry, entered the room from a door in the back. The woman slowly walked forward in mincing steps which made Lizzie pause for a second. She let out her breath in relief when the woman responded.

  “Hallo? Yes? I am Mrs. Alves,” she answered in accented English. “You need sewing? I afraid shop closed. My last seamstress left. Younger girls all want to try that typewriting machine or work in business. They no want to sew.” She stopped and held out her hands, her fingers swollen at the joints. “I too old to sew now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Lizzie decided to play along. “Did your seamstress move to another shop? I planned to get a new gown made.”

  “Which girl?” The woman stared at her from shrewd eyes.

  Lizzie saw how the woman took in her attire, perhaps calculating how much she could make by providing a referral. Lizzie looked sheepish as she pulled a few small bills from her pocket. “I’m so sorry. I forgot her name. All I know her by is Adelaide.”

  The money disappeared in the blink of an eye into the voluminous folds of the woman’s deep purple jacket. She eyed Lizzie, her mouth scrunched up as she gave the statement some thought. “Um, Adelaide, no, I know no one use that name. I did have girl named Adeline. That is close, yes? Perhaps she do work?”

  Lizzie kept her thoughts to herself and nodded. She took the information on where the girl lived, though she wasn’t sure close would do it. This girl likely wasn’t the person they wanted, but she would look into it just the same. Offering her thanks, Lizzie walked out, the disappointment weighing her down. Of course, this was only the first stop. No sense in getting overly discouraged yet.

  She got into the carriage, shaking her head at her companions’ questioning looks. “No, I don’t think it’s her. The woman referred to a girl she called Adeline. But we can still find out more. The woman’s English wasn’t the best.”

  She handed John the address the woman had scribbled down. He nodded, clucked to the horse, and flicked the reins. “We’re not too far away, but I must warn you, this isn’t the best of areas. We may encounter more of the infected. I’m sure you read about the other murder in the newspapers?”

  Lizzie knew her face must have telegraphed how she felt about the newspapers and their endless dragging out of her case for analysis or comment. She needed no further reminder of how her name had been brought up once again, given the similarity of a farm girl being killed by an unknown person or persons using an ax.

  “Liz, sorry. I only mentioned it as a warning. The police are being tight-lipped, but we’re suspecting one of these creatures was involved and the accused attacker wasn’t a Society member. The papers aren’t reporting on that element—yet.”

  His assessment proved to be an understatement. The horse clopped down the road, taking them near the river again. The streets became narrower, dirtier. Small buildings showed their age with falling plaster, gouged brick, and colors faded to shadows of their former, bright hues.

  Lizzie coughed and held a handkerchief over her nose at the sudden strong odor of decay.

  Emma did the same, her eyes watering. “Uh-oh. Does that mean there’s—”

  “Quick, there’s no time to waste!” John yelled.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Q. This form, when you first saw it, was on the steps of the back door?

  A. Yes, sir.

  Q. Went down the rear steps? Around the back side of the house?

  A. Yes, sir. Disappeared in the dark. I don’t know where they went.

  —Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 11, 1892

  T

  he horse screamed and tried to rear as John fought, and finally succeeded, in pulling the carriage to the side of the road. He jumped out and went to calm the animal. “Hurry, get out, get out! Emma, please stay and hold the reins. Liz, get ready!”

  They jumped out, Emma clucking to the horse as it neighed and stomped. In desperation, she took off her scarf, covered its eyes, and held onto the reins as tightly as possible. The horse pawed the ground and whinnied, frightened by the ghastly stench that now enveloped the area.

  A few feet ahead a sickening sight became visible—a trio of undead lurched into the road from behind a wall. Their appearance left Lizzie dumbfounded for a minute. The sight was unusual to say the least—an entire ghoul family, and of Portuguese ancestry at that. She shouldn’t have been surprised, given the high percentage of immigrants who had settled in the river area, but she was.

  The zombie father, his dark complexion pocked with decay spots and deep holes, still had thick, black hair except for the bashed-in side of his head. He stumbled and shuffled toward them with a sinister grimace. The woman, his wife, Lizzie guessed, had her hair in a bun on top of her head. She wore a torn housedress, the front spotted with blood. A giant gash in the dress revealed a gaping hole in her stomach where, another ghoul perhaps, had taken part of her intestine
s, the rest hanging and swinging with each sliding step she took.

  The child, a girl of about ten or so, appeared almost pretty at first glance, if not for the gruesome changes—she had a big brown eye, but the other one was missing. Decay spotted her arms, but left much of her light olive complexion unmarked. Black goo and a mass of moving, swarming insects atop her head spoiled the nearly waist-length strands of matted black hair. She stared in Lizzie’s direction and gave a low growl, her personality no longer sweet and endearing.

  Lizzie sighed, not sure if she could be the one to put the girl out of her ghoulish misery, but steeled herself, expecting the worst. John took the initiative, not waiting for them to attack. He leaped ahead, and pulling a long blade from beneath his coat, swung, hitting the father at the perfect angle. The undead man’s head went flying, the body dropping in a smelly, gory pile.

  The mother paid no attention to her lost mate, instead raising her arms and rushing at Lizzie with a loud growl and a moan. The little girl did the same, her actions and unwelcome grimace erasing the image of a little girl ready for school in her pink, now bloodstained, dress.

  Lizzie paused, unable to stop the thought, like mother, like daughter. Echoing John’s movements, she pulled the wooden bat from her bag. She took a huge step forward, reared back, swung—and missed. At the last second, the zombie family parted ways, mother going left, daughter veering right, leaving Lizzie as the potential entrée in the middle.

  “John!” Lizzie yelled. “Help!”

  He jumped over just in time and stabbed the undead mother in the back of the head, the blade thrusting all the way through her brain and jutting out her forehead in a burst of licorice black brains and matter. The little ghoul, seeing its mother fallen, stopped and gave a low, moaning howl. Whether it was in fear, or some tiny spark of recognition that she was now an orphan, made no difference. That few seconds gave Lizzie the time she needed. She swung the bat, catching the younger creature’s head and crushing the skull. Its forehead split open like a ripe muskmelon with a loud crack. It fell in a bloody pile of faded pink frills and decay.