Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter Read online

  A nervous quiver began in Lizzie’s legs and worked its way up her body as she studied him. Her stomach roiled. Her stepmother’s appearance had been terrible, but her father looked much worse. Blood framed his mouth. It smeared his chin. The sight made her turn aside and begin to heave. How had he become so beaten and bloody? Was it an accident? A fight? Or worse—had he also been attacked? Would the horrors never end?

  Once the nausea abated, she sighed and struggled with what to do. Maybe I should try to get his attention, let him know I’m here to help. She moved closer and took his hand in hers. Just as quick, she dropped it and shivered. Brrr! His hand was so cold! Even the gold ring she’d given him years ago, which he still wore, felt like it had been dropped in a snow bank. She shook her head. But how was that even possible in the heat of summer?

  She moved back in alarm and waved her hand to see how he would react. She gasped as he turned his odd white eyes in her direction and moaned. Like her stepmother, her father showed no real signs of recognition. He paid no mind to his surroundings. It was like he’d just stepped from a meat locker, or had been holding a block of ice, or…

  The words failed her. He, too, felt as cold as death.

  She gulped, hesitant to even consider such a sacrilegious improbability. Her stomach roiled at the thought. No, it’s impossible. As she watched, he attempted to pull himself upright, his movements as awkward as a fresh-caught fish flopping around on the deck. Her mind reeled. I don’t understand this. I don’t. His condition was simply unfathomable.

  The thought that maybe he’d been wounded, or had some other malady, prompted her to lean in closer. Suddenly, he gave a deep-throated growl and lunged. His cold fingers tightened around her arms. She struggled to free herself to no avail. It was like trying to shake free from a pair of iron manacles.

  Despite his inability to get up, and the flabbiness he kept camouflaged under expensive, well-fit suits, her seventy-year-old father was a strong man. His belief in hard work, or maybe it was his stinginess, had led him to continue chopping wood and doing other back-breaking chores he could have left to hired help, or someone much younger.

  Lizzie screamed as he pulled her closer. His yellowed teeth clacked together; his fetid breath blew in her face. Whatever this disease that had affected him, it was worse than anything she’d ever encountered.

  She cringed at his gut-wrenching moans. Oh, God, I don’t know how much more I can take! It’s awful. I have to get away from him, I have to!

  “Oww!” Lizzie yelped as he pulled her toward his gaping maw. It felt like her arms were being yanked from their sockets, but she kept fighting. I have to get away from him! She kicked and pushed with all her might. She struggled against him until finally, her bid for freedom worked.

  She tumbled to the floor with a hard, bruising thump, but as Lizzie struggled to her feet, her father somehow rolled over. He fell onto his back, flopping around like an upside down crab. His arms and legs beat the air until he suddenly reached out, grasping her arm with his claw-like fingers.

  Lizzie screamed, no longer caring who heard, as her father’s well-muscled arms pulled her toward his gnashing teeth. “Someone, please, someone help me!”

  Every muscle quivering, Lizzie fought with everything she had to keep his mouth away from her body and limbs. Her strength waning, she hoped to fight for as long as possible when Emma yelled from the doorway.

  “Father!” Emma screamed. “Lizzie, what are you doing? You’re hurting him!”

  A quick glance told Lizzie her sister was still not herself. Lizzie struggled to talk while she fought to keep her father at arm’s length.

  “Emma, help.” She panted with the effort. “Please, help. He’s sick, he’s gone insane. Help me.”

  Emma finally blinked and stared like she was seeing everything for the first time. “Lizzie! What should I do?”

  “The hatchet!” Lizzie pleaded. “Get the hatchet. Hurry, please hurry! I can’t hold out much longer.”

  Chapter Three

  Q. Was he (your father) asleep?

  A. No, sir.

  Q. Was he reading?

  A. No, sir.

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

  L

  izzie’s hopes for getting free rose as her sister rushed to the fireplace and grabbed the heavy, worn hatchet Father usually left there after he chopped wood. Emma took several steps but paused, unsure, her face sweaty and pale.

  Don’t go into shock now, Lizzie prayed. She tried to remain calm and encouraged her sister. “Emma, hurry. Hit him. Hit his arm so I can get loose!”

  Father moaned and twitched, the trembling going up Lizzie’s arm as he tightened his grip. She began to hyperventilate, not sure how she could keep him from getting even closer.

  “Emma,” Lizzie whimpered. Her sister stood in the same spot, her eyes watery with unshed tears. “Emma, please,” Lizzie begged. “Please, do it. Hurry!”

  Emma raised the hatchet and hesitated, her face frozen in fear. “Lizzzzie! I-I can’t do this. I can’t!” She began to cry. “Why are you making me do this, why?”

  Lizzie tried again to pull away, and failed. Father’s teeth clacked together like castanets. If nothing happened, she feared there wasn’t much time left to escape. “EMMA, please, he’s moving. Please, he’s hurting me. HELP ME! Emma, do it. DO IT NOW!”

  Lizzie’s yells shocked her sister into action. Emma raised the hatchet and swung. Uttering a cry, she looked away as the hatchet head struck Father’s back. Dark, black blood soaked through his coat and stained the sides of his vest.

  It wasn’t enough. He growled and bit and clawed at Lizzie like a wild animal.

  “Father, no, no!” Lizzie yelled. “Emma, again, please!” Her cries joined Emma’s heartbroken sobs. “Hurry. Oh, God, please hurry! DO IT NOW!”

  With a cry, Emma lifted the hatchet high. She swung again. This time, it glanced off Father’s arm and caused him to release his hold on Lizzie’s one arm. With a moan, he jerked his head in Emma’s direction, but maintained his death grip on Lizzie’s other arm.

  Lizzie leaned back, kicking as hard as she could. The growing pain in her leg, and the gruesome crack of his fingers breaking chilled her. Yet, she dared not stop. She ignored Emma’s screams and kicked out again, over and over.

  His grip finally loosened. His arm went slack. Lizzie scooted away from him and glanced at her sister, who stood in stunned silence, her face almost as pale as Father’s. “Emma! Quick, slide the hatchet to me. Hurry!”

  The hatchet slid across the floor, spinning like a child’s top. Unfortunately, it stopped just out of reach of Lizzie’s left hand. Unladylike as it was, she scooted across the floor and wrapped her fingers around the hatchet just as Father flipped over.

  “Lizzie, he’s getting up!” Emma skittered back to the doorway in fear.

  The sight of him leaning clumsily on one knee, attempting to rise, was the only impetus Lizzie needed. “Don’t look,” she yelled at Emma. “Turn your head. Close your eyes.”

  After the first hit, Lizzie closed her eyes, too, but kept swinging the hatchet. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK.

  She swung and sobbed, hitting and hitting until Father’s body fell with a big, house-shaking thud. With a gasp, she dropped the bloody hatchet when the tool head split apart from the battered wooden handle. Only then did she dare look around the room, nearly dropping to the floor in a faint. Blood had splattered everywhere. It streaked the worn, wooden floor, splashed the faded flowers of the wallpaper, and dotted the worn fabric of the settee Father had favored for his after-dinner nap.

  The cloying metallic scent and the faint odor of rot filled the room. The sight and smell made her stomach roil. Even worse, Father’s head had been bashed like a rotten pumpkin run over by a wagon. Lizzie tried not to pass out.

  She felt like a monster, but Lizzie knew she’d had no other choice. The real monster lay at her feet. I had to do it. I had to.

  There wasn’t time, however, to think ab
out what had changed both him and Abby so. She had to get Emma past what she’d witnessed. They needed to clean everything and themselves before the crime was reported. A glance at Emma, who leaned against the doorway, her eyes vacant, told Lizzie it might not be easy to do.

  “Emma, dear, I know how shocking all this has been,” Lizzie said, her voice soft and soothing. “Take a deep breath. Yes, that’s good. Listen to me. You were taking a nap as you were tired from your trip. When you came downstairs, you saw Father. You’re stunned by it all, which is true. Understand?”

  Her sister’s weak answer made Lizzie think Emma was still too shocked to truly comprehend everything. Emma stood and twisted her hands, her face haunted like the war-torn men Lizzie sometimes saw begging downtown.

  Let her keep hold of her sanity, Lizzie prayed silently. Moving slow and easy, she approached her sister and gingerly touched her arm. Emma looked up at her with a start.

  “Emma, I need your help. We have to put Father on the settee. Help me lift him, would you?”

  Her sister stared at her, then down at him again, before she nodded.

  “All right, you take his feet.” Lizzie went to lift his head, fighting to keep the vertigo at bay as she gazed at the bloody mess of her father’s face. His eyeball had been split in two and hung out of the socket. She turned aside and gagged.

  Lizzie removed her torn, blood-spotted petticoat, wrapped Father’s head and shoulders with it, and carefully hoisted his upper body. Sweat dripped down her face with the effort as she and Emma struggled to move his heavy bulk. They barely made it the few feet, with both of them dragging him much of the way. After several tries, she and Emma finally managed to lift him partway onto the settee.

  Finished, she put an arm around her sister’s shoulder and gently led her into the kitchen. Grabbing a wet cloth, she quickly wiped her face and hands before urging Emma to sit and do the same. “Yes, wipe your hands,” she suggested. “Take another sip of your tea.”

  Emma went through the motions, her eyes blank. She picked up the cooled tea and took several sips until Lizzie whisked the cup away. Emma needed to be relaxed, but not too groggy or inebriated.

  “Now, take a deep breath. Better?”

  Emma gave a wan smile and another slow nod.

  “Good. I think you should lie down for a while. I can take care of the rest, all right?”

  “But-but what about Abby? Where is she?”

  “Never mind, I’ll see to Mrs. Borden.” She put an arm around Emma’s shoulder as they walked through the sitting room to the front hall staircase. She couldn’t have her sister going up the back stairs and looking in on their stepmother.

  “Now remember, when the police ask, you were upstairs. You know nothing about what happened. Understand?”

  Emma’s bottom lip quivered as she began to cry. “I-I can’t lie. They’ll know I’m not telling the truth. Fa-a-ther!”

  They were wasting time.

  With a sigh, Lizzie took Emma by the arm and pulled her back into the sitting room. “Look at him. Take a good look. There is something incredibly wrong in how he attacked us. He tried to bite us! He was NOT himself. He didn’t even know us. Do you want to see more?”

  Lizzie tightened her grip in an attempt to pull her sister further into the room, but Emma resisted and backed up.

  “Nooo,” she protested. “I-I can’t bear it.”

  “Very well.” Lizzie let go of her sister’s arm. “Remember, this is important. You saw or heard nothing. Somehow, Father contracted this strange illness. Maybe he’s not the only one. We need to find someone who knows about such sickness and can help us. Now, let me handle everything, all right? Emma, please, this is important. You have to trust me.”

  To Lizzie’s relief, Emma gave a final, sad sigh as she made her way upstairs, dragging her feet like she’d been through a war. She had. They both had.

  The stress of all the rushing around squeezed Lizzie’s chest until she could barely breathe. Panicked, she mopped the floor and wiped away the errant blood spots she saw on the walls before pulling off her bloodied dress and wrapper. Those things, plus her ruined petticoat and spotted stockings, went into the stove. She stared at the dress, her waste-not instinct prompting her to think maybe she could clean it. Acting like someone not thinking properly, she pulled the dress out, instead deciding to shove it in the front closet until later.

  Goosebumps broke out on her arms as she hurried back into the kitchen to tidy up, and not just because she stood there scandalously clad only in her undergarments. Her mind worked furiously as she washed the cups and put the tea items away. Did I convince Emma that something had been terribly, horribly wrong with Father? Did I calm her enough so she won’t share the whole awful truth of what happened?

  The washing done, Lizzie dug in the back of the pantry for the nearly full bottle of whiskey Father kept hidden there. She pulled it out, and with a deep breath, opened it. Every inch of her temperance supporting self recoiled as the strong scent of the alcohol wafted over her, but she tamped down any feelings of guilt. Yes, I’ve already done worse.

  Her fingers shaking, she raised the bottle to her lips and gulped. The liquor burned her throat like hellfire as it went down. A second later, she leaned over the sink, choking and gasping as the horrible liquid came back up. Tears trickled down her face as she took another drink, fought to swallow, and choked again before she finally succeeded in keeping it down.

  She wiped her eyes and sighed deeply. Well. Now I’m both a murderess and a drinker.

  Disgusted, she capped the bottle and shoved it back in the pantry, out of sight. She did a final check, and satisfied nothing was out of place, rushed upstairs to dress. Hopefully, she wouldn’t forget anything. Face and arms washed? Yes. Nails scrubbed and brushes cleaned? Done. Hair combed and wiped? Done. Clothing destroyed… Oh, the dress. She hesitated. Never mind. I’ll tend to it later.

  A quick rinse of peppermint water erased any remaining traces of alcohol on her breath. Everything looked to be in order. Still, she paused and fretted. Finally, she donned a blue dress similar to the one she’d worn earlier and tiptoed back down to the sitting room. A glance at the clock on the mantel showed it was a quarter of eleven.

  She glanced around the room and gasped. Wait—no! The hatchet! She checked the floor once more, then grabbed an old towel and cleaned the bloodied hatchet head and handle. She tested holding the wrapped bundle at her side, making sure she could hide it within the folds of her dress. Once her grip felt comfortable, she paused and listened. The house remained quiet. Good, Emma must’ve fallen asleep.

  Her heart pounding, she snuck out the kitchen door, rushing across the yard to the barn. Once inside, she blinked several times to adjust her eyes to the dimness. A moldy smell and the rank odor of animal dung filled her nostrils. The hay! Yes! She dropped the hatchet handle and kicked the piles around, the dampness and animal smells filling her nostrils.

  Her panic grew as she ran back inside, a muttered prayer on her lips that she hadn’t been seen, and then rushed to the cellar. She dumped the hatchet head in a pile of other rusty, old, forgotten tools, hoping no one found it.

  It took every ounce of determination she had to stand still. She leaned against the scarred wooden door, closed her eyes, and tried to calm herself. Her deep breathing filled the silence. Breathe in, out. Finally, she opened her eyes. Very well. I’m ready.

  Once upstairs, she stood in the front hall listening to the sounds above her… someone walking around, doors closing. She braced herself for the chaos to come.

  Holding tight to the staircase post, she took a deep breath, then let out a loud scream. “Emma, Maggie! Come down quick, Father’s dead! Somebody came in and killed him!”

  Chapter Four

  SHOCKING CRIME.

  A Venerable Citizen and His Aged Wife Hacked to Pieces.

  —Headline, The Fall River Herald, August 4, 1892

  W

  hen the police arrived, Lizzie took care to appear
calm and controlled, though she was far from it. Her insides quivered like she’d been locked outside on a cold night for hours without a proper coat or cloak. She felt like a clumsy, quaking mess, but knew to show no emotion or reveal that she’d had any prior knowledge of what had happened.

  Emma, bless her soul, turned out to be more help than Lizzie could have anticipated now that she’d gotten past her initial shock. Emma answered the police inquiries in a straightforward manner, her testimony about not knowing what was going on strengthened by the information that she’d just returned from a two-day visit out of town. Verification of her trip gave credence to her report. Their maid, Bridget Sullivan, whom they called Maggie, had been asleep upstairs and remained blissfully unaware. Probably from overindulging in her ‘medicine,’ Lizzie thought.

  “Sleepin’ in my room, I was, until I heard Miss Lizzie callin’,” Maggie said in her thick brogue. “I got tired and wasna feelin’ well after washin’ the windows, so hot it’s been.”

  There was a lot of questioning, which Lizzie endured with grace until she finally asked Emma to bring her something to drink. “I feel a touch sick to my stomach,” she admitted, her voice low. She sat in the dining room, hands in her lap, willing herself to stay focused and calm. She had to pay attention. It was hard, but she pinched her palm as a reminder to stay alert. The whole event disturbed her greatly.

  All too soon, even the supportive presence of their neighbor, Adelaide Churchill, became cloying, though Lizzie did her best to act appreciative.

  Mrs. Churchill set the lukewarm cup on the table. “Have some tea.”

  Lizzie gritted her teeth behind a smile of thanks, preferring the glass of juice Emma brought her instead. She ignored her neighbor, who insisted on sitting next to her, her eyes scanning every move anyone made with interest. Frankly, the woman unnerved her. She’s like the Cheshire Cat, all smiles and feigned kindness while she’s ready to pounce, Lizzie thought. Hypocrite!