Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(76)
“And toward the very end, they moved oddly,” Lizzie said. “Jerkily, like they had difficulty with their joints. It was different from the clumsiness of moving slowly, as if half asleep—this next stage, it was violent, almost. Their arms and legs shot out, knocking things over, breaking things, hitting things . . . hitting people. Sometimes Mrs. Borden would spasm so hard that her back would arch up, and it looked like she was trying to bend herself in half. Once I thought I heard a crack, as if her ribs would not withstand the strain.”
Her voice was fading, and her eyes were drifting . . . so I tried to bring her back, away from those last days, with another detail, one I’d only just remembered. “But before that, there was all that . . . well, spit, Doctor. Like they couldn’t or wouldn’t swallow anymore.”
“Excessive saliva, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. All in all, I’d say it was as if they’d stopped paying attention to their bodies entirely.”
“Toward the end,” Lizzie went on, “they had trouble breathing. That wheezing noise . . . you must’ve heard it when you met the creature outside the other night. They make that sound, too. It’s a sound that scrapes against your very soul.”
She might have continued, but upstairs I heard Nance awaken and begin to moan.
There was a heavy thump, and a rattling sound, and a cry. Lizzie excused herself, but not before I saw the tears in her eyes.
The doctor and I gave one another pained looks, but without my sister we were out of things to talk about, so I pleaded exhaustion and asked him to see himself out. It was better that way. I would’ve only accused him, and been cross with him . . . for doing what he thought was best for us. But he shouldn’t have done it anyway, damn him.
He should’ve left it up to me.
Owen Seabury, M.D.
APRIL 29, 1894
The condition of Nance O’Neil is little changed as far as I can tell.
We keep watching her for signs of improvement, but all I see are signs of fever and delirium, and a grown woman who must be managed like a babe. Her hostess cares for her accordingly. Dutifully. Lovingly, I might suggest, but I’ll suggest nothing further. It’s no business of mine.
Speaking of cases—Inspector Wolf has retired to Boston, or to somewhere else; I’m not sure. He took his leave, at any rate, with a vow to remain in strict correspondence through telegrams, as necessary. He wishes to summon a force from his home district, or at least rouse a few curious, courageous men to keep watch over the house where the women reside. There’s really no telling who would show up, should he provide such protection. I still don’t even know what kind of inspector he really is.
And anyway, how he’ll manage all of this without undoing Emma’s carefully constructed alias, I do not know. He promised to try, and I must trust him to do his best. He’s a man of principle—I’m confident enough to declare that much.
But if any men can be persuaded to come, what bizarre misfortune will await them? Will they see any of the creatures? Engage them? Fight them? Or will these poor fellows fall prey to them, or to the sickness which must (I will henceforth assume) accompany their presence? Should we issue them all axes when they arrive on the property, with vague instructions like “Keep these close, and you’ll know when to use them”?
Maplecroft will have much explaining to do, and precious little credibility to stand upon while doing so. It is a precarious position in which these women live, and I wish I could be more help to them both. To all three, now that Nance is tied up in the situation—as completely as I am, if not more so.
I think, though the ladies resist the idea, that having a protective guard outside would be a good thing for everyone. If this professor is coming, with bizarre murders on his mind, then at least they would have some first line of defense. Other than me, that is. For it’s not as if I can simply move in, and camp out in a spare bedroom.
Or is it? I’m not sure.
It may come to that, eventually. I’d be willing, if they’d be willing to have me. This house of mine has gone cold, filthy, and quiet these last few months. I miss my wife. I miss the cat we used to keep, the one that disappeared a few weeks after its mistress died. I miss having a fire in the hearth, one that I did not start myself, at the end of a long day.
But is this enough reason to impose on the Maplecroft women? Probably not.
Still, I feel that we are getting closer, together—the three of us, making progress on this terrible affliction that seems to be spread farther and wider than I’d previously expected. At the northern end of the state there have been other cases, as I described . . . and the incidents are closing in on us. Coming at us from above and below, or from the north and from the ocean beside us, too—crushing us in the middle.
? ? ?
Here’s a stray thought, one that’s been jangling around between my ears: What does this all have to do with the water?
The sample Emma sent Doctor Zollicoffer . . . it came from the ocean. And now he seems to be coming back toward the ocean, back to the place from whence it originated. Back to Fall River, and to the woman who picked it off the rocks and mailed it to him.
What if this is some sort of homecoming for the poor deranged fool?
Or a more horrible question still: What if he is not deranged? What if he knows precisely what he intends, and is bent toward it with precision and malice, and (what is reported to be) a keen intellect?