“Sensitivity to light,” I added, recalling a day when our father screamed at me to close the curtains, for the sunlight was killing him. His wife had done similar, and by the time the end came ’round, we were all living in the dark.
He echoed me as he composed. Then he said, “Now, not everyone will have all these exact same symptoms. Nance did not, is that correct? She simply fell into the catatonic state?”
“She had . . . some symptoms,” Lizzie qualified. “She became obsessed with the basement, obsessed to distraction. She’d stare at the door so long, so hard, that it was as if she’d become a somnambulist overnight.”
“Father had taken to sleepwalking, too,” I pointed out. “I caught him once, in the middle of the night. I thought he was planning to jump out a window, and crawl for the ocean.” That might have been a strange way to phrase it, but it’s what sprang to mind.
“Somnambulism.” He added that to the list.
“Changes in diet,” Lizzie supplied. “That’s another one. No one cooked anything anymore. Only cold food. That part happened gradually. God, I wish I’d kept some sort of journal at the time. I could’ve traced this better, in retrospect.”
“You had no way of knowing,” he told her, without taking his eyes away from the growing list of issues. And when we couldn’t think of anything else, he said, “Very well, let’s move on to the more demonstrable, physical symptoms in the afflicted. Tell me more about your parents.”
“The eyes,” Lizzie and I said at once, startling ourselves.
Then I amended the thought. “A certain dullness to them. A constantly dilated pupil . . . but then again, it’s as I said—we were living in the dark.”
“And eventually, they stopped blinking,” my sister concluded.
Seabury paused, his pencil hovering over the sheet. “Yes. I’ve seen that symptom, too. In Matthew,” he murmured. “I noticed it, but didn’t know what it meant.”
“And then the slowness comes . . . ,” Lizzie said as well. The closer we came to the details of death, the more quietly all of us spoke.
“Slowness,” he jotted.
I added, “Their skin—it changed, became paler. They took on a bloated appearance.”
He swallowed hard, licked his lower lip, and said, “I saw it. In your stepmother. Not in time to do anything about it, but I know precisely what you mean.”
“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?
Surely, I am asking the wrong questions. No one could commit such acts of atrocity and still be deemed sane, regardless of his apparent clarity. But I’m finding my way toward the right questions.
Maybe. I
think.
Courtesy of the Maplecroft crew, as I’m coming to think of us collectively . . . I have compiled a list of symptoms and cross-referenced them with my own notes, from the cases I’ve seen about town. I’ve also noted that in my recollections of these cases (in the previous weeks) one could almost make the case that my own mind has been slipping, too.
I worry myself, when I read those entries. I sound like a man on a precipice.
But no longer. I am returned, restored, and ready to solve this mystery. I hope we can solve it in time to save Nance, or if not her, then the rest of the town. Maybe the rest of the world, for all I know.
We must at least begin with Nance.
She’s within easy reach, being held and cared for by my only full and knowing allies, and if she does continue to deteriorate, well, I’ll have a firsthand case study that will ultimately surpass the usefulness of the Bordens, and their sad demises. At the risk of sounding morbid, they fell victim to the ailment and became violent, and eventually were killed . . . but all the while, Lizzie had no inkling that it was anything other than an isolated case. She told me herself that she hadn’t paid close enough attention (a fault that makes two of us, I fear), and hadn’t recorded their downfall in any useful fashion. With nothing to rely on but her memory, several years old at this point, the details have become muddled and the progress unclear.
But now we have Nance, and she will be my subject. I do not mean to suggest I’d experiment on the poor dear. That’s not my intention at all; but I have no earthly idea how to treat her—and I can only cross my fingers that I’ll stumble across some pattern of symptoms that might give me insight into her condition.
If I can figure out what’s wrong with her, I can devise a system to address the problem.
I say that as if it’s fact. I know it isn’t. People die from known causes every day, and this isn’t merely an unknown cause—it might be a supernatural one. Little wonder the Maplecroft ladies have discovered so little with any certainty.
• • •
I now describe the general progression of symptoms, compiled from my own notes previously recorded, and from a conversation with the ladies last night. Below is a general flow, not a positive timeline of events. Different people manifest the symptoms in different orders, though the general arc seems more or less the same across the board.
1. Distraction, accompanied by obsession.
2. A change in appetite, followed by a significant decline thereof.
3. Skin takes on a strange pallor, bloated appearance.
4. Dilated pupils, and the cessation of blinking.
5. Excess saliva, sometimes accompanied by digestive issues.
6. Fever (Sometimes. This one is by no means consistent.)
7. Slowness of movement, speech.
8. Cessation of talking, except certain words or phrases, which are repeated at length.
9. Difficulty controlling the limbs and joints, resulting in jerky, violent movements.
10. Difficulty breathing, resulting in a distinctive rasping sound.
11. Full-fledged madness, manifesting in self-harm or harm to others.
Lizbeth suggests that it’s possible . . . God help us . . . that the final stage in this affliction might be a transformation into the wretched, twisted, shuddering, glass-toothed creatures that have been making themselves known at Maplecroft. But I’ll not yet write that down in the list of symptoms, because I have my doubts. The anatomy was all wrong—not merely a warping of human physiology, but a different form altogether, some different species. It’s always possible that I’m off the mark, but I think not.
Whatever these things are, I am positive they’re related to the Fall River Madness; but I don’t think they are victims of any illness, supernatural or otherwise. More likely, they’re a vector.
Lizbeth does not seem to think so, but she’s not a medical professional—she’s a research enthusiast, coming at the problem with Bibles, tomes, and texts of ancient magic. I do not record this to demean her efforts, for she’s accomplished such great things that I dare not call her an amateur—indeed, if there’s any expert on earth with regard to this Problem, it’s her.
But I wish she’d confided in me sooner. I wish she’d invited some third party to lend perspective, or at least approach the matter from another angle or two. We might have saved some of those who’ve fallen. Or then again, we might not. And to be clear, I understand why it’s taken her this long to admit someone into her strange little circle. It took great courage—and no small measure of Emma’s prompting, I suspect—for her to do so.
So, we’ve become a team late in the game, but now we’re coming at the Problem as a united front. We must make the best of it. We must pool our resources—Lizbeth’s copious research, and my education—and find some set of overlapping details, some recognizable pattern, however peculiar or unlikely.
We must save Nance O’Neil, and then Maplecroft, and then Fall River. Then Massachusetts, and the nation, and the world if it should come to that, and I fear that it might. The thought is so huge, it makes me choke. But if I choke, and the ladies are overcome by the terrible professor on his insane, inhuman errands . . . what hope is left?
• • •
I’ve spent over an hour staring at the list of symptoms, compiled above. I’m seeing something, yet I’m missing something, too. I feel like there’s a thread flowing between them, and I’m not catching it.
I’m either looking too hard, or not looking hard enough.
I’m reminded of something, but reminded so barely, so faintly, that I can’t lure the memory to my mind’s surface. I refuse to believe that it’s mere desperation or false hope bubbling up to taunt me.
There’s something here. And I will find it.
Lizzie Andrew Borden
APRIL 30, 1894
It’s been a day of hope, and a day of misery. I’m tempted to say that on the balance, it evens out . . . but with Nance’s life and sanity in some kind of suspension, it’s difficult to lend too much weight to what scant hope did manage to appear.
She’s been thirsty. Gasping, as if for air—but not satisfied unless it’s water. She isn’t passing much of it, I shudder to say, and I do not think it’s my imagination that she’s taking on something of the bloated appearance of my father and stepmother. She’s not so bad yet, but I can see it coming. It’s barreling down on me like a train, and there’s nothing I can do. No action I can take to prevent or stall the matter, and it’s killing me more certainly than it’s killing her. After all, it might be argued that it’s only changing her.
But I’ll begin with the hope. It came earlier in the day, after all, so I might as well present things chronologically.
• • •
Doctor Seabury beat on the door sometime right after breakfast. Emma was upstairs, and Nance was upstairs, too—in the extra room, tied down to the bed lest she wander, roam, and prove some danger to anyone. Therefore, I was alone so far as capable adults went, so I was delighted to see our visitor. I was lonely, and I hadn’t even realized it.
He arrived with a wild look in his eyes, but not an unpleasant one—he had achieved some great idea! Or so he told me, as I bid him come inside and offered him coffee or tea. He picked coffee, and we both went into the kitchen while I set the percolator in motion. Without waiting for a cup, he began to speak.
“I’ve been looking at the symptoms, the list we made together, you and I and your sister—and I’ve been considering the other factors, things we may have known to serve a pattern, but not in the same way as the physical changes have presented themselves.”
“I’m not certain I understand,” I confessed.
“Neither do I. Not precisely, but that’s all right for now. Patterns aren’t always precise, and there’s an exception to every rule. But we can learn something, even from the exceptions. The exceptions can show us plenty. That’s what I mean—it’s the exceptions that are revealing a whole picture, even if it’s a picture with
holes in it.”
I was frankly concerned. He was talking in circles, and the line between madness and normalcy as I knew it had grown so narrow in this past year.
“Doctor, I do pray you’ll explain yourself. You’re beginning to worry me.” Might as well be honest. After all, we were veritable partners in madness these days.
He shook his head, accepted a porcelain cup and a pitcher of cream, and offered his apologies. “I’m very sorry, though I know what you mean. There’s been some shift, hasn’t there been? And here, on the other side, it’s difficult to retain perspective. But no, let me assure you, there’s no madness or affliction to be found in me. Not yet.”
Until just then, I hadn’t noticed that he’d brought a satchel with him, but now he lifted it onto his lap and extricated a medical textbook, one which was intended as a basic introduction to common diseases and their causes. A freshman’s book, I should think. He flipped it open before I had a chance to note the title or author.
A page was dog-eared, and he turned to it swiftly. “I spent all of yesterday afternoon and evening mulling the question, staring at it from every possible direction, hoping to figure out what the pattern might be. Then this morning, I shot awake with an idea. This idea,” he told me, slapping his index finger onto a heading titled “Tetanus: Generalized, Local, and Other Manifestations.”
“Lockjaw?” He couldn’t be serious.
“The overlap is not one hundred percent, but I think you’ll agree there’s enough similarity that it warrants further investigation.”
I wasn’t prepared to agree to anything yet. “Convince me.”
Just the invitation he was looking for. His face was positively alight. “Very well. Here’s our list of symptoms, presented in and around Fall River—in various combinations and severities. Now watch the correlation: difficulty swallowing, resulting in excess salivation; fever, seizures, and spasms. All of it, right here. Symptomatic of tetanus.