chapter 19
WE STOOD THERE GAPING AS LIZZIE BORDEN HACKED apart her father’s head. Then she laid down the hatchet. Her eyes closed, and her body went stiff as she rose onto her tiptoes.
Kristof nudged my arm.
“Look,” he whispered.
There, on the sofa, lay Andrew Borden, intact and un-bloodied, reading the morning paper. Lizzie had backed up to the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor. She blinked, then walked through, needlepoint appearing in her hand.
The doorbell rang.
“Who is it at this hour?” Andrew grouched, slamming his paper to the floor.
“I’ll get it, Father.”
“No. Go help your mother.”
Lizzie nodded, then laid down her needlework and disappeared into the kitchen. In the front foyer, Andrew threw open the door, and barked a greeting at the man there—the doctor who’d come to the door before.
“Just stopped by to see if you folks are feeling any better,” the doctor said.
“Feeling better?”
“Yes, your wife came over this morning, said you’d both been up all night with stomach complaints…”
The two continued, having the same conversation they’d had when we’d been watching from the front lawn.
“It’s looping back to the start,” I said. “Did we miss something? Are the Fates playing it again for me?”
“Someone is replaying it, but I don’t think it’s for you.”
Andrew stormed back into the parlor, sniping to his wife and daughter. A moment later, Bridget rushed past, hand over her mouth. I started going after her, but Lizzie stood in the door, peering through the kitchen toward the back window. I kept going—and bumped into her, hitting so hard, I bounced back.
“She’s real,” I said, looking over my shoulder at Kristof. “Solid.”
Without waiting for his reaction, I strode across the room, reaching out to both Abby and Andrew. My hand passed right through both. As with the doctor outside, I was the corporeal one here. They were the spirits.
“So Lizzie is real,” I said. “But only her.”
Kristof nodded, as if he’d reached this conclusion already.
“If she’s real, then I can talk to her. I saw something in her eyes earlier—”
“She looked at you.”
“Yes, but I think I also saw the Nix—or some leftover bit of her. Lizzie Borden must have been one of the Nix’s partners. This must be the one the Fates wanted me to speak to, so let’s—”
Kristof laid a hand on my arm.
“Don’t rush her,” he murmured. “Try it again when she’s sitting down.”
When Lizzie finally sat with her needlework, I plunked down beside her.
“I know you can hear me,” I said.
She kept stitching, the needle sliding through the fabric, dragging a blue stream of thread after it.
“Look—” I began.
“Wait,” she said.
She looked up at her father, who was adjusting his jacket, preparing to leave.
“Have a pleasant day at work, Father,” she said.
He responded with an abrupt nod, and another for his wife, then walked out the front door. Abby and Lizzie worked in silence, as they had before. When Abby headed upstairs, Lizzie’s eyes slanted toward me. My cue.
“Good,” I said. “Now stop sewing.”
“I cannot.”
I glanced at Kristof. He motioned for me to ignore the needlework and continue.
“I need to talk to you.”
She said nothing, just kept working with swift, determined strokes.
“Look, I am going to talk to you, whether you—”
“Hurry.”
“What for? You’re not going anywhere. Well, except to kill your parents again.”
Her cheek twitched, eyes filling with genuine guilt and remorse, the kind Amanda Sullivan couldn’t imagine, much less feel.
“So this is your punishment, then,” I said, my voice softer.
“Punishment?” A confused glance my way. “This is what I deserve.”
“A hell of her own making,” Kristof murmured.
I looked up at him.
“I think this is her doing,” he said. “She’s created her own hell, and trapped herself in it. No need for anyone to punish her. She does it herself.”
Lizzie had returned to her needlepoint, face expressionless. As much as I wanted to jump right in with direct questions, I knew I had to be careful. The Fates must have considered Lizzie Borden a credible witness, but that didn’t mean she might not try to trick me, or tell me what I wanted to hear.
“Before you…did it,” I said. “Did anything happen? Anything unusual. Maybe you…heard something.”
“The voice, yes. I heard it.”
“Telling you to kill them.”
She kept her gaze down. “She didn’t tell me to do anything.”
“Encouraged you,” I said, remembering Amanda Sullivan’s confession.
“Yes, she did embolden me. But I wielded the hatchet. These fingers—”
She clenched her hands, the needle stabbing into her palm. When she opened her fists, a single drop of blood fell on her needlework. She stared at it, transfixed, as it disappeared into the fabric.
“The blame is mine,” she said. “I’d thought of it, dreamed about it—killing them. No beau was ever good enough for my father. Those men weren’t perfect. I know that. But they would have been kind to me, taken me out of this place. Except he wouldn’t let me leave. And her—” She spit the word. “Always conniving. First she gave her half-sister the house that was supposed to be ours, Emma’s and mine—”
She stopped, head dropping again.
“No excuses. It cannot be excused.”
“Maybe, but I can see how—”
“No!” Her gaze shot to mine, filled with a vehemence approaching fanatical. “There is no excuse and no justification. Honor thy father and thy mother. Honor thy father and thy mother.” She repeated the phrase, voice dropping to a mumble.
“Excuse me,” she said, laying her needlework aside.
She headed into the foyer and up the stairs. I tried not to think about what was happening up there, but when I heard Abby’s body hit the floor, I couldn’t suppress a wince.
A few moments later, the scene with the locked front door replayed itself.
Lizzie and Andrew came into the parlor. Andrew took over the sofa, sprawling out and closing his eyes. Lizzie went into the dining room and set up an ironing board. The maid, Bridget, came in to begin cleaning.
“Are you going out today?” Lizzie asked her.
“I don’t know. I’m not feeling very well.”
“If you do leave, be sure to lock the front door behind you. Mrs. Borden has gone out on a sick call, and I might go out later as well.”
Lizzie turned her attention to ironing handkerchiefs. As she worked, I stood beside her, Kristof staying across the room, listening but staying out of the conversation. Lizzie knew he was there, but had yet to say a word to him or even glance his way.
We returned to the subject of the Nix, and I asked Lizzie whether she ever sensed her or saw images of her.
“I see her…what she’s done. Sometimes it stops for a while, but when it starts again—” Her hands quivered. “When it starts again, there are always more.”
More killings. The images stopped while the Nix was in the world of the living, then she returned bearing fresh nightmares for her dead partners.
I asked Lizzie what she’d seen recently, whether she had any idea where the Nix was or where she was headed.
“She seeks a teacher,” Lizzie said. “A man named Luther Ross.”
My head jerked up. “Luther Ross?”
“You know him?” Kris whispered.
I glanced over at him. “Heard of him. A poltergeist teacher.”
Kristof snorted. “Another charlatan.”
“No, Ross is actually…” I motioned that I’d explain later and turned back to Lizzie. “What does she want with this teacher?”
“I don’t know. I never know. I only see.”
Lizzie glanced over at Bridget, who was almost finished cleaning the dining room curtains.
“There’s a sale on at Sargent’s today,” Lizzie said. “Dress material at eight cents a yard.”
“Oh,” Bridget said, smiling. “Then I will indeed be going out. I’m done here. May I leave now?”
“Certainly.”
When Bridget was gone, Lizzie peeked into the living room, where her father had drifted off to sleep.
“Excuse me,” she murmured.
While she went to get the hatchet, Kristof and I decided we’d learned all we could from Lizzie Borden, and transported ourselves out before the gore started to fly…again.