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Chapters (206)
  1. Praise for Maplecroft
  2. Title page
  3. Copyright page
  4. Contents
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
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  12. A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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  20. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  21. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  26. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
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  29. I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
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  31. Nance O’Neil
  32. THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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  37. AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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  43. THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
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  46. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  53. BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
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  55. CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
  56. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
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  62. HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
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  67. A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
  68. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  71. Nance O’Neil
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  84. Emma L. Borden
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  88. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  91. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  93. RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
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  101. Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
  102. Emma L. Borden
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  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  107. Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
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  109. DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
  110. Emma L. Borden
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  115. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  119. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  130. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  131. Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
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  137. Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
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  139. Emma L. Borden
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  144. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  150. Emma L. Borden
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  153. FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
  154. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  165. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  176. Emma L. Borden
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  186. Owen Seabury, M.D.
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  197. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  205. Inspector Simon Wolf
  206. •   •   •

The thing’s eyes were also shaped strangely, oversized and elongated, drawn back to a point that aimed at the forehead, almost as if they’d been turned on their sides. No, that’s not what I mean. It was more the shape of a raindrop, landing on the face and sliding downward. It was . . .

. . . I am no good at this.

Already my memory fails me, and my eyesight, too—for if only there’d been some lamp or other light to illuminate the thing before it was shattered to death. If only I’d gotten closer, before Lizbeth smashed its face to bits, and the darkness glittered with the tinkling dust of broken glass.

She caught it in the face, in the mouth, I think, not in the eyes—though we ruined those in time.

The axe crashed down, sharp side first, and then on the next swing she used it as a bludgeon. But her reflexes were slowed. The creature was fast. It grabbed her by the arm again.

And whatever spell of astonishment had held me captive . . . it was broken when I saw the violence returned against her. It was one thing for me to watch a woman assault a monster, but another thing entirely to see her attacked in return.

None of this is making as much sense as I’d like.

But if I stop now, I’ll wish tomorrow that I’d had the courage to persevere while the horror was new in my mind, and still flickered in awful plays of light and shadow inside my eyelids when I closed them.

•   •   •

The creature stood taller than Lizbeth, but not so tall as myself. It moved jerkily, as though it wasn’t wholly comfortable with its joints, and it had too many of them. It moved in sharp, stuttering, staggering lunges. It moved like it was in pain.

(Well, it would’ve been by then, wouldn’t it? Lizbeth had struck it solidly, several times.)

It gushed some weird liquid that I assumed must be blood, or hemolymph—isn’t that what powers the circulatory system of insects? Arthropods, at any rate. Whatever it was, it filled the monster’s skin and performed a similar function. It sprayed from its wounds, and wherever it landed, I felt a stinging on my skin. Later I would realize that the blood-substance was not quite blood-colored; it was darker, more like brown or orange, when exposed to the air and given a bit of time to dry. Something about it made me think of rust.

It had Lizbeth by the arm, and I reached for it, seized it by the shoulder and flung it backward—or that’s what I attempted, to only modest success. I was stunned by how little I was able to move it, how it jerked itself out of my grasp and remained, feet planted, a high-pitched howl whistling from its ruined mouth and leaking from what passed for its nostrils.