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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
  7. •   •   •
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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
  22. •   •   •
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  26. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
  27. •   •   •
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  29. I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
  30. •   •   •
  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
  54. •   •   •
  55. CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
  56. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  57. •   •   •
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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
  69. •   •   •
  70. •   •   •
  71. Nance O’Neil
  72. •   •   •
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  84. Emma L. Borden
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  88. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  89. •   •   •
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  91. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  92. •   •   •
  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
  103. •   •   •
  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  106. •   •   •
  107. Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
  108. •   •   •
  109. DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
  110. Emma L. Borden
  111. •   •   •
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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.
  132. •   •   •
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  137. Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
  138. •   •   •
  139. Emma L. Borden
  140. •   •   •
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  144. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  145. •   •   •
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  150. Emma L. Borden
  151. •   •   •
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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. •   •   •

Disgusted, I stuffed the notes back into their sleeve. They told me nothing, and they would never tell anyone anything. I’d done too poor a job. I’d done nothing more than waste my time, and the time of any future readers who might stumble across my pitiful recollections.

On second thought, I decided I could spare one of us, at least.

I reached into the drawer and pulled out everything I could carry, and then I opened the next drawer and retrieved its contents, too. Everything that would fit in my arms I hauled downstairs, over to the fireplace—which had burned down low due to inattention. But it blazed bright when the first loose leaves of paper went over the grate and into the coals.

I’d wasted enough, and I would waste no more. No more time, no more vainglorious scribbling for posterity, serving nothing and no one.

And while my collection of trifles burned, I sat at my writing desk and I began to record in earnest every single thing—every impression, every suspicion, and every half-recalled idea—I’d ever known about Abigail Borden and Matthew Granger.

I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME

Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University

SEPTEMBER 22, 1893

The question is not “What is wrong?”

A closer query would be “What is different?” or “What is changing?”

Something is changing. Something is shifting, or slipping. I want to ask if I’m losing my mind, but who would answer? How on earth can I step outside my brain and ask it to evaluate, with all fairness, its effectiveness as a body-governing device?

It might only lie to me. How would I know?

And I can’t rely upon the opinions of my peers; this much is certain. They’ve been all too happy for all too many years, calling me daft. They’ll be no help at all, now that the question has seriously reared itself.

Then again, I don’t want any help.

I’m feeling quite well, if occasionally light-headed. I don’t believe I’m suffering from any illness or cancerous complaint. Nothing more dire than a peculiar clarity at times, and a warm resonance at others.

The resonance is difficult to describe. It tugs at me, an intermittent sensation as if I’m being lured. No, invited. Or even more precisely, welcomed. I’m not yet certain what brings this on, though I’m considering a series of experiments. The resonance is not quite repeatable at my command, but it’s consistent enough to call a symptom. I will prod at it like a soreness in a tooth, pinpointing the trouble with my tongue until I know where the problem lies.

But there I go again, calling it something it’s not.