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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
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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
  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
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  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.
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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
  103. •   •   •
  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
  138. •   •   •
  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. •   •   •

Something insipid fell out of his mouth, some diatribe couched in terms of concern for my well-being, suggesting that in prior months (before the summer leave) I had been more patient, more perceptive, and more willing to assist the young men who were my charges. He then was so bold as to inquire after my health, and went on to make accusations about my pallor—for neither that, nor my demeanor, either, was satisfactory to this wretched snake of a character.

I do not remember the precise words that moved me from where I stood, listening angrily, to up against him, with my hands on his throat.

But his classmates intervened—treacherous idiots, the lot of them—and someone ran out into the hall, where the lumberjack-sized (and -brained) Dr. Greer was dragged into the altercation, effectively bringing it to a close.

I was sent home like a naughty schoolboy, ostensibly to rest and recover, and to consider my actions.

Fine, then. I consider them.

While I consider them, and consider how grand it felt to squeeze the boy’s pulse in his throat, as he struggled against my grip, I consider what on earth could have prompted him to make his unfair, unfounded accusations. What have I ever done to him, prior to this afternoon? Nothing, and that’s another fact which has gone overlooked altogether by my superiors. I’ve never shown him anything but the fondest feelings of paternal kindness, in my efforts to instruct him.

I too am an actor, and a good one in my own right.

But. As I replay the events, today’s and those which remain alleged . . . I am forced to wonder. I struggle to recall. What was I doing on Monday afternoon? Where was I? What inane, ordinary set of tasks did I perform? They must have been ordinary indeed to have slipped so precipitously from my memory.

I’m sure I was reading essays, or otherwise considering the grades of the same ungrateful slugs who watched me warily as I made my exit.

The last thing I recall with any great certainty is mundane enough to imply that the rest of my day was equally so. I was at home, in the office I’ve made for myself on the second floor, where I keep my samples, my supplies, research volumes, my periodicals. I was reading, I believe.

I was reading, and the window was open, and I fancied that I could smell the ocean.

Nance O’Neil

LETTER ADDRESSED TO LIZBETH A. BORDEN, FALL RIVER, MASS., MARCH 29, 1894