Chapters (206)
- Praise for Maplecroft
- Title page
- Copyright page
- Contents
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
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- A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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- Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
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- I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
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- Nance O’Neil
- THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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- AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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- THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
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- CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
- Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
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- HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
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- A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Nance O’Neil
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
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- Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
- Emma L. Borden
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- Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
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- DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
- Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
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- Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Emma L. Borden
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- FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Emma L. Borden
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- Owen Seabury, M.D.
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- Lizzie Andrew Borden
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- Inspector Simon Wolf
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Because I went back to see Matthew Granger today.
And just look at how many inches of script I’ve dedicated to avoiding that subject! But this is what happened, and I will not be squeamish about it. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake. I’ve seen the worst the human body has to offer. This should not bother me, deter me, or disgust me. This should be recorded.
I will record it.
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In only a matter of days, the boy’s condition has deteriorated. His shoulders are sloping more steeply. His face is becoming fuller. He moves his hands as if he’s forgotten he has fingers, slapping at things as if his appendages are only paws or flippers.
His godparents are beside themselves. They can no longer pretend that his condition is youthful depravity—and now they’ve removed him from his duties gathering the sea glass and knitting the nets. They’ve locked him inside their home, in the back rooms of their shop, under the guise of giving him rest in order to recover. I’m not so stupid as that. They’ve hidden him away so that others won’t see what’s becoming of him.
Mrs. Granger is a prayerful woman, and she sings her petitions to God, day in and day out. She’s given the boy a Bible, which he ignores. She’s left small crosses and holy baubles about the boy’s room, and he ignores those, too. If he even sees them.
I don’t know how much of anything he sees. His eyes are filmy, almost that same blurry fog of an older man’s cataracts, but this is something else—something overlaying the exterior structure of the eye, almost like the nictitating membrane of a sickly housecat. When I made some efforts to examine this membrane, Matthew did not object or resist. And finally I noticed that he didn’t merely appear unblinking . . . he had stopped that unconscious behavior altogether. Not in the twenty minutes I kept his company did his upper lid so much as twitch.
But he covered his eyes with his hands, when I brought the light too close. It was dark in that room. Sickrooms often are, but whatever is sickly about him, the darkness and quiet aren’t helping it.
They’re incubating it.
I had thoughts of asking for blood or saliva samples, but twenty minutes was all the time with the boy I could bear. I left his family with suggestions for soup, tea, and continued prayer.
Who knows? The soup or tea might actually do him some good.