Maplecroft

by Cherie Priest

  It’s our honor and our ability he’s taking to task, and I won’t stand for it.

  This having been established, I am frankly surprised that he’s asked so little after the bodies we found within the wreckage, in the days after the ashes cooled. Our final tally was eight, with remains that might have constituted a ninth discovered in a nook beneath the floor, where the boards had fallen. It’s difficult to say.

  Word has it that a man from Boston is coming to investigate, but I’m not sure what he’ll make of the corpses. Each set of remains would fit in a drawer, so little is left. But if he wants them, he’s more than welcome to them.

  No one here has the faintest idea who they might’ve been. Drifters, that’s our assumption. Perhaps even criminals in hiding, as such things are not unheard of. Regardless, we do not believe the dead men were local, for as I said above, the cannery was avoided by everyone within the vicinity; and besides that, no one is reported missing.

  The cannery was a cold, wet place, and an uncomfortable one, too.

  It’s almost bizarre to me, the thought that it’s somehow burned. I can’t imagine finding a surface dry enough to strike a match in there, so there’s great speculation as to how the fire began in the first place. We didn’t pump enough water in to cause such a soaking, as heaven knows we simply didn’t have it.

  There were no storms, no strokes of lightning on that night. No one reported hearing any explosion, or seeing any suspicious characters lurking about. For that matter, no one had any idea that anyone lurked within, and that’s one reason we pulled back so quickly—not only could we not save the buildings, but so far as we knew, there were no squatters to be rescued. There was nothing to be lost but the timber and equipment inside, and we couldn’t see risking our brave firemen or volunteers to determine otherwise. By then, anyone who was getting out . . . was out already. And no one who went inside could expect to leave.

  Other than this, I’m not sure what you’d have me say.

  The cannery burned. We found some corpses, charred beyond identification. The circumstances were strange, but there was no sign that the dead men had any ill intent, or that they were the source of the blaze.

  Between us, there might be more I could share . . . if I could share it firsthand. If the commissioner is so up in arms about the insurance adjuster, maybe it’s for the best that you come yourself, and we can quit passing one another notes like schoolboys. Or if you won’t come, I suppose the man from Boston will lend you his reporting, when he’s accumulated it.

  I don’t know him by name or reputation, but he’s called “Wolf,” and his interest in the case is very keen. If you’re the man who sent for him, you ought to say so. The town sheriff swears he didn’t make the request, and if he didn’t, and I didn’t, then I assume it must’ve been you—unless the adjuster has some special interest in learning about the bones.

  Maybe it’s that simple after all. Do you think he’s afraid there might be a lawsuit?

  Never mind. Come and see me, and I’ll tell you the rest. Or don’t, and wait for the inspector’s report. I’ll accommodate the man as best I’m able, but if there’s anything in particular you’d like me to convey or withhold, it’d be helpful to know about it before he arrives.

  This case has left me with a terrible taste in my mouth. Something is very strange about it, and something is untoward. I’m confident of that. But whatever strangeness or failings may be deduced from the matter, I’ll not see my department’s actions or officers thrown into the mud over it. We did the best we could, with the tools we had at our disposal. Asking any more of us is wholly unfair and unreasonable.

  I hope that your previous correspondence came at the behest of the commissioner, and not from any private concerns. I thought you knew us better than that.

  Yours,

  Aaron S.

  Emma L. Borden

  APRIL 25, 1894

  He knows.

  I cannot say that he knows everything, for honestly, who does? But he knows enough to either help us or see us in jail. So now we must hope for the best.

  I’d be lying if I swore it wasn’t some kind of relief, as if whatever burden Lizzie and I have borne is now cut by a third. Three sets of shoulders to carry it will make the load lighter for all, won’t it? Or maybe it’s all in my head. From another angle, it’s now three who suffer—rather than two. I don’t care.

  Is that awful? Fine, then. I’m awful.

  But he knows, and I’m glad. He’s confused, frightened, appalled, and outraged, which only means that he’s a good, sane man. Any other reaction would’ve worried me.

  He’s seen the creatures now. Firsthand. He’s even been injured by one, though slightly; and now he knows that we’ve constructed our falsehoods of pure motives, and have only sought to understand the nature of what we’re up against, using the best tools we could arrange. So he’s passed that first test and not gone mad.

  He passed the second test as well, when we sat up late in the night with Nance. Lizzie had gone downstairs into the laboratory to finish the last of the cleaning up and locking down, leaving me and Doctor Seabury to entertain one another over the sleeping, drooling form of my sister’s lover—who never much stirred, and never much whimpered . . . except to cry softly from time to time. And to repeat that unsettling mantra: out . . . out . . . out . . .

  So the doctor and I kept each other company. He asked me questions, and I answered them as best I could. If my sister had been there with us, she might’ve slipped me sharp gazes, or cleared her throat pointedly, to keep me from sharing too much. She’s so very careful, always, and I do not mean to diminish the necessity of this—I only admit that I find it tiring. More tiring than being ill. More tiring than ringing bells for minutes and minutes on end, my heart racing with terror that the bells may ring forever and not be answered. Not by her, at least.

  And when I can’t ring the bells any longer, and when I’m all out of bullets . . . what would become of me then?

  Same as Father and Mrs. Borden, I guess. Same as the Hamiltons.

  • • •

  Except . . . there’s this. I’ve wondered a terrible thing, a time or two—then quickly shoved it from my mind, like the decent human being I remain thus far. What if I were to become afflicted, or infected, or . . . touched . . . with whatever strange taint is creeping through the town? What then? Would I become like Father, with the strength of five men and the temper of a minotaur, angry and hungry, but full of power? Would I turn into Mrs. Borden, fast and heavy, with fists that could break down doors and a back that could overturn a cart? Or Matthew? Who . . . if the doctor’s report is accurate, via Ebenezer Hamilton, was able to lift his mother aloft with one hand and hold her in midair.

  Such strength. Like I’ve never known, or can’t remember. I don’t recall the last time I was able to walk unaided into town, or dash up and down a set of stairs. I can’t remember what it feels like to run, and I doubt I ever shall feel that joy again. Not without some unnatural intervention.

  But I didn’t tell Doctor Seabury about any of that.

  Instead, I told him about the house, and the laboratory downstairs. I told him how Lizzie had so cunningly arranged to have it built out when neighbors were absent or otherwise occupied, and when perfectly ordinary excuses could be made for the equipment. They know we’re rich. They think we’re strange. Why would it surprise anyone if we installed extensive plumbing to upgrade the home to modern conveniences? And what of it, should we import a heater for all the water and install it in the basement? And so forth, and so on.

  I also told him, in a moment of weakness or brandy, about my masculine persona.

  Maybe it was silly, but the moment felt right and I made my confession. I told him I was a man, or that I had a man’s brain—if that thought suited him better. I had another life, one on paper and sometimes in print across the globe, in places where I would never likely travel.

  I tried to slow myself down, to keep some of it to myself, and
maybe if Lizzie hadn’t been downstairs with a mop and some hydrochloric acid, she would’ve stopped me. It might have been a favor, or then again, I might have hated her for it.

  It felt so good, that’s all—to let someone else hear it. And, after a moment of astonishment, even believe it. I credit him that much, and credit him richly: He did not argue with me, or scoff and declare that I must surely be mistaken. He only asked after the subject matter I pursued, and I told him all about how I’d gone about creating this second person, through which I lived a whole different life. In my imagination, if nowhere else.

  He gently told me that he put more stock in imagination than many medicinal men, as he’d seen firm (if irrational) hope change the course of disease in patients, at times. I almost laughed, but it came out in a choked little sound instead. He asked me what was wrong.

  “Sir, I do not argue with regard to the healing powers of optimism, but if they could change every patient’s world, then my own would be much greater in scope these days.”

  “But I did not mean—,” he said hurriedly.

  I did not let him finish. “No, I understand what you meant. I suppose I am only sad, because I do believe you’re right—but you are not right about everyone, and sadly, I fall into the group for whom no amount of imagination will restore my health.”

  “You shouldn’t assume it. Science moves onward, upward, and in a thousand directions at once. Every year we see greater progress in every field. One day, you will find yourself restored.”

  “Don’t make promises, Doctor. I hate promises. I am all too aware how imprecise science can be. As imprecise as faith, at least.”

  “Well, then, everything is imprecise,” he said almost crossly, or I might’ve read too much into it. “But if we believe in nothing for a starting point, from what can we move forward? Even an educated guess is a starting point.”

  “Even a superstition,” I said, hearing Lizzie rattling around down in that damnable laboratory.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My sister. Her brand of science looks like mythology, but you’re right—without some place to stand and place a lever, there’s nowhere from which to move the world.” Then, before he could ask for more, I waved my hand and said, “It’s all she has, all that makes sense to her. There is lore, you see. And no science to speak of, save what she’s managed to conjure.”

  “Lore? Fairy tales, and the like?”

  “Just so.”

  He considered this, nodded slowly, and said, “When confronted with a problem that appears so . . . so vastly outside the reach of science, it’s not an unreasonable way to proceed. The tales of old wives have much value hidden in them, even if doctors cannot explain it.”

  “I’m a bit surprised at that response,” I told him. “I expected you to be more firmly on the side of reason.”

  “I do my best to remain on the side of reason, as you put it, yes. Absolutely. But the things I’ve noted as of late . . . the things I’ve seen, and heard, and recorded in my own notes, for my own reference—or as comparison with your experiences, and your sister’s . . . they are not reasonable. And I must admit that and accept it, if I wish to find answers.”

  “You make it sound as if we struggle blindly, in the dark.”

  “We all struggle blindly, in the dark. I did so just now, behind your house. It ended well for your sister and me,” he said, rubbing at a spot on his upper arm. “This time. Next time, we might not be so lucky. And then what should we do, when our luck runs out?”

  He cleared his throat, and leaned back in the chair, casting one nervous eye at Nance, whose chest rose and fell with a mechanical jerk, and hitch, and settling, that looked like nothing so much as the mindless thrashing of a machine.

  Floundering for some uplifting sentiment, I tried, “Then we find some light, and use it to guide ourselves out. Many monsters lose their power to frighten, when they’re dragged out into the morning.”

  “But some don’t,” he said, too quickly in my opinion. “Some only reveal in full the awfulness of their true nature, and assure us that there is no hope.”

  “Doctor!”

  His eyes went far away, and then went hard before they returned to me. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, though not fast enough. “But if you’d seen a battlefield first thing, in the light of dawn . . . then you might not wish so wildly for illumination. However”—he adjusted the timbre of his voice, and his position on the seat—“we are not cannon fodder tonight, and thus far, the daytime hours have been kind to us. Our advantages are few. Let’s appreciate the ones we can count.”

  Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union

  APRIL 28, 1894

  TELEGRAM AND ACCOMPANYING NOTE TO SHERIFF DANIEL HARDING, JETTING, MASS.

  Dead found in hotel basement identified as family of five named frenchly stop cut open in awful ways stop signs of water damage everywhere stop bones picked clean with the meat left behind stacked like steaks stop manning has sent for boston inspector stop details in post should arrive by friday if not send word stop

  Good God, Daniel—what the hell is going on out there?

  I’m acutely aware of my role as a receiver of information, and that my duty is to relate the missives with discretion, not commentary; but for heaven’s sake, I’m only human, and I can’t very well transcribe without reading and absorbing much of what I catch. This is the third such incident in as many weeks! The fourth, if you count that thing at the cannery. Not sure if we ought to or not, considering . . . but it’s impossible to rule it out, wouldn’t you say?

  Now, when Preston says he’s sent for the Boston inspector, that must be Wolf—isn’t that correct? I’ve seen his name bandied about with some regularity, as of late. Assuming I’m correct, and he’s the expert upon whom these recent hopes have been pinned, will you send for him, too? If you do, might I be allowed to accompany him? Let’s be honest, dear brother-in-law, I’m probably better briefed on the crimes than half your force. By the sounds of things, you’re playing this all very close to the vest, and I certainly won’t fault you for it—but perhaps you’d prefer having a non-police set of eyes on hand. I could report back to you, and tell you everything he says, everything he wants. Everything he sends back to Boston.

  I could be of better use to you out about town, rather than serving behind a desk—that’s what I’m saying. I’m not your secretary, and I only wish for the chance to prove it.

  At the risk of talking out of turn, I may have additional details which aren’t quite public. Say what you will about my job behind a desk, but this desk is covered day in and day out with rumor, flashed back and forth across the country at the speed of electricity. You’d do well to take advantage of my inadvertent eavesdropping.

  For example, did you know that there is talk of an altar? You know, like the kind in church, only not intended to praise the God of Love, I can promise you that much. Apparently, at the Wakefield scene and the Campton scene both, there was evidence of unholy worship, and again, it’s possible that a similar setup was in use at the Franklin cannery. The fire chief found something in the ashes, and he refused to identify it formally, but when drinking with friends, he confessed it looked like it could’ve been some kind of sacrificial table, or cabinet, or . . . well, he declined to use the word “altar” as if he deliberately shied away from it.

  But we’re fooling ourselves if we don’t admit the obvious.

  These evil acts are performed by a group of men, and maybe women as well—you can’t count them out. A group that follows the devil, that’s how all signs point. The ritualistic murders, the altars, the frantic quiet of law enforcement officials like yourself . . . You don’t want to cause a panic, and that desire is indeed commendable. But if you plan to withhold the facts until the case is closed, then surely your obligation is to close it quickly, and through any means necessary?

  I’m better means than you might expect.

  You’re wrong when you complain of my imagination.
It’s not a nuisance; it’s a virtue. You’re wrong also when you assume my skills are less worthy than yours; though our abilities may differ, they have commensurate value. To be blunt, people will talk to me before they’ll talk to you. They suspect you of watching them, and waiting for some misstep that might incur a fine or a jail cell—and even the most innocent of men will balk if he thinks it a possibility. They second-guess their every move, and wonder what wrong turn they’ve taken today, that you darken their doors.

  But me? I’m the friendly neighborhood gossip.

  Whether that embarrasses you or not, you’d be foolish to deny that my sociable nature is useful. Should you think otherwise, then I offer you a small tidbit for future thought: Ask your Boston investigator what he makes of the tentacles.

  Owen Seabury, M.D.

  APRIL 28, 1894

  I was stunned—and not at all displeased—to find Inspector Wolf on my doorstep this morning.

  His stout shape and bespectacled face were a sight for sore eyes, not least of all because I might be able to tell him something. Anything, really. Any small measure of what I’d learned from the Borden sisters . . . any illicit tidbit would unburden me by just that much.

  I knew it was a silly, perhaps dangerous idea. But it had become so much to carry—so much more to watch for, to wonder about. It was as if my whole world had been upended, yet I remained unmoved. And now I am forced to piece together a mystery from my upside-down space, my head gone light and my brain confused by all the new angles.

  Really, I was almost embarrassed by how glad I was to see him.

  And before long, I would learn that he must be brought into our confidence to some minimal degree. Whether the ladies liked it or not.