Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter
Every family has its secrets…
murdered her father and stepmother. Newspapers claim she did it for
the oldest of reasons: family conflicts, jealousy and greed. But what
if her parents were already dead? What if Lizzie slaughtered them
because they’d become zombies?
shocking
conspiracy to infect not only Fall River, Massachusetts, but also the
world beyond, Lizzie battles to protect her sister, Emma, and her
hometown from nightmarish ghouls and the evil forces controlling them.
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter 2
After being acquitted of brutally slaying her parents, Lizzie Borden thinks
her nightmare is over—but it’s only just begun!
flesh-eaters, this time with a heartbreaking twist: the infected
creatures are friends and family, hidden away by their grief-stricken
caregivers.
undead,
Lizzie has no choice but to pick up her axe again. With the help of
her charming self-defense instructor, Pierre, she vows to end the
horrific zombie menace, once and for all. But can she overcome her
personal demons and the rampaging monsters, no matter the cost?
book,
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter.
Christine (C.A.) Verstraete enjoys putting a little “scare” in her
writing. She follows the murder trial and offers a twist on the
infamous 1892 Borden murders in her book, Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter.
She also looks at the murders from the viewpoint of Lizzie’s doctor
in her latest, The Haunting of Dr.
Bowen. Other books include a young adult novel,
GIRL
Z: My Life as a Teenage Zombie,
and books on dollhouse
collecting and crafting.
Christine’s short stories have appeared in various anthologies
including: Descent
Into Darkness, Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crime, Mystery Weekly
,
and Timeshares, Steampunk’d
, and
Hot & Steamy: Tales of Steampunk
Romance,
DAW Books.
journalist published in daily to weekly
newspapers, and in various magazines. Her stories have received
awards from local and national newspaper associations, and the Dog
Writer’s Association of America.
Chapter One
Q. You saw his face covered with blood?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Did you see his eyeball hanging out?
A. No, sir.
Q. Did you see the gashes where his face was laid open?
A. No, sir.
—Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11, 1892
August 4, 1892
Lizzie Borden drained the rest of her tea, set down her cup, and listened to the sound of
furniture moving upstairs. My, my, for only ten o’clock in the morning my stepmother is certainly
energetic. Housecleaning, already?
THUMP.
For a moment, Lizzie forgot her plans to go shopping downtown. THUMP. There it went
again. It sounded like her stepmother was rearranging the whole room. She paused at the
bottom stair, her concern growing, when she heard another thump and then, the oddest of
sounds—a moan. Uh-oh. What was that? Did she hurt herself?
“Mrs. Borden?” Lizzie called. “Are you all right?”
No answer.
She wondered if her stepmother had taken ill, yet the shuffling, moving, and other unusual
noises continued. Lizzie hurried up the stairs and paused outside the partially opened door. The
strange moans coming from the room sent a shiver up her back.
When she pushed the door open wider, all she could do was stare. Mrs. Abby Durfee
Borden stood in front of the bureau mirror clawing at her reflected image. And what a horrid
image it was! The sixty-seven-year-old woman’s hair looked like it had never been combed and
stuck out like porcupine quills. Her usually spotless housedress appeared wrinkled and torn.
Yet, that wasn’t the worst. Dark red spots—blood, Lizzie’s mind whispered—dotted the floor and
streaked the sides, of the older woman’s dress and sleeves.
Lizzie gazed about the room in alarm. The tips of Father’s slippers peeking out from beneath
the bed also glistened with the same viscous red liquid. All that blood! What happened here?
What happened?
She gasped, which got the attention of Mrs. Borden, who jerked her head and growled.
Lizzie choked back a cry of alarm. Abby’s square, plain face now appeared twisted and ashen
gray. Her eyes, once bright with interest, stared from under a milky covering as if she had
cataracts. She resembled a female version of The Portrait of Dorian Gray. Another growl and a
moan, and the older woman lunged, arms rigid, her stubby hands held out like claws.
“Mrs. Borden, Abby!” Lizzie yelled and stumbled backward as fast as she could. “Abby, do
you hear me?”
Her stepmother shuffled forward, her steps slow but steady. She showed no emotion or
sense of recognition. The only utterances she made were those strange low moans.
Lizzie moved back even further, trying to keep out of reach of Mrs. Borden’s grasping
fingers. Then her foot hit something. Lizzie quickly glanced down at the silver hairbrush that had
fallen to the floor. Too late, she realized her error.
“No!” Lizzie shivered at the feel of her stepmother’s clammy, cold hand around her wrist.
“Abby, what happened? What’s wrong with you?”
Mrs. Borden said nothing and moved in closer. Her mouth opened and closed revealing
bloodstained teeth.
“No! Stay away!” Lizzie yelled. “Stop!”
She didn’t. Instead, Mrs. Borden scratched and clawed at her. Lizzie leaned back, barely
escaping the snap of the madwoman’s teeth at her neck.
“Mrs. Bor—Abby! No, no! Stop!”
Lizzie’s slight advantage of being younger offered no protection against her stepmother’s
almost demonic, inhuman strength. The older woman bit and snapped like a rabid dog. Lizzie
struggled to fight her off and shoved her away, yet Mrs. Borden attacked again and again, her
hands grabbing, her teeth seeking the tender flesh covered by Lizzie’s long, full sleeves.
The two of them grappled and wrestled, bumping into the bedposts and banging into
furniture. Lizzie yelped each time her soft flesh hit something hard. She felt her strength wane
as the crazed woman’s gnarled hands clawed at her. How much more she could endure?
Her cries for help came out hoarse and weak. “Em-Emma!” She tried again. “Help! Help me!”
Lizzie knew her sister had come in late last night from her trip out of town. But if Emma already
woke and went downstairs, will she even hear me?
Lizzie reeled back in panic as her spine pressed against the fireplace. She pushed and
fought in an attempt to keep this monster away, yet Mrs. Borden’s ugly face and snapping teeth
edged closer and closer.
Then Lizzie spotted it: the worn hatchet Father had left behind after he’d last brought in the
newly chopped wood. No, no! Her mind filled with horror, but when her stepmother came at her
again, Lizzie whispered a prayer for forgiveness and grabbed the handle. She lifted the hatchet
high overhead and swung as hard as she could. It hit her stepmother’s skull with a sickening
thud.
As impossible as it seemed, Mrs. Borden snarled and continued her attack.
Lizzie hit her again and again and again. The blows raked her stepmother’s face and
scraped deep furrows into tender flesh. The metal hatchet head pounded her stepmother’s
shoulders and arms, the bones giving way with sickening crunches. Mrs. Borden’s broken arms
dangled, hanging limp and ugly at her sides… and yet, dear God, she continued her attack.
With her last bit of strength, Lizzie raised the hatchet again, bringing it down on Mrs.
Borden’s head. Only then did her stepmother crumple and fall into a pile at Lizzie’s feet. It took a
few minutes for Lizzie to comprehend the horrible scene. It didn’t seem real, but it was.
With a cry, she threw the bloodied hatchet aside. She gagged as the weapon caught in the
braided artificial hairpiece hanging from the back of Mrs. Borden’s gore-encrusted scalp.
Retching, Lizzie ran to the other side of the bed, bent over, and vomited into the chamber
pot. She crossed the room and leaned against the wall, her shoulders shaking with each heart-
rending sob.
Her hands trembled so hard she could barely hold them still, but she managed to cover her
eyes in a feeble attempt to block out the carnage. It didn’t stop the horrific images that flashed in
her mind, or the many questions. And it certainly did nothing for the soul-crushing guilt that filled
her.
“Why?” she cried. “Why?” Dear God, what have I done? What have I done?
Very intense book cover. Great author!