by
C.A. Verstraete
Gruesome deaths haunt the industrial city of Fall River, Massachusetts.
Dr. Seabury Bowen—physician to the infamous Lizzie Borden—swears he’s being stalked by spirits, though his beloved wife thinks it’s merely his imagination.
But the retired doctor insists that neither greed nor anger provoked the recent sensational axe murders in Fall River. Rather, he believes the city is poisoned by bad blood and a thirst for revenge dating back to the Indian and Colonial wars.
Now, two years after the Borden murders, Dr. Bowen is determined to uncover the mysteries stirring up the city’s ancient, bloodthirsty specters.
Now, two years after the Borden murders, Dr. Bowen is determined to uncover the mysteries stirring up the city’s ancient, bloodthirsty specters.
Can he discover who, or what, is shattering the peace before Fall River runs red? Or will he be the next victim?
Excerpt
The Haunting of Dr. Bowen, A Mystery in Lizzie Borden’s Fall River
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Prologue
“Never did I say
to anyone that she had died of fright.
My first thought,
when I was standing in the door, was that she had fainted.”
—Testimony
of Dr. Seabury W. Bowen, Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 8, 1893
“Why won’t anyone
believe me? Why, Phoebe, why?”
Dr. Seabury Bowen
shoved back the shock of white hair hanging over his forehead and wiped a
wrinkled hand across his stubbled chin.
His appearance, like
his surroundings, could stand a bit of major housekeeping, not that he cared a
whit.
“Here, it’s here
somewhere,” he mumbled.
The old man
rummaged among the giant pile of documents, books, and what-not littering the
large walnut desk in his study. Several minutes later, and after the search
through dozens of loose papers, he saw the faded red book lying beneath a
tottering pile. He pulled at it, sending the rest of the stack falling like so
much unwanted garbage.
The good doctor,
but a shadow of his once-robust self, flipped the pages. He stared at the offending
journal entry before setting the book aside with a heartrending sob.
Chapter One
“I saw the form of Mr. Borden lying on the lounge at the left
of the sitting-room door. His face was very badly cut, apparently with a sharp
instrument; his face was covered with blood.”
—Testimony
of Dr. Seabury W. Bowen, Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 8, 1893
The man reached toward
him with long, lean fingers. Dr. Seabury Bowen blinked and tried to make out
the features of the unknown figure standing in the corner. The unexpected
visitor had a broad, dark face and what looked like a band across his forehead.
Bowen stretched out his arm in turn and jumped when their fingers touched, the
jolt surging through him like the electricity he knew would soon replace all
the gas lights.
“Seabury, dear,
are you all right?” His wife, Phoebe, sounded concerned. “What’s wrong?”
Bowen breathed
hard. He bolted upright and held a hand on his chest, trying to catch his breath.
Still stunned, he gazed about the room, disturbed at the odd shapes until he
recognized familiar things… the bureau, the armoire, the paintings on his
bedroom walls. He swallowed and nodded.
“Ye-yes. I-I’m fine. A bad dream, that’s all
it was. Just a dream.”
“A bad dream?
Dear, you’re breathing so hard, your heart must be pounding like a drum in Mr.
Sousa’s band! Are you sure you’re fine?”
The doctor took
his wife’s hand and kissed it, relieved to feel his heartbeat return to normal.
He had to admit his reaction worried him for a minute, too. “I’m fine now, Phoebe.
Really, it’s all right. Go back to sleep. I’m too wrought up to rest. I think
I’ll go downstairs and read awhile.”
He gave her a
loving smile before he rose, and slipped on his robe, his thoughts in a whirl.
To tell the truth, these dreams or hallucinations or whatever they were,
appeared to be getting stronger and more frequent.
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