The Lizzie Borden Trial Begins!
This was a momentous month for the infamous Lizzie Borden. It was on this day in 1893 that the "trial of the 19th century" began.
(Leslie's Illustrated cover, June 19, 1893 showing Lizzie Borden listening during her trial.)
On June 5, 1893, crowds packed the circuit court in New Bedford, Massachusetts to not only get a glimpse of the accused axe murderer, Lizzie Borden, but to hear the details of one of the most shocking cases to occur in Fall River, Mass. history.
The news of the trial, in which the spinster-daughter Lizzie Borden was accused of the vicious murders of her father, Andrew, and stepmother, Abby Durfee Borden on August 4, 1892, spread across the country. The trial was reported on by newspapers here and abroad.
Here's a glimpse of the front page of the June 9, 1893 Friday evening Daily Herald from Texas: (You can read the full copy here in PDF.) * See more newspapers here.
The case continues to fascinate today as it seems inconceivable to us, as it did to the jurors of the period, that a Victorian lady from a notable family could, or would, commit such a horrific murder. Many today insist she literally got away with murder. Some still believe she couldn't have done it. (See more information on the Famous Trials-Lizzie Borden website.)
As a writer, it's a case I always found fascinating. No matter how you view Lizzie, you still have to wonder how and why she (or anyone) could do such a thing. You only have to look at the crime scene photos to understand. Warning: garish photos. The autopsy reports are just as graphic. It was a truly horrific murder and a horrorific story.
To me, the photos and reports provided a reason for why she would do such a thing--she had no other choice. I built my novel, Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter, around the real life events, the trial, and the aftermath of her life. I used actual trial transcripts and information to provide a framework for the story and provide a plausible reason this could have happened. Once you look at the photos and read the reports, you'll see that it makes perfect sense in the horror realm.
*** Here's an excerpt detailing what brought Lizzie Borden to trial from my book, Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter by C.A. Verstraete:
(Get in print - B&N - or Print & Kindle or Kindle Unlimited) - See more reviews and information on my website.
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, Fall River Courtroom
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.
Lizzie pushed the door open wider and stared. 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 some distance
between her and 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 cried out at the strange feeling 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 a few
inches in height offered no protection against her shorter stepmother’s almost demonic and 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. Lizzie wondered how much more she could endure.
Lizzie’s
cries for help came out hoarse and
weak.
“Em-Emma!”
She tried again. “Help! Help me!” She knew Emma 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, her panic growing 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, yet she
continued her attack.
With the last bit of her strength, Lizzie raised the hatchet again and brought 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?
--CA Verstraete, girlzombieauthors.blogspot.com
