Chapelwood
Cherie Priest
Praise for Maplecroft
“Cherie Priest is supremely gifted and Maplecroft is a remarkable novel, simultaneously beautiful and grotesque. It is at once a dark historical fantasy with roots buried deep in real-life horror and a supernatural thriller mixing Victorian drama and Lovecraftian myth. You won’t be able to put it down.”
—Christopher Golden, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Snowblind
“Maplecroft is dark and lyrical, haunting and brined in blood. It is as sharp as Lizzie Borden’s axe—and Borden herself is a horror heroine bar none. Cherie Priest is our new queen of darkness, folks. Time to kneel before her, lest she take our heads.”
—Chuck Wendig, author of Blackbirds and The Blue Blazes
“With Maplecroft, Cherie Priest delivers her most terrifying vision yet—a genuinely scary, deliciously claustrophobic, and dreadfully captivating historical thriller with both heart and cosmic horror. A mesmerizing absolute must-read.”
—Brian Keene, Bram Stoker Award–winning author of The Rising
“Cherie Priest has long been a favorite author of mine, but with Maplecroft she has outdone herself. Grim, impeccably written, and deliciously disturbing, it’s nothing less than a gothic masterpiece, and represents Priest at the height of her power. Easily my favorite novel of the year so far.”
—Kealan Patrick Burke, Bram Stoker Award–winning author of Dead Leaves
“The best damn Cthulu novel you’ve read in ages . . . a wild, awesome page-turner. . . . Priest has taken the real-life historical details of the Borden murders . . . and turned them into one of the best Lovecraftian stories I’ve ever read.”
—io9
“[A] terrifying and powerful series launch by fan favorite Priest. . . . Readers will be intrigued by the weird monsters and nineteenth-century science, but the story is really carried by the characters’ emotional dynamics.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The historical and paranormal interweave beautifully and the dread just seeps through the pages. This is a lovesong to Lovecraft and a very fine example of effective horror writing.”
—Badass Book Reviews
“Maplecroft is probably [Priest’s] best work so far . . . a beautifully written story of horror, [the] genuine stuff of nightmare . . . a truly unique macabre masterpiece of fully realized characters given weight through historical accuracy.”
—My Whole Expanse I Cannot See
“Priest excels at exploring some of our deepest, darkest fears by weaving together a realistic setting and historic events with a frightening, visceral supernatural element.”
—Bitten by Books
“A superb work [that] wields both mastery over the classic forms of Lovecraft and Stoker and the keenly honed blade of modern sensibilities.”
—Mania
“A stunningly good horror tale, driven by the characters’ own impending sense of doom. Reminiscent of Stephen King’s The Shining, Maplecroft delves into the madness that lurks just beneath the surface.”
—CK2S Kwips and Kritiques
“Maplecroft is timeless horror–dark fantasy crafted by an absolute master storyteller . . . a towering literary achievement. It’s a macabre masterwork.”
—Paul Goat Allen
“A brilliantly done Lovecraftian horror filled with monsters that provoke absolute dread. It truly is horror at its finest.”
—The Nocturnal Library
Praise for Cherie Priest and Her Novels
“Priest kills as a stylist.”
—Charles de Lint, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
“Cherie Priest kicks ass!”
—Maggie Shayne, New York Times bestselling author of Deadly Obsession
“Cherie Priest has created a chilling page-turner. Her voice is rich, earthy, soulful, and deliciously Southern as she weaves a disturbing yarn like a master! Awesome—gives you goose bumps!”
—L. A. Banks, author of the Vampire Huntress Legend Series
“Wonderful. Enchanting. Amazing and original fiction that will satisfy that buttery Southern taste, as well as that biting aftertaste of the dark side. I loved it.”
—Joe R. Lansdale, award-winning author of The Thicket
“Fine writing, humor, thrills, real scares, the touch of the occult . . . had me from the first page.”
—Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author of The Betrayed
“Priest can write scenes that are jump-out-of-your-skin scary.”
—Cory Doctorow, author of Homeland
“Give Cherie Priest fifteen minutes of your time; trust me—you won’t look back.”
—Bookslut
“Priest masterfully weaves a complex tapestry of interlocking plots, motivations, quests, character arcs, and background stories to produce an exquisitely written novel with a rich and lush atmosphere.”
—The Gazette (Montreal)
“Priest has a knack for instantly creating quirky, likable, memorable characters.”
—The Roanoke Times (VA)
“Cherie Priest has crafted an intriguing yarn that is excellently paced, keeping the reader turning pages to discover where the story will lead.”
—San Francisco Book Review
“Priest’s haunting lyricism and graceful narrative are complemented by the solemn, cynical thematic undercurrents with a tangible gravity and depth.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With each volume, Priest squeezes in several novels’ worth of flabbergasting ideas, making each story expansive as hell while still keeping . . . tight control over the three-act structure.”
—The Chicago Center for Literature and Photography
“Cherie Priest has mastered the art of braiding atmosphere, suspense, and metaphysics.”
—Katherine Ramsland, bestselling author of Ghost: Investigating the Other Side
“Priest does an excellent job of building tension throughout the novel . . . up to and including the satisfying ending. Writing that can simultaneously set a mood, flesh out characters, and advance plot is a force to be reckoned with. With writing this good . . . I have no doubts that we will be hearing from Cherie Priest again and again.”
—SF Signal
“[Priest] is already a strong voice in dark fantasy and could, with care, be a potent antidote for much of what is lacking elsewhere in the genre.”
—Rambles
Also by Cherie Priest
Maplecroft
ROC
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
First Printing, September 2015
Copyright © Cherie Priest, 2015
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Priest, Cherie.
Chapelwood: the Borden dispatches / Cherie Priest.
pages cm.—(The Borden dipatches)
ISBN 978-0-698-13841-4
1. Borden, Lizzie, 1860–1927—Fiction. 2. Serial murderers—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.R537C48 2015
813'.6—dc23 2015009666
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Also by Cherie Priest
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Leonard Kincaid, American Institute of Accountants, Certified Member
Ruth Stephenson
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Father James Coyle, Saint Paul’s Church
Ruth Stephenson
Inspector Simon Wolf
George Ward, Birmingham City Commission President
Inspector Simon Wolf
Leonard Kincaid, American Institute of Accountants (Former Member)
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
Leonard Kincaid, American Institute of Accountants (Former Member)
Inspector Simon Wolf
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Leonard Kincaid, American Institute of Accountants (Former Member)
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
Inspector Simon Wolf
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Leonard Kincaid, American Institute of Accountants (Former Member)
Inspector Simon Wolf
Reverend Adam James Davis, Minister, the Disciples of Heaven
George Ward, Birmingham City Commission President (Former)
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Inspector Simon Wolf
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Reverend Adam James Davis, Minister, the Disciples of Heaven
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
Inspector Simon Wolf
Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
Inspector Simon Wolf
Gaspera Lorino
Ruth Stephenson
For Karl, even though he’s not in this one.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m always terrified when it comes to acknowledgments and thanks, because I feel like I’m virtually guaranteed to leave out someone important—by virtue of my own cluelessness. So, although there are approximately a thousand people I’d like to mention here, I will try to keep it relatively short and sweet.
Therefore, I offer copious and oversized thanks to the usual suspects: my editor, Anne Sowards, who helped bang this thing into shape, and wonder publicist Alexis Nixon, who helped launch Maplecroft so grandly (in preparation for this here follow-up); my agent, Jennifer Jackson—who also serves part-time as my bottle rocket of fiery justice—and likewise to all the other fine folks at the Donald Maass agency, who make my life easier each day; my husband, J. Aric Annear, who hears all about these projects in what must surely be excruciating detail but never pushes me off a cliff or anything; and, of course, to everyone else on the production and marketing teams at Roc. Even though I don’t know all your names. You rock. Yes, you.
Leonard Kincaid, American Institute of Accountants, Certified Member
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA FEBRUARY 9, 1920
I escaped Chapelwood under the cover of daylight, not darkness. The darkness is too close, too friendly with the terrible folk who worship there.
(The darkness would give me away, if I gave it half a chance.)
So I left them an hour after dawn, when the reverend and his coterie lay sleeping in the hall beneath the sanctuary. When last I looked upon them, taking one final glance from the top of the stairs—down into the dim, foul-smelling quarter lit only with old candles that were covered in dust—I saw them tangled together, limb upon limb. I would say that they writhed like a pit of vipers, but that wasn’t the case at all. They were immobile, static. It was a ghastly, damp tableau. Nothing even breathed.
I should have been down there with them; that’s what the reverend would’ve said if he’d seen me. If he’d caught me, he would’ve lured me into that pallid pile of flesh that lives but is not alive. He would have reminded me of the nights I’ve spent in the midst of those arms and legs, tied together like nets, for yes, it is true: I have been there with them, among the men and women lying in a heap in the cellar. I have been a square in that quilt, a knot in that rug of humanity, skin on skin with the boneless, eyeless things that are not arms, and are not legs.
(I dream of it now, even when I’m not asleep.)
But never again. I have regained my senses—or come back to them, having almost fled them altogether.
So what sets me apart from the rest of them, enthralled by the book and the man who wields it? I cannot say. I do not know. I wanted to be with them, to be like them. I wanted to join their ranks, for I believed in their community, in their goals. Or I thought I did.
I am rethinking all the things I thought.
I am fashioning new goals, goals that will serve mankind better than the distant, dark hell that the reverend and his congregation seek to impose upon us all. They taught me too much, you see. They let me examine too many of their secrets too closely, and taste too much of the power they chase with their prayers and their formulas.
When they chose me for an acolyte, they chose poorly.
I take comfort in this, really, I do. It means that they can misjudge. They can fail.
So they can fail again, and indeed they must.
• • •
In retrospect, I wish I had done more than leave. I wish I’d found the strength to do them some grievous damage, some righteous recompense for the things they’ve done, and the things they strive to do in the future. Even as I stood there at the top of the stairs, gazing down at that mass of minions, or parishioners, or whatever they might call themselves . . . I was imagining a kerosene lantern and a match. I could fling it into their midst, toss down the lighted match, and lock the door behind myself. I could burn the whole place down around their ears, and them with it.
(And maybe also burn away the boneless limbs, which are not arms, and are not legs.)
But even with all the kerosene and all the matches in the world, would a place so wicked burn? A place like Chapelwood . . . a place that reeks of mildew and rot, and the spongy squish of timbers going soft from the persistent wetness that the place never really shakes—how many matches would it require?
All of them?
• • •
I stood at the top of the stairs and I trembled, but I did not attempt any arson.
I did nothing bolder than weep, and I did that silently. I can tell myself I did something brave and strong, when I walked away and left them behind. I can swear that into the mirror until I die, but it isn’t true. I’m a coward; that’s the truth. I was a coward there at Chapelwood, and I am a coward every day I do not descend upon that frightful compound with a militia of righteous men and all the matches in the world, if that’s what it would take to see the place in ashes.
Not that I could muster any such militia.
Even the most righteous of men would be hard-pressed to believe me, and I can only admit that my case against the reverend may well sound like nonsense. But the strangeness of my message makes it no less true, and no less deadly. No less an apocalypse-in-waiting.
In time, perhaps, they will reveal themselves as monsters and the city will rise up to fight them. And the one thing
working in my favor is that, yes, there is time. Their mechanizations are slow, and that’s just as well; what horror would the universe reveal if mankind could alter it with a whim and a prayer? No, they need time yet—time, and blood. So there is time for the men of Chapelwood to make a mistake, and I will be watching them. Waiting for them.
Stalking them, as they have stalked others before.
• • •
Which brings me to my recent resolution, and why I’m writing of it here.
Do I incriminate myself? Fine, then I incriminate myself. But I will incriminate the reverend, too. I will incriminate them all, and when my time comes, I will not go down alone. I will not go quietly. And I will not have the world believing me a fiend or a madman, not when I am doing God’s own work, in His name.
(If He should exist, and if He should see me—then He will know my heart, and judge me accordingly. I have tried to pray to Him, again and again. Or rather, I have tried to listen for Him, again and again. He does not speak to me, not so that I can hear it. It is one thing I envy the reverend and his followers: Their god speaks.)
(Or is their god the devil after all? For it is the devil who must make his case.)
This must be how the Crusaders felt, when tasked with the awful duty of war and conquest. A necessary duty, and an important one, to be sure. But awful all the same.
My duty is awful too, and I will not shirk away from it. I will confront it.
• • •
I said before that they showed me too much, and they did. They invited me into their confidence because of my training and my aptitude for numbers; I’ve always had a head for sums, and I’ve worked as an accountant for the city these last eleven years. They needed a mathematician, a man who could see the vast tables and workings of numbers and read them as easily as some men read music.
I was flattered that they considered me worthy of their needs. I was proud to assist them, back when I was weak and eager to please.
I took their formulas, their charts, and their scriptures, and I teased out the patterns there. I showed them how to make the calculations themselves, how to manipulate the figures into telling them their fortunes. I believed—do you understand? I believed that the reverend had found a way to hear God speaking, and that when He talked, He spoke in algebra.
