A Guided Tour of the Granary Burying Ground
Boston Massachusetts.
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Welcome, Friend Reader!
It has come to our attention that the tourist industry is a source of billions and billions of dollars in annual revenue for those wretches brave enough to deal with those shuffling hordes of fanny-pack’d wanderers who roam the globe in search of things they have seen on television. In an effort to capitalize on this seemingly unending source of wealth, we are pleased to present for general release the following pamphlet, a humble guide to the Granary Burying Ground currently located in Boston, Massachusetts.
We feel that our guide to this most august rubbish heap of American History is superior to all others for the following reasons:
1) We scrupulously avoid any history that the reader should have learned if they were paying attention in school. This guide is for the erudite, discerning traveler, not the slackjawed jackanapes who slouched their way through class, lurking at the fringes of Scholarship in order to pluck its lunch-monies and make it eat dirt.
2) We cover history that the average historian simply is not aware of due to the vast gaping holes in their own research. Also, we’ve made a large portion of this pamphlet up out of whole cloth. The rest came to us in a dream-like state after we imbibed a goodly portion of Dr. Vermont’s Maple Whisky and Spoon Tonic.
3) This pamphlet and the vast wisdom that lurks within it is free. We understand that traditionally in order to capitalize on tourist wealth one must first charge money for one’s services, but we are Gentlemen and Scholars, not some grubby prostitute hawking her faded body on a streetcorner lit only by passing headlights and desperation. No, Friend Reader, we are not her. Instead, we are the slutty coed who gives it up for free, our young nubile breasts heaving after another round of Jager shots, gazing deeply, if somewhat wobbly into your eyes as we run our hands down our taut-
4) We apologize for that. If you wish to pay for our services, please bury the sum of One American Dollar in cold change in your back yard on a night when the moon is obscured by clouds. We will then come while you sleep to collect our money. If you leave more than the sum of One American Dollar, we shall perhaps deign to visit your dreams, our long blonde hair shining like gold as it cascades around our creamy nakedness, our full lips whispering your name as they reach for your-
5) Many other so-called ‘tourist guides’ are merely the creations of clever thieves and are designed to lure the trusting and unwary into a deep alleyway with the vague promises that George Washington once slept there. Be warned, Friend Reader, that George Washington is a myth created by a vast conspiracy of cut-purses and wallet-slits to lure the unwary into their clutches. A sign reading “George Washington Slept Here” may be freely and immediately translated as “Enter Here If Your Tire of Your Worldy Goods.”
So please, Friend Reader, arm yourself with the knowledge presented in this pamphlet and wield it with great fervor on your next visit to the ancient town of Boston, Massachusetts. If you are distant or otherwise lazy, you may still use this pamphlet to edify yourself and settle any bar-room debates. Should another patron disagree with your position, simply wrap this paper around a knife and jab it into their eye. This will surely earn you the reputation of an earnest and deadly scholar.
Background
The Granary Burying Ground is located on Tremont Street in Boston. Considering that roughly a fifth of all streets in Boston are named Tremont, please be sure that you go to the correct one.
The cemetery came into being in the middle of the seventeenth century when the early settlers of Boston ran out of space in their own backyards for their dead. Famine, disease, bears, Indians, and the unfortunate, if fashionable, habit of eating wood for breakfast all had taken their toll on the primeval Bostonians. Private property was so choked with corpses that an average gentleman could not swing a buckled hat without slapping a family member’s corpse in the face. This was a crime back then, punishable by death (see Leviticus 26:29). So in an effort to end the cycle of corpse-slapping and execution, the City Fathers decreed that any extra dead could be deposited in an unused corner of Boston Common. This decree was largely ignored until the City Fathers amended it to include a 5 pence refund on those bodies who were originally born in Boston.
While modern hindsight dictates that stashing a load of corpses right next to the main granary for the city would be perhaps a bad idea, the Granary Burying Ground was a success. The extent of that success was not full realized until 1897 when a laborer digging at the future site of nearby Park Street Station accidentally swung his pick into a major corpse-well, causing an explosive cascade of decayed colonial body parts to come bursting forth under great pressure. Such was the sheer number of dead that spewed into the air, fanning the Common in a charnel scene that, once the well was capped and tapped, it provided power for the Tremont Street Subway until 1901.
Why did so many early Bostonians and patriots flock to the Granary Burying Ground? Some scholars, of whom we are one, conjecture that it is because of the site’s proximity to one of the city’s most powerful ley-lines, one of those invisible vectors of psychic force that chain our Mother Earth like a yoke upon an ox. For the safety of all people, we have endeavored to keep this ley-line clearly marked and if you wish to meet us, Friend Reader, you may find us out at the small hours before dawn repainting the line red with the blood of slaughtered lambs. For this ley-line, named after its discoverer Josiah B. Freedom, is a thirsty one and it demands our constant attention, lest its power creep out and turn another unsuspecting passer-by into a Benjamin Franklin impersonator.
A Few Words Concerning Colonial Gravestones and their Iconography
Many of the graves in the Granary Burying Ground bear the images of skulls or skeletons and are therefore fucking creepy.
Granary Burying Ground Times of Operation
The cemetery is open to the general, living public from 10am in the morning to 4pm in the afternoon, longer in the summer when the bright light of day keeps the worst of the corpse-filches away. If you wish to deposit the body of a loved on in the Granary Burying Ground, it is recommended you leave the body, along with the sum of one hundred American dollars pressed into its mouth for taxes and fees, beside the Vagrant’s Gate after midnight. A corpse-filch will be along shortly to assist you.
The Guided Tour
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At last, the true succulent meat of this document! Friend Reader, gird your cerebellum and hoist up your flag of knowledge because we are about to get seriously Olde Schoole on these colonial bitches!
A vague attempt has been made to make your trip through the cemetery as logical and as efficient as possible. Perfection in this regard is no easy task as the colonial builders of the Granary Burying Ground were strict adherents of the ‘bury’em where they fall’ approach to graveyard planning. This approach was partially born of laziness and partially born of the need to keep the graveyard as disorganized as possible lest the restless spirits that haunt these tombs find their way free of the wrought iron gates and warded pineapples that protect the city from the wrath of the departed.
While walking the paths and alleys of this graveyard under no circumstances should you ever make a left turn without proper training. To do so is to invite disaster upon yourself and your progeny for three score and twenty. Instead, simply turn right three times, spinning yourself in a 270 degree clockwise circle. If you wish to seek certification in left handed graveyard turns, please feel free to sign up for the author’s course, Sinister Turns in Sinister Places, currently taught on alternate Wednesdays at the local community center. The cost is five dollars and a hot meal per person. No peanuts please, we are allergic.
Begin your approach through the Main Gate. Step lively up the stone steps and whistle a jaunty tune. This will calm the dead and confuse the living, a most satisfying endeavor.
At the first intersection, turn left (right three times) and head down Goremerrow Lane parallel to Tremont Street until you reach the first marker. Be sure to use your map!
A — James Otis
It is an honored Bostonian tradition to scream as loud as you can at James Otis’ (1725–1783) grave. Nearby tourists may look at you askance, but ignore them. They are less than human. You, however, have just proved yourself as a true Boston Native, a Brahmin, and the city shall now open herself to you like a welcoming sister. Hold your head high.
Now turn right and head up the path parallel to the church and away from Tremont Street.
B — Thomas Wyat
Every year on the 13th of April at 9:45pm, a lone woman dressed in black climbs the fence of the Granary Burying Ground and rushes to this spot. None dare stop her for she carries beneath her jacket a large and fearsome looking flintlock pistol. Upon reaching Thomas Wyat’s (1713–1737) grave, she aims the pistol at the very earth and shouts in a loud, ringing voice, “Stay Dead, Ye Bastard!” and then fires. The roar of the pistol is like Zeus’s own thunderbolt and its echo may be heard for miles. Where the ball strikes, sickly green flames shoot high up into the sky. Those not deafened by the mighty pistol shot may hear the faint sounds of screaming, as if something between a man and a bull was caught in a steel trap, bellowing in pain and rage. Once the echo fades and the flames die down, observers are shocked to realize that the woman is gone again for another year.
C — Robert McNeil
There is actually no body buried here. When this site was excavated, in lieu of remains, yet another gravestone was found, buried amongst the rotted remnants of an expensive coffin. This second gravestone is a twin of the one you see before you, its only differences being the dates of Robert McNeil’s birth and death. Rather than 1717–1752, they are listed as being 1953–2014. When we attempted to investigate this mystery further, our offices were ransacked and our phones tapped. Therefore, we decided to leave well enough alone and recommend that you do the same.
You will pass the monument to John Hancock. Do not meet his effigy’s gaze.
D — Polly MacKay
Polly MacKay’s (1779–1783) inscription reads ‘Look on this babe & learn to die / Here you must lie as well as I.’ which is extremely dark and bossy for a four year old. Thus it is no surprise that her parents killed her at such a young age.
E — Mathew Skinner
Take a moment to regard Mathew Skinner’s gravestone. Notice the flaming heart topped by a skull that also appears to be on fire. This badass iconography matches the cover art from Skinner’s first album, Ladief Faire I feek Reliefe in Thy Titf, which had several popular hits in its day including Bahama Rude, The Girl I Left Behind Me, and our personal favorite, The Girl I Left Behind Me (Masonic Club Mix). Sadly, Skinner was never able to recapture the magic of his first success and his comeback tour, Straight Out of Charles-Towne, was cancelled due to gout.
You will have to leave the path to reach the next spot. Prepare yourself.
F — Huach-No-Lastia
This is no grave or tomb. This is an altar to Huach-No-Lastia, an ancient Lemurian fertility goddess. If you wish to have many children skilled in the arts of astronomy, animal husbandry, and blood magic, you should seriously consider conceiving on this stone. Be sure to bring plenty of fennel, ochre daub, and middenthrush. A blanket is recommended because the ancient energies of Hauch-No-Lastia make this stone a very cold and uncomfortable place to lie on, especially while getting freaky.
G — Paul Revere
We all know about Paul Revere’s (1735–1818) midnight ride thanks to the propaganda perpetuated by Longfellow in 1861. What we tend to forget is that Paul Revere was one of the foremost silversmiths of his day. His erotic works graced ladies’ nightstands up and down the east coast for years, providing each lonely lass with a ‘midnight ride’ of her own. An original Revere Dildo would fetch upwards of one million dollars at auction to this day. However, due to the rash of forgeries released in response to Longfellow’s poem, it is not recommended that the collector purchase a silver dong from anyone but the most reputable auction houses.
You may stop and rest here for a moment. If you wish to picnic, that is fine, but be sure to pour a little wine on the ground as a token to the dead who could not be buried here.
H — Increase Sumner
In those days, children grew up tougher and died more frequently. Thus it was completely acceptable to give your child a goofy name — the chances that your progeny would make it to grammar school, let alone their teenage years was slim at best. Those children that did survive the gamut of disease, horse-related accidents, bear attacks, and merciless name calling would then grow up to be staunch, insufferable twats like Increase Sumner (1746–1799) here. Just look at this asshole’s grave marker. Just who the hell does he think he is?
From Sumner’s marker, turn right and head down the path towards Tremont. Take your first right to the next site.
I — John Downing
John Downing’s grave either serves as an excellent warning as to why planning skills are important when figuring the design and layout of gravestones, or is a series of cunning clues pointing the mourner towards his missing treasure. Downing was indeed a thrifty man in life and his miserly ways made him rich beyond belief, but after his death that wealth was never located. Many turned to his tombstone in hopes of learning the eventual fate of his gold (his will having only read “Suck it, Grandkids!”). When taken as a whole, the myriad of inserts, unfinished words, and superseded scripts in addition to the crudely scratched coordinates that lay at the base of the stone do all point towards the veracity of the myth. However, wise and resourceful scholars will no doubt be aware that Downing’s grave was carved by Plopsy Watershead of Haverhill, one of the worst stonemasons in all of the colonies and the man personally responsible such affronts as the Drooping Arch, the Twisted Memorial, and the Plaque of Ten Thousand Penii. Still, Downing’s grave is notable as the only remaining example of Watershead’s “work” as the rest were all torn down in the 1870s by scandalized Victorians.
You may need to step over a few stones and gawking children to view the next grave. Treat the stones with care and the children to the back of your hand.
J — Mary Goose
This is not the grave of Elizabeth Goose, beloved by all as children’s author ‘Mother Goose.’ Instead, this is the grave of Mary Goose (1648–1690), pornographer and slattern-keep. Her pornographic empire reached its peak in 1678 when she was the first to introduce Ankle Etchings, the sexual device known as the Beachcomber’s Daughter, and pamphlet Many Fine Ladies from London-Towne That Behave in Most Improper Manners (Also, They Fuck a Goat) to the people of Boston. Eventually, her empire crumbled and she was ruined, reduced to working in the slatternery that she once owned. You may spit on her grave if you feel righteous, but know that towards the end of her life, Mary would charge 2 shillings for that honor.
You will need to depart the path at an angle to reach Boult’s grave. It is within exactly five righteous paces of Revere’s tomb. If you cannot pace this out exactly, pause here to consider your multitude of sins.
K — John Boult
Here lies John Boult, necromancer. Before you hop away from his grave in revulsion, concerned that a spindly hand with yellowed, parchment-like skin and cracked, bloody nails may reach up from the very earth to drag you down into the bowels of the netherworld, remember that back in Boult’s day death, and therefore necromancy, was a much bigger part of life. Boult’s undead legion did terrorize much of the outlaying areas around Boston, but they also did a lot of good. Many of the buildings constructed in the late seventeenth century were done so by Boult’s minions. After all, skeletons never tire of building house after house. Such was the strength of Boult’s dark wizardry that some of his minions survive to this day, endlessly pounding nail into board or shingle to roof, and are prized possessions of Boston’s otherwise Mafia-run construction industry. Boult retired in 1710, burying himself where you stand now to rest and ponder the darker mysteries of the universe. Should Boston ever need his services again, he may be called back to the land of the living by the eldritch song of a twisted music box that is kept under lock and key in the office of the Mayor.
Head for the tree.
L — Robert Williams
Robert Williams’s (1691–1758) grave is empty, his body having been long ago subsumed by the ancient oak that stands next his stone, a reward from the Trees for his long service. Williams was one of the great Forrester-Judges of his age, a fair man who took his duties to the woods surrounding Boston most seriously. Able to determine whether or not any given tree was guilty or innocent, thus either sending them to or saving them from the axe, Williams’ even-handed approach to deciduous justice helped to ease relations between colonists and the native foliage, thus preventing a repeat of the Roanoke tragedy.
Now proceed towards the Franklin Obelisk, pausing only to regard the next marked grave. Otherwise, all shall be lost.
M — Nancy Stewart
Observe the laughing skull that crests Nancy Stewart’s (d.1776) gravestone. What does it find so funny? To find out, merely sleep on this spot. As you slumber, the skull shall whisper its jokes and ribald stories into your subconscious and you shall go mad. Stewart herself spent most of her life babbling to herself, rocking away slowly in an antique chair, her knitting needles sharp and bloody as she worked her own hair into a scarf. It is said that she who possesses this scarf will be invincible to all forms of harm. Be warned, though, as this scarf only works for women. Should a male don it, it will wrap itself round his neck tight, choking the life out of him. The last thing he will hear is Nancy’s laughter mixed with that of the skull that adorns her grave.
You may now join the queue of mystery-seekers that swarm over the Obelisk like ants over Honey-Assed Jenny.
N — Franklin Obelisk
While this site does indeed mark the tomb of Benjamin Franklin’s parents Josiah (1655–1744) and Abiah (1667–1752), it also is the location of the famed inventor’s Galvanic Projector, a towering engine of destruction constructed of stone and brass and powered by the primal forces of Mother Nature Herself. Constructed in case the Revolution failed, the Projector was to be used to hold the British Empire hostage under threat that Franklin would use it to destroy the Moon. Luckily for Benjamin Franklin’s reputation, the colonists succeeded in their revolt and we now remember him as a wise, if horny, father of our nation as opposed to the screaming mad super-villain he really was. If you would like to know more about the Projector and the series of codes and traps that must be defeated to make it rise from its stony prison to once again threaten the Heavens, please see the author’s book The Franklin Dictate: A Jake Flexington Adventure, available from fine booksellers everywhere, also coming to a theatre near you.
Proceed down the central path towards Tremont Street. To see evidence of the horrible power that lies beneath your feet, take a look at that totally fucked up mutant tree. What the hell is bulging out from its base like a boil waiting to burst? If you must poke it, do so with a stick and stand clear.
O — Grim Barrow
This is the burrow of the Trundelsnatch, a creature of fang and fear that was separated from the Dark Climes by the Great Sundering at the end of the Ninth Age. It was drawn to this location by the vast concentration of corpses impacted beneath the earth (Ha! Continuity!) here in the seventeenth century. If you wish to summon the Trundelsnatch and converse with it in its gibbering tongue, simply stamp at the ground here three times. We recommend that you do this in direct sunlight as it is only the hateful rays of Sol that can reduce this creature’s iron claws to soft runny wax. Be sure to anoint your gift to it with the most fragrant of oils and woade (you may need to knock the child unconscious to get all the sigils right) before rolling it into the shadows, lest you invite the demon’s ire. If your gift pleases the creature, it will seek out and devour your worst enemy. It should be noted that the Trundelsnatch as a strong penchant for literal irony, so if you have any hint of self-loathing or defeatism, this avenue of revenge may not be for you.
About face. Hop the chain fence to reach the next grave. If you can not hop this fence, then you are likely a leprechaun. Where is my gold, you Irish bastard?
P — Mary Savage
Note the unique carving that adorns the grave of Mary Savage (na-1775). Two angels holding aloft a crown represents more than just the lifting power of angels. For if you look closely, you can see that the angels are in fact stealing the crown from the head of Mary Savage. In life, Mary was an ordained Priestess-Queen of the Boston Fae. An aspect of the Morrigan, that blood-soaked goddess of Celtic lore, Mary lead the local tribes of Kindly Ones into a strange sort of accord with their more human neighbors. This peace was mutually beneficial for both parties and helped to cement British power over the colony. In exchange for a yearly tribute of child-flesh, Mary and her ilk would help to enforce English law from the shadows, reaching out to pluck the worst of the revolutionary rabble from their beds. Mary was eventually betrayed and stabbed to death with iron knives when she stepped through the mirrored gate to claim her yearly tribute. The presence of angels stealing her crown of office is the last sort of “Fuck you” and ritual binding the colonists could come up with after she was laid to rest. Mary may have had the last laugh, however, as fae can never truly die. Instead her shade dwells now with the mirrors that she used for transport, thus providing the true basis of the urban legend of “Bloody Mary.”
Rather than looking for a stone, look for the clear absence of a stone.
Q — Blumpo, the Patriot Who Tried Her Best
Gaze in reverent awe at the small patch of empty earth before you. For this hallowed spot is the final resting place of one of the greatest of the unsung heroes of the American Revolution. The patriot known only as ‘Blumpo’ (?-1795) has been largely forgotten in this day and age, but should the Time Eddy Vortex located near William Osborne’s (d.1753 and again in 1834) grave open again and you were to travel back to colonial times, certainly everyone you would encounter who was not directly engaged in the process of hanging you for being a witch would have a story of Blumpo, the Patriot Who Tried Her Best, to tell you. Being a close approximation of a woman, it was hard for Blumpo to assist in the efforts of male patriots like Sam Adams and John Hancock, but like all patriotic women of the day, she did her best. Unfortunately too clumsy to sew uniforms for the Minutemen and too coarse to help rally support amongst the genteel merchant class, Blumpo did her best. She would spend her days near the markets and docks by Boston’s main port (for that is where she lived, sleeping in the barrel that was to become her wedding dress) waggling her vast eyebrows and singing her tuneless, bawdy songs about eggs all the while working as a super secret special lookout for Sam Adams and his boys. Should she see a ship full or British soldiers pull into dock, she would feast on a plate of baked beans, noisily insisting that they were in fact her children who were being punished for poor marks at school. When the tax collector came around to collect the harsh King’s Taxes, Blumpo would don a fake beard fashioned from straw and gull wings and follow him through the city crying that he had stolen her kneecaps. It was Blumpo that signaled to the patriots which ships was laden with goods from Britain, thus she was the one who fingered the ship from which the Boston Tea Party would be staged. One cannot help but wonder what the sailors onboard that ship thought when they saw Blumpo’s wild-eyed, hooting form hopping up the gangplank brandishing a stick with a loaf of bread on top, a horde of Indian braves at her back. Blumpo died in 1795 due to complications from getting her head caught in a boot. Her grave, which was built from wicker in the shape of an elephant, did not survive the test of time, weather, or good taste.
Head to the wall to view the Shame of the Revolution, Thomas Treat Paine.
R — Thomas Treat Paine
He (1731–1814) knows what he did.
Turn right down the path, again heading towards Tremont Street.
S — Stillman & Binney
Stillman & Binney were colonial Boston’s foremost assassins. It was from this very spot that they would meet with clients and take on new assignments. The tomb you see before you is not a tomb, but a service window. A potential client would approach the tomb and then press the skulls of the twin skeletons on it in a particular pattern. The stone face would then open revealing either Stillman, a grotesquely obese man with pig-like features and a trowel for one hand, or Binney, a skeletal figure with bulging eyes and a scarred, beak-like nose. Once terms were agreed upon and a down payment placed, the tomb would seal up again and an assassin would be dispatched. Nowadays, the tomb does not open and those wishing cold hearted murder should seek the firm of Stillman & Binney online at www.stillmanbinneyllc.com.
T — Samuel Adams
As you approach the grave of Samuel Adams, you will no doubt notice that it is covered with stones. Even in death, the Boston patriot is a greedy, greedy man, reaching out from beyond the grave to horde every part of a city that he believes to be his and his alone. Many people think that these stones have been placed here by misguided tourists who have confused patriotism and respect with a beer commercial, but these people do not know the whole truth. The reality of Samuel Adams is that he could not share anything with anybody. He only participated in the Revolution to help cement his claims to sole ownership of Boston. Were he not killed in 1803 by the Trundelsnatch (rumored to have been unleashed by a vengeful John Adams, his cousin and President), he would have no doubt lead a second Revolution in Boston, one championing the return to the fanatical Puritan ways of the past, with Samuel Adams at its head, a dread judge robed in blood and ash.
U — Boston Massacre Memorial
Here lie the bodies of those who gave their lives in the most literal sense for America. As you are no doubt aware, the forging of a new nation takes blood and toil. It was the blood of these men, Samuel Gray, Samuel Maverick, James Caldwell, Crispus Attucks, and Patrick Carr that was required to invite a spirit of nationhood to enter these lands. Nation Spirits are attracted to blood and sacrifice and so the Boston Massacre was staged as part of an elaborate binding ritual. The spirit that was bound to the fledgling nation was Libertaniticus, an old and powerful being that had once been bound to ancient Greece before Alexander the Great banished it 335 BC. So desirable was Libertaniticus as a patron spirit that during the Terror of the French Revolution Maximillien Robespierre sent thousands of men and women to the sacrificial guillotine in hopes of luring it away back across the Atlantic to New France. Luckily, the American Rites of Binding were too strong to let Libertaniticus escape and the French have been forced to make do with Poofleflurgis ever since.
You may now feel that you are free from this place. You would be wrong. You shall never be free, as the Granary Burying Ground shall be always with you. If it makes you feel better, however, you may run screaming down the street. There is a pub across the street where you may dull your sorrows with alcohol.
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Afterword
We certainly hope you have enjoyed this educational pamphlet and the knowledge it has brought you. As a person, your worth has increased tenfold. Members of your preferred sex will find you more attractive. You will walk a bit taller, if you can walk at all. Your voice will carry out in crowds and your tears shall be as acid unto salamanders.
If you do not believe any part of this history, remind yourself that this is America, a land where our most famous chefs are spies, our actors are our leaders, and our hopes are based on what we see beamed down from space. Anything can happen in America, anything at all, and to simply discount what is detailed here as being the product of a rum-addled mind is a great disservice to our country and an insult to those who have come before you.
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About the Author
Drew Meger is a librarian that employs his profession’s exalted status to get away with the worst sort of behavior. He is the Vice Chancellor for Inscriptionists of the Boston Institute for Applied Taphomancy. He lives in the Boston area with his wife, a different sort of librarian, and the Three Devious Rabbits. He is twelve feet tall and not to be trifled with.
