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A half an hour later, they were in line, waiting to gain entry into the old church. Slowly, they traveled the cobblestone sidewalk between the church and the gift shop, and they waited patiently until it was their turn to enter.
Drake waited in line behind an old couple wearing American flag shirts. When they shifted, he spotted a brochure on the counter that attracted his attention, so he reached out around the man and took one. He only had a few seconds to scan the brochure before the person behind the counter called him forward to pay the entrance fee.
“Can we do the crypt tour?”
“How many?” the teenage ticket seller asked.
“Four.”
She clicked a couple of buttons on the computer. “There’s room for four on the tour that starts in a half hour. Does that work for you?”
“Sure does,” Drake said as he dug his credit card from his wallet and passed it to her.
The transaction completed, she handed him back his card, along with four tickets. “Inside you’ll see a sign where the tour starts. I recommend you get there five minutes early because the tour starts right on the hour. No refunds.”
“Thanks,” Drake said. He turned and passed a ticket out to everyone in his group. “We’ve got twenty minutes to kill before we enter the crypt, so we can go in and look around in the meantime.”
They stepped into the church proper and looked around. White was the dominant color inside the church. The entire floor contained box pews, which resembled modern day office cubicles. Only three aisles running from the back to the front of the room broke up the space.
Each box pew had waist-high walls, painted white with wood trim on the tops. And each had a small door that swung out, and every door contained a brass plaque. The plaques listed the pew number, along with the name of the parishioner who owned them, and the year they owned it. Inside the box were white-painted wood pews, along with modern hymnals for worshippers to use during modern Sunday services.
The front of the church held the altar and an elevated pulpit. In the back were stairs that led to the upper gallery, which contained additional pews, as well as an impressive-looking organ.
Along the walls between the open windows were various historical displays, and memorials dedicated to past members. Allie, being Allie, made a tour around the room, reading every available sign.
Drake checked the time, saw he still had twenty minutes to wait until the crypt tour, opened a door to a box, and sat down on the pew. Geneva slid into the spot next to him, and he reached for her hand.
“Fancy church, huh?” Drake said. “Can you picture them throwing a lantern up in the belfry and starting Revere’s ride?”
“No, not really,” Geneva admitted.
Drake chuckled. “Yeah, me neither. I’ll bet Allie can, though. Visualizing herself in historical contexts is like her superpower.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Geneva said.
“Oh, no, I didn’t say it was. It only becomes a problem when we’re on a time schedule. Actually, I’ve been quite proud of her for the past couple of days. She seems focused, and isn’t wandering off to check out every statue, plaque, and historical marker she sees.”
Geneva let go of Drake’s hand and scratched the back of his neck gently. “It seems we have been rushing through this town. Doesn’t seem like the laid-back vacation experience I had in my head.”
Drake nodded. “Yeah, same here. I think I’ve gotten a little nutty with the treasure thing. Perhaps it’s best if we pull back the throttle on that and get back to finding geocaches and seeing the sights.”
“And don’t forget about going to the symphony.”
Drake grinned. “There’s no way I would forget about that! It’s what I’m looking forward to the most!”
“What’s that?” Ingrid asked as she entered the box and took the seat next to Geneva. Allie, who also appeared from nowhere, stood outside the box and leaned over the wall.
“Heading to the symphony on Friday night,” Drake answered. “Aren’t you looking forward to it?”
“For sure I am,” Ingrid gushed. “I wouldn’t miss it for the entire world.”
Geneva laughed. “You’re such a liar.”
Ingrid put a mock look of taken offense on her face. “Who? Me?”
“Yes, you. You hate classical music. The only time you like to hear violins is when they’re used as fiddles in country music,” Geneva teased.
“Ooh, you’d fit right in Nashville,” Allie said with a smile. “Come to town and I’ll take you around to all the country bars.”
“I enjoyed the symphony concert you took me to a couple of years ago,” Ingrid said.
“You mean when we went to see the Fourth of July show?” Geneva asked.
Ingrid nodded. “Yes, that was the one.”
“First off, that was the Boston Pops, not the Boston Symphony. And, as I recall, you liked the fireworks show more than any of the music they played that night.”
Ingrid shrugged. “Okay, so I like the fireworks. So, sue me.”
“Hey,” Drake interrupted, “Geneva and I were just talking about this treasure thing, and we both agree that I’ve gotten out of control trying to pursue it. I mean, it’s probably been gone for forever, if it even really existed at all. I think we should slow down and get back to geocaching and being tourists. What do you say?”
Allie looked at Ingrid, then at Geneva.
“Don’t all speak at once,” Drake said. “It’s hard to hear you over the others. Ingrid, what do you think?”
Ingrid pointed at Allie. “Ask her. She’s a guest here.”
Allie felt the weight of three sets of eyes staring at her. She gathered her thoughts, then exhaled slowly. “Actually, I don’t think the treasure hunting thing has been too bad. I mean, so far, it’s taken us to these historical places I wanted to visit while we were here. Like right now, I mean, we’re already here, and we already have tickets for the tour, so why would we not hunt for clues while we’re down there?”
“So, to clarify, we’re still on the hunt?” Drake asked.
Allie thought for a moment. “Okay, new rules. One, we slow down the pace. We don’t have to rush around like mad. Let’s take it easy, stop for lunch, enjoy the nice day. And we find caches, and we see more things of interest. And if any of us decides it’s too much, we give it up.”
Drake nodded. “That’s reasonable. Okay with y’all?”
Geneva and Ingrid nodded.
“Good,” Drake said. “New plan. We’ll finish with the crypt tour, then find something else to do besides chase a mystery all over town.” Drake looked at his watch. “Speaking of the tour, it’s about time we head over there.”
Allie walked up the aisle to give the others enough room to leave the box, and they made their way to the sign pointing the way to the crypt tour. Five minutes before the tour was about to depart, a guide appeared and starting checking tickets. It was a light tour. Besides the four friends, the only other couple interested in the macabre adventure was the couple who had entered the museum just before them.
“Can I have your attention, please? My name is John and I’ll be your guide down into the crypts. Just a few comments before we go. The stairs and the floor are uneven in spots, so please watch your footing. And there are areas down there that can be tight, so if you’re claustrophobic, I recommend you stay up here. In places it’s also dimly lit, so please be cautious. There’s no eating or drinking on the tour, and out of respect for those interred below, please don’t touch. Anyone have questions before we go?”
Allie raised her hand. “Can we take pictures, John?”
“Photographs are fine, but please, no selfie sticks because of the tight quarters,” John answered.
“Are selfie sticks still a thing?” Ingrid whispered to Allie.
Allie shrugged. “I have no clue.”
“Please, now follow me, be careful, and stick together,” John ordered.
The group followed John through a corridor, and that corridor led to a flight of stone stairs. As they descended, their footsteps echoed against the stone walls, and the temperature decreased. When they finally arrived at the bottom, John stepped a few feet into the main corridor to give everyone room to enter.
“Please remember to watch your footing,” John advised, as he waited for people to cluster around him.
Drake was the last one down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he joined the group and looked around. The floor was a gray concrete that reminded him of his garage floor at home. The walls were brick, but not a consistent color. They ranged from a deep maroon to red, to brown, to white, and there was a light film of dust that covered everything and swirled around people’s feet as they stepped. Above the corridor, a line of single-bulb lights strung along at several-foot intervals provided the only light.
“Just a little background,” John said. “Here beneath the church, there are thirty-seven brick vaults and each one can hold twenty to forty coffins. Burials down here started in 1732 and ended in 1860.”
“How many people did they bury down here?” the woman asked.
“Around eleven hundred is the best guess, although there could be more,” John answered. “Please, step this way.”
“And they don’t bury people down here anymore?” the woman asked.
John stopped in his tracks. “No. The city of Boston ordered that all burials in crypts stop, and all the vaults sealed in 1853. It ended because of ongoing health concerns for the general population. But the church didn’t halt burials until 1860, when the courts stepped in and compelled every cemetery and church to comply with the new law.”
“It must not have smelled very good with the bodies down here,” the lady said.
A sly smile crossed John’s face. “No. It must not have. In fact, there are air vents that lead from the crypt to below the windows upstairs to allow for air circulation down here. It doesn’t take much of an imagination to guess what it was like to be at church in the heat of the summer. Come, follow me.”
The group shuffled along behind John, stopped when he did, and formed a semi-circle around the tomb he was standing before.
“Before you is the tomb of Major John Pitcairn, who got shot six times during the Battle of Bunker Hill, including once in the head. His son ferried him across the river, and he later died of his wounds.”
“Why would they bury him here and not send him back to England?” Geneva asked.
“Back then, this was an Anglican church, connected to the Church of England, so it wasn’t unusual for British subjects to be buried in one. In fact, they interred several other British officers here with Pitcairn. If you’ll notice, right next door is the tomb of Samuel Weekes. His wife, Elizabeth, died in 1721 while at sea on the way to America, leaving Samuel without a wife or any children. So, when he bought this tomb, he shared it with his friends, as seen in the old inscription there. Note the differences between the two markers. The Weekes marker is most likely to be original to the era, while the one for Major Pitcairn was most likely placed here in the early to mid-1800s.”
John waited for the group to take photographs, then moved down the corridor.
Since he was at the back of the pack, Drake waited until the group left, then turned and rushed along the short corridor behind him. He scanned each tomb door, looking for any clues that had anything to do with the poem by Mercy Warren. He rushed his way through, not wanting to take too much time away from the group. Because of the tight quarters and the fact that they sealed each tomb closed, he felt confident that he didn’t miss a thing. Just in case, he snapped photographs of every piece of writing he came across. Drake rushed his way back to the group and slowed as he caught up to them. He tried to pretend that he’d been with them the entire time, and he returned to find John in mid-lecture.
“So, if you’ll compare this tomb door to some others we’ve seen, you can see that this one, leading to the tomb of Shubael Bell, is clearly made of iron. Stone, iron, and wood were the three options for creating tomb doors down here, and no one is clear why there were different materials for the different doors. Sir, did you find what you were looking for?”
Everyone turned and looked at Drake, since he was the only other sir in the group.
“Yeah. Sorry. I was just taking pictures of the different tombs. History nut. Sorry.”
“Okay, fine. If you want to take photos, please do so, and if I’m going too fast for you, I’m happy to slow down, but please keep up with the group,” John said.
“Okay. Sorry again,” Drake said.
John nodded, then guided the group farther down the corridor.
Allie waited for Drake to catch up to her, then elbowed him in the ribs. “You got busted!” she whispered.
Drake snickered. “Yeah, I did. Come on. We need to get moving. I don’t want to get sent to the principal’s office.”
Drake stopped long enough to snap a picture of the tombs as they walked past, but he was never over five feet behind the tour.
“Here’s an interesting one. Number fourteen, the stranger’s tomb, from 1813. Who’s behind the door? Who knows? Some say it’s one of the many ghosts that inhabit the crypt,” John said.
John turned and went on with the tour, and Drake waited until everyone had cleared the area before he stepped in and snapped a photo of the crypt.
“Well? What do you think?” Allie asked.
“I think we’re probably at a dead end here. I mean, for all we know, they sealed the next clue inside a tomb. John was unhappy with me leaving the tour for three minutes. I can’t imagine it would thrill him if I started breaking down walls and disturbing the dead.”
“Probably not. There would be ghosts haunting you forever then,” Allie agreed.
“I can’t have that. I can barely put up with you haunting me every day,” Drake teased.
“You’re such a turd!”
“I know. Come on, we’re falling behind.”
Drake and Allie rushed to catch up with the group, but Drake still stopped several times to click photos of various tombs along the way. When they rejoined the others, they got there just in time to see the American flag wearing woman pointing to a small iron door. It was two-feet square, near the bottom of the floor.
“What’s that?” The woman asked.
“Good eye. Of all the tombs in the place, that is the one that garners the most questions. Open the door,” John said.
“Wait, what? We’re not supposed to touch anything.”
“This is the one exception to the rule. Go ahead.”
The woman bent at the waist and opened the door. The small iron door opened freely, although not without a squeak reminiscent of every haunted house movie ever produced. Everyone bent over to look at what was behind the door, but it was dark and hard to see. John pulled a flashlight from a belt clip and illuminated the area.
Behind the door was a small tomb marker, just a shade smaller than the door that hid it. Carved into the center of a marker were five concentric circles. The inner circle was about the size of a quarter, the others radiated out every inch. At the center of the inner circle, six shapes resembling flower petals reached out with their outer tips that ended at the outer circle.
Above the crude etching were the initials ‘O.D.E.’, and beneath the etching were the words ‘G.C., Witch Man’.
“What the heck is that?” Geneva asked.
“According to our researchers, that is an apotropaic mark, also known as a witch mark. It’s a pattern used to protect from witchcraft,” John explained.
“You’re saying there’s a witch buried in there? Why would someone bury a witch in a church? And why is that door so little?” Ingrid asked.
“No one knows for sure. Experts have x-rayed the wall, and there is indeed something in there that looks like it could be a small urn, but we’ve never opened or disturbed it.”
“Why not?” Ingrid asked.
“There’s never been a reason to. We opened many of the tombs when we upgraded the church with power, water, and fire suppression systems, but because this one wasn’t in the way, we didn’t touch it. This is still a crypt, so we don’t like to disturb the remains unless it’s absolutely necessary. Besides, folklore has it that if you disturb the grave of a witch, the witch will rise again.”
John leaned forward, shut the door, and turned off his flashlight. “And with that, we’ve come to the end of the tour. Are there questions I can answer for anyone?”
No one said anything, so John pointed to the exit. “Good. I hope you enjoyed yourselves down here, and I hope you learned something. Watch yourselves on the stairs up, and I hope you all have a great rest of the day.”
The stairs were behind them, so Drake was first in line to climb up to the street level. Without speaking, he left the church. In the church’s courtyard, he sat down on a stone bench and waited for the others to join him.
“What’s going on, Drake?” Geneva asked, the first to reach him.
Drake took out his phone, opened it to the last picture he took, and enlarged the photo. “Who can tell me something about witches?”
