As it was, just as the light drained from the sky and the fountain turned even more magical, it was time for us to board the Graveyard and Ghost Tour that I’d promised to take with the twins. I wanted something to rival last year’s Codzilla boat ride for thrills and chills, so this seemed like a logical next-step in progressive horror. If you can’t count on your Guncle to properly frighten you, what can you count on in this world? The guides to the pair of buses that were about to depart arrived in character, staring us down, or, in the case of the more frightening one, pounding his head against the side of the bus. Our guide was blessedly not quite as intense, as Emi had already indicated she was not getting a bus with the guy banging his head on any available surface.
One of the mainstays of my relationship with my niece and nephew has been a reconnection in the fall, from the treasure hunts I’d assembled in their much-younger days to the more frightening stories we would read and the movies we would watch in more recent years. This tour of the graves and ghosts of Boston felt like a fun way to gain early entry to another spooky season of fall. We made our first stop at the Copse Hill Cemetery, which we’d seen from a distance on last year’s Freedom Trail walk.
Unlocking the chained entrance to the cemetery, our guide led us up and down paths and gravestones that had been there for centuries. Moving among the long-dead, our group spoke in hushed whispers, if we spoke at all, while the twins listened with rapt attention to the tales of those buried here. We passed the thin Spite House – and heard the tale of brotherly betrayal – then exited the graveyard and returned to the bus. The next stop was the Granary, where many of America’s historical figures were resting (except for Benjamin Franklin, who apparently hated Boston; the monument that was emblazoned with ‘FRANKLIN’ belonged to his parents and sister, I believe – the man himself was laid to rest in Philadelphia). John Hancock’s ‘pen’-shaped monument rose in the dim distance, while Noah marveled at the news that the man who built Faneuil Hall had to try three times before it took. The graveyard wasn’t as spooky with the tour groups in it – there is safety in numbers, right? – and soon we were back on the bus, pausing at the apartment on Charles Street where one of the Boston strangler’s victims met their early demise, then we returned to our starting point by the wharf.
The night was another warm and beautiful one when we began the walk back to the condo, and soon we stopped at the Omni Parker House to check out the mirror of Charles Dickens that we’d just learned about: each of us paused and stared until tears were coming out of our eyes (well, Noah’s at least) but no one saw the visage of Mr. Dickens. The light in the hallway did shut mysteriously off at that moment, so we made a hasty exit from the hotel.
A troublesome spirit must have tagged along, for when we got back to the condo my patience was at an end, and after the twins almost burned the place down I sent everyone to bed without movie or dessert. We needed the sleep anyway, as we had to wake up early the next day to avoid Labor Day traffic.
Back in the light of day, and the sunny refusal of summer to slow down or stop, we drove back along the Mass Turnpike, turning off at Lee for a spot of tea at the Red Lion Inn. We were close to home now, but no one wanted to rush along the end of what had been a mostly fun and enjoyable weekend away. In our little nook at the Inn, we sipped our tea, finding a bit of coziness even in the midst of a hot day. We walked around Stockbridge for a bit, taking a secluded garden path behind the library, and then got back on the road – our summer coda concluded. School would arrive in the coming days, and summer would recede.
