There are some job's one never retires from. Some jobs you drift into
without realizing, in a time so far gone it is difficult to remember.
I have such a job...and by having it now, it is the darker side of fate
that I always will.
I am known as the Astoria Collector. I oversee the passage from death
to rest. I collect the souls and guide them to a better place. Many in
my profession have it easy. I don't. For this area is crowded with restless
souls that make my job ... hell. Astoria is not a place to die..or be
buried. There is no easy escape from it, for just beyond the veil that
separates the living from the dead, lies a tortured limbo created by man's
greed..man's ignorance.
Riker Family Cemetery (Click to
enlarge)
For longer than even I have existed the cemeteries of this area have
been at the mercy of commerce. Many a grave has been dug up, disturbed,
or simply left and built upon. Many residents sleep above the graves of
the now walking dead...all unaware of what lies beneath them while they
sleep. Sometimes they have nigshtmares...they don't know why. I know why.
They lay over the graves of disturbed souls. And if they aren't allowed
to rest, why should those that caused their misery? Do you sleep well...or
are your nights invaded by demons?
The streets of Astoria are packed with wandering souls, lost, displaced,
due to horrific events that led to their deaths, or the greed of people
who disturb their eternal slumber so they can build houses, apartments
and supermarkets...yes, that's right. Next time you wander the aisles
of your supermarket take a moment to consider what else wanders aimlessly
beside you. What lies beneath the shiny white floors piled high with groceries.
It's almost enough to put you off dinner isn't it.
They cross paths often, these other ghosts, but rarely do they acknowledge
each other, so entrenched are they in their own hells. This is where I
come in...I try...I try to guide them out of the dark. But most are so
hopelessly lost. Some are searching for a place to rest, others are still
reeling from the shock of their untimely deaths. Why just last night I
passed the Hallets's, their essence still haunting the corner of Newtown
Rd and 41st. William Hallet III, his wife and two children were murdered
on January 24, 1708 by their two slaves. The murderers were tried and
executed, the man by hanging while his wife was burnt at the stake. It
was the first capital crime recorded in Queens county. The Hallets were
obviously surprised by the attack and their confusion remains. I challenge
you to walk by the murder site at night and not feel the fear their horrible
deaths left there. I dare you to deny the dark presence their murder stamped
on that street.
Other's were at rest but disturbed when there graves were dug up. There
is Stephen Halsey, the father of Astoria, the very man who made is possible
for you to call this place home. Halsey moved to Hallet's Cove in 1835
and conceived the idea of founding a new village with dwellings, stores,
factories, schools, and churches. After obtaining a village charter from
Albany in 1839, he started a ferry to Manhattan, and created Astoria Blvd.
and Vernon Ave. He named the village 'Astoria' after fellow fur merchant
John Jacob Astor. Without him, there would be no Astoria. And how is he
repaid? Tell me, where is he buried. Give me directions to a monument
in his honor...some of you look ashamed...and so you should. For his remains
have been lost, along with the others. Some believe he lies in a family
tomb that bears his name...but no one knows for sure...I know for sure,
for I see him often.
From the 1850s until the early 1900s,thousands of skeletons and coffins
were exhumed from Manhattan churchyards and brought over to be reburied
in Queens. Add to that the local residents...the cemeteries filled with
dead babies from the the epidemics, those from the famine...the graves
that have been covered in landfill, allowing new bodies to be buried on
top of old. Ever wonder what happened to the old headstones? Why not walk
along this street and ask yourself where the decorative stones that line
the paths came from? I know of one that when turned has, inscribed on
the back, a single word... 'Daddy.'
There are more people buried in Queens than alive...yet the respect for
these souls is nill. And so they wander...wander...restlessly, in an eternal
hell. And try though I might, I can't change a thing.
