The Annmary Brown Memorial is a quiet place. One’s introspection is disturbed only by occasional, insistent whispers, groans, and clicks. The swords in their gleaming rows and the resplendent paintings age here, day by day, as do the bones buried in this mighty tomb.
Listening harder, one can almost begin to hear those bones moving, the spirits rustling and speaking, the place itself, hallowed though it be, given a strange life.
A crash, a tinkling, a scream, an echo – something horrible has taken place here.
Rush Christopher Hawkins, who built this Memorial for his dead wife, believed most strongly in truth above all other things. Now that he lies buried next to his eternal sweetheart, he must have more grey-tinged thoughts about the truth.
Once you could walk down the corner staircase in the Department coordinator’s
office and proceed down to a pair of hexagonal windows, honeycombed into
a brick wall. Through these windows you could view the caskets containing
the peace-resting forms of Annmary Brown and her gallant husband. Now
a solid brick wall awaits at the end of the basement corridor, and one
may only gaze upon the heavy stone slabs on the first floor, the grey
garlanded covers behind the gold-iron vault door, beneath the opaque glass
skylight. Why conceal the memorialized woman and her beau? Would Rush
While he might balk at the deception, perhaps the rumors of hands pressed on glass honeycombs, of voices laughing about the flowers, and of a white-gowned Puritan sitting in the pink room would be enough to gain Rush Christopher’s silence. Truth or love?