On June 21, 2025, we found ourselves in Baltimore, Maryland, and decided that we had to go and visit the gravesite of Edgar Allan Poe. Our research revealed that Edgar Allan Poe rests at the Westminster Hall and Burial Grounds, a mere six blocks away from our hotel.

It was an incredibly hot day in Baltimore when we decided to walk from our hotel to the Westminster Hall Burial Grounds. The air was thick and heavy, the kind of summer heat that makes the pavement shimmer and the shadows feel alive. We carried water and our cameras, ready for the experience, not realizing how much the short walk would feel like a step back through time.

As we moved through the streets of the city, we could feel the history all around us. Baltimore has a way of holding its past close, blending the sounds of modern life with the faint echoes of its older days. Each block brought us closer to one of the most legendary burial sites in American literature, the resting place of Edgar Allan Poe.

When the gates of the Westminster Burial Grounds came into view, it felt like entering a different world. The Gothic church towered above the old graves, and its dark stones seemed to hold secrets from centuries gone by. The busy city street faded behind us as we stepped into the quiet stillness of the cemetery.

The grave of Edgar Allan Poe was easy to find. It stands near the front of the grounds, surrounded by flowers, coins, and small tokens left by visitors who come from all over the world to pay their respects. Even in the heat, a small group of people had gathered around it, speaking in hushed tones as if they were standing before a sacred monument.

We stood there for a while, watching as others came and went. Some took photos, some whispered words of thanks, and others simply stood in silence. It is a place that demands quiet reflection, a place where the presence of Poe’s spirit seems to linger between the sunlight and the shadows.

The stone itself, though weathered by time, carries an unmistakable power. There is something humbling about seeing his name carved into it, knowing how his dark imagination shaped generations of readers. His words live on, and so does the sense of mystery that continues to surround his life and death.

After spending some time at the grave, we began to explore the rest of the cemetery. Marianne had brought with her a handwritten list of several graves she wanted to find, names tied to stories and bits of Baltimore history she had researched before our trip. With her notes in hand, we wandered through the uneven paths, searching for those long-forgotten resting places.

The gravestones stood in rows, some tall and proud, others tilted and worn from time and weather. Many of the inscriptions had faded, leaving behind only faint traces of names and dates. We took our time reading what we could, feeling that each stone told a small part of the story that makes up the history of this place.

After a while, we realized one of the names on Marianne’s list was nowhere to be found. We checked every corner of the cemetery, retracing our steps and comparing what we saw to the old records she had written down in her notes. It was frustrating but also fascinating how some names seemed to vanish into the past, leaving only the mystery of where they might have gone.

Just when we were about to give up, a gentleman came out of the church, apologizing that he had startled us since we were standing next to the door. We approached him with a friendly smile and asked about the gravesite that we were looking for in the cemetery. He told us that he could help us, promised to be right back, and then entered the church again. After some time, he came back out carrying a map of the cemetery.

Instead of pointing us in a direction, he surprised us by inviting us to follow him. With a quiet tone, he mentioned that he could show us something most visitors never see unless they came to the cemetery for a special tour. Intrigued, we followed as he led us toward the other side of the old church and down a narrow, shaded passageway.

There, behind a locked door, was the entrance to the crypts beneath the church. The air around the opening felt noticeably cooler, and the faint smell of damp stone drifted upward. He unlocked the door and gestured for us to come inside. We hesitated only for a moment before stepping into the darkness.

The change was immediate. The sounds of the city disappeared, replaced by the echo of our footsteps on the dirt floor. The temperature dropped, and a sense of stillness filled the air. The gentleman’s flashlight cut through the shadows, revealing old headstones stretching beneath the church.

We moved slowly through the passage, trying to take in every detail. The crypts felt untouched by time, hidden from the modern world above. The church was literally built over parts of the original cemetery. The foundation was raised to protect the headstones and graves. It was both eerie and incredible to be standing in a place that held so much of Baltimore’s past.

There was an unmistakable energy in the air, not frightening, but deeply powerful. We could feel history pressing in on us, the lives of those who had been buried here long before we were born and the church above us was built. The gentleman told us a few stories of the families resting there, and his voice carried softly through the echoing chambers. He brought us to the gravesite we were looking for earlier.

When we finally emerged back into the sunlight, it was almost blinding. The brightness felt harsh after the cool shadows below, and for a moment we stood in silence, adjusting to the heat once again. The world above felt loud and alive compared to the stillness we had just left behind. We were also celebrating the amazement of what we had just witnessed below the church.

We continued our walk deeper into the burial grounds until we reached the Poe family plot. The area was quiet and shaded, with a few smaller headstones gathered together. We stood there for several minutes, reading the names and dates, thinking about the lives of the people who meant so much to Poe.

The original grave of Edgar had a stone that was added in the 1930s listing Virginia Poe and Maria Clemm (Poe's mother-in-law/aunt). Also Virginia was never buried there, and Maria was originally buried close by. This grave was supposed to be the location of Poe's final resting place, but it was decided to move him and Maria to the front of the cemetery. Virginia joined them 10 years after they were moved.

Seeing them together—the poet, his beloved wife, and his devoted mother-in-law—was a moving experience. Their story is one of loyalty and love, even through hardship and tragedy. Standing before the original planned burial location, we could almost feel the connection that tied them together through time.

After taking a few final photographs and some video, we returned once more to the monument of Edgar Allan Poe near the front gate. The crowd had thinned, and the air was still heavy with summer heat. We stood quietly for a few last moments, reflecting on all we had experienced that day.

Finally, we made our way back through the gates and onto the sunlit street. The walk back to our hotel was just as warm as before, but somehow it felt lighter. We had walked in the footsteps of history, stood beside the resting place of one of America’s greatest writers, and caught a glimpse of the past hidden beneath the city. The memory of that visit will stay with us for a very long time.