Located in a sprawling 200-acre cluster of cemeteries not too far from my old apartment in Glendale, Queens, it holds the tomb of the legendary magician Harry Houdini, who died on Halloween in 1926. I’ve visited his grave many times: It has a massive, weathered marble headstone, surrounded by stone benches and a beautiful statue of a weeping woman. There I like to think of the fascinating secrets the master of illusions took to his grave—his amazing and never-duplicated escapes from straitjackets, shackles, and a sealed coffin that was lowered underwater for an hour until he burst free. During his lifetime, Houdini also predicted that he’d pull off the greatest escape of all—and come back from beyond the grave. Each year on Halloween, devoted fans gather by his cemetery plot, which is guarded by two unfortunate police rookies. These officers have to stand there, freezing their butts off all night long, until dawn breaks and the disappointed crowd disperses. Although Houdini remains locked in his final resting place so far, I don’t hold it against him.
