“In multiple cultures, there’s this understanding of bees as having something to do with life and death,” says beekeeper Annie Reading. “There is this kind of deep, ancient relationship there.”

At Evergreen-Washelli Cemetery in north Seattle, Reading and her colleagues are bringing the custom back—with some twists. On a recent fall afternoon, Reading bent over an observation beehive outside the cemetery’s lobby, reading a message left by a mourner. Inside the lobby, a small display explains the “telling the bees” tradition and offers cards for visitors to write messages to the bees. Reading whispers them to the creatures each time she tends the hive.

Reading is the co-founder of the Catacomb Bee Collective, a group of local beekeepers that also includes Madison Opp, Niya Weedon, and Colin Johnson. While the group first came together at the cemetery in 2021 with a different company, they formed their own operation under the current name in March 2025. The idea for the collective wasn’t born from folklore but from a need to find new spaces for these important little pollinators.

Around 20 colonies of honeybees make their home at the cemetery, pollinating the grounds and surrounding neighborhoods.

Photo by Billy Sigil

At first, Reading wasn’t even thinking about cemeteries. But while searching Google Earth one day for large patches of green, the cemetery’s 140-plus acres stood out. When she approached the cemetery, they were immediately interested, she says.

The partnership bloomed quickly. Evergreen-Washelli, one of Seattle’s oldest cemeteries, offered a large, overgrown corner of its grounds—a space that had once been a wetland and occasional dumping site. Together with Seattle Tree Care and volunteers, the cemetery cleared brush, laid wood chips, and reshaped the land into a sanctuary for the bees. Today, around 20 colonies of honeybees hum through this corner of the cemetery and swoop off to collect nectar nearby.

“It’s been a beautiful, natural partnership,” Reading says. The cemetery gets the ecological benefits of having hives, which pollinate the landscape, and the collective gets to use the space for free. 

The bees, for their part, thrive. Cemeteries, with their mix of native and ornamental plants (plus the occasional graveside flower offering), can offer unusually rich and continuous forage compared to wilder landscapes, where there can be a dearth of food sources at certain times of year. And at Evergreen-Washelli, the staff has made deliberate changes to support the bees.

“We’ve switched almost all of our herbicide applications,” explains Aaron Sholes, the cemetery’s superintendent. Instead of spraying during warmer weather when weeds grow, they now spray in late fall and winter, when the bees aren’t active. “Not only has this yielded a much better end result for us, but it helps protect the bees,” Sholes says. “Being able to host all of these amazing little creatures is a privilege that we do not take lightly.”

What began as a practical partnership has deepened. A few families have even requested burial plots near the hives, Sholes says. “I think it brings people peace to know that even after they’ve passed they can continue to give back to nature,” he explains. The funeral home also offers small jars of the cemetery’s honey to bereaved families—a little sweetness in a bitter time. 

As for concerns about swarming or stinging, Reading says they’ve been few. The Catacomb Bee Collective goes out of its way to maintain gentle bees. And these European honeybees are far more docile than many people think. Plus, honeybees are already around us all the time, she says—at least if we’re lucky.

Educating the public about bees is a key part of the collective’s mission. From spring through fall, the group hosts public “honeybee experiences” at Evergreen-Washelli. Visitors don white bee suits, open a hive alongside Reading or one of her colleagues, and taste honey fresh from the comb. They also lead team-building sessions and presentations for workplaces (Google was one recent participant). 

Two of the collective’s hives now live at elementary schools in Maple Leaf and Bellevue, where students can watch bees at work and learn how pollinators keep ecosystems—and lunchboxes—thriving. There’s another hive at a senior living community in Lacey, where residents sometimes gather in a circle of wheelchairs and walkers to greet beekeeper Colin Johnson’s arrival. 

Reading freely admits she was not a cemetery person before the project. Now, she says, tending to the bees in this necropolis has changed her thinking—and she’d love to expand into other cemeteries too. “Culturally, we don’t really interface with death nearly as often as we could, and as people around the world do,” she explains. “When I come here, it does feel like it’s enriched my understanding of life, my thinking about cycles and thinking about renewal. That’s something that’s been surprising—this space actually makes me feel really alive, really plugged into like what it means to be alive.”

Sholes agrees. “Initiatives like this shift perceptions of cemeteries from mere places of sorrow to ones of life, renewal, and community involvement,” he says. 

Visitors leave handwritten messages for the bees in a box inside the cemetery lobby—a modern take on the old “telling the bees” tradition.

Photo by Billy Sigil

Beekeeper Annie Reading, co-founder of the Catacomb Bee Collective, reads visitors’ messages to the bees as she tends the hives.

Photo by Billy Sigil

Even mourners benefit from the bees, and not just in the form of those jars of honey. The “Telling the Bees” cards fill up quickly with notes to lost loved ones. “We weren’t sure people would want to do it,” Reading says. “But people love it. It’s this outlet—like, ‘I’m holding these feelings, and I can share them with these bees.’”

For those curious about a taste of the honey (the bees made a definite surplus this year), keep an eye on Salmonberry Goods, a spring collaboration with the restaurant Off Alley, and the Catacomb collective’s Instagram for other initiatives, which might include a honey CSA.

That fall afternoon at the cemetery, a finger stuck into the honeycomb yielded honey that was rich and sweet with flavors far surpassing any of the store-bought stuff. While the finger in the comb left a scar, Reading assured me the bees would soon get to work refilling it. After all, they’re flourishing in their new home, and have plenty to spare. 

The post Hives Among the Headstones appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Though “moody books” are the store’s specialty, owner Roxanne Guiney is quick to note that it’s not all blood and terror. “It’s a bit of a misconception that HBB sells only or mostly horror,” she says. The shelves also feature dark fantasy, sci-fi, occult tomes, and what she calls her “island of lost books,” a corner reserved for general fiction. Cozy reads appear too, tucked among the more sinister titles. But make no mistake: Haunted Burrow is proud to dwell in darkness.

The shop’s beginnings were, improbably, a joke. Guiney, an editor by trade, found herself in a lull at the start of the year. She joked about opening a bookstore, then began selling books at vendor fairs. “I quickly learned that almost as much as I love reading books, I love talking about books,” she says. “Seeing people walk away with books that I enjoyed brought a wonderful feeling, and I wanted to keep having those interactions.”

The joke crystallized into an idea, then into an actual shop, after Guiney saw an ad for a space that seemed “almost too good to be true” on Capitol Hill, an area she didn’t think she could afford. It took three days—using a ladder borrowed from the Punk Rock Flea Market—to paint the walls black, and Haunted Burrow was born. 

As for the name: Guiney says she’s always identified with rabbits, those “bossy, anxiety-driven creatures,” as she puts it. She is the shop’s original rabbit, though her mascot, Poe, has made himself at home (alas, he is only a cartoon). The bookstore itself is conceived as a rabbit’s burrow, and indeed, it’s tempting to want to crawl in among the shelves and stay there. 

Inside, the offerings extend well beyond books, both new and used. Zines, tarot decks, and stickers from local artists also line the shelves. Near the cash register, beside a bowl of black roses, sits the “Blind Date with a Monster” display—mystery titles wrapped in black paper and bundled with stickers, teas, pens, and other objects that echo the spirit of the story inside. In the back, a black velvet couch waits for readings, “silent-ish” write-ins, and two book clubs—one devoted to Stephen King, the other to dark fiction more broadly (this month featuring Sister, Maiden, Monster by Lucy A. Snyder). Author events and signings are frequent, and later this month, a Halloween party with a costume contest will cap the season.

The store also doubles as a gallery. Guiney hadn’t planned on filling the walls with prints, photographs, and even a many-eyed beetle sculpture, but now the space hums—writhes, really—with work from creators including Jess Ray, Barnacles and Moss, Shelby Graffics, Alex Aulum, and Gloomy Grove. “All of the art is local and spooky,” Guiney says.

And the response from the community? No pitchforks here: People have been “incredibly welcoming and supportive,” Guiney explains. Locals are pleased to have another bookstore on the block, especially after Nook & Cranny—once a few blocks south—moved to University Heights soon before Haunted Burrow opened. Across the street, Ada’s Technical Books continues to serve a more science-minded crowd, but Haunted Burrow has already carved out its own niche. Even visitors who aren’t drawn to horror often leave with bookmarks for friends who are more macabre-minded, Guiney says.

Seattle has no shortage of independent bookstores, of course, but few have committed so fully to the darker side of literature. “Seattle is a city of readers,” Guiney says. “Though what makes Seattle the right spot for Haunted Burrow is in the values of the store, mainly inclusion.” That ethos is evident in her curation: among the 400-plus horror titles, she stocks a wide range of LGBTQ+ and BIPOC horror, along with other works that “have something important to say.”

For now, Guiney’s lease runs only through the end of the year, after which she’ll shift to a month-to-month contract. Like many of the books she sells, the store’s long-term future hangs in suspense (the block is eventually slated for demolition and redevelopment). She’d like to stay on 15th as long as she can—but if Haunted Burrow has to find another warren, Guiney seems ready. After all, rabbits are quick on their feet.

Until then, Seattle readers can count themselves lucky. Haunted Burrow offers not just books, but a gathering place for those who find themselves most at home in the dark.

Haunted Burrow Books is open Tuesday-Wednesday, 10 a.m.-6 p.m., and Thursday-Sunday, 10 a.m.-7 p.m.

The post A Bookshop with Bite appeared first on Seattle magazine.