that witnesses described as moving through the neighborhood at astonishing speed.

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And this wasn't a sticky little inconvenience.

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The wave smashed buildings, knocked a firehouse off its foundation, swept away horses and trapped people beneath debris.

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Molasses is heavy.

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Very heavy.

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Once the initial wave slowed, the syrup thickened in the cold January air, making it incredibly difficult for people to escape—or for rescuers to reach them.

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Twenty-one people died.

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About 150 more were injured.

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For days, rescue crews worked through a neighborhood coated in brown sludge.

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And because people walked through it, drove through it and tracked it everywhere they went, the molasses spread far beyond the immediate disaster zone.

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Boston was sticky.

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Eventually, lawsuits followed.

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Investigators found serious problems with the tank's construction and testing, and the company that owned it was ultimately held responsible.

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For years afterward, residents claimed that on particularly hot days, you could still smell molasses in the neighborhood.

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Which sounds almost charming.

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Until you remember why it was there.