Giving Up the Ghost

I have had a fascination with ghosts going back to my childhood. My favorite stories were ghost stories; not the Caspar the Friendly Ghost but true haunting accounts. I particularly liked Hans Holzer’s books. He was the original ghost hunter.

As a child, I had a few encounters with things that went bump in the night. I never “saw” a ghost, but I would get creepy feelings. My childhood home had a partially finished attic, with stairs going from the closet in my aunt’s bedroom up there. There were lots and lots of things to go through and play with. I literally spent hours up there, twirling around in bridesmaid’s gowns and looking through family photos of long forgotten people. Most of the time it was a plain attic, but occasionally, there would be that creepy feeling, like someone was in there with me. It would last a few minutes, and then disappear.

My mother’s family is Austrian, German and Hungarian. In that Teutonic lore, there are family stories of creepy events and encounters that have been passed along from generation to generation. My great aunt Olga allegedly saw a vision of the Virgin Mary (which was very odd since they were Lutheran) across from her streetcar stop on her way home from school.

Pictures would fall off the wall, foretelling a death in the family.

Strange smells would waft through the house, causing those around to take notice. My grandfather was a pipe smoker; in fact he had his own particular blend of pipe tobacco that was quite distinct. To this day, I will smell it from time to time. The same with Giorgio perfume, which was my aunt’s “scent”. I don’t know if I actually smell a phantom smell, or if it is my memory playing tricks on me, but whatever it is, I am brought comfort.

Many years ago, the Big Man was living in a house in Roebling, NJ. Roebling was a company town-Roebling Steel was a big time employer. They provided the steel cables and girders for the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. Fast forward to the 1990’s, and the factory was long since abandoned, and it was a dying community. The house he lived in was in fact, the town doctor’s home at one time. It must have been majestic in its day, but by the point he was living there, it needed a lot of renovations and repairs to restore it to its former glory. The basement was sufficiently creepy, and the octagonal shape to many of the rooms led to oddly shaped shadows and dark places. The Big Man worked odd hours and I spent quite a bit of time alone there. I, in fact, was going to turn the unoccupied third floor into an arts and crafts studio at one point. It was when I was moving stuff up there and unpacking supplies that I rethought my decision.

I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t even smell anything. But I FELT something and it wasn’t pleasant. I moved my stuff out of there and never went back upstairs.

For the last year of my grandmother’s life, I was her primary caregiver. I paid her bills, took care of her, made sure she took her medicine, etc etc etc. It was both the toughest year of my life and the most rewarding. My grandmother and I were always exceptionally close, and the year I spent caring for her strengthened that bond. It was the afternoon of July 4th, 1999, that she suffered a massive stroke. She never recovered and spent her final weeks in hospice in a nursing home. I spent my days and nights with her at the home, because I didn’t want her to be alone. While she was there, there was a caterpillar that had spun its cocoon on her windowsill. I would watch it as it wiggled and then relaxed itself into its rest prior to metamorphosis. The day my grandmother died, the butterfly emerged from the chrysalis and flew away.

Every year since, it seems as butterflies surround me in the days before the anniversary. Maybe its because I am more aware of them that time of year, maybe its because of migratory patterns…or maybe because its contact from the other side.

As I said before, I have never seen a ghost, no matter how desperately I have wanted to see one and how much the “other side” has fascinated me. In addition to smells, I have been plagued by odd dreams over the course of my life. One happened within weeks of my grandmother passing away due to complications of her stroke. At the time she died, she was paralyzed on one side of her body, and it was slack. In my dream, she looked about 20 years younger-like she did when I was a child, and wasn’t suffering any of the effects of her stroke. We were in front of an office building, stark white, that looked similar to the Gugenheim Museum in design. She said she was taking me on a tour. I don’t remember all the specific details, but I did wake up feeling incredibly comforted and at peace.

I have had other dreams with her in it. When we were wrestling with the decision to move to South Dakota from NJ, I took a nap. (I am known for my incredible napping abilities) During the nap, Grama paid me a visit. Early in her marriage, she and my grandfather lived in Fargo, ND where my grandfather sold insurance. It was one of the happiest times of her life, and she used to love to talk about her life on the plains. In this dream, she told me to make my own way to my own Fargo, and forge my own path. I’ve had dreams with my dad too, but they are not as frequent. One memorable one is him, in his gray trench coat, walking up the steps going from the Ho Ho Kus train station to my childhood neighborhood (note: he never lived there)

One particularly creepy, disturbing dream I had was when we were in Sioux Falls house hunting. We were sleeping in our hotel room, and I dreamt of my aunt (who I never had dreamt of since she died in 1989), in her bedroom in my childhood home (the one with the attic door in her closet). She was in her bed, in her white gauzy summertime penoir. She was being held down, a la the Exorcist. I dreamt my childhood self was by the side of the bed, and a demon came out of her mouth and touched my arm. I immediately woke up. For days afterward, where the demon touched me in my dream, my arm remained cold.

But, still to this day, no ghosts.

Cemetery gates

I grew up in New Jersey, where there is a lot of history-and apparently a lot of hauntings.


I must preface this with the disclaimer I have never seen a ghost. Believe me, I really really REALLY want to-but, alas it has yet to be. That is to say I have not tried to make it happen. I just have not had that fortune come my way.

Growing up, I was fascinated by supernatural tales. It started with Hans Holzer, then it intertwined with my love of history. I am also a huge history buff, and a lot of ghost stories are also a retelling of a particular place’s history.

For example, the Hermitage in Ho Ho Kus, NJ. At one point in time, Aaron Burr lived there. George Washington slept there. In high school, I helped restore and curate costumes there. It was a house built in the mid 1700’s, and had been renovated two centuries later to open as a historical locale.

As I’ve said before, I have never seen a ghost. I have, however, felt weird things. Off limits to the general public, the upper levels were where the docents worked and I did some of the restoration work. I was mostly there on Saturday afternoons, and especially in mid-winter, the sun would stream through original leaded windows and it would be particularly warm and inviting. However, there would be an occasional cold breeze that would waft through. No explanation, just this momentary blast of cold air and as soon as it was there, it was gone. Other people have reported footsteps, hearing voices and one particularly dramatic docent was convinced she had seen Aaron Burr himself.

In the neighboring town was Lester Manor. It burned down in the mid 1970’s, and if memory serves correctly, prior to the fire it resembled a prototypical haunted house. After the fire, the town bought the property and renovated the stables, turning them into an arts center. My writing group met there, and there were times when the overwhelming scent of horses and hay would be smelled. I never experienced it, and the stables were not used as such for the better part of a century previously.

I felt, smelled, saw nothing.

I think every community, or region, has the equivalent of the ghostly hitchhiker or ghost girl on the roadway. In Suffern, NY you have Violent ( sometimes she’s called Lavendar), in Chicago there is a girl by a cemetery that wants to go dancing. Totowa, NJ has Annie. Annie was either killed walking to or from her prom (or was it homecoming? Winter formal?) and she was run over by a drunk driver (or was it her dad?) the particulars are lost to history, but she still walks Riverview Drive where she allegedly was killed-conveniently across the street from the cemetery where she is buried. Her blood stain is still on the road where she died. Despite many a night with friends back in our high school days, we never saw Annie, or anything even creepy.

In Princeton, there are supposedly as many ghosts as students it seems. Most buildings on the campus report a ghost or two, or more. Allegedly, Albert Einstein still rattles the doorknobs at his former home. A woman had been murdered in her basement on Mercer St (just down the block from where Albert lived), and I do believe the murder went unsolved. Supposedly, people still see her gardening in her yard. I think she might be angry that Opus Dei now calls her beloved place home. Even my church was reported to have a ghost or two. On the upper floor, in the tiny garret that was home to children and youth ministry, it used to be either the organist’s home or the rector’s home at one point in time, and again (allegedly) others experienced other worldly phenomena.

Me, nothing. Nada. Nunca. Niente. Nein.

Princeton battlefield-supposedly haunted. Me, great place to go and read on a spring day.

The Mercer Oak (now the Mercer Twig, as the original tree was struck by lightening and died-now its been replanted), again supposedly haunted. Again, I think nothing of picnicking in its shadow.

For every place that George Washington allegedly slept, there also are places that are haunted. Try as I might, I never did encounter that ghostly figure in NJ.

the weirdness of it all

You know you live in an unique state when there is a magazine called Weird NJ devoted to the, um, unique features of your home state.



From Wikipedia:

Weird NJ began in 1989 as a personal newsletter sent to friends by Mark Moran and Mark Sceurman. Gradually it evolved from a fanzine into a public magazine published twice a year in May and October. Abandoned places, creepy experiences, unique people, and strange landmarks were and still are common subjects for the magazine. Past issues have covered everything from the Jersey Devil and UFO sightings to abandoned Nike missile silos, the legend of the "Hookerman" Lights and the life of Zip the Pinhead.

In 2003 a Weird NJ book, made up of content from earlier issues, was published. The next year saw the follow-up Weird US, covering sites and stories across the country. That led to a series of Weird guides for other states and areas, including Florida, Illinois, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Texas, California and New England, and a TV series, Weird U.S., on the History Channel.

I love this magazine so much that in addition to still subscribing to it despite not living in NJ for 7 years, I have the iPhone app.



New Jersey is a state full of characters. Depending on where you are in terms of geography determines the characters you will encounter. In northern NJ, near the Rockland County border are the Jackson Whites, which are formerly known as the Ramapough Mountain Indians. Growing up, we were told, somewhat erroneously, that they were not Native Americans but instead were the descendents of Tories and runaway slaves. Geneological origins notwithstanding, they do not like outsiders frequenting their neighborhoods and were known as recently as 10 years ago to chase “visitors” away with a shotgun.



In terms of historical preservation, there is a movement galvanizing strength to preserve the buildings of Greystone Mental Hospital. The imposing building was designed by Dr. Thomas Kirkbride as part of an effort to standardize behavioral health treatment in the 1870’s. The facility was designed as a peaceful, personalized facility for 600 patients. However by the 1950’s (prior to de-institutionalizing the mentally ill) it held over 7000 patients, and would be equivilent to One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Woody Guthrie spent his final years at Greystone, as he suffered the effects of Huntington’s Disease. The facility closed to patients in 2007, and almost immediately a preservation task force has been lobbying for its renovation.



A little south, near Annie’s Grave in Totowa, allegedly is Midgetville. I never stopped to measure these folks, as they were not very friendly to visitors. In all fairness, they lived down the road from Annie’s Grave and got car loads of teenagers looking for a fright every weekend. I am sure they were fed up and done with giving directions, etc.



Even further south, at Quakerbridge Mall, there are two well known characters who frequent the mall, and apparently have for well over 20 years. One is an Asian man, who wears large headphones and wanders aimlessly. He seems harmless, and is there all hours of the day (or evening) and in different spots throughout it. Then there is metal haired guy. I’ve heard from friends my age that they recall seeing him when they were teenagers 25 years ago, and he really hasn’t changed much since then. He too, just hangs out there, mostly in the food court. I would love to know their back stories-why do they hang out at the mall of all places.



Then there are the Pineys. I can’t tell you too much about them except that they live in the Pine Barrens, which is coincidentally, home to the Jersey Devil. They seem to be the equivilent of the holler type folks in Appalachia-tight knit clans, living deep in the woods, and basically being the NJ version of rednecks. The area is so remote that one of the most beloved episodes of the Sopranos used the Pine Barrens as a back drop.



Speaking of the Sopranos (and the Real Housewives, to a lesser extent); there seems to be a misconception that all Italian Americans from NJ are:

1. either in the mob or know someone who is

2. woman all chew gum like cud

3. like to decorate with a lot of mirrors and glass

4. women like to wear animal prints

5. velour sweat suits are a fashion statement

6. big hair still rules

I can assure you that none of these stereotypes are true, and a complete fabrication of tv writers and producers.



If you’d like to explore Weird NJ, check out their website at www.weirdnj.com