In the part of New Jersey where I live, there are many abandoned bits of civilization in the woods. Towns that simply disappeared off the map, either because the state bought out the land to create reservoirs or they just simply faded away as more convenient communities were developed nearby and people died off. The remnants include foundations of buildings, mine shaftsand graveyards. The closest I’ve ever personally come to a haunting was in one of these lost graveyards.

The Cherry Ridge Cemetery is located somewhere off the New York-Tennessee gas pipeline that runs through the area. According to local lore, the graveyard is haunted, and you can hear “moaning, music, laughter, and strange noises” there.* The cemetery served families in the area until they were bought out, creating a large tract of empty land in which to establish reservoirs that would supply the city of Newark, New Jersey, with clean drinking water.

I was hiking along the gas pipeline with friends. The pipeline is buried, and there’s a large clearing around it that makes for a wide trail that easy to navigate, if you don’t mind crawling over the occasional crop of boulders or through marshy spots. We had come to a spot on the pipeline that was high up on a hill, and we could look ahead for a mile or so at the other hills along the pipeline, which teased us with their likeness to a roller coaster. We stopped here for a bit to rest up.

I don’t normally mess with wildlife when I hike. I subscribe to the “take only pictures, leave only footprints” philosophy of responsible hikers. But today was different. There were these pretty, little, purple flowers growing just off the pipeline. And I have to admit: I picked some. I thought I could do something with them when I got home: put them in water, or press them in a book. Again, not things I normally do. My friends kidded with me about this breach in hiking protocol.

We finished resting and decided to head back the way we came. We had planned to visit the Cherry Ridge Cemetery, which we knew was somewhere on our way back. But we weren’t sure of exactly where.

When I came to a certain spot along the trail, I had a hunch the graveyard was somewhere close to our right. Even though there was no trail or markings that indicated the graveyard was anywhere nearby, I slipped into the forest. The rest of the group followed me. We scuttled around for short bit in the leaves and the undergrowth, but then I saw the graves. Most of the graveswere sunken in, the headstones long gone or broken. I was drawn to the back corner of the graveyard.

There I found the gravestone of Katie Rome, who is one of the youngest known occupants of the graveyard. She was just three when she died in 1880. Her mother Lucretia, buried next to her, died only a few years after Katie. As I stood there, I suddenlyknew why I had picked the flowers. I crouched and put most of the flowers on Katie’s grave. I left the rest with her mom.

Michelle, one of the friends with whom I was hiking, said, “Oh, that’s so sweet of you!”

Maybe so, but I can’t help wondering how much of my kindly gesture was really under my control that day. Maybe I had some help from a small, long-deceased child who enjoyed pretty, little, purple flowers in life.

* Zeliznak, Maryann, O’Biso-Socha, Laura, and DiGuilo, Marcia, Journey Into the Past: Visit the Lost Settlements of Vernon, copyright 1992, Maryann Zeliznak.