So at least thought Miss Elsie Symonds, daughter of George Symonds, the civil engineer, and her brother, Royal.  Royal is 15.  There is only a year or so difference between his age and his sister, and this combined with the necessity of living in the suburbs off the beaten path, made excellent chums of them, always eager for the excitement which rarely came to Nutley and always ready to invent a new amusement when things got fearfully slow.

Returning to the intersection of Grant and Passaic avenues.  It did not take Miss Elsie and Brother Royal very long to notice this a an ideal lurking place for a ghost and to decide that the spot was worth developing.  Their home is not far away from there.  It is the nearest house to the corner, in fact, so the children had every opportunity to carry out their plans without much fear of detection.

First it was only a simple little ghost story about a wild, flapping specter that moaned and shrieked somewhere down near the stunted firs.

That was several weeks ago.  Nobody else had seen the ghost and the story didn't make the slightest impression, even in Nutley, at first.

A few nights later two young men belonging to that race which above all others feeds upon superstition, came across the path in the field leading from the backwoods, passed through the gateway and thence down through the grove of overhanging elms toward the stunted firs.

"An' so Ah says," one of them was saying, "'Mist' Small, Ah says, 'Ah cain't see why yo' carries dat rabbit foot.  She cain't do you no good nohow nor keep off no hoodoo.'  Ah done come to de exclusion dere ain't no such thing noway, as n'---noo--oo--oo--Lardy!"

The two young men had fled in terror.  Not three feet from where they had stopped, turned tail and vanished stood a ghost.  It was of medium height, very shapely and dressed in white.  The draped arms flapped somewhat mechanically as the ghost turned from side to side to the accompaniment of most curdling creaks (probably mean shrieks).

Presently the ghost grew tired of flapping its arms.  The two negroes were miles away maybe and probably still going.  Silence reigned again in the vicinity of the stunted firs.

But it wasn't for very long.  Whistling gayly as he strode along came one of Nutley's most promising young unmarried men.

Somewhere in the dark shadow of the firs something seemed to whisper to something else that it was Mr. So-and-So on his way to call on Miss Sew-and-Sew.

"Yes," the two somethings in the shade seemed to say in unison, "let's see what happens to him."

The ghost arms flapped excitedly and Mr. So-and-So stopped whistling and sank down.  Then he sat up and yelled once---twice.  Then he, too, vanished in the wake or the presumably still running colored men.

Silence was restored once more in the vicinity of the firs and overhanging elms.  Half a mile away Miss Sew-and-Sew sat alone in the best parlor and waited and waited for two whole hours for the expected company that failed to show up.

Back to the stunted firs once more.  This time it was a couple.  The avenue of overhanging elms is also known as Nutley's Lovers' lane.  Let those of us who have had personal experience in such matters draw a kindly veil over the fact that his arm encircles her waist and that both were too full of their own romantic thoughts about each other to find anything to talk about.

"It's John Doe with that hateful Em Dash," whispered one of the invisible something in the shade.  "I'll bet you anything she thinks he is awfully brave and everything like that.  Keep quiet now and don't pull until I give the signal."

The signal wasn't given until the romantic young couple were within four or five feet of the waiting specter.  But the lovers, having eyes for none but themselves, hadn't yet spied it.

Then the mechanical arms flapped as the shapely ghost turned creakingly from side to side.  And at the first tiny creak Miss Em Dash gave vent to a most awful yell that must have been heard at Newark.  She didn't faint.  She clutched Mr. Doe around the neck instead and he, poor man, tore himself loose in terror and fled after Mr. So-and-So and the two young negroes.

An unmistakable sound of mirth which it had been impossible to smother came from the shadow of the firs and revived Miss Em Dash just as she was going to faint.  She hurried away at once, looking extremely dignified.

After two evenings of this sort of thing Nutley knew all about the Passaic avenue ghost.  Some believed, others didn't.  Among the latter was Chief Knabb of the Nutley police department.

On the third evening Thomas Brandreth, sexton of the Methodist church, was walking home from prayer meeting when the specter essayed to scare him.  Sexton Brandreth is a good man.  He sidestepped, let go with a right swing and banged the ghost in the eye.  Down it went for the count, a tangled mass of white linen bed sheets overspreading one of those nice plump, wire dummies on which the dressmaker fits gowns for display.  Then Sexton Brandreth, after addressing a few words of advice to the direction of the stunted firs went home.

And that was the end of Nutley's ghost.  Caught with the goods on them, as they made their way home that night the two Symonds conspirators laughed at the joke they had had at the expense of some of the most prominent young people in the town.  It is even safe to assert that if she only would Miss Elsie could give a list of young men who are mortally afraid of ghost, no matter how brave they look in daylight.  But she won't tell.  Neither will the victims.

"It was on Wednesday night," said Royal in relating the tragic fate of the specter, "and the prayer meeting at the Methodist church was letting out.  We were going to stop that night, anyhow.  The ghost was getting stale and nobody came by any more.  I guess all the church people went home by the other road."

"Anyhow, about 8:30 we heard somebody coming and commenced to move the ghost back and forth with the wires we had arraanged.  It was sort of rusty and made creepy sounds when the arms moved."

"Well, it was Mr. Brandreth, the sexton, and gee! you should see what he did to that dummy's shape.  Then he found us and we went home and that's all."

Royal's sister, Miss Elsie, is not anxious to discuss the matter.  Her attitude is one of hilarious disinclination to talk about it.  But all Nutley knows that she knows who's who when it comes to brave deeds.

Mr. Symonds, the father of the ghost makers, said it was incomprehensible to him how in this enlightened age so much superstition exists.

"I am not sorry," he said, "that my children should have shown that so much of it at least is unfounded.  I am not superstitious myself except on one thing.  I don not like to see the new moon over my right shoulder, but even that is a habit.  My brother, cashier of the Scranton National bank, is equally anxious always to see the same moon over his left shoulder, so there you are."

Except for those who demonstrated that they are not in the hero class, Nutley as a whole, looks upon the ghost business as a joke, and much fun has resulted from the escapade of Royal Symonds and his sister.

Syracuse Sunday Herald, Syracuse, New York - Sunday, September 23 1906

Breathe not--trespass not;
Of this green and darkling spot,
Latticed from the moon's beams,
Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;
Perchance upon its darkening air,
The unseen ghosts of children fare

Walter De la Mare, The Sunken Garden