As the October leaves fall, the dead whisper louder.
Well, it’s been a minute since we posted about our famed Skooky Things. Truth be told, 2025 has been frightening enough without any further tales of the macabre or the dark unknown. But it’s also that time of year again..the season of thinning veils and cold winds that seem to carry more than just chill.
So why not bring back some tales from beyond?
Take a drive through Northeastern Pennsylvania, and you’ll quickly see: this is an old place. A place built by coal miners and soot-streaked steel workers, long buried beneath our feet. Like every corner of the world, we’ve got cemeteries.. but not just any cemeteries.
Ours hold stories. And secrets.
Some markers go back to the 1700s. Some are from the 1800s. Others bear the names of children lost to the 1918 flu pandemic, and now, sadly, even a few from the pandemic of 2020. History is beneath us. The memories of those who once breathed, laughed, cried, and lived here fade with each passing year.
My father died in 2023. He always said something that haunts me in the truest way:
“Death comes twice. Once when you die. And then again, when someone stops saying your name.”
That notion is chilling—and real.
Because when the last person who remembered you is gone… when your name is no longer spoken… your life here starts to feel like it never even happened. But it did happen. And if you’re like me, you believe life matters, even if we don’t know why. We pretend we know, we theorize and spiritualize.. but deep down, no one really knows.
Still, one thing is true: those buried in the forgotten corners of our land deserve to have their names whispered now and then. Just to keep them alive… a little longer.
About a year ago, during a long run on a back road, I stumbled across a cemetery I had never seen before. Hidden deep in the brush, nestled off a winding path that even locals rarely use. One of those places you don’t find unless you’re lost… or meant to find it.
There were just a few headstones, maybe a family plot for someone wealthy long ago, or perhaps a decommissioned cemetery sold off in some strange bureaucratic twist. You know the type. Not the big churchyard kind we visit for funeral masses. Not the kind we bring flowers to. These are the others. The lonelier ones.
The ones with crooked headstones and names worn away by erosion and time. The ones that hit you with a wave of silence so deep it almost hums. You stand there and wonder: Who were they? What did they do? Who loved them? And where have they gone now?
It’s that time of year again. So let’s dive in.
Just enough to stir the October wind. Stay with us.
We recommend you read at night.. And maybe light a candle or two..
👻
Stop One: Citizens Cemetery
Between Gordon and Ashland, Pennsylvania..
Our first stop on this journey through forgotten souls and haunted ground takes us to a place you might have driven by without ever realizing its weight: the Citizens Cemetery, resting quietly on the road between Gordon and Ashland.
If you’ve traveled this stretch years ago, you may remember it differently. The path was rough. The grounds were tangled with overgrowth. Weeds dominated the landscape. It felt like time had forgotten it or maybe, had tried to.
Things changes in recent years when private owner purchased the land and with that purchase came something far too rare these days: respect. The land has been cleaned up. The gravestones tended to. And the space, while still eerie and aged, is now peaceful and dignified.
Here are some before and after photos..
And that’s the strange thing. Despite its long and winding history… despite changing hands over decades, the cemetery itself remains remarkably organized. The stones are old—many of them too weathered to even read. The etchings of names and dates lost to lichen and erosion. But the layout remains intact. The energy remains still.
And the trees… the trees surrounding the cemetery provide just the right amount of shade and mystery. It’s secluded in the best way, shielded from the noise of modern life. The kind of seclusion a cemetery deserves.
Let’s say a name now, in the spirit of keeping someone alive. One carved into time and weathered by wind:
Elizabeth Coulter
Born: 1725
Died: 1823
Age: 88
Eighty-eight years old. Born nearly 50 years before the United States even declared independence.
We tried to find more about Elizabeth.. tried hard. But the trail runs cold. Records from that time are scarce. Some of what exists is fragmented, and other pieces simply don’t exist at all. Who was she? Why was she buried here? What was her life like?
We may never know. But we know she lived, and she mattered. And now, by writing her name… by letting your eyes fall upon it… we’re doing something important.
We’re keeping her alive just a little longer.
Not in body. Not in spirit.
But in memory.
And that might be all the afterlife some of us ever get.
Stay with us. We’ll be heading to the next stop soon. Another graveyard. Another forgotten name. Another story almost lost to the leaves of time.
Stop Two: Klase Cemetery
Tucked into Dutch Town Road, between Germanville and Lavelle, Pennsylvania
Let’s keep traveling. Just down the road a bit from Ashland and Gordon, we take a turn onto Dutch Town Road, that narrow, twisting ribbon of countryside that winds between Germanville and Lavelle.
And here’s where it gets interesting.
Tucked deep into the woods is a cemetery that most people have no idea even exists. You won’t see a sign. There’s no paved pull-off. No wrought-iron gate. What you’ll find is overgrowth, tangled brush, broken stones, and silence. But also something more: the remnants of a family. A story.
This is the Klase Cemetery.
Back in a time when it was common practice for families to bury their dead on their own land, the Klase family did just that. A small plot of graves remains here.. a private family cemetery nestled on what was once working farmland. And though the land has changed hands and the forest has crept back in, the stones still whisper.
A name we found.. Charles Klase
Died: 1939
Charles was one of several Klase family members laid to rest here. But unlike Elizabeth Coulter, we were able to dig up a little more about him.
He was a well-known farmer in the Germanville area, where he lived his entire life. He died at home in 1939. The son of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Klase (Sr.), he never married. At the time of his passing, he was survived by three brothers and sisters.. all of whom, as time has marched forward, have now joined him in the great beyond.
The cemetery may be old, and the brush may have swallowed parts of it whole, but here it is, a reminder of how close time always is to forgetting.
You see, life isn’t permanent. We all know that. But places like this reveal the starker truth: that even memory isn’t permanent.
Bones grow brittle. Names fade from stone. And even families… vanish. A private family cemetery like this, once a sacred part of someone’s land and bloodline, can now be so forgotten that people don’t even remember they forgot it.
That’s the chill that hits you hardest in places like this. Not the ghosts. Not the dark. But the silence. The kind of silence that whispers: you were here once, and now you’re not—even in memory.
Stop Three: Bickel Cemetery
Barry Township, Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania
We keep driving..
This time we find ourselves in Barry Township, just outside Lavelle. Like so many other spots in this part of Pennsylvania, this one doesn’t jump out at you. You have to be looking for it. It’s quiet. Off the beaten path. Almost entirely unnoticed as time wears on.
Welcome to Bickel Cemetery—another small, private family burial ground tucked into the hills of Schuylkill County. But unlike some of the earlier cemeteries we’ve explored, this one is well maintained. The grass is trimmed. The headstones are upright. The grounds are respected..
This is private property, and like many family plots from the old days, it sits on what may have once been Bickel land. And here, you’ll notice something: every stone bears the same last name.
The Bickels lie together. And something about that lingers.
You can feel it. The unspoken love that bound this family in life—and now keeps them side by side in death. These aren’t just names on stone. These are people who stayed close, and whose descendants, whether knowingly or by habit, have kept their memories just a little brighter.
Maybe that’s the afterlife we’re all hoping for.
Not just to go on.
But to go on together.
May the Bickels, wherever they are now, be with each other still—just as they are here.
Stop Four: St. Joseph’s RC Cemetery
Between Girardville and Lost Creek, Pennsylvania
But not all of these forgotten cemeteries stay peaceful and quaint.
Some are disheveled.
Some are lost.
And some, sadly, are in ruins.
Travel between Girardville and Lost Creek, and you’ll find one such place. A cemetery that doesn’t just feel abandoned—it is abandoned.
This is St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church Cemetery, established in 1870.
Once a sacred place of rest. Now? A heartbreaking scene.
Tombstones knocked over.
Trees collapsed over graves.
Weeds and overgrowth dominating every corner.
There are even reports on Facebook—in comment threads on “Abandoned Places in Pennsylvania”—of an exposed grave. A direct view into what was meant to be eternal rest.
There’s controversy, too. Some argue over who should maintain the site, and why it’s been left to decay. Church responsibility? Community responsibility? Borough government? No one seems to agree. And meanwhile, the stones keep sinking.
But even amid the neglect, there was one bright moment—brief and bittersweet.
It was for Corporal Patrick Monaghan, a Medal of Honor recipient from the Civil War.
His original grave was modest. A simple marker with a Civil War flag holder. But thanks to the dedication of local veterans, a new, more honorable monument was placed in his memory. A fitting tribute to a man who served his country in a time of chaos and bloodshed.
But here’s the part that lingers:
Even as Monaghan’s grave was honored, the cemetery around him continued to crumble.
It was a moment of light in a field of shadows.
And unless something is done, unless there’s a real, organized effort from local groups, volunteers, or the broader community, it would seem the loss of places like St. Joseph’s Cemetery will only continue.
And what’s worse than bones being forgotten?
Heroes being forgotten.
Stop Five: The Cemeteries of Centralia
The Dead Outlast the Town..
Perhaps the ultimate of all abandoned cemeteries exists in a place that itself is no longer alive.
Centralia, Pennsylvania may have lost its homes, streets, and church bells to fire and time, but it has not lost its dead.
In fact, the cemeteries of Centralia are some of the most well-maintained parts of the region.
From St. Ignatius Cemetery, to the Odd Fellows Cemetery, Peter and Paul Cemetery, to the small, neat burial ground at the Ukrainian Catholic Church, these sites remain standing. Still, watchful, and beautiful, in their own mournful way.
For me, St. Ignatius matters most.
It’s where my parents are buried.
And it’s where my father served as caretaker for decades—up until the church’s closing in the 1990s.
Walk through St. Ignatius Cemetery and you’ll find what you find in any old coal region cemetery: names faded by time, stories lost to the wind, markers that lean just slightly, like they’re listening for something.
But if these graves could talk… oh, the stories they would tell.
They’d tell of the Molly Maguires, of whispered oaths and courtroom nooses.
They’d tell of the mine fire, the one that never stopped burning.
They might even tell the legend of the priest who cursed the town, after he was allegedly attacked by Mollies, a story unprovable, yet passed down with as a piece of history.
These are the myths that live between the stones.
And if you listen closely, they still breathe.
Because of Centralia’s notoriety, these cemeteries receive a steady stream of visitors, not just families of the departed, but curious onlookers from around the world, hoping to find smoke, heat, or something. Most leave disappointed by the quiet and the lack of a fire to see anymore. Just overgrowth, cracked roads, and silence.
But the cemeteries?
They remain stalwart and they hold the line.
One of the most poignant grave markers in all of Centralia belongs to a group of people lost in a plane crash over the town many decades ago. You can read more in our earlier post linked here..
But the short version is this:
These were unidentified or unclaimed souls.
They were buried together beneath a single, modest marker, which has thankfully been restored by a local funeral home.
There are no flowers on that grave.
No visitors who know who rests there.
Just the peace of hallowed ground and the dignity of remembering them, even anonymously.
When my father was alive and still caretaker of St. Ignatius, he never spoke much about the cemetery at night. But what he did say always stuck with me.
He didn’t like going up there alone after dark.
And if he could help it, he’d bring one of us kids along, not out of fear exactly, but maybe out of… respect. Or maybe just so there was someone else there… you know.. just in case.
But the priest who lived there in the 1980s used to keep his curtains closed at night, so he wouldn’t have to see the cemetery.
You know… Just in case.
Maybe the souls still roam.
If they do, I hope they stay behind the gates that hold them.
But if not. if they ever do walk among the trees again, at least they walk in a place where they are still remembered.
So Whisper Their Names
Because someday, someone will whisper yours.
We could go much deeper than the cemeteries mentioned in this short series of entries..
There are countless more.
Some that lie unmarked.
Some that have disappeared into forest and field.
And some we may never even know about.. hidden forever, tucked away from the modern world.
But what we do know is this:
Every single grave marker no matter how worn, crooked, or forgotten represents a life, a story, and a perished soul.
And every cemetery, no matter how small or overgrown, deserves to be treated as sacred ground.
These aren’t just places to explore for spooky–or Skooky–thrills in October, they are historical sites, rich with meaning that deserve solemnity. They need quiet respect. Curiosity without recklessness. Reverence without vandalism or just soulless soul seeking. Be a good human, please..
Who knows if their souls still roam and whoi knows what lingers just beyond the veil?
But one thing is certain:
Regardless of which cemetery we stand in: You and I will be in one someday too.
100 years from now, someone may stumble across our name in worn stone.
They may wonder who we were, what we did, what we loved.
They may whisper our names just to keep us alive a bit longer..
And in that moment—just like Elizabeth Coulter, Charles Klase, Corporal Monaghan, and the unknown victims of Centralia’s tragedy—we will live again if only for a moment.
Let’s whisper the names.
Let’s remember the forgotten.
And maybe, just maybe, someone will do the same for us.
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