In Sea Girt and Spring Lake in 1876 there were two luxury hotels. The Beach House in Sea Girt had the pedigree of being the former home of Commodore Stockton. Spring Lake’s Monmouth House was the most modern and elegant beach hotel on the coast. The area between, what is now First Avenue was a cedar forest with a dirt road and a few scattered cottages. Thomas Devlin had not yet built his Parker House. We are lucky to still have a large section of forest preserved as Crescent Park and Edgemere. If you walk through the woods and you see a ghost, know that she has been wandering there a long time.
This story appeared in a paper called the Atlantis in August 1886
Haunted
It is perhaps not generally known that in a grove of trees bordering the road leading from the Beach House to Spring Lake, there wanders a ghostly figure. This spirit, differing from the ordinary ghost, is not clad in the clinging white garments of the grave, but attired in a magnificent ball dress, while from her arms and neck the jewels sparkle and glitter.
The face and form is that of a beautiful girl, and ever and anon she throws up her arms with a gesture of despair, and a moaning cry that pierces one's very soul. And the story runs thus:
About some ten years ago there came to the Beach House a wealthy widower accompanied by his only daughter, a beautiful girl of twenty years. She had traveled about, seen life in its many varied forms, had been courted, both for her beauty, and yet her heart remained untouched.
During her sojourn at this romantic spot, she met a young and talented banker, from New York. It was but a repetition that never grows tiresome to young and loving hearts. In a short time, they became engaged,— she little knowing the man to whom she had entrusted her life's happiness.
One fair moonlight night there was to be ‘a German’ at the Beach House; and Leonora with a light heart and merry smile was glancing over the pages of a letter she had just received when suddenly her face blanched and she reeled to one aide, but quickly recovered herself as she thought, ‘It is false” dashed across her mind.
Then turning to her fiance with a light laugh, she said, “Reade, did you ever hear such nonsense? ” and together they passed out upon the porch. He hesitated a moment, then took the letter and read it to the very end.
“Well as I'm found out, we might as well end it here," he said with a cruel laugh.
“So it's true,” she murmured in a low, heartbroken voice.
“Yes, I might as well confess, I have been married five years, but my wife and I did not get along very well together we parted, and I thought I might as well amuse myself."
Just then the strains of one of Strauss’ entrancing waltzes reached their ears, and turning proudly away she left him to join the merry throng gathered in the office. It was said she never danced so well nor looked so proudly beautiful - and yet her heart was sad.. Through her mind ran this:
“Wild waltzes with a dying fall
In every note
A plaintive call
Of passionate entreating pain
Are woven with each mirthful strain."
After the dance was ended, the lights lowered, the flowers faded, and silence reigned over all, forth from her room she crept and with faltering steps wandered wildly through the woods, uttering a low, moaning cry until at last the restful waters of Wreck Pond, glistening in the moonlight, seemed to draw her with a curious fascination into their embrace.
Alas, poor soul, not yet at rest! She wanders o’er the scene of her deep sorrow to this very day.
This story likely grew out of a true 1882 incident at Wreck Pond, when a young woman who worked at the Monmouth House wandered into Wreck Pond and was soon in water over her head. Not knowing how to swim she drown. At the time, the inlet was open to the sea, and the shifting sand, mud and tides made swimming in the inlet & pond quite dangerous. Edward Ennis Graham drown at the inlet in 1851, leading to the sale of his farm Oceanside, which then became half of the purchase of Sea Girt by Robert F. Stockton in 1855.
Pictures of Crescent Park 2022 Vincent Dicks 1885 Marriot C. Morris