Haunted Museum in Clayton NM

Ted turned off the highway onto a two-track trail south of Clayton, NM. With the help of a kind landowner, we’d first located the Evans Ranch Cemetery in September 2025 when dozens of alien-looking grasshoppers hitched rides, clinging to our windshield, side windows, hood, mirrors, and antenna. Now, the last of December, their rasping voices had been silenced by freezing temperatures.
It was midafternoon by the time we cut across the pasture to the family cemetery which contained seven graves: Ted’s great-granddad Robert Martin Sloan, his great-aunt Sarah Evans, her husband John Evans, two of her boys from a previous marriage, one of her grandchildren;, and a mystery baby, Emitt Pinkston. Sarah, 96, was the last to be buried there in 1943.
Although the family has no record of it, Ted suspects his uncle George located the cemetery, arranged for new headstones, and protected the cemetery from marauding cows with a covering of cement except for Sarah’s grandbaby.
Georgie Iness Horne was buried in a connecting plot, once fenced, but now with the posts leaning and wires sagging. Those weren’t the only signs of neglect. The cemetery’s cement had buckled, weeds and grasses filled the cracks, a large yucca had taken root in a crevice, and only the faded black letters of EVA still existed along the granite border.
We were on our return trip from seeing family and friends in Kansas and Missouri during the holidays.
Ted had received permission from the landowner to clean up the cemetery, and since it was getting late, we went to work, Ted with his weed eater, shovel, and ax, and I, armed only with my dress gloves, removed dozens of tumbleweeds, hoping I carried them far enough away the wind wouldn’t tumble them back.
We worked for a few hours, and by then Ted had weeded, shoveled, and swept the cemetery, and I’d cleared out most of the stickery weeds. As the sun dipped below the horizon, we decided to return in the morning to polish off our work.
The next morning found a curious audience of angus cows monitoring our progress. Finally, after an hour, my hubby declared our clean-up effort good enough. In the face of the encroaching prairie and curious cows, our work seemed negligible, but honoring Ted’s ancestors felt important, perhaps more important than we could fully comprehend.
Then, we headed into Clayton and stopped at the Herzstein Memorial Museum. Ted had contacted the museum director, Britteny Swart, months earlier for any clues about the Evans Ranch. She’d made inquiries, checked with her board of directors, and even called the land office, but to no avail. Still, he wanted to thank her in person for her efforts.
The two-story sandstone museum was beautiful with stained glass windows gracing the second story.
Built in 1919, it served both the Episcopal and Methodist congregations for a time. Later, it morphed into a bowling alley, skating rink, library, and community center. Finally, in 1972, the Union County Historical Society transformed it into a museum, and in the 1980’s the Albert and Ethel Herzstein Charitable Foundation donated funds for major renovations.
When we opened the front door and stepped inside, Britteny greeted us. She was a 30-something young woman with long brown hair, turquoise glasses, and a huge smile.
After Ted thanked her for her help, she told us she’d be glad to conduct a tour for us, no charge, admitting she was great at telling stories, or—if we’d rather—we could wander the displays by ourselves. Ted said, “We’re used to wandering.”
So we did. It was a beautiful, well-maintained museum with displays about the Santa Fe Trail, Black Jack Ketchum who was hung in Clayton in 1901 for train robbery, the Dust Bowl, the Great Depression, Native Americans, dresses and hats from bygone eras, and so much more.
As we paused to enjoy the displays, I felt inexplicable chills even though the building’s temperature seemed warm and comfortable.
When we finished our tour, Britteny met us again. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” She flashed her big smile.
We agreed, and while she and Ted chatted, I wandered into the small gift shop, eventually picking out three books to buy. Then, I noticed four dolls. Two wore the tag, “Haunted Dolls, $30.” The other two, which looked similar, sold for $25.
I made my purchase, donated money to the museum, and we were on our way. While Ted drove, I googled the museum only to find it had the reputation of being haunted. A number of staff and patrons report seeing a ghostly woman in white, hearing footsteps, seeing objects move, and hearing knocking sounds.
Because of the consistency and number of reports, a paranormal team investigated the museum and confirmed it is haunted, though no one seems to know the story of the woman dressed in white.
As we headed toward our next destination, our work in the cemetery and time in the museum brought to mind one of the most surprising books I’d ever read: It Didn’t Start with You by Mark Wolynn.
Weaving together his and his clients’ experiences, he discusses how family trauma is passed down at least three generations. He then demonstrates how to resolve the trauma by uncovering the history, acknowledging the ancestor’s hardships, and honoring him or her.
That is why Ted’s work to find out more about his great-granddad and aunt and to honor them is so important. Perhaps, the same process will allow the ghosts of Herzstein Memorial Museum to rest at last.