They rest in a circle on their sides, as if waiting for darkness to begin some long-forgotten ritual. A ring of trees stands guard behind them as their exposed undersides face inward. The guts of a few tumble out, mixing with the gold, brown and yellow leaves that carpet the earth.

Odder are those almost entirely intact. Their cylinders pose proudly in straight white lines like soldiers at attention, their unbroken headlights catch the sparkling afternoon sun, their doors stand slightly ajar, one window rolled down just a bit, inviting an evening breeze.

These rusting hulks rest in what once was a field that flanked a dirt farm road, later paved and named Route 16 in LaGrange. Trees have grown up between fenders and bodies; one branching off to stretch through the wooden spoke of an old tire half-buried in the ground. This is a graveyard few will notice on All Hallows’ Eve, let alone disturb. However, this automobile junkyard is a place where the living will dance with the dead on Halloween.

While the signs of the dead are everywhere, haphazardly scattered across the land, the auto graveyard has become a clubhouse of sorts for the living. Someone has set down stakes in an old wooden hangar, hidden by a stand of trees, a few yards from the car burial ground.

Inside the structure are tires, not old enough to have clad the wheels of the wrecks outside, but no longer needed. Where once they were piled willy-nilly, the invaders have stacked them up six high so that they form two walls in the southwest corner. A huge tire standing on its side acts as round door, inviting visitors inside a cozy clubhouse, while also keeping them at bay.

Deep inside the dark, dank hangar, a kind of living room has been created. An old sofa, its stuffing poking out in puffy tufts, sits across from overstuffed chairs, abandoned by their owners. They are flanked by one of those first recliners that made men king of remote controls. On the uneven ground lies a faded orange carpet. Stacks of stones ring its edges, holding it in place. In the center in a heap is a pile of old cloth belts, the kind that bedecked children’s new ensembles, but were rarely worn. What ritual awaits these instruments is yet to be revealed.

The auto graveyard, where the living mingle with the dead, took in its first auto body 80 years ago. Earl W. Bishop Sr. began selling Model T Fords in 1918 on what once was the family farm in LaGrange. He’d venture to the docks in Bangor, where the frame and motor of the automobiles would arrive from Boston on a barge, according to his son and namesake, Earl W. Bishop Jr. In a Bangor garage, two- or four-door bodies would be mounted on the chassis, depending on the customer’s instructions.

The elder Bishop then would drive the car back to LaGrange over roads that were not much more than two ruts running through pastures. The area’s first car dealer had to teach his customers to drive, but he gave them a package deal — $300 for the car and driving lessons. By the late 1930s, the cost of a new car with a V-8 engine had more than doubled to $795 for a “Deluxe” Model Ford and to $895 for the “Super Deluxe.”

Bishop had to help customers finance their automobiles, too. To sell people a new car, he had to take in their old, worn-out models, which were driven, pushed, and towed to a field across from his home and sales lot. He began selling parts off old vehicles once residents had learned to do their own repairs.

During World War II, the old autos were stripped of their steel frames for the war effort. Slowly and gradually, Bishop’s land was transformed from new car lot to salvage yard to junkyard to graveyard.

Few visible remnants are left of Bishop’s life amid the rusting cars that changed almost everything about America. All that remains of the house he raised his family in is the old stone foundation. Trees took root in the dirt floor, and today they have grown higher than what must have been the roof of Bishop’s home. It burned to the ground in 1944 and Bishop died in 1962.

Until recently, the living rarely visited this graveyard. The dead rested in peace, their parts and pieces surrendering to the ravages of time. Now the living are walking, wandering among them again. What they want in this place, with these ancient autos, is a mystery. Perhaps their purpose will be revealed on All Hallows’ Eve, a time when the dead have been known to dance, sometimes even drive, with the living.