Falling into Danger...in the Jersey Pine Barrens ~ Leah St. James

Talking about falling into danger, or not...I live a pretty ho-hum life. I get up early, write for a bit (or that's the theory), head into the my job at the newspaper where I busy myself for the next eight or so hours, then head home to have dinner with hubby, after which I collapse into a coma-like state on the couch until he rouses me to go to bed. The next day I get up and do it all over again.

That's the reality. (Zzzzzzzzzz.) 

In my head, however, danger is rarely too far from my side. I have a worst-case-scenario mind, meaning that I'm liable to conjure up trouble even when none exists. Add to that my extreme gullibility, and I'm a walking/talking mass of susceptibility to anything spooky.

This isn't new. I've been like this my whole life. During a hiking outing as a young Girl Scout, I refused to cross a log "bridge" over a stream because I'd pictured myself falling in, swept away by whitewater, eaten by ... whatever creatures lurked in the rivers of Central New Jersey. (I shudder still!) 

Little Falls, New Jersey--not at all close to the camp where I was.

In reality, the "river" was probably little more than a creek, the "whitewater" a trickle. When I think of that poor leader who had to sit with me while the rest of the troop went off adventuring...I want to duck into bed and pull the covers over my head with embarrassment. (If by any chance you're reading this....I'm sorry!) 

Yes, I refused to walk the ten feet or so across the log. (Hangs head in remembered shame.)

So when it came to overnight camp-outs, "nervous" hardly described my state of mind. Even safely ensconced in the tent (burrowed so far down into my sleeping back I was probably at risk of suffocation), I imagined insects hovering inches over my head waiting to feast on me.  (In fairness, they probably were. We were camping in the woods, after all.) 

And then the stories would start.  First, the legend of Mr. Nomoco, a tall, skinny man who at one time owned the property. His ghost roamed the site of the campgrounds, waiting for young girls to brave the night to trudge through the mists to the latrines while bats sang overhead. (In reality, there was no Mr. Nomoco, alive or ghostly. Nomoco was an abbreviation for the Girl Scout campground -- NOrthern MOnmouth COunty.)

The spookiest, though, was the legend of the Jersey Devil, a hoofed, leather-winged creature that patrolled the woods of the southern Jersey Pine Barrens for its supper. (Human, of course.)  

The legend has numerous variations, but most tell of Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Leeds who lived in what is now Atlantic County in the mid-1700s. Upon the birth of their 13th child, Mother Leeds shouted, "He'll be the devil," or words to that effect, at which point the newborn turned into the creature and would forever haunt the woods in the area. It was cruel and heartless...and relentless. (Think of the velociraptor chasing the kids in the lab in Jurassic Park.) 

And it has scared the you-know-what out of hapless scouts and campers for more than a hundred years.

This is kind of what the Jersey Devil looks like..I've never actually seen him myself.

 

I wish I'd known then what I know now:  That according to Brian Regal, professor of the history of science at New Jersey's Kean University, the "Jersey Devil" was born of a running fight between the Leeds family who published a political, anti-Quaker almanac called by some as heretical, and rival Benjamin Franklin.

In the November/December 2013 issue of Skeptical Inquirer, Regal writes that Titan Leeds (who took over as publisher from his father, founder Daniel Leeds) "...redesigned the masthead to include the Leeds family crest, which contained three figures on a shield. Dragon-like with a fearsome face, clawed feet, and bat-like wings, the figures, known as Wyverns, are suspiciously reminiscent of the later descriptions of the Jersey Devil." 

In 1732, Franklin launched his Poor Richard's Almanac, and in an attempt to boost sales in 1733 ran an item that predicted a date that his "devilish" rival would die. After that, Franklin referred to Titan Leeds as a ghost. (Apparently it was meant in fun. Imagine what would happen today! Talk about political mud-slinging!) 

It wasn't until the early 20th century that the now-familiar story of the winged creature started making its rounds of campfire circles.  And from there the legend took root and thrives to this day.

I wish I had more time. I'd tell you the one about the young lovers whose car breaks down on a lonely stretch of road deep in the woods of the New Jersey Pine Barrens.... :-)

To read more about the legend, go here:

To read more about Regal's so-called truth :-):  go here.

 

Leah writes of mystery and romance, good and evil, and the redeeming power of love, including her own story about things that go bump in the night--Adrienne's Ghost. FBI agent Jackson Yates had never believed in ghosts...until now. Available in eBook, print and audiobook.

The Jersey Devil lives ... honest! By Leah St. James

Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. I’m afraid of things that go bump in the night.

There. I said it. I’m no Ghost Buster.

I think this first manifested (hahahaha…sorry, couldn’t help it) when I was a Girl Scout and went on overnight camping trips. Like most groups of kids who go camping, we told scary stories. And in New Jersey, there is no more famous scary story than that of the infamous Jersey Devil. Here's one of my, uh, favorite stories of a couple who encountered the grotesque creature of the night.

Two lovers are driving down a lonely road in the Jersey Pine Barrens. It’s after midnight, and clouds obscure the moon—it’s the dark of the dead. Suddenly the car engine sputters, then dies. The man pulls onto the shoulder, gets out and begins to walk for help. The woman stays behind and waits, shivering in the cold and gloom. After a few minutes she hears a scratching on the hood of the car. Panicked, she hunkers down and hopes for her boyfriend’s return, but he never reappears. The police find the car in the morning, with the boyfriend hanging from a tree branch directly over the car, upside down, his fingers just reaching the hood of the car. The Jersey Devil has struck again.

Try hearing that when you’re less than an hour from Jersey Devil country and all you have is a canvas tent for protection. 



Hey, I don’t care what the scientists and skeptics say. I believed then. I believe now.

Still, I enjoy scary stories, reading and writing. I enjoy that feeling of the hair lifting on the back of my neck, my skin crawling with awareness of some hidden danger…as long as I know it’s fiction.

__________________________

Here’s an excerpt from my own scary story—novella Adrienne’s Ghost. (Adrienne's Ghost will be free on Amazon on October 25, 26 and 27.)

Do you believe in ghosts? FBI Agent Jackson Yates never had . . . until now.

Paranormal psychologist Rachael Sullivan has spent her adult years searching for the knowledge of life after death.

Joined by forces beyond their control, beyond their understanding, together they seek a killer. Together they encounter . . .Adrienne’s Ghost.

Rachael set the journals on the table and sorted through the pile until she found the one that began during Adrienne's high school years, figuring it would be a good place to start. Before she could sit, the diary dropped from her hand and fell to the floor. Tsking at her clumsiness, she retrieved the book, resettled herself into the sofa's cushions, and turned back to page one. Again the book landed on the floor, but this time it somersaulted through the air, as though it had been propelled by a force.

The surface of her skin beginning to prickle, Rachael stood and scanned the room, to search for the source of an energy strong enough, other-worldly enough to have caused what she'd witnessed. But the room was empty. Or maybe it only seemed empty because she couldn't see whatever life forces might be hiding just beyond the realm of her comprehension.

Still, she felt like an idiot when she retrieved the diary from the floor, then deliberately closed it and set it on the coffee table, as if she no longer had any interest in the secrets it held. She wondered if the night of passion had scrambled her brains when she sat back to watch, her fingers crossed.

It wasn't long before her hunch paid off. The journal on top of the pile began to tremble, then buck. Fascinated, Rachael trained her eyes on the book, and as its movements became more frenzied, her heart raced to match its pace. Within a few seconds, the book had somehow shimmied itself forward so it teetered on the edge of the pile, like it needed no more than a tiny nudge to take the plunge.

Debating if she was supposed to provide that nudge, Rachael reached forward, and in that instant a shadowy image materialized inches away from the tips of her fingers. She jolted and snatched her arm back as the shadow transformed into a shape. It was a hand, only a hand, like someone was reaching through a split in some cosmic curtain that separated two dimensions. A shriek whipped up Rachael's throat, and she slapped both hands to her mouth to stuff it back down.

Scrambling backward, she found herself pressed against the couch, ready to run, when the ghostly fingers prodded the diary.

It tumbled over the table's edge, landing with a thunk, and Rachael dropped to her knees, inhaling one choppy breath after another until her lungs could take no more. She was paralyzed, mesmerized, watching the hand where it hovered over the open book, less than a foot away. The fingernails, ragged and torn, were dirty and stained with smears of what looked like blood. They waggled suddenly, and the pages of the book began to flutter, making the sound of a hundred birds in flight. The air Rachael had been holding expelled in a burst, and her lungs refilled on another giant breath. But before she could scream, the humming from the FBI's basement, that heartbeat-like pulse, saturated the air.

She didn't realize she'd scrambled to her feet and retreated until the backs of her legs hit the edge of the sofa. As her muscles gave way to fear, she sagged onto the cushions and watched as Adrienne formed in front of her eyes.