tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84045240230227181472024-03-01T11:45:50.267-08:00Quality Control - Jeffrey KovalUrban exploration, writing and video productions, zombie economics, and popular culture through the writing of the optimistic nobody Jeffrey Koval. Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-85597588218788002992023-10-27T08:03:00.000-07:002023-10-27T08:03:15.002-07:00The Shadow on the Road - Leroy, West Virginia <p>On that day, we had already spent eight hours on the road, and we had another hour to go to reach our final destination. After several failed attempts over the years to visit the Mothman Museum in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, the stars had finally aligned. A group of friends and creative collaborators, whom I had known solely through digital channels for over a decade, had finally organized a trip to attend the annual Mothman Festival. It is only fair to mention that our last earnest attempt in 2020 was thwarted by the world-ending, so that wasn't entirely our fault. But now, we had made it. We were almost there, less than six hours away from the midnight of the official kickoff.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKET21Yj13tO_7gTc1EIFcsfdOPhmcrAs0lA6qSJQnV801WWKvbtsDc1Wf_dEUgt0k-P7uSDZMOHmirS6qZLEWzq4oH4qjMXEJEczTwiyWe7r9y85-GW66riYXIRvOxusBla5DMkXaZ_RL0hNGcy5oq9_mBCgTSgE4aCAx9Udh7hMSq0j0FCHd9D_gGlw/s1055/395527259_340646771876161_3219445155023178870_n.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1055" data-original-width="1038" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKET21Yj13tO_7gTc1EIFcsfdOPhmcrAs0lA6qSJQnV801WWKvbtsDc1Wf_dEUgt0k-P7uSDZMOHmirS6qZLEWzq4oH4qjMXEJEczTwiyWe7r9y85-GW66riYXIRvOxusBla5DMkXaZ_RL0hNGcy5oq9_mBCgTSgE4aCAx9Udh7hMSq0j0FCHd9D_gGlw/w197-h200/395527259_340646771876161_3219445155023178870_n.png" width="197" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>You see, there are many people like us who consider this location and the event itself a peculiar destination. It's like a blend of Comic Con, Christmas, and Halloween all rolled into one. Who doesn't love the story of the Mothman? I've always regretted not having the chance to personally meet the legendary John Keel, who, indirectly, was responsible for this gathering of oddballs. It was his writing that somehow caused all of this, or at least brought it into pop culture. All of that being said, the Mothman legend is not the primary source of this experience in high strangeness.<p></p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Due to the popularity of the Festival, finding affordable accommodations for our group of friends and their partners was a challenge. Despite starting our search six months before the event, the closest options we found were nearly an hour away from Point Pleasant. This is how we ended up staying on a secluded farmstead in a place called Leroy, West Virginia. To give you an idea of how remote it was, there were no streetlights in either direction, and it took half an hour to reach it on the same road. We were truly in the middle of nowhere. God's Country, if you will. <p></p><p>As we wound down the country highway with steep hillsides, we had many opportunities to psyche ourselves out, holding our breath on sharp curves and scanning the darkness for wildlife. The brief respite when we got onto the "main roads" seemed, in hindsight, unnatural.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpwYeMgQgoC41k8P0FrAxurSBfWlnV_2PPSq0BxoepKNTPplDcSk1JCpRegkhwi7OAUoY0QY6HVSjOFIUmGVh_vJitNv27jPM2CI_HUhQl5NNwneMFnwZVlo7cvSLWmcMz7D-fZz8HxxmO6q7sXWysqMp2gp8K5CRVD51_xbul7s9jkNCSHnKe2LXgzI/s1131/395277625_644941590859999_2239875915729412433_n.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1131" data-original-width="1125" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpwYeMgQgoC41k8P0FrAxurSBfWlnV_2PPSq0BxoepKNTPplDcSk1JCpRegkhwi7OAUoY0QY6HVSjOFIUmGVh_vJitNv27jPM2CI_HUhQl5NNwneMFnwZVlo7cvSLWmcMz7D-fZz8HxxmO6q7sXWysqMp2gp8K5CRVD51_xbul7s9jkNCSHnKe2LXgzI/w199-h200/395277625_644941590859999_2239875915729412433_n.png" width="199" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>We reached town and crossed the river into Ohio to pick up toiletries and snacks for the night ahead with friends on the eve of the festival. Our friends and their plus-twos rode in a separate car, leaving only my partner and me in my trusty Old Ironside III. We were eager to get back to the farm and rest. The long drive had left us tired, and now we had to slow down to avoid curious deer. We had already spotted at least five deer on the way back. We were just minutes away from turning onto the final road leading to the farmstead when it happened. That's when we saw it.<p></p><p>We were chatting about our walk in town and sharing a laugh when, in a matter of seconds, we approached the crest of a small hill that appeared and disappeared within moments. It was a substantial bump on the country highway that carried us about ten feet up and then returned to the regular grade. Basically, we would not have been able to see if another car was coming our way.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZe3npyJMSsb-Dtlohtq3E57FJ_uuFIQvhyT0gGgB3HviQMQmGqL_zjDCmxvgg93Db4IyUFm3b8U4d7CWxbMn17PDw-LRCMPagDCJdhBOWqvMNAON41IRk8P7i5c9ngwOPfut8_OJU_zlhrnyBHhYuBT7hlwP1irszEtHQ6sViNMIwfSB6jKjbOBXOlQ/s1170/394765886_326739229955950_5969708224622901183_n.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="1170" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZe3npyJMSsb-Dtlohtq3E57FJ_uuFIQvhyT0gGgB3HviQMQmGqL_zjDCmxvgg93Db4IyUFm3b8U4d7CWxbMn17PDw-LRCMPagDCJdhBOWqvMNAON41IRk8P7i5c9ngwOPfut8_OJU_zlhrnyBHhYuBT7hlwP1irszEtHQ6sViNMIwfSB6jKjbOBXOlQ/w200-h192/394765886_326739229955950_5969708224622901183_n.png" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>As we neared the hill, my headlights illuminated the slope, revealing anything that might have been standing on the shoulder and in the shallow woods beyond. The uneven terrain and shadows briefly cast eerie shapes until they were bathed in the light. My breath caught, thinking I was about to collide with a deer, potentially ruining our holiday weekend. It was only when my girlfriend began to speak but immediately stopped that I realized she had seen it too.<p></p><p>There was no collision. No curious deer stepped onto the road and bounced off of my car. The shadows on the pavement seemed to coalesce into the form of such an animal. I distinctly remember seeing it from behind, its head rising and looking at us over its shoulder, too late to run away or understand what was happening. Instead of a loud impact, it turned to face us, made eye contact, and then seemed to fold into itself and vanish.</p><p>We continued over the hill, both of us in a state of shock. Then came the inevitable barrage of "Did you see that?" and similar questions.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-Z719OSjUbXA63mFAGEuWWWH0InZXJyYvVVgBZwyAVuq2i3GpMZunuSVar0rWmJf7FNeFIrFNVEWvjuqnSqmBJOa-btVCtIl1CCn7uZ9uzX_ATTSrYcxIQnS4KSbT1RSpOXTTqciG4ZZ33vKufvo3tI_kIcvEaXZW4k2hbsqYeFHdjUtPf9PNjso5zQ/s1058/395316366_314174097909772_3079025333131645104_n.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="1058" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-Z719OSjUbXA63mFAGEuWWWH0InZXJyYvVVgBZwyAVuq2i3GpMZunuSVar0rWmJf7FNeFIrFNVEWvjuqnSqmBJOa-btVCtIl1CCn7uZ9uzX_ATTSrYcxIQnS4KSbT1RSpOXTTqciG4ZZ33vKufvo3tI_kIcvEaXZW4k2hbsqYeFHdjUtPf9PNjso5zQ/w200-h198/395316366_314174097909772_3079025333131645104_n.png" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>She struggled to describe it, while I tried to recreate the image I had in my mind. It was a strange encounter. I saw the distinct shape of a deer, but it was shrouded in darkness and did not seem solid at all. It had materialized and dissolved into the same nebulous blend of shadow and light. And now it was gone.<p></p>We did not know what we had seen on the road, but we had both viewed it from different angles, different perspectives, and with similar skeptical inclinations, even though we both wanted to believe. Most likely, it was not something tangible or even organic. But we both saw it, whatever it was. For one fleeting moment, on a night now lost to time, hidden away in a remote corner of West Virginia, it stood before us, before retreating into the night.<div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-30859673579275301852020-07-10T14:08:00.000-07:002020-07-10T14:08:11.366-07:00Mr. Wilkie's Cabin In the Before Times, the array of abandoned and urban exploration pages I follow online would sometimes provide a blueprint for future trips. At some point, I saw a gratuitously tagged cabin and I had to do a double take when I read its location as familiar. Never before had I heard about or seen pictures of this cabin, nestled away somewhere in South Jersey. It had such a unique personality and I was shocked that I had not seen it previously. It just so turned out that my discovery of it and my subsequent trips to see it in person occurred just before most of the country entered lockdown a few months ago due to the pandemic. I had accidentally spent the last afternoon before the shutdown, oblivious of the coming health crisis, ducking through the woods to find Mr. Wilkie's cabin.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Usually, when writing these sort of blurbs, there are solidified theories behind the history of even the most mysterious abandoned locations. Picturesque places that tend to attract travelers like myself tend to have stories that are easy to discover, through well-known and objective reporting (in the cases of hospital properties like <a href="https://www.jeffreykoval.com/2019/05/it-takes-village.html">Letchworth Village</a> or the <a href="https://www.jeffreykoval.com/2014/09/dodging-cropsey-at-new-york-farm-colony.html">New York Farm Colony</a>) or their popularity exploding online (and potentially leading to their demise; rest in peace, Centralia and <a href="https://www.jeffreykoval.com/2012/10/the-old-lambertville-high-school.html">Lambertville High School</a>). But sometimes you find a location whose story isn't exactly well-known or easy to parse, even when it is relatively close to civilization. Sometimes this lends itself to building the aura of place up in the minds of the would-be researchers. In this age of information, finding a blank space in our universal canvas is a mystery worthy of its own discussion. A property cannot practically delete itself off of social media. How does the origin of a building get lost with so much documentation constantly being generated? </div>
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Perhaps my research skills are simply rusty and future dips into the story of this cabin will yield its conclusive history. As of right now, my understanding of this cabin in South Jersey is as follows: the State obtained the land that would become Rancocas State Park in the 1960s. There were various improvements needed for the park to become safe and accessible, and certain needs were met while others were abandoned due to costs. At some point, multiple cabins existed along the creek and they were either built up as a part of these accommodations, or had been previously standing and were absorbed into the State's purchase. Today, I believe only the one remains standing. A story I found stated that a "Mr. Wilkie" lived in this property and was employed as a caretaker. The reading becomes even more apocryphal from here. One anonymous comment I found stated that their grandparents had lived in this house when they were a kid (similar <a href="https://www.jeffreykoval.com/2012/06/baldpate-mountain-new-jersey.html">to our beloved Baldpate Mountain and its now-destroyed homesteads</a> and the former residents that I have had the pleasure to talk to after writing my article about the mountain) -- another string of commentary states that this Mr. Wilkie was a dedicated caretaker, but something of a hoarding mess himself, and was eventually relieved of his duties as he was not maintaining the park or the house to any sort of standard. Other stories delve into the land having previously belonged to Native Americans and what groups used the lands and properties for later on in the seventies. </div>
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Whether or not Mr. Wilkie was a decorated (or flawed) public servant, someone's grandfather, or an amalgamation of stories that accumulated as the complicated ownership of park lands transferred hands over the years, a house now stands vacant in the woods of South Jersey, decaying and bearing the art and graffiti of countless passers-by. It stands as a very accessible and, in its own right, gorgeous piece of abandoned lore in the realm of <i>Weird NJ </i>and their ongoing folklore. The fact that it is still standing makes me wonder if there are any long-shot plans for its rehabilitation. If that is one day in the works, and the powers that be are, in fact, looking for a caretaker to dwell in this charming structure overlooking the creek, please be in touch -- at least once Mr. Wilkie's cabin has electricity again. Or glass in its windows.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sgFUj4NBMEE&feature=youtu.be">Preliminary Exploration on YouTube</a><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rqZNWN1Lec&feature=youtu.be">Follow-up Exploration on YouTube</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/photo-dump-of-in-37748203">Mr. Wilkie's Cabin photo gallery on the Patreon Library</a></div>
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Further reading:</div>
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<a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/newjersey/comments/e2fvrb/abandoned_cabin_in_rancocas_state_park_does/">found reddit thread</a></div>
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<a href="https://forums.njpinebarrens.com/threads/rancocas-state-park.4334/">nj pine barrens thread</a></div>
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<a href="https://forums.njpinebarrens.com/threads/rancocas-state-park-ruins.9834/">additional pine barrens thread</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.njhiking.com/rancocas-state-park/">nj hiking thread</a></div>
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<a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20150725024030/https://venturestoanomaly.wordpress.com/2013/11/07/mr-wilkies/">archived thread</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-73120053900180791722019-05-14T21:24:00.002-07:002019-05-14T21:24:38.575-07:00It Takes a Village With the proliferation of ghost hunting and other less-than-objective reality television shows available throughout the last decade or so, I always default to imagining that the regionally accessible list of every "well known" locale for such haunts has long since been exhausted. Sometimes, all that it takes to break this facade and minor hubris is a well-timed and sudden "discovery" late one Friday night, spent otherwise doing nothing. You have the cluster of medical facilities on the fringe of the larger metropolitan areas nearby (Philadelphia and New York) and the tried and true smaller facilities in my home state of New Jersey and you can tell yourself that there are only so many times you can visit and take the same photographs of familiar broken cinder blocks and causeways.<br />
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Even outside of the realm of abandoned institutional properties, recycling these visits purely for capturing some sort of media becomes redundant. Surely, always worth a day out, but always yielding diminishing returns when it comes to the photographic proof. There was a running joke when we lived in Piscataway that we had <a href="http://www.jeffreykoval.com/2013/12/going-to-watchung-make-reservations.html">"done Watchung to death,</a>" resorting to its hiking trails and abandoned village when we could not muster the cleverness to discover someplace new. The fact that we can access these places often enough that they become familiar is a hidden blessing itself, in a way, but that does not take away from the undeniable fact and feeling of mystery that you feel wandering these places for the first time -- and that inkling of a new experience, one that was apparently not that far away, found me in bed around two am on a Friday night / Saturday morning.<br />
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You see, with all the ilk and cynicism that social media brings (and there is plenty of both to go around), I somehow stumbled into a private group over the years of abandoned and historic places in the tri-state area. Of course, they are rife with visitors experiencing those familiar locales referenced above, but it is wonderful to see their own personal takeaways from their adventures, making their own histories amongst our own histories on top of the infinitely-heavier histories of the sites themselves. I will see these pictures, click through, smile at the words shared, and that is usually the end of the shared experience. But every so often, a user will share a place that I had never heard of, or one that will likely never be popularly shared (such as an old farm on a family's private piece of land). What struck me that Friday night was this uncanny in-between: there was familiarity in the pictures shared, but I <i>knew </i>that I had never been there. So I read through some comments and did some minor research.<br />
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In some regards, to the people who enjoy this stuff as I do, the Letchworth Village can almost be regarded as a sister-property of <a href="http://www.jeffreykoval.com/2014/09/dodging-cropsey-at-new-york-farm-colony.html">the New York City Farm Colony</a> that we've visited (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhcY8qSesEk&t=1354s">and used</a>) however many times before. In fact, they are forever linked <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=geraldo+rivera+farm+colony&oq=geraldo+rivera+farm+colony&aqs=chrome..69i57.5324j1j4&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8">in research</a> due to their histories that bound them together in the documentary that brought light to the medical injustice and malpractice of their time. For all of the wrong reasons, Letchworth Village and the New York City Farm Colony were a part of a greater, disappointing conversation -- and seeing the pictures that a stranger shared, I instantly could grasp it.<br />
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Many have written of its history and can go into greater depths than I will, but the Village began its existence with the highest hopes and with the greatest of intentions. Similar to the Farm Colony, it sought to create a softer place of treatment and refuge, in a time when those with varying ailments and disabilities could anticipate being abandoned at anonymous, institutional, and uncaring asylums. None of its buildings were particularly monolithic and it was designed after a sprawling estate, giving it the aesthetic of a summer retreat with lodgings all over a hilly farm property. To the public eye it maintained this softness, at least for a little while. In 1950, it was even the location of the first trial case of the polio vaccination.<br />
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But through legal cases and photo-investigative journalism, the caring front of the Letchworth Village deteriorated throughout the decades, and rightfully so. Lack of funding for new construction cramped many patients into filthy living accomodations with little to no educational or productive direction. Violence towards and from the staff was common and even after the site closed in the nineties, those formerly under the employ of the Village rarely chose to speak of their experiences there. While Letchworth Village may have been created with the purest of intentions, reality and neglect failed to see it through to such fruition.<br />
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Today, visitors can access the property with great ease. A long, paved loop goes through the main property, passing perhaps a dozen buildings in disrepair. Signs are posted warning against trespassing into the buildings and off of the paved walkways. Paranormal investigations conducted on those programs referenced in the header have undoubtedly drawn many to ignore these warnings and peer inside the structures themselves (no comment), but the public can easily and legally enjoy the property (ignoring its rather grim history) with no concerns of consequences, so long as they remain on the walking path.<br />
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Broken windows and disregarded barricades are numerous, whether due to vandalism or just the creep of time. Knowing today of what happened at Letchworth, it was a bit difficult to imagine the place functioning as a medical institution -- even in the bright sun of a spring day and with the jarring juxtaposition of condemned structures on a walking trail, the place feels more natural as it is. Perhaps it is that all-too human predisposition to overlook a sordid past, if only to make the present more palatable. (Fortunately, although it ultimately may not be any true reconciliation, there is a memorial for those who suffered at the institution in the nearby cemetery.) </div>
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Maybe it is easier to see it for its odd, unique beauty today, rather than dwell on the individual hells that existed there, not even thirty years ago. Seeing an old man relaxing under a tree with his dog and a young couple walking a stroller with their baby, maybe these small gifts of peace are some whimsical and existential apology for what happened there. But that uncanny feeling never really wavered as I walked the trail. There was pain here, borne from a system that was unable or unwilling to commit to what it had promised. The grounds are beautiful; a look inside some of the buildings reveal its true character. </div>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/5jTJj7UcOvg/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5jTJj7UcOvg?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<i>Further reading: </i></div>
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Letchworth_Village">Letchworth Village - Wikipedia</a></div>
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<a href="https://the-line-up.com/letchworth-village">Letchworth Village - The Line Up</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-35527688469919444312019-04-03T06:47:00.000-07:002019-04-30T13:05:44.742-07:00The House at Hollymont<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">The child with black eyes, Tobin, lives under this room.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Before his eyes were dark, the boy Tobin played in the shadow of the church. It stood before our modern machinations, outlived the boy and his family, and will likely outlast us, as well.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Although his domain is now what is beneath, it should be known that the family was fraught with precautions unclear to us now. The cellar entrance has been cemented off from the outside, but multiple doors on the second and third floor bear locks on the exterior. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Some are defunct and rusted over; others, broken, the original wood feverishly clawed from the ground up.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">The locks and markings gave one pause and the slightest step back for a moment of concern. 'But it was from a different time.' For surely there was a benign explanation to this haphazard, ramshackle approach to the interior security of one's domicile. But such brevity was abandoned upon moving a cast iron stove for maintenance and cleaning. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">It appears that the family had maintained access to the cellar, although they made no effort to advertise the fact to their neighbors. Or the municipality.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">The black below the cellar door belonged to him, as dark or worse than those eyes. I would not commit myself to such a reckless endeavor, alone and without so much as a light. Trying to find solace elsewhere, a somewhere with windowed light and even the faintest inkling of the waking world, I returned upstairs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">The locks were also on their closet doors. I could no longer find faint, naive joy in attempting to picture the normalcy and routine of the family's daily life. It would only make the now creeping, lingering feeling worse. Embolden it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">There was room to breathe. It would be unwise to turn this place into its own dose of claustrophobia, having found it of my own flight of responsibility. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">I sat and collected my thoughts at the top of the stairs. I had already stayed a night unharmed, comfortable, content, before he had whispered his story in my sleep. There was no reason to fear the place only now. I could see the church through the bedroom windows, the house itself in the same shadow the boy had dwelled, over two centuries prior. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">I found a place of safety, I had believed. It did me no good, however, in the process of mentally and emotionally catching my breath to think on it for too long: I realized that, yes, I had felt secure in my naivety. But now I had opened and unlocked every bolt and breach in the house that time had sealed.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-91237491430343950152018-05-18T21:16:00.001-07:002018-05-18T21:16:46.165-07:00The Deer LureCertain places can exist in various, evolving forms to an individual, altering throughout their lives. Hidden shortcuts and off-trodden routes can become mundane and monotonous if abused enough. What I am describing has the same color, but necessarily the same cynicism, that you would expect from one telling of their experiences of working an unsatisfying job at a beloved theme park. Sure, you can recognize the love that is there, and why it is there, but nonetheless, that bit of magic might have faded.<br />
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Whether it is complacency, or just plain taking a mainstay sight for granted, this abstract recognition holds for me a small, near-ancient two story house in the center of a public park. It is known by a few names, registered and historic, but I've known it by a handful of my own and my family's creation over the years. Presently, and probably until it is eventually demolished and only a memory, I recognize it as the Deer Lure.<br />
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Merely thinking of the building is a unique "trip," if I really devote more than a few passing seconds. I (literally) see it almost every day at this point in my life and career, but only in passing. For now, I will not divulge too much historic context or geographic proximity, as it is quite clear that park rangers and staff wish to keep as much through-traffic away from the site as possible. As with many short-funded public works, it has been in a constant state of questionable repair, renovation, or even actual transportation for years now. At times you can see blue canvas and tarp, clear indicators of rudimentary repairs or efforts against the elements, across patches in the roof or windows from the road. From the main thoroughfare, it sits against a dense treeline. Sure, trails run just a few hundred feet behind it, and you could hit it with a rock if you were so rudely inclined (from the road), but nonetheless, there is a silent understanding that visitors are not welcomed. That is, of course, except for the dozen or so deer that are outside almost every day.<br />
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Probably pushing almost a decade ago, at this point, perhaps when I was more foolhardy and the site itself was less foreboding and maybe unrecognized as a target for potential visitation (and perhaps vandalizing), I did just that that I had described above, glossing over an obvious desire to be left alone. I was a schmuck with a camera and a willing traveling companion who wanted to see any ounce of standing and breathing history we could find. They were the same old acquaintance that had gone with me<a href="http://www.jeffreykoval.com/2013/02/the-abandoned-pennsylvania-turnpike.html"> to the abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike</a>. I believe it was even that same, odd summer. I am not sure if plans culminating elsewhere had fallen through, or if the proximity of the Deer Lure offered a quick trot off the beaten path, but somehow it became our destination. I figured it would be a quick excursion, no big deal. I suppose I was partially right, if only due to the brevity of the visit.<br />
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We parked in an unrelated and unassuming lot a few "blocks" away (as it was a park, units of distance are a tad blurred...) and walked on foot, crossing over a high road and then sticking to a treeline. Even if it was not as patrolled as it is today, the lack of coverage from the roads made one an obvious target. This land no longer belonged to man, the pockets of deer amongst the tall grass at any hour throughout the day made that abundantly clear. As we got closer, we became aware of a rough property line that marked the house, a private residence, surely, at some point, at some when. It was old enough (mid-1700s, in fact) that we quickly realized there were head-markers for a small grave site, right there, in the middle of the park. I was taken back, I had never known. Surely this was just a memorial, there weren't bodies here, right? Right? My companion did not know.<br />
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At this point, we were torn from the dwelling thoughts of unmarked graves and just how old this structure was by a terrible thrashing noise. We both stood, I grabbed their wrist and we scanned the area. A poor deer, who was visibly and audibly more alarmed at our presence than we were of it (who had not even seen the thing moments ago...) was battling the failing chain-link fence that once stood at the back of the house's property line and before the woods (the aforementioned trails beyond). Without much further struggle (and thankfully no noticeable injury or continued resistance) the creature found the large gap that it must have known waited for it and disappeared into the brush. We laughed. It was the middle of a hot, sunny Jersey day and we were in a beautiful park. We have to remind ourselves that our lives are not always a convoluted horror plot. The laughs and reinvigorated courage quickly faded as we found ourselves closer to the back of the house, realizing that there was, in fact, a very large and traversable opening into the building. It is one thing to inspect and appreciate an ancient thing that is all-but-removed from a King novel; it is quite another to go in, woefully unprepared and under-dressed.<br />
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"Well..." I looked into the unnaturally dark hole, seemingly cut into the wall. The portion around a backdoor or large window must have been destroyed with time, and the partition hastily put up by a public works failed to cover it after a storm (or other, less savory visitors...) tore it down. The large, flat piece of wood would conceivably serve as a ramp up, the combined lank of us at the time probably not much past 250 pounds.<br />
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"I mean, we're here..." she nodded towards it, all but saying, go first. So I did.<br />
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Immediately, the thick humidity of a New Jersey summer disappeared. It was dark, besides a thin pillar of light coming in from up and above through the decay of the roof and the gutted building. It was damp. It was... <i>cold. </i>And, all of a sudden, it was <i>loud</i>. Not ten feet away from me, beyond the sloping arch of a portal between the kitchen I stood in and the main front room, was a cloud of swarming, buzzing horseflies. Memories of getting bit by the bastards at my grandma's pool had me momentarily recoil, but they seemed pretty content and uninterested in us, so I hesitated. I took a few steps back, leaning on a few suspect portions of the wooden floor, checking its integrity, and went back to help my friend in. I pulled her up and we just stood there for a moment, taking the odd nature of the predicament in. We loved this stuff. I know I always have. But this was simultaneously one of the most inviting places I have ever visited and the most off-putting, now that we were up close.<br />
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Now, of a few things I was sure: there may have been a flight of stairs to the second story at one point, but time and interim plans at renovation removed them. Likewise, there was a huge hole in the center of the second story, extending over the arch between rooms. There was not enough strength or stable portions to support climbing up, no matter how skilled or foolhardy. I know that the singular ray of light that managed to pierce the building shone down from somewhere in the roof and cut down through the whole building, making a spotlight across the room from us, in the foyer. I knew, at that moment, of a heavy thud directly above me. If I had to describe it, consider a body in a sleeping bag rolling off a bed and then being pulled to attention. I knew, at that moment, that my friend had to stifle her horror-movie scream and it was her turn to grab my wrist. Something, something large, rose and then blocked out that ray of light beaming through the house, from upstairs.<br />
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"Time to go," I gritted between my teeth. She was out before I had turned around.<br />
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Of course, shortly thereafter (and now) we can laugh about it. But we don't know who or what was up there. If it was park staff, they would have fallen through the floor. I know this for a fact. There was no easy way up there and no necessary or useful reason to do so. If it were kids poking around, I do not know how or why they were so damn silent and managed to not trigger any of the natural alarms we had stumbled through on our way there. Whatever it was, we ran, almost screaming, from the Deer Lure that day, an almost forgotten summer afternoon in New Jersey. I can still see, turning back, half-jogging at that point, the solitary, almost unhealthily skinny deer, now far away and in the safe, dark comfort of the woods. I could never say with certainty that it was our startled friend from before, but it's a happy thought to believe so, isn't it?<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-13044338126305040092017-08-02T20:35:00.001-07:002017-08-02T20:35:14.180-07:00Lacey Bridge - Linden, TXIt will never cease to amaze me how we will manage to create, amongst however many differences and inherently dissimilar environments, patterns and similar stories and pieces of folklore, miles and minds apart.<br />
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I have seen throughout America, especially in rural Appalachia and further in the Midwest, what appear to be similarly patterned or cut pieces of Small Town, USA: a small intersection of a main street, a handful of antique stores along the spectrum of ready-for-business and abandoned, and a single movie theater with a marquee marked up, still by all accounts within the domain of the nineties and against all odds clinging to semi-relevance and just-dodging insolvency.<br />
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Of course, this odd uncanniness of familiarity is not limited to physical locations. The stories we tell, after all, can all be reduced down to a handful of skeletons. Beyond that, in the realm of the macabre and chilling, it is probably easy to iron out the framework of what makes horror horror and why urban legends remain told. It seems to me that every place I have been to has a "Cry Baby Bridge," and I visited the one hidden away in East Texas one American summer afternoon.<br />
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The story is simple, sad, and has been told. You have heard it: a young woman is either in an accident or viciously murdered. In some versions, she has an equally innocent child with her who is then lost to this world. Now, decades later, you can still hear them wandering the mists below the bridge late at night. In the few versions of the tale I have found regarding this particular bridge, there does not appear to be any malice in her presence. Just a spooky location with a tragic, if ambiguous, history.<br />
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For better or worse, we were not at Lacey('s?) Bridge at a haunted hour and had instead visited during a mild summer afternoon. It was nonetheless a location out of time.<br />
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I had remarked almost immediately that it reminded me of a condensed version of the beloved stretch of lost highway in Centralia, Pennsylvania. Although not abandoned and condemned, the faded color of its material and the stark contrast of graffiti set it aside as something different. Another facet of this outing involved the "Witch's Tabernacle" -- again a piece of folklore that seemed to exist in various forms across the country (and world) with varying degrees of drama and paranormal influence. After our walk across the bridge, we quickly scanned the surrounding area and did not see any easily accessible (due to growth) paths down to the creek below. The murky, swamp-like area was not very welcoming, but, to be honest, also not all that enthralling or worth an investigation. That is not a condemnation of the area; in fact, the murky water's existence was probably the exact reason for the bridge having been built in the first place.<br />
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Driving another quarter mile up the road, we found a pull-off trail that terminated in a small open field surrounded by trees. Not wanting to encroach on anyone's private property (or maybe due to the scattered shotgun shells we found) we realized that there was nothing else to uncover regarding the bridge or any hidden old church and returned to the road. I had noticed that there was a quiet hunter's perch watching over the field on the way out and somehow this small piece of civilization provided a silly ounce of comfort. It was purely a recreational area, however private or otherwise, and not some macabre killing field for an unwritten horror story with plot-points rapidly filling in with bouts of imagination and wandering, listless anxiety.<br />
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The Witches' Tabernacle held your archetypal features of urban legends: witches round up in a manic hysteria and murdered, the ground they were buried at then cursed, more or less, and <i>something </i>still lingering to this day. While the cemetery we found did not have any of these haunted hallmarks (at least visibly, during the day), the age and history speaks for itself. We found a few graves still marked with Confederate flags and various pieces of ancestral offerings. I believe the earliest grave marker we found dated the site to at least the early-to-mid 1800s. There were also whispers of an old church that had actually succumbed to a fire and other structures on the property, but these were not visible, or at least obvious to us. It was a quiet, if slightly unkempt, old cemetery.<br />
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I was met, once again, with that odd, but comfortable, familiarity to my own neck of the woods and portion of the country (namely, the winding countryside and towns that had sprung up and drifted away in the woods of Pennsylvania). I had learned about and visited many places important to the American Civil War in my youth and it is always interesting to see these local pieces from the "other side," removed from the haze and appropriation of modern politics and misuse. Regardless of the symbolism and hate that still exists and is leveraged from this lingering blemish on our history, it happened, and we we should not pretend it did not occur on our own soil.<br />
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One way or another, many of these grave markers lay in ruin, even those not prominently displayed as related to the war effort or era. The cemetery was not very big and certainly not ornate.<br />
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Even if the only tinge of absurdity comes from the fact that Confederate flags are still manufactured and sold (and bought), and not from anything in the realm of paranormal, our outing was a worthwhile endeavor, and I am appreciative of my opportunity of visiting. If there is a long-gone coven of witches, or a dearest Lacey still holding her child and bewildering passersby, and they had wandered these grounds long after midnight, following each and every rule of folklore, then I sincerely hope that they have found peace, or, at least, eventually will. That is all we can ask for. <br />
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<i>Further reading:</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.abovetopsecret.com/forum/thread417610/pg1">Above Top Secret - Forum</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080721224409AABZYN0">Yahoo Answers</a><br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1823466471"><br /></a>
<a href="https://kacytillman.blogspot.com/2010/03/chronicles-of-life-in-linden-lacys.html">Kacy Tillman - Blogspot</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-28971420060808509742017-06-10T02:29:00.000-07:002017-06-10T23:08:23.177-07:00Camp MetaNo, the name is not me being clever (or the horrendously on-the-nose opposite). Once again, I found myself finally exploring a location that I had known of for quite some time, but either could never recall its exact location or if it was even an actual place that had existed. Seeing its entrance in brief passing, talking about it years ago, or even having seen similar locales in my dreams, may have contributed to never coherently pinning down the campground as a place that I could see and document, but I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to see this past spring.<br />
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Many of my favorite places, found either through my own travels, word of mouth, or the beloved publication <i>Weird NJ</i>, naturally have a rich history loaded with colorful characters and local flavor. Finding and learning about these places that are within a few hours of my hometown and current residence is always an adventure. Finding that these places exist mere minutes from where I live is all the more incredible and rewarding. New Jersey history, especially pertaining to places marked by economic booms, tends to have a recurring cast of names and families, whether they represent small mom and pop operations, or extend to titans involved in greater industry. For instance, many of the places I have written about and visited are connected loosely through the Delaware-Lackawanna Railroad organization, modernly founded in 1993, but with historical roots dating back to older entities in the mid-1800s. It is very much like reconnecting with an old friend to find a familiar name stamped on a boilerplate in an abandoned factory, when you have seen the name previously, for example, in an abandoned viaduct a hundred feet over open air and running water.<br />
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Camp Meta, for me, personally, shares this familiarity with well-known industrial and supply organizations still very much in existence and business today, names that are relevant in my professional career and as a local consumer. In my findings post-visit to this beautiful piece of land, I learned that technically, this property now belongs to the same park system we frequent (through Mercer County) and loosely to the summer camp I enjoyed growing up (YMCA Hamilton / Sawmill). Within the last few years, this property was graciously bestowed as a gift by such a local business "giant" with future plans involving being further ironed into the recreational treasures I have grown up with. <a href="http://www.nj.com/mercer/index.ssf/2009/07/recalling_100_years_of_achieve.html" target="_blank">Further reading and information is available here; I do not wish to misrepresent or speak for these lovely people, and will allow the article speak for itself and shed some light on their business and lives.</a><br />
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Finding the camp, however, involved a far more (personally) dramatic discovery and visualization of the entrance. I had been driving on one of my favorite countryside thoroughfares (the roads that brought me to the Old Iron Bridge and Province Line Road many a visit, locations that readers may know without even realizing, through previous video work and liberties taken in fiction) when I saw it. A small dirt pull-off, muddy from recent rain caught my eye and I saw an arch-way that reminded me of a much less grand and dramatic <i>Jurassic Park</i> entrance. Faded red / wooden pillars and large white letters that stuck out in the foliage: CAMP META. I snorted when I got out of my car and read the words (not realizing it was a person's name and feeding far into my own nonsense). I felt welcomed, if out of place, and did not see any obvious warnings of trespassing, so I pulled out my phone and took a walk.<br />
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I did not know what to expect, whether there was playground equipment, or even, a holy grail of sorts, abandoned cabins, but knew from loose conversations previously, that this was a camp, and I starting piecing together anything I could recall. I did not dwell too long as I found myself enjoying a pleasant stroll along a winding, sandy route.<br />
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As I would later learn, this property is now a part of a system of trails, but I did not yet know this, and questioned what I would find. My curiosity was sated as I spotted brightly and inorganically colored paint inviting me into a wooded path, cut into a hill. I followed a few pieces of graffiti and camp nostalgia (pop culture icons, peace signs, the American flag) and found myself standing center stage in a small forest theatre of sorts. I felt right at home finding a forgotten blue canoe permanently resting on a hill, far from any water, long since float-worthy.<br />
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Time moving on and allowing the carefree nature of a children's camp to decay into mild vandalism brought on a lovely sense of the macabre. I found multiple inverted crosses and other pleasantries painted all around on the trees. The trash was an unfortunate relic of past visitors, but the clash of the findings amused me. I could see where children would play games or get organized for a summer's day of fun; I could also see where a few teens got absolutely blitzed on cheap booze and smoked unsavory things. This was an offhand spectrum of Jersey youth and I cherished the stroll.<br />
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I kept walking for a bit and ended up in an adjacent tree farm. I felt that, ignorant of the current standing of the property and whatnot, that I should probably go, lest I further push my luck. Even now knowing that the property is being incorporated into the park system, I did not feel comfortable wandering around without a strong given "okay" -- I took a few more pictures and decided to leave.<br />
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I am proud and thankful that this place is now slowly being opened back up for future generations of "campers" and am curious what the township will decide, if anything, to do with the mild development and accessibility. It is always a treat to "discover" these places just as they are being prepared for future public use (like our impeccable timing of our first hike at Baldpate Mountain, it having only been opened to the public for a few weeks before we visited). For now, I have my visit to a previously almost-forgotten treasure and the decades of local history that had helped to bring it onto my life's path.<br />
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<a href="http://www.trentonian.com/article/TT/20101228/NEWS/312289957" target="_blank">Further reading...</a><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-36519907545408637842016-11-11T16:52:00.002-08:002023-10-11T11:50:38.519-07:00The Frontier<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In hindsight, the dismissive mental chuckle I felt in response to having my words received as “world-weary” might have been out of place. Perhaps that is as fitting of a title and label as someone could produce, either as a close companion or a stranger, coming across my thoughts.
I have felt that I had moved beyond those fabled and cherished nights of the late teen / twenty-something with near-reckless abandon and equally as flippant of a schedule, yet find myself at four am on a Friday morning going back through the photographs of the day we found the abandoned Frontier Restaurant in the Catskills. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strike style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_M3KqTG486tYr5u0HTVsawXmr9Sh-AcBIshaUws8HNbTT8yY8vFx2PAyrgGrwnDP_I_LD2ndjJCHR0uj9fjQ3qnVzW_sHDzizLn8iOf47EYc0cHqaVG8s2tdy8rVZf-WPcR6huTFSv7A/s320/Copy+of+IMG_0847.JPG" width="320" /></strike></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial";">When an acquaintance made the “world-weary” remark, I suppose it stuck out to me because I had never felt so immediately drawn to a description, whether accurate or not. My immediate response was a joking, “Yeah, weary of the world and tired beyond my years at 24, I’m fucked going forward,” -- a year later, and half as much sober, I feel those words ring even truer. I guess what I’m grasping at it is the ability (not so much a gift…) of feeling great spans of time, the emotional potential and drain, in a microcosm, in a condensed state. Without pushing a long story even longer, we are capable of sharing a great deal of the experience of life with our loved ones. This weariness and capacity for great and terribleness is ever-present in those who have seen our poles, those who have seen us at our greatest and at our very lowest. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I often romanticize my experiences and paint the stories with the hallmarks of a great novel, or soundtracks of a cinematic masterpiece, but I embellish only because my propensity for nostalgia and the ghosts of feelings past are typically too great. I say this because when I describe the weekend in the Catskills Mountains of New York State as overcast, dreary, and beautiful with the contrasted black lines along every blue, green, and gray surface, they truly were, not to mention the emotional gravity of the relationship, backloaded with the aforementioned condensed lifetimes, rises and failures. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Once again, for better or worse, the trip highlighted the extremes of some of my personality and habits, both good and bad. The setting was irrevocably me; as was the lack of further planning and foresight. Personal illness and shit going sideways in terms of a concert that was our destination for the weekend retreat had already set a somber note over the period in time. Personal shortcomings and criticisms towards me (some justified, others just adding insult to injury) had led to a silent tempest exploding behind my eyes trying to make every moment a smile, every conversation engaging, and I probably came across as the most dense, irritating mother fucker this side of Cascadia. This demerit is not without ground. I attempted at finding something charming to change the trajectory of the coming days. In fashion typical of compounding bad luck, we found a lovely sunset walk. On a fucking drainage reservoir. By the time we exhausted the pleasant length of available trail, it was barely late enough to call it a night for rest and I found myself in that awful position of an undelivering host, a place no one comfortable in a years long relationship should be, let alone feel, but is a distinct indication that things are not sitting well for either party.
So, we turn to go back to the small cabin apartment rental. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The mountain highways are interesting. They can be winding and somewhat treacherous around the hilly bends, but for the most part, where we are and the areas surrounding the bodies of water, the open spaces remind me of the Minnesotan badlands. This is a thought that only comes to me after the fact, months later. My eyes search for anything interesting to see before the sun and small towns go to sleep. A last-ditch exit from the highroad and a bright blue building are my refuge.
The Frontier is not far from the relatively busy roads, and is really only protected from site of the thoroughfare by the small spanse of brush in the shoulder. There are some residential properties and I believe even a State Police building not too far away. These did not seem to be immediately pieces of concern, in terms of getting attention at an abandoned property, ironically enough. The whole, “closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm,” bit manifested. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Thinking back on the first time we saw the Frontier, it was more apt of a setting for this thought-novel or film than I could ever really have hoped for. Maybe “hoped for” isn’t the right color of phrase.
The place was taken out of time. It was a nondescript restaurant & bar, one looked originally pulled out of the design of a ranch-style home and could have been the setting of an 80’s sitcom or was ready to be reopened any day now. For the most part, the interior was immaculate and, once again, looked as if someone had merely failed to dust for bit. The further we got towards the end void of any outside entry, the more obvious it became where and when we were, but the point stands: taking it all in from the dining area of the Frontier was like standing in a modern day restaurant after hours.
We found decor that screamed mid-nineties at the latest, and memorabilia (such as Bill and Hillary Clinton dollar bills, dart and bowling league champion trophies) and receipts that peg the Frontier’s death as mid-2000s. There seemed to be an uptrend in the prominent storage of Christmas decor, but this may have just been a quirk of whoever had last left the closure duties and what was the least important stuff to get out. If I had to guess, the place was a family-run affair, and something must have happened to an older relative / owner, leaving the operation in mild disarray, until proving itself financially unviable. The whole state of the place just left us with the phrase, “what a shame…” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The building had a tremendous amount of heart. The walls were lined with pieces of local history and photographs of, what I assume to be, the regular patrons and their families. It truly made me feel melancholy and nostalgic for dozens of people I never met and will never know. Besides the obvious state of being where we probably shouldn’t, unlike some of the other locations I’ve seen, I never once felt in danger or out of place at the Frontier. Also unlike other forgotten histories, this may have been due to the fact that it appeared not to have been frequented and visited by merry-going schmucks such as myself in its post-life existence. Maybe that’s a feature of the Catskills of which I was an ignorant visitor, but in terms of urban exploration or just general decay, I do not recall much if any vandalization, graffiti, and the like. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">We left and got back into Ironside II, poorly nestled in the shrub and weeds. We were ecstatic about the art and colors of the police patches from units across the country that were spread across the bartop, the different photos that stuck out to us, and the find in general. Eventually, the melancholy drain precursing the experience lapsed back into the forefront of our minds and the night brought (although my favorite) storms that flooded the adventurous circuits and drowned the high short-firing from in the synapses of my brain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I do not know if I’ll ever see the Frontier again. I do not know if I would want to. It was near-perfect as is and could only be renovated and restored or fall into a state of decay no longer recognizable. I think of kicking a small rock into the reservoir and how, for once, I considered the sun to be a beautiful capstone to the dying day. I think of the dead Christmas lights on the outside porch of the Frontier, of the brief glimpses of a genuine smile on my travelling companion, and our histories, the Frontier, my own, hers, ours.
I think of the sun making its grave in the hills around the lake, of the gentle rain that night, of the overcast morning that followed and our brief second visit before leaving the mountains, and keep coming back to one conclusion, if only a conclusion in the form of a tired phrase.
<i>What a shame.</i></span><i> </i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-13892163592209148512016-04-30T21:10:00.001-07:002016-05-01T19:58:39.716-07:00The Porcelain Brother <div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
On a pleasant Saturday drive through the Pine
Barrens and later through the farmlands surrounding Lawrenceville and
Princeton, we found ourselves in the vicinity of a familiar and favorite past
haunt: the House of the Porcelain Incident. On that initial visit many months
ago, as we left the area, we saw one other boarded up and forgotten house, but
it was strewn with a litany of warning signs were we to inspect the site. On
this day, however, it was vacant, of both barricades and signs of recent
inhabitance.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pulling into the long dirt lot and following the
crescent along the backyard and ending near the tree line, which opens up to
the many acres of fields and farmland beyond, we did not really know what to
expect. We found two small shed structures, one modern, the other falling apart
and made of blackened wood. Beyond that, against the brush, was a collapsed
workshop area, strewn with pieces of hardware, tools, household items, and even
children’s toys. Ivy had tossed a Jurassic Park dinosaur head circa 1999 in my
direction and we carefully mounted the puppet on a stick, to greet future
visitors. We joked that someone had apparently <i>Office Space</i>’d a television monitor, as the electrical detritus and
broken glass spattered the lot around the Escape.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She noticed that there appeared to be a filled-in
pool when we crossed towards the house. At first glance, the house seemed
pretty modern, with the only access within an open cellar door. Of course,
carefully walking down, the basement was far from finished, dirty, and mostly
concrete. The telltale sign of its age was shown in the small dirt crawl space
in the rear. We crept up the wooden stairs into the house, and discovered why
we chose the namesake of the <i>Porcelain
Brother</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Much like the other residence nearby, it was a
beautiful modern house with an awkwardly and uncannily outdated cellar. The
tiling and plastic hardwood paneling were all modern and seemed recently
installed (much like the <i>House</i>) and
yet the house seemed a project abandoned midway. The house was pretty, but felt
somewhat claustrophobic. You can tell how small it is from the outside. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Going upstairs added to this feeling. The ceiling
was dropped in an A-arch, with a small cutout viewing window. I could imagine
this as a large children’s area, but not much more. It was a loft-area
essentially on top of a single-story home. Two large holes were blown in the
walls. Of course, to add to the unnatural chill and sense that we did not
belong here, there were children toys and a picture of a little boy in a pool. This
made me feel a tad uneasy, but they all seemed like innocent relics of the
former residents. Beyond these last remaining belongings of the owners’
children, it did not seem as if many ghosts of the past lingered in the house.
Though we found many personal relics, such as initials in schoolbooks and the
like, in this property’s larger, sister location, the <i>Brother</i> felt much more thoroughly cleaned out and prepared for a
future sale, pending cleaning up, or even demolition. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Much like the other house and farmsteads we found on
these winding roads, this house existed to me as a blend of modern décor and of
an era just on the cusp of disappearing, an entity which does not know what to
do with itself in its current state of decay. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-89480595096955290492016-04-27T20:49:00.001-07:002016-04-27T20:50:10.343-07:00The Penn Hills Resort<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
For New Year’s celebrations, some prefer partying
with throngs of lovely strangers in the city; some with many loved ones in a
home furnished for social gatherings. This last year, the gang and I decided to
do something a little different. We rang in the New Year in a game-laden hotel
room, telling horrible stories of fiction one word and a time, eating
family-restaurant chain congealed appetizers two hours before the drop, and, of
course, trekking into the Pocono Mountains and visiting the fabled Penn Hills
Resort.</div>
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Penn Hills first opened as a tavern in 1944 and
grew to an intimate couples resort with over a hundred rooms before stumbling
to a sad end in 2009. Many felt that its heart was gone long before officially
closing seven years ago. In the cherished local history of the region (Monroe
County in the Pocono Mountains, Pennsylvania), many recall advertisements for
the escape in the hills. It featured romantic (if gaudy) amenities such as
heart-shaped hot tubs, round beds, and a wedding bell-shaped swimming pool. Penn
Hills featured skiing, an ice rink, a golf course, and lighting features from
the 1964 World’s Fair. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As noted, the Resort was in decline years before
officially closing. Employees realized that the exuberant prices of $300 a
night were blown away in competition by area hotels offering comparable rooms
for a mere $55 a night. Some consider that the increasingly cheaper options for
travel, such as flying versus driving hours into the mountains, further put
Penn Hills away financially. When a co-founder died in 2009 at the age of 102,
the Resort completely closed two months later, the employees never receiving
their final paychecks, and the property owing the county over one million
dollars in back taxes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And as is the case in many of the stories told
here, Penn Hills Resort then fell into disrepair, looting, vandalizing, and the
elements. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had seen the Resort in passing through the area
many times, whether en route to other abandoned locales, or on visits to my
beloved mountains, but was never able to put a name to the structures I
lovingly referred to as, “hotels or apartments taken from the Soviet era,” (I
assume due to the bright orange paint I fixated on passing through at fifty
miles per hour previously). I had never been able to stop on foot and visit.
Its proximity to the major road also makes one somewhat reluctant to simply
stop and get out (the road cuts through the property, with structures on either
side of the busy road). However, as this was our holiday, we willed it to see
something <i>different</i> to celebrate,
something mythical and abandoned, lost in time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>The turn of
the New Year: </i>an hour or so after the ball dropped, lulls in conversation
approaching and a few party members falling asleep, I searched my phone for an
exact address of area abandoned relics and showed Evan and Vin. Without a
moment of hesitation, we were all in in selecting Penn Hills as our destination
for the morning. A few other bits of HYBRID-brand nonsense occurred that night
<a href="http://jeffreykoval.tumblr.com/post/136554734320">(not overlooking an infamous party popper incident…)</a> and we all went to bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Vinnie and Lexie had a special archery class that
morning that came with their room’s package, and Evan, Watermelon, Mairi, and
myself struggled around the mountain highways for a bit, before finally finding
a diner. With flurries starting to come down, Vinnie met us in the parking lot
and in separate vehicles we targeted Penn Hills Resort. (Without going into too
much detail, Vinnie and Lexie found and walked the property separate from our
piece of the party, but we met up again in the parking lot of a
closed-for-the-season ice cream parlor about a mile up the road, hyped.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, in my Escape, we do a pass-by of the Resort,
confirming the address, and we are like children pressing their faces against
Macy’s window during Christmas. We turn around, do one more pass-by, and decide
that it should be clear to stop. Although we mean no harm, we do not want any
attention or implication of vandalizing. With how frequently vehicles are
flying by, I tell the team that I will stop, they get out and get out of eye-sight
of the road, and just enjoy. I had known of the property for years, but was
happy enough to just share in this moment with my friends, one hailing from as
far away as Detroit. I let them out, they disappear, and I quickly back up a
hill and behind a brush, waiting for them to finish their visit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I sit there tapping my thumb on my steering wheel
for a few minutes when I decide that, “Nah, I <i>must </i>experience this with my friends,” and bolt it out of my car,
across the street, and meet Evan and the girls returning from behind the
foremost structure. Apparently, they had not gone too far in before returning
for me and I excitedly wave my arms like a madman and we rush back into the maw
of the resort’s property. The path quickly opens up to the large pool area
walled by multiple stories of the rooms of the resort. There are various
pitfalls around the pool, signaling long-gone locations of plumbing and
maintenance equipment. The pools sit in a sad state of non-upkeep, murky green
and algae coating every surface. It is cold out, but we are in our element.
Watermelon and I are rapidly taking pictures, her on her camera and I on my
lackluster cellphone. We pass through what appears to be a lobby-area, where a
dilapidated bar and row of stools sit in varying levels of
knocked-the-eff-down. Glass shards now replace the bay-windows that were
probably previously beautiful. Graffiti pieces are everywhere: some, pure art; others,
phallic indecencies and mentions of Adolf Hitler. It is all beautiful in the
melancholy romanticism of urban decay in a beautiful rural setting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Evan runs up a hill which leads to a small village
of cabin-like villas, and we further explore back beyond the pools into
facilities which look like rentals the size of townhouses. When Evan returns,
we check out a few rooms of the bottom floor and find maintenance rooms, guest
rooms, and otherwise capsules of disarray. We pick around a little longer when
we hear a rustle a floor or two above us. It sounds like it could purely be an
animal, but the metallic ring was enough to get us to get a move on. We gather
the crew and start moving back to the car when we hear rustling through the
brush to our right. Evan and I freeze, protective “mom protecting her passenger
with her arm” arms out, and realize it is just another hipster couple doing
exactly what we are doing, cameras around their neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We get back to the Escape and at this point, there
are three or four other vehicles parked and their former occupants roaming the
Resort’s grounds. I silently sigh to myself at our previous bout of paranoia,
but you can never be too careful with these adventures. I quickly take a
picture of iconic Penn Hills Resort road sign and drive us down the hidden
embankment that was concealing the car. We merge back onto road and we eventually
find ourselves on the way back home to Jersey. We had barely scratched the
surface of what the Resort truly had to offer, but I will never forget what
that small sojourn had provided us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Upon this writing, I found a bit of exciting news.
Just over a month after our holiday visit, the property of the Penn Hills
Resort was finally sold. While only 63 of the 500 acres was sold, the former
property managers were quoted to have been happy to be finally rid of it. Let’s
see what the future holds for the Penn Hills Resort and its legacy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Further reading:</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penn_Hills_Resort">Penn Hills Resort on Wikipedia</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<a href="http://www.onlyinyourstate.com/pennsylvania/pa-penn-hills-resort/">Only In Your State</a></div>
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<a href="https://theghostinmymachine.wordpress.com/2015/01/21/abandoned-the-decaying-penn-hills-resort-in-the-poconos-pennsylvania-photos/">TGINMM Blog</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.poconorecord.com/article/20160229/NEWS/160229504">Pocono Record - Acreage Sale</a></div>
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<i>Photo credits: myself and <a href="https://twitter.com/jumiofdiamonds">Watermelon</a></i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-81905230152199728642015-06-28T21:35:00.004-07:002015-06-29T12:43:53.049-07:00The Vacant HouseOne evening, late, driving around the extremities of our county and edging into the unyielding farmland and fields encompassing our stretch of suburbia, we discovered another forgotten home, as we are wont to do.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>The area was one that we had covered countless times, but I was not as familiar with this side of the county. It was dark and, per the norm, the county highways bore no lighting. Out there, you could go miles surrounded by open field, and then spend just as much traveling time through dense patches of forests, dotted by the occasional rural homestead. We had decided to turn around within the next few miles (as we were obliviously lost and tend to go as far as we can without GPS assistance before turning towards home) when we were met with the stark uncanny feeling of simultaneous familiarity and foreign ignorance to our setting.<br />
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I knew these roads, as did my traveling companion. She had even previously commented on a country club entrance we passed about an hour ago. But this was <i>different</i> -- we were within miles of our beloved Princeton, of Allentown, of the like. But I felt as if we were on another <i>side </i>of these communities. I felt like I had somehow passed Ironside II into some backwoods slice of rural Pennsylvania. We were bearing the identification documentation of the exact state of our current location, but felt years from our national origin, miles from familiarity, of comfort, of home. This peek into the absurd silently left me feeling odd and I resolved to finally turn around. So we pull into what I can only describe as a dilapidated conglomeration of a motel, laundromat, and American Legion banquet center. It was as if three equally-failing ventures were joined at the seams and no one was present.<br />
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Through the large, unclean bay windows, a flickering fluorescent lamp painted the light blue scene even more dismally. A door hung open. I pulled into the narrow parking lot and followed to the back of the building, having not enough room to properly turn around. Outback, lumber and scrap were piled in a sorting order unknown to me. At the far end of the yard, before the black wood-line, sat a solitary gazebo. Was this some sort of home for the ill? The juxtaposition of a lovely garden park and... <i>this </i>did not sit well with me and further prompted our flight.<br />
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We are driving silent sans the intermittently-failing radio on the narrow county roads when she grabs my arm and excitedly asks, "Did you see that?" I did not and she told me that she saw one of our treasures, the surprise and previously unknown abandoned property. So I drive about another half mile until I can properly turn around and creep back towards the location. There she is: a seemingly vacant house bearing at least a few decades of existence, the screen covered door torn, a few windows broken, with any semblance of a lot grown to knee-high weeds and vegetation. I look at my companion and smile. We found gold, but the color of the night, as well as the time, told us that we should return with the light.<br />
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So we did just that.<br />
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The house itself, although beautiful, was surprisingly empty. There were some corners of animal waste and mold throughout, but it was just a pretty two story home. The condition of the kitchen amenities surprised me, as well as the quality of the plain carpet throughout. These places usually hold an obscene level of mold and decay; not here. I recall finding a basement door, but I think upon opening it, the dampness and darkness swore us away.<br />
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The backyard, for the most part, was pretty barren in its core. The borders were, of course, overgrown, and terminated in a treeline and open fields beyond. We discovered an old car, a RV, and a small chicken-coop / shed overgrown with vines. The RV was straight out of <i>Breaking Bad</i> and led to us endearingly deeming the location, "the Meth House" -- I took creative liberties with the naming of this article. Neither of the vehicles were accessible, but added to the horrifying aesthetic of the property. Further, we found a handful of separate animal bones in the shed area of the property, prompting the question of, "What kind of predator?" prowled the area.<br />
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But this was not what prompted the Meth House into infamy for me. No. As we drove away, my traveling companion filled me in on a detail that would have dissuaded me from future visits. When she first glimpsed that property, she left me out on a crucial detail. When we first passed the house, the screen door was torn, yes, but sealed shut. When we turned around that night, to get a second glance, it was quite ajar.<br />
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Had I known that, perhaps I would not have been so quick to revisit the house frozen in vacancy. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-28515072332754928362014-09-26T10:50:00.002-07:002023-10-11T11:52:09.318-07:00The House of the Porcelain Incident<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">More often than not, we
find these locations through binges of thrill-seeking and horror-related
researches, whether it be through personal accounts or folklore and fiction,
but as is often the case, reality is sometimes more terrifyingly impressive
than the fiction that has accumulated with time. Normalcy can trump the macabre
with the right elements, in terms of creating discomfort and getting under your
skin.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh70niApvjBbvWV6Xnz_Zs1n5qL2yHXtKwqJ7AJOjFH-E4tRR3M3iADD1rZPqxKtTAjVDsQ49MO5FkXE4LGH54cfXfRbCQsm4WLd7cmLhekSznLyTjMaGGtHQ5RcvyrlEuS6VEO5gnIZC8/s1600/20140818_181857.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh70niApvjBbvWV6Xnz_Zs1n5qL2yHXtKwqJ7AJOjFH-E4tRR3M3iADD1rZPqxKtTAjVDsQ49MO5FkXE4LGH54cfXfRbCQsm4WLd7cmLhekSznLyTjMaGGtHQ5RcvyrlEuS6VEO5gnIZC8/s1600/20140818_181857.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Where is the rural horror
in taking a wrong turn on a winding country road and ending at a “bridge out”
sign about a mile through its concourse? Before having enough time to
adequately turn around in the gravel lot to the side, you realize that you are
merely in the front lawn of an old residential property. A child’s Tinkerbell
suitcase sits discarded with a pile of clothes in the bushes. Your traveling
companion gets out of the car to inspect it and a handful of snakes scatter
into the woods. Peering up the lawn, past a few trees, you see silhouetted
against the forest a sizable red-painted house. You slowly take the gravel path
up towards the property and find a few windows shattered, the garage doors
opened, and the front door unlocked. This is the House of the Porcelain
Incident. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">However dangerous or
dilapidated most abandoned structures are, you can typically assess exactly why
they stand as they are (water damage, asbestos, etc.) – what is particularly
haunting about something in the realm of the Porcelain House is exactly how…
beautiful it all still was. Of course there were signs of previous (and less
graceful or respectful) visitors and signs of brief professional dismantling,
but overall, the house stood in decent shape. [Later research would reveal that
the property technically belongs to an authority and I believe that is why the
kitchen seemed primed for deconstruction, perhaps for scrap or resale.] The
foyer upon your entrance does seem rather foreboding, with a dark stairwell
leading below, complete with castle-esque stone tiling. The living room on the
left opens up greatly and there are massive windows on the three walls leading
deeper into the home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Although the house itself
stood in decent condition, it was the details beyond the picturesque foyer and
living room that made this pleasant find anything but. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as you move
through the kitchen, which bore a preparation island that must have been
beautiful in its day, the house becomes rather cluttered in its arteries and
hallways (which would become even more-so the case in the basement) – a lot of
the paneling and drywall is blown out of the pantry area and reveals a
multilayered peek throughout the house and one of the exits outside. Moving
into the hallway which branches into the handful of bedrooms, it is apparent
the family was varied demographically, with the contrasts of colors and
flooring in any of the rooms. The first room, although I am sure charming
during its use for a young child, sat hauntingly in a pale purple hue, with a
damp gray carpet, attached immediately to the foyer. The next was very plain
with wood flooring (and honestly reminded me of my old room at the #shamhouse)
and I nearly jumped out of my skin when a chorus of bees erupted from within
the closet. I couldn’t see the little creatures, but the intensity of their
racket told me better than to peek in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Finally, what appeared to
be the master bedroom was the one which gave us the namesake of the house –
strewn across the floor, and violently broken against the old fashioned
windows, was a toilet. The trajectory of its pieces informed us that it was
(again, very violently) thrown against the walls and windows. Probably just
vandals, but the randomness of seeing a toilet that broke a window did not sit
well, as visitors of a place that was previously a private residence. More fallen
pieces of its porcelain brethren were later found in the living room. Some work
was obviously the results of post-purchase gutting, but how unprofessionally
unkempt and forgotten the worksite sat left the property in a state between
vacancy and decay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When you follow the
stone-tiled staircase into the lower level, the air of suburbia falls out from
under you. I would completely agree with the assertion that the basement level
of the house transitions from a normal residential home to a warehouse
sub-section. The rooms remain completely undone and white-painted industrial
bricks and office-suite paneling constituted most of the décor. Again, perhaps
it was a result of the breaking down after the abandonment, but wires and metal
pour from the ceiling and random holes as if a madman went on an enraged binge
through the floor with a sledgehammer. There are multiple rooms that seemed as
if they were ready to be made into a child’s playroom… and then that’s it. The
idea was scrapped. Time moved on. A size six sneaker sits in the corner. You
open another door and it’s a small, 5x5 room with no windows or amenities. You
open another, and it’s a bathroom with a misplaced exit to the outside. You
turn one corner, and it’s a vast, rectangular room with garbage everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whether it was a mutual
sale and the previous family left on happy terms, or some sort of public
purchase was made necessary from the township, the House held a very somber
atmosphere. I do not know if it was my own imagination and the spontaneous
fictions that it created that made me feel this way, but having visited both in
the broad daylight and during witching hour, I know that the feeling in my gut
was not positive walking through these halls. Adding insult to injury and the subtle
terror of the place, a sprawling pile of children’s textbooks and novellas sat
in the foyer. There is a family name that is consistent in the front cover
scrawlings and I will not list them here, for obvious reasons, but, as if
haunted by an old family member that wished that best for you before passing, I
feel for you, strangers, wherever you are. The post-research conducted gives me
some insight and hope for a relatively happy transition to wherever you are,
but the nature of the house, the ambiance it brewed, and the state of how
things were left, I cannot say it felt like a pleasant flight from the
household.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-89317079070000780932014-09-04T12:41:00.001-07:002023-10-11T11:52:47.935-07:00Dodging Cropsey at the New York Farm Colony<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Over the years,
you become an accidental conglomeration composed of every personal interaction,
every story you've told and have been told, and give some tangible connection
to the infinite loose threads that every soul, every place, and every idea
holds. You take these experiences and keep them, like little gifts, little
secrets, that can surprise and resurface years later. This occurrence has not
been a stranger in my personal life, with many stories, films, and off-hand
conversations suddenly finding themselves boldly relevant in the contemporary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the most
recent iterations of this involves a piece of local lore, a portion of land in
New York, and a documentary bearing an ending that inspired a sense of awe,
curiosity, and existential discomfort, even long after the credits rolled. This
film is Cropsey, and we found the since maintained, decaying grounds and
hospital buildings in which the namesake of the documentary was said to (and
perhaps, did) stalk, dwell, and hide his victims.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaWbG5bYzN9KB9AFoY05joNn0c-BeRNUhe98geyGxqP7SwZI7CXEX0rrnaxmfAhnLsTE7Hmb99GrR5ysMPG662HDSV0oDU1wiY616LRokwX6bpL7X_ZE05tOIf6czm6rn2RdDXRmZh_4/s1600/20140628_162328.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaWbG5bYzN9KB9AFoY05joNn0c-BeRNUhe98geyGxqP7SwZI7CXEX0rrnaxmfAhnLsTE7Hmb99GrR5ysMPG662HDSV0oDU1wiY616LRokwX6bpL7X_ZE05tOIf6czm6rn2RdDXRmZh_4/s1600/20140628_162328.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our story is not
to serve wholly as a replacement of the urban legend and legitimate crimes that
haunted Staten Island in the decades past. The documentary is absolutely worth
a watch for anyone interested in crime and even horror. It presents an
objective record of the crimes involving the abuse, kidnapping, disappearances,
and more, against both children and members of the former facility’s residents.
It also, excellently, leaves enough loose ends (per the historical facts) that
leave plenty of questions unanswered. The ending is exclusively the reason for
my “existential discomfort” as noted above, but I shall not risk spoiling the
experience for potential future viewers. The only information necessary for
appreciating this account is as such: “Cropsey” was the name of the boogeyman
of Staten Island, and the general region, from New York State and even into
portions of New England. I am sure that the image of such a being is prominent
across the country and even the world. Boy Scout Troops would scare one another
on camping trips, citing the man or monster awaiting singled-out scouts in the
woods at night. Mothers would caution their children not to travel alone when
coming home from school or a friend’s house, with warnings of this entity
stealing you away. He was your classic “bump in the night” – man or monster, it
did not matter. It enjoyed kidnapping children away from home. Unfortunately,
as in any society, we know that it does not require a fantastical setting to
realize that such horrible creatures exist.</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That is where the
story told in the documentary picks up. Who was responsible for a string of
(very) real-life abductions and murders and where did the urban legend end and
reality begin? Regardless of the narrative, these stories and cases all
revolved around the area known as the “Staten Island Greenbelt,” notably, the
New York City Farm Colony. The Colony was a home to a number of residents
throughout its existence and was prominently run as a poorhouse. It was used as a means of treating
tuberculosis patients after merging with Seaview Hospital in 1915, but was then
transferred to the city’s Homes for Dependents agency in 1924. With many
elderly patients taking up residence, the typical work-requirements were
lifted. Residents (up until that point, mandatorily) would work on the farm
portions of the property and would help to serve the facility itself, as well
as other local programs. With many social programs and reforms coming over the
next few decades, the institution finally closed in 1975 and was designated as
a city landmark in 1985. Since then, two baseball fields were built on the
outer portions of the 70-acre piece of land, but many of the buildings still
stand, silent in the woods, mere yards away from the busy streets of modern
life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nestled between
little league fields, a hospital, and a dense residential area, more than
seventy acres of history remain, far from untouched, yet far from maintained. A
reanimated, battered body of the past sits, silently breathing and hidden from
society, and we sought her out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There exists a
long, winding road that runs throughout the property and stands in surprisingly
good condition. Weeds shoot up through cracks, of course, but some portions
seem brand new – (if they are currently maintained, it is unknown to me, but
would not be a surprise). Of course, depending on how one visits, you may
traverse relatively dense portions of woods and growth before finding the road.
It was, after all, a farm colony. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We traced our way
around knee-high vegetation and followed a path that seemed to lead straight
into the heart of the beast. On circling the woods from the main streets, it is
possible to see standing structures literally feet from the road, so we were
curious how difficult (or easy…) it was going to be to actually find any
additional buildings. Of all the trips that led in disappointment, whether due
to irrational expectations (a la Centralia) or just the passing of time, the
Farm Colony certainly was not in this same category. Of course, graffiti artists of varying levels
of skill and intent have all but covered the entirety of any accessible
surface, but with the structures being in limbo for the last twenty-plus years,
it is almost expected. There is much beauty to found in the spontaneous
canvasses that the brick buildings provide (as well as an infinite supply of
crude language and genitalia…), but that was still to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After winding our
way through the apparent growing fields, we found a small utility shack. We
spent an absurd amount of time at the relatively unimpressive structure, purely
due to the diminished expectations I highlighted above. We had first visited
this location in a documentary; of course it was going to be demolished, or
incredibly lackluster in comparison, or whichever brand of disappointment
fortune was going to throw our way. We found the main road and immediately were
confronted with the open maw of one of the many abandoned hospital
administration buildings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are
probably at least a dozen buildings that we encountered, and perhaps, three
varieties of layouts. The first we encountered seemed more like an
administrative or even school building, and we learned that the majority of its
core and upper stories were blown open, whether by fire, or simply time. The
second and third stories lead to an open expanse, dropping even below the first
floor, in a mess of material and organic growth. There was a destroyed elevator
shaft, as well as plenty of footfalls similar to the gigantic one in the
center. From the de facto balconies, and looking into the densely overgrown
surroundings, it is incredibly difficult to imagine that you are in one of the
boroughs of New York City. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The second
variety of building we encountered was the most foreboding, but simultaneously,
the most rewarding. Many of the buildings have easily accessible front
entrances (apparently, from vandalism past), but still maintain the boarded up
windows and gates, previously meant to deter first or even second floor access.
If you managed to ascend the first two, almost entirely pitch-black,
stairwells, the windows usually were uncovered and let in a beautiful, glowing,
and entirely surprising aura of natural sunlight. We were to find plenty of the
buildings in this format, with wings branching from wings, bearing slots that
we deduced were used for resident / patient care. Some of the best photographs
that exist of this property are from these buildings, with seemingly infinite
depth and unending rows of bed allocations. It very much feels and is designed
like a hospital, but coupled with the decaying walls and organic reclamation,
it is impossible to not feel odd in such a place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The next
buildings we found seemed to be entirely made of concrete. They lacked many
more windows and lesser structures, and there did not seem to have ever been
any attempt at keeping out vandals. They most wholly looked like “shells” of
buildings past, lacking any amenities beyond concrete window frames and perhaps
the chipped tiling of impersonal and shared bathrooms. While these buildings
were the most dirty and less decorated, one was located adjacent to a rather
interesting find. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As noted in the
documentary and on various other sites, even though there have been no
municipal or official plans for the property in years, that has not kept the
public from visiting (as if you needed any more indication of such from the
clouds of street art…) – in an area that we nicknamed the “Greenhouse,” there
are plenty of artifacts of recent youthful pastimes. We found plenty of
paintball and airsoft detritus, snack and beverage waste of all sorts, and even
more spontaneous creations of art. The courtyard that seemed to develop around
these concrete buildings was certainly home to many a paintball siege, with
barricades and faded paint all around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Further, another
building seemed to simply be a combined version of the administrative design,
branching off in a large “U” shape. In order to access the top floor, we had to
get a tad creative. The ladies easily slid under a large, metal barricade at
the top of a flight of stairs. I, gritting my teeth and momentarily ruing my
lanky demeanor, finally got my legs out from under the exposed metal and
personification of tetanus and up the rubble-laden concrete stairs. Once again,
we realized how far up we were and also how hidden and far away from
civilization we actually felt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We saw a few
other buildings and had traversed a large portion of the roadway when we
decided to visit one more and then turn back. It was like the other hospital
buildings, but had a large metal grate on the front door, half open. The
majority of the windows were also still covered. We peeked in, and at this
point, I was the only one with an accessible cellphone, and activated my
flashlight. Immediately, this felt different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The party slowly,
and uncharacteristically, chose down instead of up, and descended into a
basement level. The design felt the same, with the wings going off in the three
directions before us, and we stopped in the center. In our sphere of light, we remained
close, and looked down as far as we could in either direction. We continued on,
straight, and were about halfway through when we stopped. Again, it felt very
different from the previous interiors. While the other buildings held an
uncanny nature about them, it was all abundantly clear that you were in a
structure built by man, which was slowly being reclaimed by nature. This, this
felt like we were in the cave of an unknown creature. This was unsettling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The ground had
felt chalky since we left the stairs and at this point we realized something
else that we had not yet experienced. Along the metal and concrete debris
throughout the hospital bed stalls, was a lot more waste of an organic kind.
Without having time (or knowledge, really) to properly identify it, we realized
that there were copious amounts of an animal’s droppings around the room. Even
if it were a band of squirrels, we were underground with one source of light,
enclosed with wild animals. We immediately decided that we had seen enough and
turned to exit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The relief was
instant upon resurfacing. We comfortably made our way back, retracing our
steps, and enjoyed it as though it was a pleasant stroll through the park. I
would love to see this place someday restored to an easily accessible public
trail of some sort, but there is a tremendous amount of work to be done to ever
see such a thing happen. Far too many dangers exist, simply due to the state of
the buildings, but its history, however unpleasant it may have been at times,
is one that should be remembered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It should also be
noted, that we had another subtle shock, akin to the feeling I held after my
initial viewing of Cropsey. Later that night, sitting in bed with the laptop,
we looked up various animals native to the region, and the potential source of
all that waste in the basement. We are not particularly trained in such a
naturalistic capacity, of course, but we can research. While we may have
escaped the spectre and urban legend known as Cropsey that day, one detail we discovered
made us wide-eyed and sick: the closest source image to the material we almost
stepped in in the damp, dark, and enclosed basement was human. </span><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<i>Further links:</i></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_City_Farm_Colony" target="_blank">New York City Farm Colony on Wikipedia</a></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<a href="http://cropseylegend.com/" target="_blank">"Cropsey" film website</a></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-76244703002785822322014-04-18T23:36:00.000-07:002014-04-18T23:36:43.201-07:00Six Mile RunPer the norm in the group dynamic, and seeking a break in the slowly dying months of winter, we were desperate to get out, simply put. The months not inundated by inches and feet of snow or other bouts of nonsensical precipitation and natural detritus native to New Jersey were typically prime for sating our wanderlust. My friends had plans to get out and, having not known that I was not scheduled to work, quickly invited me for the ride to a location, once again, hidden right before us.<br />
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Six Mile Run is a small portion of New Jersey, essentially a town (at least to the Census' standards) - if you are looking for it on a map, look for Franklin. You know me, my definition of "place" is typically tied to landmarks and personal stories (i.e. useless for public designation) so finding this place blind was an adventure. I was accompanied by Vinnie and Ivy and much to our dismay, Vin let us know that our missing traveling companion, Lexie, was usually the navigator to this open space. After stopping at a WaWa for a bathroom break, we tracked a parking spot (roughly) using our smartphones and were only ten minutes up the road. How are we so continuously lucky?<br />
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We found a roadside parking lot, not paved and essentially a patch of barren grass, appealing to our memories of Watchung and Baldpate. Almost immediately to our right was a small abandoned farm property. Promising not to spoil ourselves too early, we decided that we were to take a few trails before peering into the man-made structures. Vin promised us an abandoned mill property and a river view. He was not dishonest, but choosing the "red" trail, we ultimately wound up with a different fate.<br />
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If you have hours to spend hiking the various trails, there is a lot that Six Mile Run has to offer. In our visit, however, we chose the more-contained trails, which were equally beautiful and worthwhile. The trail immediately off of the parking area seems to encircle a growth of pine trees, which is beautiful, but dense. There exists a panoply of forks and trails branching off of this circle, every hundred or so feet. We were amused by Vin's lack of ample memory on these trails, because, simply, of how many there were. The trails we chose were incredible -- and if you asked us to retrace our steps, our eyes would probably glaze over.<br />
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You can find yourself in a dense forest of thin, eerie pines. Months ago, Vin sent me a video on my phone that showed tall, thin trees shaking and creating a horrific sound in the breeze -- we revisited this site. Per our typical exploration in our beloved home-state, we had countless times before witnessed both euphoric nature and the gut-pulling tinge of uncanny, side-by-side. Avoiding a young family of mountain bikers, we found an odd dump of items, mostly pertaining to automobiles and appliances. Tiptoeing over a motor-cage and a sheet of metal, Ivy was quickly stricken with an artistic vision of watching the broken television, a la <i>Alan Wake </i>or <i>Twilight Zone</i> and I was quick to oblige for snapping a few pictures. <a href="http://everymanhybrid.wikia.com/wiki/EverymanHYBRID_Wiki" target="_blank">If only we were so artistic for the Monolith...</a><br />
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We were on the threshold of a large field that wound to the top of our periphery and horizon. It seemed as if it would go on for miles in every direction, golden wisps of growth reaching for the ends of the earth, a pinnacle of nature in this crushing grip of a state. Vin promised that he believed there to be a main road just over the hill, but I was too excited. I wanted to see unyielding fields... and we started running for the summit. We were (horrendously) disappointed by the site of a farm property and a road about a half a mile away, but the area was perfect. (We laughed to ourselves that the <i>Lord of the Rings </i>theme started playing as we climbed the great hill.) I would be lying, though, if I did not say that sitting on the top of the hill brought about this surreal sense of sublimity that I had been missing for months, or even years. As would be told in subsequent text messages, it had been too long for both Vin and I to engage in these adventures and day trips. Almost falling asleep in a vast and open field with my friends was something that was remiss from my life, especially after the unending winter that holds far too much purchase in my mind.<br />
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Regardless, we made our way back through the small dumping area (there were plenty of tires that had to have been dumped within the last few weeks) and back through the trails. We were tired, sweaty, and certainly dehydrated, but it was beautiful for the first time in months and we were enjoying ourselves. We found a small Hobbit bridge and Ivy took her shoes off to the enjoy the creek. It was a lovely area, but the gnats were in droves, and we did not spend too much time in that nook.<br />
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Bearing in mind our exhaustion, we returned to the car, and I suggested that we spend some time in the abandoned lot, because that was the height of our interest upon our arrival. We, yet again, abandoned the car and walked towards the property. Now, it was certainly a hidden gem.<br />
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It was almost as if it were a conglomerate of all of the "localized" lore we have found over the years. It was essentially an abridged version of the properties we found at <a href="http://www.jeffkoval.com/2013/12/going-to-watchung-make-reservations.html" target="_blank">Watchung</a>, <a href="http://www.jeffkoval.com/2012/06/baldpate-mountain-new-jersey.html" target="_blank">Baldpate</a>, the<a href="http://www.jeffkoval.com/2013/01/the-old-shipping-depot.html" target="_blank"> Old Shipping Depot</a>, and the <a href="http://www.jeffkoval.com/2012/12/the-farmstead.html" target="_blank">Farmstead</a>, but vastly exaggerated and all within the same two-hundred or so square feet. There were silos and greenhouses, all in varying stages of decay, along with wash-houses that were horrific with their accessories of forgotten women's shoes and archaic glass jars of sanitizing scrubs. A large, rusted weather vane stood prominently as the center of the property, and Ivy took no hesitation in scouting the locations (much to the chagrin of Vin, who desperately needed a bathroom). I kicked the long skeletal remnants of a snaking light socket and realized that we were in the rubble of a building standing long ago before we decided to circle back and around and enter the foremost house on the lot.<br />
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From the outside, it did not seem like much of a find: just your typical abandoned farmhouse. Take my word, however, when I say that this building was as much of a find, if not more, than our beloved Baldpate. The houses at Baldpate were special because of the nature of our findings there (of ignorance, mystery, and surprise) -- the house at this location at Six Mile Rune was an incredible building, of architecture and history.<br />
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The outside vastly undermines the integrity of the structure. It is surprisingly large on the inside and holds many hidden features, such as built-in cabinets and closets, and rises three stories high. A callback to our dear Uncle Pete's House of Leaves, the attic is accessible and surprisingly clear. The lack of influence of nature and reclamation lead me to believe that although the Six Mile Run properties claim ownership of 18th century structures, that this property itself was abandoned within the last forty years. If not complete ownership within that period, then the buildings were at least updated to that era before being claimed by the state park. If and when any new information comes my way, I will be sure to update this piece.<br />
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I shall let the pictures speak for themselves. For any future visitor, I would only cite caution towards any insect allergies, as we were there in early April and the large wasps were in great numbers, and I can only imagine what it would be like during the peak summer months.<br />
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Vin told us that the sites only get more incredible the further you go into the park, and perhaps we may dedicate a full day to the reservation at Six Mile Run. For now, these are the records of our trip, and I would still recommend the visit to anyone within driving distance. (Note: it warms my heart that this is technically a part of the Delware & Raritan Canal, a park system which has brought us so much activity and days out.)<br />
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<i>Further reading:</i><br />
<a href="http://www.dandrcanal.com/interest.html" target="_blank">Delaware & Raritan Canal State Park</a><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Six_Mile_Run_Reservoir_Site" target="_blank">Six Mile Rune Reservation - Wikipedia</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-2905343074686309572014-03-23T14:03:00.001-07:002014-03-23T14:03:16.058-07:00Four more yearsAlthough the actual "anniversary" of the first upload was on the twenty-first, I am now taking a bit of time to commemorate the date. Our project (and as of yet, most prominent piece of digital media which is live) <i><a href="http://everymanhybrid.wikia.com/wiki/EverymanHYBRID_Wiki" target="_blank">EverymanHYBRID </a></i>is four years old.<br />
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And the journey continues...</div>
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<a name='more'></a>We have met countless incredible people and have seen some things that could blow minds. There have been plenty of mistakes along the way, both in terms of the technical production and on interpersonal levels. We are still here, though, and we are still breathing, and that sure as hell counts for something.<br />
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When we started this project, Evan, Vin, and I were all good friends, but not nearly in the same capacity that we are today. The saying is, "Don't move in with your best friends" -- typically dispensed when a young person is either going to college or moving out for the first time. Then we did just that. We, more or less, have lucked out. Evan in particular used that word precisely -- <i>lucky </i>-- and I have to agree. Almost every aspect of my life in this moment is in a state of influence directly relating to a group of college boys buying a lackluster digital camera and throwing together a story. I will always love and hold a place in my heart for my friends from home, but this experience has cultivated a family and a network of people that have been there for me, for each other, through the highs and lows. I fondly recall, months or even years ago at this point, receiving a message from a viewer (and friend) that went something like this: <i>just realize that today, a person in Australia ran to their bank before it closed, in order to be sure that they could help out so-and-so in the states</i>. Without too many details, one of the viewers was going through a rough-spot, and the HYBRIDs stepped up and helped out. No, not us, the onscreen cast, but this loving circle of people. The occasional anonymous message bearing a message that claims that we have saved lives or helped relationships makes it all worthwhile. </div>
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Far too often, communities, both online and tangible, fall into negativity when their carrying capacity is reached. For those involved in the social media sites tied to these communities, we are no strangers to the "drama" -- and the incessant and ever-existing posts promising that someone is "done" or finally fed up with it and "leaving" -- and yet they either remain silently or are there, week after week, complaining. My HYBRIDs are a family that fosters positivity and laughing in the face of nonsense.We deal with enough filth in the breathing world, why take it to places of humor and solace? As such, and as always, I have always been a fan of labeling the drama as what it is (rubbish) and moving on. Block digital users who bother you. Come to our circle of viewers and friends. There are always listeners -- (and a big shout out to HornetCon and its administrators for hosting a healthy ongoing chat). </div>
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But this is not a treatise on the health of online communities. Perhaps those thoughts are purely the unconscious administration I felt the need to address after being here for four years. Plus, we mustn't let petty people and their problems hinder a celebration, eh? Heh. </div>
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The memories continue to be written and stories we will inevitably bore future friends and family with continue to flow, even if the seasons feel wont to ebb. In the occasional downtime between production, I must restrain myself from compiling and editing together some of the behind-the-scenes follies, as there are many. But, in every ounce of silliness, there is the possibility of spoiling certain plot-points. Not to mention, we have made it this far without releasing out-of-game content (in a great capacity, at least) and should just stick to our guns in that realm. As for an end-game, and as many have speculated, of course it is approaching... and I will continue to give a non-answer for a date or time-frame. All it leads to is disappointment. Would it bother you to know that I speculatively gave an end-date as "spring 2012" at one point? Oh, dear... the potential post-game conversations there are to be had. The hydra-head web of possibilities for the story that were discussed years ago are plenty and we regard them with that nostalgic and haunting sensation of a relationship never manifested, of the date never met, of the chance never took -- but are quickly lifted by what we have created and what we still have in store.</div>
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It has taken us longer to complete this project than it did for me to graduate a four-year college and I say that with a smile and with the utmost lack of disappointment. We could not have done this without one another -- and I thank you two, Vincent Caffarello and Evan Jennings for your patience, wonderful skills, and friendship. I thank everyone else, friends and family, who have put up with our silly Internet videos and the five-am interruptions that have resulted from them. You will be credited and fully listed in due time. Thanks for the laughs, moments of trust, and most of all, your fear, HYBRIDs -- and here is to many more. [J]</div>
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<i>Enjoy some photographs from a recent trip to our beloved Baldpate Mountain. Notice that the old barn and coop are demolished and nearly wiped from history. </i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-35214912728480240202014-02-23T14:35:00.000-08:002018-04-13T12:44:45.994-07:00"Code Junkie" is liveAfter a span of over two years that was, at times, fleeting, and at others, incredibly tedious, I have deemed my work on <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ILMOZLO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00ILMOZLO&linkCode=as2&tag=afork-20%22%3ECode%20Junkie%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=afork-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00ILMOZLO" target="_blank">Code Junkie</a> </i>to finally reach its point where it is ready for a public audience and the loving friends and viewers who I have not yet had the chance to ask.<br />
<br />
I believe in this story, of Kevin and his unfortunate circle of friends, of Deptford County, the small community in the Pacific Northwest, and of every life and individual they cross paths with. After rewrites and moments of reconsideration, I felt a tremendous amount of indecision at times and proceeded to give it my best. From the encouragement of family and friends, we have arrived at where we are now. More than a dozen rejections have come my way by traditional publishers and agents and that is alright -- that is the nature of the industry. I appreciated their consideration. I will continue to spread the story of Kevin and <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ILMOZLO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00ILMOZLO&linkCode=as2&tag=afork-20%22%3ECode%20Junkie%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=afork-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00ILMOZLO" target="_blank">Code Junkie</a></i>, but at its own pace. This was a labor of love.<br />
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I want to thank <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AimiYasu" target="_blank">Cassandra</a>, <a href="http://lunaticfish.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Heather</a>, and Mr. Lawrence for being my guinea pigs in thoroughly reading, editing, and giving me their initial thoughts, before anyone else. This extends to <a href="http://themadcat.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Rachel</a>, as well, although she was a few months after the fact. It is wonderful to have trusted friends give objective observations and reviews... only for them to affirm your work or help you out. I also want to thank <a href="http://alecgrosso.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Alec </a>for going back and forth with me a dozen times in preparing the cover art -- he takes commissions if you need any work done and has an incredible style and range. Heather also helped to format it for finalization.<br />
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I never expected to monetize <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ILMOZLO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00ILMOZLO&linkCode=as2&tag=afork-20%22%3ECode%20Junkie%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=afork-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00ILMOZLO" target="_blank">Code Junkie</a> </i>unless it was to be picked up by a publishing house, but having taken a route I did not expect to, I am going to mix it up a bit. If you wish to monetarily contribute, feel free. Think of it as a tip if you enjoyed the story, heh. It is always appreciated.<br />
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Thanks, again, for following me and my creative work. I intend for this to just be the beginning. Thank you, HYBRIDs, friends, family, and confused viewers stumbling across my nonsense. Much love.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Deptford County, Washington Welcomes You!</i></td></tr>
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<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>Code Junkie, on the web:</b></i><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ILMOZLO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00ILMOZLO&linkCode=as2&tag=afork-20%22%3ECode%20Junkie%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=afork-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00ILMOZLO" target="_blank">Buy on Amazon</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html?docId=1000493771" target="_blank">Free Kindle app / browser-reading for those without a device</a><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-8860471923901879102013-12-05T16:55:00.000-08:002013-12-05T16:55:01.975-08:00Going to Watchung (Make Reservations) As with much of my writing, I go into this small endeavor, planning for a brief recount of my companions' and my own travels and experiences, and then hit upon a rabbit-hole that had been waiting right in front of me for many years. The story of Watchung Reservation and our time there is not any different.<br />
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It is far from unknown that I was raised on the local periodical <i>Weird NJ </i>(and its success, branching out to the entire United States is an appeal for its legitimacy) and was accidentally bred to be an encyclopedia of New Jersey history, lore, and hidden treasure. Only once I came to age and the state was silly enough to give me a driver's license was I free to actually visit these all of these fabled places (and how many miles have I reaped since that era of youth) -- so naturally, reading anecdotal accounts about the "misty environment" and whisperings of cult and witch activity tucked away in (what was to me) North Jersey, painted a landscape for me, one both beautiful and terrifying.<br />
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I suppose I shall start with my personal experiences and delve into the so-called rabbit-hole I mentioned in the opening. I believe the complementary links and information will be more than enough to sate and smother my dearest reader in exponentially expanding speculation and curiosity.<br />
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The initial visit, the season, and those traveling with me have all blurred into the total of my experience at the Watchung Reservation, so for those involved in those visits, my apologies for the slight inaccuracies if they arise.<br />
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There are multiple entrances to the park system, each with different blends of visitation and accessibility. For instance, there are horse stables and functioning research buildings at one entrance, so it is not particularly ideal for a visitor who desires to simply walk a trail. While there are a handful of "official" entrances, there are dozens of side street lots and picnic areas on the winding roads surrounding the reservation. Many of these sink the visitor into the heart of forest, with plenty of trails to choose from. On one such trail, we discovered an incredible little secret of the wood.<br />
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Marissa and I visited one time, intending on recording some audio for her on-going project, and sought a trail to bring us as deep as we could go. The plan was to have her screaming her best Scream Queen sound clip, so we decided it was ideal to stay as far away as possible from the majority of the park's visitors. Of course, while hopping in place and screaming, we confused two or three passers-by and shared a smug look of dorkiness. On our way back, we ended up eventually finding, amidst tall, eerie-looking pines, a huge nest of fallen trees and brush. It ws then that we heard this horrifying noise. It sounded like a guttural old man, crying out, blended with the surprised start of a goat. Marissa noted that it might have been a deer call, so we called out.<br />
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"Hello?"<br />
Scanning the area. No one around. No hunting permitted anyway. I, did my best to imitate the sound, and surprised myself with how well I emulated it. We called out in human language again. Nothing. I imitated the sound. There it was.<br />
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We started wandering towards this giant pile of wood and green. We were close to it. Incredibly anxious and bearing tunnel vision, I approached this wall of organic material. Of course, a skinny guy peeks his head out from atop the nest. I think we both startled one another. Why they did not respond to my calls before is beyond me, but so be it. Maybe they thought I was an approaching deer. Or maybe I misjudged my imitation and they were horrified at whatever was making this screech and was approaching them. It is worth noting that this creation is relatively close to the trail's entrance. Our screaming location was a lot deeper and beyond this boardwalk installation over a small bog area. We turned back when the sun began its descent and the trail returning us to the entrance (and past this nest) was a steep, step-like structure, ranging from stone, wood, and dirt composing this narrow path.<br />
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The most inviting and curious feature of the reservation, however, lies in the parking lot / entrance titled for its deserted village. After a gentle stroll down a paved road, you pass a quiet contemporary residence. Almost every time that I have visited, the occupants were either doing yard work or using their grill and they seemed very friendly, always returning my hellos. Just past their house is a large structure which houses restrooms and seems to be a storage building for some park equipment. There are three stories and it resembles an old fashioned inn. At this point, you have a few options. You can take a path into the woods to your right, you could continue on the paved road, or you could go left towards the restrooms. If you continue past the restrooms and to the left, the path turns to dirt and you find yourself in vast area, dense with tall, thin trees that runs down to the ravine. A hill further to the left is the resting spot of some of the original founders of the village, dating back to the 1700s. If you walk down to the ravine, you can access the vast number of trails, all winding through one another.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dylan over the creek</td></tr>
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However, back on the original path, if you remain on the main road, you will find yourself in the deserted village. There are a handful of houses, all with a matching green color scheme. Some are obviously abandoned (what we came to know affectionately as the Twin Houses) -- but many sources (such as the park's website) and telltale signs of in-habitation warn not to trespass on the occupied houses. Further down the road, a few more of these green houses continue. But where our love for the untouched, dilapidated, and abandoned found its calling... was in the Twin Houses.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Twin Houses</td></tr>
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One is infinitely more accessible than the other, and is the only one we have seen the inside of. Approaching through the messy lawns, you first notice that the wrap-around porch, which extends into the back and over open space, is horrendously out of commission. It is blown out in many spots and is treacherous to climb. If you follow the grass, you walk down in to the backyard. At first there is no easy way into the ailing structure. Yet if you do manage to hug the wall of the second story porch, you might find something, something in the shape of an open window. Note: when we visited, there were no sheets of wood over the window, but upon subsequent visits, it is clear that the groundskeepers are trying to keep people away. You know the rules, friends. Do not break or destroy property, however forlorn and forgotten. We simply lucked out, assuming these structures were left to time. Regardless, people have been inside, and we were lucky enough to have collected these images.<br />
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It is very, very dark on the inside, as most of it is boarded up. There were many there with camera lights, so it was not too difficult to traverse, if not anxiety-inducing. Boards felt good as new at times... others, you were worried for your life. There was a lot of space in the main rooms on the first floor. Very obvious installations for the kitchen area, large table, and the like. Something that stood out at the time, but only became more uncanny as the thought simmered, were the large, colorful murals on the walls. It seemed straight out of an "American culture" mural you would find in a public library, but poised next to the decay of human construction and time, it was just wrong.<br />
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The rooms upstairs were a little brighter, due to less concealment, but the rooms were infinitely more cramped with old belongings and rubbish. There were housing fixtures and furniture labeled with old fashioned paper tags loading the landing, but they were easy enough to circumvent. There were plenty of cobwebs and large, leaping crickets packed in every corner of the building. Harmless, but it all made your head feel very exposed. In one room, the ceiling was collapsed, revealing the low, inaccessible attic. But the best was yet to come.<br />
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Of all of the places in the house and on the reservation, the basement was probably the most unsettling. The staircase was a one-at-a-time, keep-your-head-low-from-insects and the basement floor was a combination of dirt floor reclaiming tile and other inorganic materials. It was very cramped and there was a small hall at the bottom of the stairs. There were plenty of drainage grates everywhere and remnants of what appeared to be a furnace. Stepping into the next room was surreal. It resembled the open area of upstairs, but stretched to the left, in a U-shape. The floor and half of the walls were old, pale-blue-green tile, covered in dirt and chipped. And in the center of the wall was a shower, completely destroyed by time, but obvious in its previous life's function.<br />
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The walls all had their various work stations and it all felt so uncomfortable. We even wondered at one point if these houses were home to Halloween time Haunted Houses, purely because of how out-of-place this macabre work area was. They were still very much standing, it is not absurd to imagine that they were publicly functioning within the last few decades. Who knows.<br />
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Back outside, the yard's property ends on top of a steep hill falling deep into the ravine. The creek runs in both directions and offers many different trails and crossing points. If you were to trace back to the paved road and continued on, you would eventually find a "stable" / equipment building that was recently upgraded. Looking far too modern and pretty, it is very obviously a recent addition. I would like to see its inside, whether they hold public events there or what. Beautiful building.<br />
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If you continue off the road and onto the trail, you will find a murky, small, circular pond that is typically coated in a bright green coating of algae. There is an endearing plaque (that I almost missed due to the growth) that informs the visitor that this is the "Hermit's Pond," and it was formed by runoff from up on hill. Apparently, when this area (and the village) was a summer home, the groundskeeper lived in a shack up the hill and his plumbing and maintenance of the creek was the source of cool and fresh water for the residents during their summer stay.<br />
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The reservation is a beautiful place. It is worth your visit and your respect. In my research, I have found old stories (some familiar) about deaths and suicides, both at the park grounds and in the surrounding communities. Initially, I was planning on including them in this post, but upon discussing it with a friend, decided that I'll dedicate a whole new posting endeavor (and perhaps more) to that investigation.<br />
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The Watchung Reservation is an incredible place, and even though I have found and experienced firsthand its many stories, I feel as if there are plenty more awaiting us on future visits.<br />
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<i>Further reading:</i><br />
<a href="http://ucnj.org/community/watchung-reservation/" target="_blank">The Watchung Reservation</a><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watchung_Reservation" target="_blank">The Reservation on Wikipedia</a><br />
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<i>Future writing endeavor:</i><br />
<a href="http://weirdnj.com/stories/mystery-history/jeannette-depalma/" target="_blank">Historical Murder in Watchung</a><br />
<a href="http://venturestoanomaly.wordpress.com/2013/11/17/suicide-tower-watchung-reservation-nj/" target="_blank">An Area Suicide / Crime</a><br />
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<i>More photographs:</i><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-85159864436804805032013-11-07T15:10:00.000-08:002013-11-07T15:10:15.027-08:00Things you find on a walkIt's easy to go stir crazy as the approaching winter temperatures begin rolling it. I try to combat this by forcing myself to go for runs or walks, even if it feels like I am inhaling sub-zero gasps of air. Regardless, tonight's walk was a mild, beautiful one and the orange and red was in full burst, much of my route covered by a thin layer of shapely fallen leaves. When you live somewhere for a while, yet do not fully know the actual routes surrounding your house, you pinpoint locations and set them as mental landmarks for future travels.<br />
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Well, when we first moved here a year and a half ago, I noticed a dirt and stone lot with a small concrete building wedged in the corner, almost completely sealed up. In the middle of a suburb it stood out. It looked like a utility building that you would find in a hidden reach of a campground or amusement park. It was less than fitting and literally surrounded by residential homes. It was an odd building, but it was just that. Out of place. Almost a year later I discovered a detail that added to the myth of this place.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4TkcOzAe3Cq55KUzqKdSbJwNwIGIkm6SFbmsabOATo1aJSjH5MPHAyu44DVB5LIhGVYNJoW2hwFFSyGEx3jdEzz3E57cWs77t3GiqWAWSluxg2eZeBpjpVhjGfmxzRUzeApRjTTiqbs/s1600/IMG_20131107_170404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4TkcOzAe3Cq55KUzqKdSbJwNwIGIkm6SFbmsabOATo1aJSjH5MPHAyu44DVB5LIhGVYNJoW2hwFFSyGEx3jdEzz3E57cWs77t3GiqWAWSluxg2eZeBpjpVhjGfmxzRUzeApRjTTiqbs/s320/IMG_20131107_170404.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taken on tonight's stroll. Smartphone quality, my apologies.</td></tr>
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I usually run at night, so maybe I simply didn't see it in the dark, previously, but today, as I was walking at twilight, I cut through this lot and noticed a piece that was vastly newer than any other component of the building. A cream-colored sign was centered on the door:<br />
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<b>QUEEN CITY PIGEON CLUB</b></div>
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At the time, I had never heard of our town (or its surroundings) referenced to as the "Queen City," so my imagination immediately started running. There was no light or visibility through the iron-coated windows and the door was bolted up. I irrationally hoped that this was some sort of bizarre speakeasy in the middle of a New Jersey suburb. Smiling to myself, I kept walking and thought that I would have to look into that name when I got home. </div>
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As I circled back, my brain decided that this name really did make me curious, so I pulled out my phone and checked. I found a rather plain website fitting for a local organization. However, for one fleeting moment, I felt myself on the threshold of falling into an urban legend (akin to the classic <a href="http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Normal_Porn_for_Normal_People" target="_blank">"Normal Porn for Normal People" Internet myth</a>) when I read the site's description:</div>
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<i>Our site is dedicated to promote our club and the pigeon sport. We would like to let everyone know that we are also a normal people that spend time with our family that also love pigeons. </i></blockquote>
"We are also a normal people that spend time with our family that also love pigeons" -- I was honestly startled at how simultaneously normal and uncannily creepy this sat with me as I read it. It was just a simple typo, but the need for these hobbyists to declare themselves as normal was noteworthy.<br />
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Now, in hindsight, this is simply the club website of a group of people who enjoy the racing and breeding of these birds. I had no clue this was an event, certainly not in North Jersey (which I also, upon further reading, learned that our neighboring town of Plainfield is nicknamed the "Queen City). But upon viewing the rest of the site (which was registered in 1995), you can tell that this is just a happy group of people promoting what they like. I write about this discovery that first sat as a macabre run in with an unknown group with both the utmost respect for the group and a tongue-in-cheek recount of my imagination bounding away from me.<br />
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Thought it was fun to share. Finally, a story that didn't open up a labyrinth of possibilities, ultimately leaving me, a casual investigator of the abandoned and forgotten, empty handed and grasping at history. Although, I am always more than willing to embark on such a trail...<br />
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Thanks for reading.<br />
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<i>Further information: </i><br />
<a href="http://www.queencitypigeon.com/index.html" target="_blank">Queen City Pigeon Club - Site</a><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plainfield,_New_Jersey" target="_blank">Plainfield, NJ - Wikipedia </a><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-66948733885219165702013-08-27T21:30:00.000-07:002013-08-27T21:30:08.873-07:00Shades of Death, the Old Mine, and the Men Who Scream at Cars<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just recently, I spent a few days with my good friends Mark and Brian. Although we spent a day at the Central / South Jersey landmark that is Six Flags Great Adventure, we spent most of our time in their neck of the woods, in the north. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></b><br />
<a name='more'></a><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mark hails from Blairstown, a little drive-through town with a few pockets of history. For the horror fans out there, it was a prominent filming location for the opening of the first </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friday the 13th </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">movie (apparently, the not-too-distant Stokes State Forest is also a shooting location, notably their cabins). Brian is not too far away and just across the river in Pennsylvania. Minutes off of their main roads and bars of cellular signal strength dying away are always clear indications of just how “middle of nowhere” we are whenever I visit. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Regardless, we spent a tiring day in the summer sun at the theme park (and had a great time in the process) and began the long drive back to Brian’s. The plan was to, initially, hit up a well-known Weird NJ hotspot named “Shades of Death Road” and take the iconic drive on the way home (similar to a previous trip to Clinton Road). However, it would have involved an extra hour out of the way and Brian had work in the early am so we decided just to hold off. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next day, minus a Brian, we head out and just drive for a while. It had been raining all morning and the atmosphere was perfect for this brand of exploration. The gray-white palette of the sky left the wet ground painted very boldly, leaving all of the greens, blacks, and browns very prominent. I used my phone’s GPS to guide us to Shades of Death and talked to Mark about my memory’s discrepancy regarding the location. I think I had, at one point, accidentally driven through it during the day and not realized that it was a location that I had read about a dozen times before. One trip to the Viaduct resulted in me wandering and passing the nearby Jenny Jump State Forest and recalling its history which resulted in me realizing what road I must have been traversing. No bother, this trip was a thousand times more atmospheric due to the very overcast nature of the weather (the previous drive was very sunny).</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We had our conversation and a handful of stories for the drive and, although beautiful, the road was not terribly horrifying. If nothing else, it reminded me of the areas surrounding my friend Julie’s house up in Clinton. Worn-in farmland, handfuls of civilization every so often, just miles away from business highways, that sort of deal. So, although we had intended on visiting a legendary location that I did not think I had previously seen, we decided to head back towards Blairstown and visit the routes that we had seen on previous days out together. Although Shades of Death Road was supposed to be the home run, we decided on a well-traversed route was supposed to be an easy ride, if only for the conversation. Little did we know that the roads around the <a href="http://goo.gl/maps/YUWrz" target="_blank">Millbrook Village</a> would provide exponentially more paranoia and anxiety than the stuff of local legend. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had written previously about Millbrook Village (or, <a href="http://www.jeffkoval.com/2013/02/millbrook-village-and-last-exit-in-new.html" target="_blank">the Last Exit in New Jersey</a>) -- as a brief catch-up, it was supposed to be bought by the state and flooded as a dam area for the Delaware Water Gap. These plans never fully manifested, so a decent amount of public land sat vacant, never seeing the fruition of the water-management system. Thus, as time went on, the abandoned historic village of Millbrook became a park, connected by the local state forests and picnic areas. It is a beautiful area, if you are ever near. Our previous visits and quiet days of enjoyment gave us this artificial sense of security and nonchalance. I guess we had figured that since we had no odd experiences on Shades of Death, that our old reliable Millbrook would be nothing. We were </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">slightly </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">off. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We made our way out of Blairstown and towards the village via Millbrook Road. It was incredibly foggy out, real Silent Hill stuff, and basked in the glory of the terrifying gray that smothered the landscape, complete with dense trees and impassable trails. What really stood out that day, what shocked us, initially struck me as if I was in a dream. When I saw “the thing,” I did not immediately process it. The music was low and Mark was speaking. I vaguely acknowledged something on the left side of the vehicle (I was driving) and I simply remember the color gray, as if a large, slouching man was wearing a gray sweater. I don’t say anything, because I subconsciously dismissed it as a part of the foliage. Mark stops speaking and his eyes get wide from the passenger seat. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Did you hear that?”</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I immediately kill the volume and listen. Of course, nothing. I answer no and he shakes his head. He looks back, as do I, and we see nothing. Still shaking his head and motioning with his hands, he tells me, “It was like… something yelling, ‘Hey!’ but drawn out and long. Screaming, maybe not evening saying the word. Just making noise.”</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I get the chills and we laugh it off, finally experiencing one of the holy grails of urban exploration and night driving (although we were blessed with this experience in the late afternoon). Of course, moments and hills after the encounter, the fog clears and we find our beloved Millbrook Village, normal and unchanged (except for a damned locked public restroom). The whole significance of this story became even more terrifying as time went on. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We parked at one of the picnic / park locations and walked around for a bit. We had a conversation near the lake, inaccurately identifying a snake-like creature in the water (it looked like a Dachshund swimming, moved like a snake, and was the size of a frog, go figure) and moved on, as the sun had started to set. It was getting dark in Mark’s neck of the woods and I certainly didn’t want to get trespassing charges for being in a public park after sundown. We chatted a bit more in the parking lot and I felt a tad vulnerable, if only because of the wide-open nature of the area and the diminishing light. I wasn’t afraid of boogeymen or slashers; I just wanted to get out of the park, yadda yadda. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, hours after our initial experience in the fog, we’re driving past the village towards NJ Route 206 and River Road (you know, actual highways and civilization) via Old Mine Road. Mark reminds me that we’ve been on this road before and about its light. I have no idea what he’s talking about until he reminds me about the first day I met him. He and our friend Walter had driven all over the area (and the Pocono Mountain area across the river) and I had nearly forgotten this local icon. There is a three minute red light at the end of Old Mine Road. This is because the local state park routes more-or-less immediately merge with a major highway (I knew Route 206 being a Central Jersey native, if that gives any indication) -- so an official intermediary was required for the safety of drivers. So, we’re heading in the direction of this light.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mark tells me this story involving his brother and his former lady friend. They were driving late at night and the brother was asleep in the passenger seat. Suddenly, his partner screams and the car screeches to a halt. He wakes up and asks what’s the matter. She is hysterical and says that she swore she saw a body hanging from the treetops (the trees reach towards one another and form a tunnel of sorts over the road). He cautiously steps out and, of course, sees nothing.They keep driving and she tries to explain what she saw. Describing the body is easy. She says that he looked like he was in Civil War attire. This means nothing to me until I ask Mark for clarification. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Confederate or Union?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Um… Confederate. The gray uniforms.” </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At this point the gears click and I am done with the road. We both start nervously laughing and then, finally, we reach the forever red light. Except that… it’s off. We both stop laughing and are dead silent. Mark eventually begins explaining that this is insane, that this never happens, that this isn’t safe, and I am agreeing. Oh dear. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually, I shrug and start down the dark, one-way road. A miniature waterfall down the side of the rock ledge to the left of the road startles both of us and then we find the overpass and highway indicating civilization. We assume the light was knocked out due to construction, but were initially worried because the road was supposed to go for three miles, one way, hence the long light. I do not know if they are planning to phase out the route, because it was not nearly as treacherous as we remember. Perhaps they have cut out a majority of the drive. We were further confused when, a few hours later, we returned to see that it was functioning again. Perhaps it was just the universe and nature colluding to torment our psyches and horrify us. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Regardless, I, once again, recommend the MIllbrook Village and its surrounding areas if you are willing to visit. Keeping good company and the right mindset, you are sure to have day to remember. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-44106614671805903652013-07-27T15:44:00.001-07:002013-08-26T21:12:10.456-07:00Roleplaying Games and Fictional Best Friends (Repost)<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-14546986-224b-8a88-63fa-4e1084a87bef" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I had originally written and posted this article on 05.26.2012, but due to a charming <a href="http://www.reddit.com/r/rpg/comments/1j6cjp/what_are_some_good_tips_for_creating_npcs/" target="_blank">conversation and thread </a>on the roleplaying board on Reddit (<a href="http://www.reddit.com/r/rpg/" target="_blank">r/rpg)</a>, I had to dig up this piece due to the smile it brought to my face and the wonderful memories it stirred. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We have been keeping our love for roleplaying games very much alive in the house, with plenty of home-brewed rules and campaigns since, but that is a topic for another day. Enjoy this little throw back about fictional characters and how they can affect our lives. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I am not sure if you know, but Evan, my younger brother (Alex), and I, are / were pretty avid players of Dungeons and Dragons. I introduced both of them to the concept, and we, in turn, bastardized the rules and dragged our other friends into all-too-infrequent campaigns. Our latest was played last winter, with Julie, Verdett, Dylan, Jessie, and of course, the previously mentioned two. I ran them through two games, culminating in a cliffhanger ending.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The kingdom was still reeling from a quelled civil war and the party had just destroyed the militia's barracks, as well as kidnapped, oh, I don't know, the bloody capital-dispatched governor of the town. The namesake brewery (Brewmaster Carnahan's) of the town was destroyed, due to a clumsy rogue (Julie), the barracks job was done discretely by a quiet Drow (Verdett), and through smart-talking and strong-arming, the others disabled wrecking bots that were scheduled to destroy a poor portion of the Old Town. Just as they were settling in for the night, conferencing with the Headmistress of the acclaimed academy, plotting their next move in the reignition of the revolution, the partner that their Lady had been waiting for during the entirety of the plot thus far finally arrived: a soft spoken gnome nursing a fatal wound, sustaining life only because of the magically-charged umbrella he carried and his traveling companion, the Seamripper, a small green ball of light that roamed the universe, always learning and back talking. Nothing short of a spectacular entrance, these two visitors arrived in a stolen tower. Yes, a tower, that was commandeered from the two old misers who owned it (Rufus and Burke) and still actually lived in it. The Seamripper tore the tower from its original realm and had apparently sought our Lady (think a fantasy-era Professor Xavier), per the gnome, Adamus', navigation. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Adamus and the Seamripper were two characters from previous stories starring Alex and Evan, from a previous campaign. They acted as heroes who brought this unlikely couple together, completely by chance. Their story ended decades ago in-game and then literally came as a blast from the past for the players who knew them well. It was one of my finest moments, as a writer and as a game master, to see their faces light up upon recognizing the tower for what it was, when it settled into the Academy's yard, in a veil of mist. (Consider Doctor Who and the use of the TARDIS. However, these characters were thought up years before I watched the show. Awesome little parallel.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Oddly enough, I am only writing this little post because of two other characters that I haven’t even mentioned yet. I was thinking about them as I left for work the other day, because Alex has recently been really enthusiastic to play again. These two Dwarven brothers were named Hugo and Horris. My brother met them, mistaking them for Dwarven women, when he and his party members were invited to a festival's table of honor, after silencing some bit of silly violence. Mind you, this was a few years before Evan and Alex ever even playing together, created in a campaign ran when I was still in high school. Of the party my brother belonged to, out of the five people playing, only two still live in this state, and only one do I speak to on a regular basis (we are all on good terms and are still great friends, it's just your typical blend of college life and distance that has separated the rest).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">According to a prophecy that my brother accidentally discovered, one of these two Dwarven brothers was destined to die in the immediate presence of B.O.B. (my brother named his Dwarf "Brian O'Brien" -- I know.) This resulted in me presenting ridiculously nerve-wracking, anxiety-inducing scenarios, such as my brother and the two others having drunken games of "toss the cargo barrel" on the docks of an elevated sky-port. You know, where cargo ships (i.e., flying pirate ships) dock on the edge of thousand-foot-drop cliffs, over the ocean. Hugo would catch the barrel, laugh, throw it to BOB, who would then have a succession of overly-dramatized skill checks to decide whether or not he would throw too hard and force Horris over the edge. I knew how much the party loved the two brothers, so I was never actually going to harm one. But throw in that silly prophecy and everyone suddenly becomes on-edge. These characters had a personality of their own and managed to live on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Incredibly well, it would appear. Through two other campaigns (and counting). They helped the bumbling band of adventurers in Evan and Alex's first games over the last two years, and were left off at the end of that arc starting their own blacksmith shop. They were lazy alcoholics. However, time changes and people grow up and in the modern campaign, the two brothers are the owners of the finest armory in the land. Everyone knows of the two Dwarven brothers from lowly beginnings, and their story is the keystone of success in the Elspyre kingdom.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Now, this post, I wrote this on a whim, just idly thinking about these cherished memories,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">these simple games. I've learned to love to compare fiction to real life, but I am finding it harder and harder to do so. With loose enough definitions of parallels and broadly-interpreted metaphors, I am finding that you really cannot, for there is no distinction in the long run. Parts of us die, parts of us live on, and and any chance story that we may have told years ago could, at any point, evolve and take on a life of its own.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Never put yourself in a position that disables you from reopening their pages, however faded and aged they may become, for that same story may wind up, bound in gold, reminding you who you were and, perhaps, who you may have had the ability to become</span>.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-33043953371714967132013-07-27T02:32:00.000-07:002013-09-16T14:43:59.043-07:00Up in the air<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Most
of these kinds of posts occur around the New Year. You know the type:
new beginnings, new commitments, those sort of things. Well, that's
not really the situation in my little realm of existence, at the
moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">As
of now, I have two prominent projects in the chamber. We still have
the on-going epic that is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/everymanhybrid" target="_blank">EverymanHYBRID</a>. This beastie has taken up
more than three years now and I have loved every moment of it. Of
course, a few instances of stress and other negative feelings have
arisen due to its presence, but that is to be expected. With anything
that incurs positive results and a profit of any sort (in this case,
legitimacy in the sense of creative abilities) there is a negative
side to be beheld. Eso es. I love my brothers in arms and those
involved in the production. Our relationship is a conversation for
another day, however. </span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">This
post is about my current life standing. As of the turn of this month,
we have renewed our tenure at the so-called <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23shamhouse&src=hash" target="_blank">#shamhouse</a> for yet
another year. Where we shall be in a year's time... who knows. My
thoughts and feelings are just concerned that... well, we lasted at
least a year. We have dealt with each other for at least twelve
months and that means something, to me at least. At the turn
of the month, it is officially renewed for another twelve months. And
that promises and reveals a sense of trust and love that is seldom
heard. </span>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">With
the release of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RethrGcU6w&feature=share&list=UUJCDZOIBGzEN60TyWGMFUEg" target="_blank">another Monolith update</a>, I feel the need to separate
myself from the discussing of the project only for the sake of my personal accounts.
It's such an odd place... to want to, so desperately, want to talk
about it in great length, about every one of our updates. But that is
a conversation for post-endgame. And as it stands, that is a way off.
So my most pressing talking point is my next major project and
release. </span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">That
is a novel currently named </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Code
Junkie</i></span><span style="color: black;">.
</span>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">At
its most simplest and basic form, the story of </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Code
Junkie </i></span><span style="color: black;">revolves
around an unpleasant man named Kevin who loses his job. That is the
simplest and easiest way to describe the story without giving away
too much. I wrote it as a fan and enthusiast of the great Lovecraft's
mythos and work. </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Code
Junkie </i></span><span style="color: black;">had
originally begun as another online web series / alternate reality
game. </span>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">As
time went on, however, I wanted to take it in another direction, and
a novel was the best method. I personally feel that anyone remotely
interested in the Lovecraft / Cthulhu mythos would be a prime
candidate for enjoying the story of Kevin and his experiences within
the confines of </span><span style="color: black;"><i>Code
Junkie</i></span><span style="color: black;">.
It is not supposed to be immediately in your face. You will not be
reading of great encounters of man and beast within the first few
chapters. It simply is. And I hope you cherish it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">I
am not one for blatantly plugging online projects, but this is the
nature of our medium. I have begun a small Twitter campaign around
</span><span style="color: black;"><i>Code
Junkie</i></span><span style="color: black;">.
If you were interested in joining the conversation, considering
tweeting using the hashtag <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23codejunkie&src=hash" target="_blank">#codejunkie</a> and getting into that whole
song and dance. When the time comes, when physical copies of the book
exist in our breathing world, I will remember these exchanges and
will be sure to make it worthwhile for the early contributors.
Believe me, I will be the schmuck who signs copies of his own book on
the chance that he finds them when visiting bookstores in the flesh. </span>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Regardless
of the of the end-results, I will always strive for the support and
continued promotion of a story wanting to be told. So thank you for
giving me that much. You have been an incredible audience. </span>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-45693982800535944632013-05-04T16:41:00.001-07:002014-06-23T08:32:42.709-07:00Into the Belly of the Beast - The Paulinskill Viaduct, revisited <span style="font-family: inherit;">"It seems that whenever we do go adventuring, Jeff," he said as we descended the steep hillside trail, nearly blind in the dark, "That it is always a game of escalation."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
And he was right.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">For the last week or so, we had gone a tad stir-crazy what with finals and the never ending bipolar nature of the weather (snow chances one day, wearing shorts the next) and were eager to "go exploring" because we had not done so in a while. I believe Clinton Road was our last major outing. One friend had moved here in August and we had not yet shown him our beloved Viaduct and decided that it was a perfect destination for the quiet Friday trip. It was an injustice that it took us this long to bring him there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
We set out in the early evening and were traveling against the impending sundown. The rural portions of North Jersey were painted in oranges, purples, and blues and we had somehow managed to avoid the bulk of rush-hour traffic in pursuit of these lesser-touched highroads. We got to the Paulinskill Viaduct just as darkness was settling in and his first glimpse of the monolith was its silhouette against a dark blue sky: beautiful. We parked, walked down to the water, and then decided to take the treacherous route up the steep side of the hill (versus the gentle trail on the right). When we got to the top, we saw a few other visitors returning from their visit, their distant voices and strobing flashlights our only sensory indicators of their presence. We flashed our lights, hoping not to alarm them when we inevitably crossed paths, and began walking towards them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Without any ceremony, we briefly greeted the five or so visitors (I guess late high school students by the brief flashes of clothing and faces that I managed to see as we greeted one another and parted ways) and walked towards the center of the structure. Even having been there a dozen times, it is still surreal to be exposed to the open air, on an abandoned structure, more than a hundred feet over the world. He commented at one point, looking around, that we were in a perfect dome of night sky. The distant fringes of the Pocono Mountains and rolling hills, capped with dense forest all around, held the dark blue night in comfortably, and we marveled at how well the stars shone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
We each took our turn dispensing horrendously inaccurate astronomical observations, each of us (probably) incorrectly guessing the Big Dipper a couple dozen of times before we decided that it was time to peek our heads into the belly of the beast. Now, my other companion and I had always wanted to go in, but were either too ill-prepared (either with lighting or the saturated nature of the Viaduct post rainfalls) or with a group too large and unwilling to go inside. I shone my cellphone's light down the open manhole and pointed out how it went down and that there should be a rusted utility ladder built into the wall. The recent mover hopped down and I advised him how he should lean down to get a glimpse, etc. and he did just that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
"Yup, there's a ladder."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And thus, a relatively poor decision was set in stone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
He prepped himself to lower onto the ladder and my other buddy entered the hole, shining his flashlight for further assistance. I stood alone on the Viaduct while waiting for them to get situated. Yes, mildly terrifying. Darkness as far as the eye can see, sans the occasional house on a distant hill or a passing car miles away. When the second explorer began lowering himself onto the ladder, I decided I would hop down. We would take it slowly and safely, because, honestly, it was a bit nerve-wracking. We were climbing into a service tunnel of an abandoned viaduct 110 feet in the air. Then I noticed something.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
"Um, guys."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Far on the other side of the viaduct, down the trail that grew into a forest and eventually, connected to other systems of viaducts, was the approaching sphere of an inorganic light. Then came the sound of an ATV. I immediately hopped down into the hole and, in hushed excitement, told the guys what was approaching. Now, it was (probably) just a hobbyist enjoying the trails, but when you're in these abandoned structures, complete with trespassing warnings, anything exciting becomes potentially dangerous. And even if it were just fellow travelers like ourselves, it would be somewhat adrenaline-inducing to safely hide from view when we were, moments ago, so visually dead-to-rights. You know, pretending to play secret agents, that whole bit. Twenty-one years old is not a cutoff to that cherished blend of nonsense.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
So I rapidly climb down ladder (which ends up arching to the right) and almost slipped and died (not really). It was probably about a twenty foot climb down and we all stood in silent awe of our surroundings. We each looked over the edges without speaking as searchlights from the ATVs above swept their trails. We also then saw an ATV searching the area below, near the water, with a large beam of light. So, who knows, pertaining to our artificially created tale of espionage... (we would later refer to is as "splinter-celling" down the ladder.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
We went through a few tunnels and stopped when the arch of the floor grew too steep to safely continue climbing down the metal rungs bolted to the floor. We took a few pictures, but nothing came out beautifully, since all we had were our cellphones. Regardless, the grainy pictures do, somewhat, capture the excitement and joy we felt in that darkness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
We shared many moments of both silent awe and conversational snowballing and storytelling, both in those trenches and on the walk back down to the car. I will never forget that night with my blood brothers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paulinskill_Viaduct" target="_blank">The Paulinskill Viaduct on Wikipedia</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-13812434142322973332013-04-06T22:40:00.002-07:002014-01-03T11:42:06.769-08:00The House of Bees and Bone<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;">It
should be known that my experience at this property was,
subjectively, the most terrifying experience in my personal history
of exploration.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;">Inevitably,
all of these locations and their accompanying tales that I visit or
learn about are told through anonymous strangers’ tales (such as in
the beloved Weird NJ publications) or through personal stories
relayed by friends and their acquaintances. Of all the incredible
people I have met over the last few years, this place came to my
knowledge through friends of my younger brother, of all people. My brother and his girlfriend were having their friends over for a night of movies and hanging out, your typical high school
friendship fare. Well, I come home from work and am merely occupying
the same space as this group, not really taking part in their
conversations. I was working on my computer and they were stationed
around the television and Xbox, having let their movie finish and
roll past the credits, when they then became engrossed in discussion.
Eventually the conversation turns to abandoned and / or “haunted”
places and I became involved.</span><br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> We
exchanged stories involving the well-known locales in our vicinity
and throughout Central Jersey, such as the since-destroyed
Lambertville High School and its nearby Gravity Hill, and I told my
stories involving some of the more obscure locations that these
friends would have only recently have gained access to (being younger
and recently licensed to drive). But, by the end of the night, these
wonderful young people surprised me and actually put me on the trail
of a nearby place that I had never even heard of before.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> In
hopes of keeping the exact location concealed, I will eliminate some
of the more prominent details. When they were describing the area
that they had visited “a few weeks ago,” I gathered that it could
not have been too far from a major highway and local government
buildings. I almost refused to believe that the place either existed,
or was actually where they believed it was, per their directions.
They were trying to tell me that a two story abandoned house was
literally just across the street from a state building and within a
hundred feet of a major highway. But, I ate my words and would
eventually learn that they were oh-so correct.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I
had pictured these friends walking through the woods and finding a
dilapidated structure. They described the windows and doors as being
blown open and the first floor relatively easy to traverse. They told
me that when they were getting ready to go upstairs, most of the
group they were with waited outside because of all of the homeless
paraphernalia that was strewn about (smart kids). The key detail, the
reason that I was so surprised by this local artifact that I had
never known about, involved the more-adventurous friends' journey
upstairs. The detail, rather stupidly, that made me want to find this
house, was relayed by his friend. He told me that as they ascended to the
second floor and found bed-sheets and dirty linens serving as
curtains on the bare windows, they found the body of a deceased dog
placed in an open drawer of a piece of furniture.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> That
was it. There were apparently dangerous people frequenting a place
that my younger brother's friends had access to. I was curious,
skeptical, and, honestly, irritated. If there were people running
about slaying domesticated animals and leaving them in abandoned
properties, I was agitated. Was it some cult fixated on inane rituals
or just some schmucks hurting animals? Regardless, I simply sat,
enjoyed their stories and told my own, and let the accounts ruminate
over the next couple of weeks.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> That
night occurred pretty deeply into our winter. The trees were still
barren and although we enjoyed many days of mild temperatures, we had
consistent weekly snowfalls. During a candid moment of enthusiasm, I
grabbed my camera and headed in the general direction of the
property. I pulled over and realized just how exposed the house
actually was. As I had imagined, the front yard was overgrown and the
recent snow storms had toppled large pines. I noticed that the dirt
path that ran along the side of the building and into the barren
farmland beyond was somewhat recently traversed. There were deep
pockets of water breaking the recent snowfall. Probably trucks or
ATVs, but not knowing if the property was actually owned and poorly
maintained. I was only wearing my Converse sneakers and jacket and
had no intentions on trudging through the sloppy, wet snow to simply
get a glimpse of the building. I left.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> A
few weeks later, when the presence of the building once again tiptoed
into my memory, I decided to stop by it on the way to the shopping
center, just blocks away on the major highway nearby. I actually got
out of my car this time, enjoying the mild late winter / early spring
weather, and took a few pictures on my phone. I had determined that I
would eventually go inside, but now was not the time. The day was
just upon rush hour and there was an all-too steady stream of cars
pulling off the highway and using the road as a detour towards the
residential neighborhoods. I did not want to test my luck with the
potential of being seen by any existing owners or state officials /
law enforcement next door. The sun was setting and the scene looked
beautiful, oranges, reds, blues, grays, painting the lot which had
surely seen better days. I knew I would be back.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just
recently, I returned.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You
can only psyche yourself out so many times before the practice
becomes meaningless, boring, frustrating even. I knew that the next
time I visited would involve a fuller exploration.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Again,
perhaps against my better judgment, I was alone. I realized I had no
obligations for the day, my friends were working or up north, and my
brother was at work. The random burst of motivation fell upon me and
I decided that before I ran some errands, I was going to sweep the
property. I grabbed my old Flip (video camera) and headed out.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I
parked in the empty parking lot of the vacant commercial building.
This, in my mind, acted as a buffer between the prying eyes of the
state building and any passersby seeing my car parked on the
two-lane road. I tucked my wallet into my console, pulled out my
trusted box-cutter (you know, the end-all defense against muggers,
deranged wanderers, ghosts, and the occult) and dropped it in my back
pocket and started recording after I crossed the street.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I
found that the back yard was quite sizable, however covered in debris
it may have been. It extended far back before turning into empty
farmland and I saw a few pieces of furniture discarded and dumped on
the edge of the grass. I first saw large trees cut down and shredded
all over the property, as well as more finely-cut pieces of trunks
and bark, probably to be stored as firewood. I ducked and peered
through the brushes and small trees that guided my way, looking
for a way into the house. I could see a back door wide open and
stepped forward, excited.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I
learned something that Friday afternoon. Even in my most surprised,
anxious, and frightened state, I have the acute ability to deliver
puns subconsciously. I had been terribly excited to get a glimpse
inside the structure. However, as I stepped through the threshold of
the yard, ready to leap over the fallen trees, the pallet of death,
decay, and yellowed-weathered bones fell into my line of sight.
Slowly, the colors came together to reveal two nearly-full skeletons
of deer, directly in front of me. I stopped in my tracks and
muttered, “Oh, dear lord,” not even realizing the implications of
my unfortunate wording. There were tufts of fur and chips of bone
scattered all over the macabre scene. My mind was reasonable enough
and did not immediately leap to “crazy animal slayers!” but
rationalized the scene as a dumping ground for local hunters. I
turned on my heel and moved to go around the trees and carcasses. As
I hopped over the log and had assumed that I had found a cleaner
path, I stopped once more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> There
was half of a picked-clean deer carcass and mounds of other,
non-fitting bones scattered all over my path. Chunks of recognizable
vertebrae cracked under my feet as I realized that this desecration
was inevitable. Getting there would be impossible without hopping
over these bizarre collections. I eventually got to the house and
there was a small electrical box torn from the ceiling and hanging
directly in my path. Wary of any live currents, I side-stepped it and
gave my traditional squatter check: Hello? Of course, nothing.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Perhaps
it was just the surprise of finding the carcasses in the backyard,
but I was in flight mode. I am not an anxious person typically. But
the whole scene was off now in my mind, a small injection of
adrenaline inevitably pumping through my veins. Nothing felt right.
There was furniture and rags and clothes and linens and garbage piled
everywhere, knee-deep and beyond. Perhaps, in hindsight, what did not
feel right upon standing in the house was that there were <i>paths
</i>through this mess,
paths that one did not even realize they were traversing until after
the fact. You assumed that you were visiting a functioning household,
where the tenants were simply away, running errands, living
elsewhere. You did not realize that someone, at some point, had made
all of this mess. You did not realize that someone else, at some
other point in time, had cleared a path, dedicated enough to make the
hostile environment easy to walk through. I scanned the rooms, pushed
open some stuck doors, and imagined how beautiful the two brick
fireplaces I encountered may have been in a better era.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> As
I came to the stairs, I gave another cautionary <i>hello?</i>
to the nonexistent inhabitants of the property and slowly crept up.
On the second floor, there were no guardrails or banisters to keep
people from falling down the flight. Halfway up the stairs, I turned
and saw it. In the blind-spot
of the stairwell, on the second floor, stacked against the wall
closest to the street, was a large wooden dresser. I <i>knew
</i>this to be the final
resting place of that dog mentioned by those young friends weeks
before. I did not smell any decay. I did not experience any swarming
flies. The door to the right of the dresser was closed. From the
stairs I attempted to push it open and it was stuck. Glancing to the
three open doorways around me, all of the bedrooms piled in filth, I
realized one jarring detail that led me to leave. Every room was
missing intact furniture… yet every room had at least one ruined
mattress, stacked atop the mess. There were handfuls of clothes and
dirty rags all over the floor. As well as empty gallons of water.
Someone at some point had squatted here. Someone at some point had
disposed of a dog’s body here. I was leaving.</span><br />
<br />
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I
came back out into the yard and felt a baseless urgency to leave. I
saw the deer carcasses and instead of hopping over the mess, moved
closer to the building, hoping to find a place to duck under the
trees and back onto the tractor path. I caught movement out of the
corner of my eye and looked up. On the side of the building, with no
nest or hive visible, were dozens upon dozens of bees clustering
around the siding, gravitating towards one spot. The mere sight of
their numbers surprised me and coupled onto the lingering trepidation
brought upon by the house. I stumbled through the brush, closer to
the deer skeletons due to my retreat from the insects, and dusted
myself off as I walked back to the street.</span></div>
<center>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></center>
<center>
</center>
<center style="text-align: left;">
<div class="western" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">With one last glance towards the house, covered in growth yet plagued by decay, I turned my camera off and staggered back to my car. I like to believe that I am adept at researching and utilizing the marvelous tools of our ever-connected world. I have, previously, found detailed histories and contact information concerning public records and other properties we were interested in learning about. But this house still remains a pariah in my search. I cannot find an address or even a lot listing anywhere. Inevitably, some local hunter may read this and have a laugh, equating my curiosity and endearing fear of this unknown history as petty. Perhaps it’s just an unmaintained property. Surely there’s nothing macabre about its history. But panic and experiences cloud the uncaring realm of objectivity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So what is left when the objective facts fail you (and do not manifest in your search for public records or even an acknowledgment of existence) and your hushed breaths and creeping thoughts are the only things to take from the tale? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<i style="line-height: 24.545454025268555px;">The photographs do not do the beautiful old building justice. They were stills taken from my Flip camcorder.</i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-3047025870510577622013-03-20T13:22:00.000-07:002013-08-26T21:12:52.422-07:00Clinton Road, New Jersey<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Clinton
Road, located in northern New Jersey, has easily been one of the most
evasive and alluring pieces of Weird NJ lore that I have ever read
about.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
first read about the place when I was very, very young. All of the
accounts told the same stories: cults and forest-dwelling posses
chasing visitors from the road, late at night. Stories involving a
pickup truck and visitors being ran off of the road were also
prominent. All of these sounded nonsensical and over-exaggerated, but
such is the nature of these urban legends. We visited the road and
probably spent just under a half an hour traversing is entirety, one
way. Then, we turned around and retraced our path, making the entire
visit about an hour long. We of course got home safely. The bulk of
the trip consisted of actually getting there, probably around an hour
and a half from our house in Piscataway.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
road itself was not particularly frightening. If you are familiar
with our love of the mountains, especially the nearby Pocono
Mountains and share it, you will have no anxiety or fear upon seeing
the landscape. Hilly, rocky, and lots of forest, all featured around
a few lakes. We enjoyed it for the conversation and the ambiance and
legend surrounding its history. We ended up talking and sharing our
own scary stories for the night (shown below in the videos). The
storytellers in the car were Evan Jennings, Dylan Sindelar, and
myself, Jeff Koval. I was personally happy with the output, but the
audio-only upload's quality is lacking, to say the least. They were
not edited for time or content, so bear with us if you are listening
for the stories.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
only really odd experience we had on the road was just after the
halfway point, on the return trip through the road (around twenty-two
minutes in). In the video, I replay the clip in question at a slower
speed immediately after it happens. The video does not do the
experience justice. We <i>all </i>saw
a thick cloud of mist or fog in the center of the road, solitary, and
we drove through it. It was substantial enough that I stopped
mid-sentence and pointed to it. We all acknowledged it and laughed,
nervous and loving the moment. We could not explain it, it being a
clear night and the road lacking any vents or gutters.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To
make a long story short, if you are within an hour's drive of Clinton
Road and are interested in a peaceful drive, I would recommend it.
Otherwise, I would not make it a priority. You will be disappointed
if you are experiencing Big Foot or the Jersey Devil to attack your
vehicle. You would probably set yourself up for expectations far
beyond any horror story or urban legend that you may have heard of.
Just enjoy it for a beautiful patch of country road with quiet
residences and a peaceful lakeside park.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As
an aside, there is a lovely lake community and availability of rental
options further on the road, for those interested in summer lodgings
and the like. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clinton_Road_(New_Jersey)" target="_blank">At the far end, you can also enjoy the longest redlight wait in the country</a>. I knew it felt weird as we waited and I
only learned of its legacy once we arrived home.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
love my state, for its ability to invoke images of the macabre and
paranormal, if only to create an opportunity to share personal ghost
stories with your good friends.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2jVHYXX9wdw" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our visit (mostly audio; ghost stories)</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TB_phMG6Obo" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The second video from our visit (poor quality; audio only)</span></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clinton_Road_(New_Jersey)" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Clinton Road, NJ (Wikipedia)</span></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"><br /></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8404524023022718147.post-5154828414422702402013-02-23T22:04:00.000-08:002013-08-26T21:13:03.843-07:00The Abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike <div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">In
the summer of 2011, a friend and I </span><span lang="en-US">traveled</span><span lang="en-US">
almost four hours to a desolate area of Pennsylvania In order to hike
and explore an abandoned stretch of the Pennsylvania Turnpike.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<a name='more'></a><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
story of the Abandoned Turnpike begins in 1968 when the relevant
committees and governmental organizations determined that a few
tunnels pertaining to I-70 were too congested for the heavy traffic
volumes that were demanding access. Today, these areas are near
I-76’s exit 161. But that is not terribly important. No, what
attracted my friend and I was the prospect of 13 miles of weathered
turnpike, including the Sideling Hill Tunnel, Rays Hill Tunnel, and a
travel plaza. All gone, all taken by time and the elements.</span></span><br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">The
tunnels are a feature common to interstates across the United States.
They bear lengthy tunnels cut through the sides of great hills and
mountains, typically lighted and maintained by electricity and
maintenance crews. But consider this for a moment: imagine an area of
industrial development that has been foregone for forty-some years.
Imagine your idea of modern society simply existing elsewhere for few
decades. What would you find? What would be there and what would the
conditions be? That is exactly what my friend and I sought to find,
and why we spent three and a half hours driving. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">It
is important to note, as in all of these travel logs, that the
journey there is almost as important as the destination itself. This
story certainly does not fail to live up to this mantra. About twenty
minutes away from the destination, we found ourselves on unending
winding hills and country highways with no names. We saw a
residential homestead every mile or so. We were, as anyone else would
have phrased it, in the middle of nowhere. That certainly did not
curtail us from not investigating a farmhouse property in the middle
of the woods. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">Mind
you, the speed limits were easily in their fifties when we blew past
this grey, rotting structure. It was a simple, two-story farmhouse,
randomly planted in a break in the woods. Naturally, we had to stop
and investigate. Now, my companion was a young lady a few inches
shorter than me and weighing ninety pounds at best. I am a lanky
young man, wielding only a digital camera. We were not exactly primed
for experiencing local, rustled residents who did not enjoy our
company, or any wild animals, at that. But we were determined to
explore the property that we nicknamed the </span><span lang="en-US"><i>Texas
Chainsaw </i></span><span lang="en-US">house.
</span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">I
turned around and parked (considering that we flew past it at
fifty-something miles an hour) and we got out. The house was not
lived in, but was locked up. It looked like there was a lot of
construction and home improvement equipment inside, through the
windows, but the second story bore a few panes of broken glass and
flowing curtains. Obviously, not a residence, but a still owned and
terribly maintained property. I hypothesized that someone inherited
it and used it for storage, but what do I know? As we wandered
around, we found a large barn in the back end of the lot. We walked
over to it and peeked inside. My friend was so turned off by what we
found inside that we immediately got back in the vehicle. We were
obviously foolhardy enough to explore the land, but even we knew our
limits when we found a recently lived in corner of the barn, complete
with dirty sheets and suggestive ropes hanging from the rafters. We
trekked onto the turnpike. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">We
drove through what appeared to be a small state park / camping area.
There were a few locked up cabins and we assumed that this was all
kosher. After all, what I had read online promised us that it was not
totally illegal to be here, that it was “official” hiking /
biking trails and the like. Now, two-three years later, I have
learned that that is not entirely the case, but at the time, the
paved roads and designated parking areas was all the confirmation I
needed. We got out, I made sure I had my pack, camera, and water, and
we were off. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">At
the time, this was the first day I was actually spending with my
companion, so there were all sorts of “awkward” injected into the
equation. What were we to expect? Were we both up to exploring these
dilapidated structures? What was her tolerance for the dark that
inevitably awaited us? Leave it to me to set up a “hike the
abandoned 13 miles of the PA turnpike as a first meeting” in a
friendship. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">So,
we started walking. It was a typical paved road, broken in some
places and a tad reclaimed by nature all over. We walked, excitedly
predicting what waited for us in the tunnels. Now, I am a person who
has had built up expectations for abandoned visits (See: Centralia,
PA) and was terribly let down, having created incredible fantasies
that were never promised, but that my mind created, and set me and my
companions up to be disappointed in. Well, the abandoned turnpike
provided nothing of the sort. We were adequately met with adventure. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">We
rounded a corner with a few minutes and saw the gaping maw of
concrete and darkness. It was a sight to behold and utterly
beautiful. You always imagine that these places, whatever abandoned
locales you wish to visit, will be normal structures, you know, farm
houses, residences, office buildings… you never expect to find an
entire length of </span><span lang="en-US"><i>turnpike
</i></span><span lang="en-US">desolate
and open to your exploring. Never do you expect to see such a major
project completely open-sourced and free for your browsing. But that
is exactly what these thirteen miles hold. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">As
we approached the mouth of the first cave, we flirted with the idea
of exploring the inside of the building, the actual office area and
whatnot. My partner was not thrilled with the idea but I pleaded. So,
we went inside. After hopping over a flooded first floor office, we
found an incredible piece of forgotten engineering. I honestly have
no idea what the large turbine-like structures actually did in their
day of use, but I imagine it had something to do with the airflow and
electricity in the tunnels. The most astonishing feature of the
building was that they went up three stories over the roadway and
held the most intricate layouts of design. I remember being stricken
with the most surreal sense of syncope and scope when we poked
through a doorway and found ourselves in a completely darkened room,
with dots of light lining the floor, every few feet of space apart
towards the darkness. We were standing </span><span lang="en-US"><i>on
top </i></span><span lang="en-US">of
the ceiling of the turnpike. The light we saw poked through from the
entrance. These were the spaces for the light bulbs and / or
ventilation back in the day. But to imagine that this open void that
we stood before stretched on for the duration of the tunnel before
us, open holes everywhere, was astounding. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">We
found our way back outside and actually on top of the structure and
went back to the mouth. Clutching hands, we trucked through the
darkness. The good thing about the first tunnel was our ability to
see either end of the tunnel and the light at either end. That is not
to say, however, that it was not terrifying to get to the midway
point in relative darkness and close your eyes for a minute. That is
exactly what we did. We stood, in silence, listening to the ambience
of the moment. The occasional drip. The nervous shuffle of your
friend. The pebble falling from above. Everything and nothing at
once. You opened your eyes to find yourself lost between two points
in time and space, between two points of light, fighting the
darkness. It was utterly incredible, beautiful, and breathtaking.
Even now, miles, hours, and years away, I find myself missing and
longing for the experience. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">We
kept walking and found ourselves through the tunnel. With a high-five
and an embrace of imperialism, we continued walking on after
exploring the other side’s offices. We reached the abandoned plaza
area, which, at the time, had already been demolished and cleared. We
sat in the parking lot area for a bit and shared a drink of water.
With the concern of losing daylight, we headed back. It was still
broad daylight, but with how long it took to clear the mile-plus
tunnels of darkness on foot, we did not want to risk it. On the way
back, we sat near the midpoint and waited for a couple of bikers with
headlamps to pass us, in hopes of not alarming them. I mean, imagine
that: riding your bike through an abandoned tunnel and finding two
skinny humanoid creatures in the darkness. Ha. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">We
successfully found our way back to the car and continued driving
through the hillside. Incredible. Miles of farmland and country,
graced only by the sunlight and permanent green that seemed to
overtake everything. We were getting hungry and saw a woman riding on
a tractor with a baby and small dog in the back. We joked that maybe
they could make us a picnic or something and we could all sit out on
these beautiful hills. We even stopped and helped a turtle cross the
road, worried that the little guy would be killed on the Mad Max
roadways. But, eventually, we stopped for lunch / dinner at a place
called the Scrub Ridge Inn. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">Now,
the place looked like a converted house, as if a couple of homeowners
would serve you lunch in their living room. That was precisely what
it was. A kind, quiet, older woman seated us in the “dining area”
and we sat. It was literally a small living room with a handful of
patio tables and plastic chairs. The bar area seemed to be “where
it was at” – one or two patrons sat at the bar and watched sports
on the televisions. The same woman who seated us took our orders. My
friend did not want anything in particular, so we shared a chicken
platter. It was more than satisfactory for our day hiking and we
enjoyed a quiet dinner, undisturbed by your typical nuisances
experienced in modern dining. At the time, we were both underage, but
we would have probably more-than-have-enjoyed drinking at the bar
with the bartender. It just seemed like that sort of place. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en-US">Further
research reveals that the actual “inn” portion of the business
fares pretty well during the hunting season and that warms my heart.
It did not seem like a lot of business would be out that way, so to
hear that those kind owners were finding financial viability was
wonderful. </span>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: inherit;">We
decided to head back to Jersey just before nightfall. The handfuls of
“truck bail-offs” on the winding roads was disheartening to say
the least. Just before we crossed the river, we stopped for gas. Mind
you, I was in a foreign vehicle (my brother’s / family’s
Explorer) and in New Jersey, we do not pump our own gas. So, we
stopped, literally in the last exit in Pennsylvania and spent a solid
five minutes staring at the gas pump, wondering why it was not
working. I realize that the gauge read “diesel” and we move up.
Man, that could have been terrible. We got gas and continued on.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: inherit;">Overall,
walking the abandoned turnpike was a wonderful experience. If you
have the interest in / opportunity to bike it, I certainly would. It
is a beautiful area and offers a peaceful escape from civilization. I
miss it to this day.</span><br />
<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abandoned_Pennsylvania_Turnpike" target="_blank">The Abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike on Wikipedia</a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.abandonedturnpike.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Turnpike's Official Website</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.briantroutman.com/highways/abandonedpaturnpike/trip.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Article from Brian Troutman's site</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.panoramio.com/photo/56724034" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Information about the Scrub Ridge Inn</span></a></div>
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