Where Two Borders Met and Something Stayed - Province Line Road, New Jersey

You could drive down Province Line Road a hundred times and never consider anything out of the ordinary. Most people do. I had. It’s mostly plain stretches of road that are rural and unremarkable, hemmed in by trees and scattered homes. But its name isn’t poetic or nostalgic. It’s literal. It marks the historical dividing line between the two proprietary colonies that once made up the state: East Jersey and West Jersey.

Today, we argue over what constitutes North, South, and my old stomping grounds (neglected in this regard), Central Jersey. East and West are never in the conversation, it is merely a historical divide. One nearly forgotten, though some controversial attempts have been made to re-legitimize said boundaries.

What’s less documented about Province Line Road, what lives in the gaps between town folklore and family genealogy, are the personal accounts of those whose own histories intersect with the road over various points in their lives. Stories that don’t show up in archives, but come out in local diners, night drives with loved ones, online forums, or the knowing looks on my friends’ faces when I tell them that I, once again, had unknowingly ended up on Province Line Road.

Province Line Road, New Jersey

New Year's Day in Concrete City

There is something about the new year that makes you want to do something different. Some people make resolutions, some sleep off the hangover, something I haven’t had to do for almost nine years now… but this year, I decided to spend the first morning of the year walking with loved ones through the remains of a forgotten company town. Echoes of a New Year past…

Concrete City, 2025

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Concrete City, near Nanticoke, Pennsylvania, is not much of a city anymore. There are anywhere from sixteen to twenty-two (depending on who you ask) identical, crumbling concrete houses standing in a quiet patch of woods on top of a rocky, muddy hilltop off of a county highway. Built in 1911 by the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad’s coal division (that entity sure does show up a lot in my creative work and in my travels through this weird, weary world), it was meant to be the future of worker housing: entirely sturdy, fireproof, and modern. Each home had indoor plumbing and electricity, a rare luxury for miners at the time. But the reality didn’t match the vision. The thick concrete walls made the homes freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer, and poor drainage led to constant issues with flooding. A waking nightmare. 

By 1924, just thirteen years after it was built, Concrete City was abandoned. When the Glen Alden Coal Company took over property, they deemed the settlement too expensive to maintain. Demolishing it proved nearly impossible. A large amount of dynamite was used in an attempt to tear down just one house, and it barely left a dent. Rather than waste more resources, the company simply walked away, leaving Concrete City to slowly decay. There’s a lesson to be learned there. Sometimes the only winning move is not to play. 

Walking through it on New Year’s morning, it felt frozen in time. It was also freezing us to the core, as it was cold as anything out and raining. The graffiti-covered walls tell their own stories, coated over by decades of explorers, taggers, and those who just wanted to leave something behind. Trees and vines creep through the cracks, making it feel like the forest is slowly swallowing the place whole. In the center of the site is a large, water-filled pit, a perfect (if murky) mirror of the overcast sky. They say that it used to be a central water feature, a fountain. 

There are no confirmed records of any deaths occurring in Concrete City while it was occupied, but there’s one persistent legend. People say a young boy drowned in that fountain’s pool during its heyday. Or he fell and gravely injured his head. Some say they’ve heard soft splashing or children’s laughter when no one else is around. During our visit, towards the end, we stood in the center of that field, under the hail, flurries, and frigid rain, taking in a panoramic view of the still-standing buildings. There was some discomfort there, a palpable silence, but that may have just been the elements. 

For both our spiritual selves and to leave an unobstructive mark of our visit, an invisible landmark just for us, we held a small circle of intent. In our traditional visit to the mega-Walmart on our way in (somehow, unfortunately, a staple of our visits to the mountains), we had bought simple white candles in addition to our wares. (The ladies also blew a few dollars on lottery tickets, but I’ll just consider that a gift to the State of Pennsylvania.) For the new year, we stood in a circle, thought of our intentions, goals, and dreams for this fresh start, and lit our candles, taking in the moment. In the living room of one of the gutted concrete homes, we had found a pentagram spray-painted on the floor. A common sight at places like this. We saw it fitting to reappropriate it for this practice. Plus, the location helped to partially obstruct the swirling winds outside. After a few moments in silence, one such gust tore through the building and snuffed each of our candles out simultaneously. My buddy looked up and said, “Well, I guess that’s that.” I suppose (or rather, choose to believe that) that was nature’s way of acknowledging us. 

Concrete City was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1998, but no preservation efforts have been made. The buildings, though cracked and worn, remain standing—ironically, the very thing that doomed the project in the first place has made it nearly indestructible and still holding on, over a hundred years later.

By the time we were leaving, we were really feeling the cold and precipitation. It would be a lot more palatable to visit in the spring, however, I’m thinking that the humidity and insects are likely a very present nuisance. Take it from me. 

Concrete City may be abandoned, but it doesn’t feel empty. None of these places ever do. It still holds onto its history, its myths, and the traces of everyone who has ever passed through. There’s an old Russian belief, one that I’ve oft-referenced before, that what you do on New Year’s Day is an indication of how you are going to spend the rest of the year. 

Can’t really complain about that possibility, really. Not much else beats loved ones and abandoned history. 

 Note: after revising and editing this draft, I realized something serendipitous. The last time that we had urban explored on New Year’s Day ended up being the year that I got sober. Hopefully honoring the Russian tradition is as productive and bountiful as it was the last time. 

Meeting Robert the Doll in Key West

A topic that I’ve dwelled on in previous writing, both on this page and elsewhere (especially in my creative work), is whether people or places are the strongest vessels for what we considered “haunted” – rarely have I explored “things” as the source of such energy. Seems to have been an oversight on my part as the “cursed item,” such as a necklace or a mirror, are such keystones in horror and fiction. I simply haven’t come across such pieces or sought them out. Ignoring my Ouija board collection. But at the Fort East Martello Museum in Key West, I came face-to-face with “haunted” royalty, wandering a chill, brick corridor where a glass case holds something (or someone?) of legend: Robert the Doll.

Known as one of the most haunted objects in the world, Robert has become a must-see for anyone in love with the weird. As much as I dislike beaches and hot weather, Key West is somehow one of my favorite places in this great blue world of ours. I thought I had seen all of the whimsical and weird Key West had to offer in previous visits, but meeting Robert was something that I had somehow missed. 

Robert the Doll in Key West, Florida

This recent meeting is one that I’ll not soon forget.

Ghost Hunting at the Moon River Brewing Company

There are places that become uniquely legendary, if this page is any indication of the sort. When I was a kid, and I was first falling in love with the program Ghosthunters and everything in that world of the weird, a few of their prominent locations would forever be branded on me: magical, haunted places that I knew existed, but felt unlikely to ever see with my own eyes. 

The Moon River Brewing Company, Savannah, Georgia

This last year, I was fortunate enough to be proven wrong. 

Visiting Big Rusty in South Jersey

I had first seen the gentle giant on a recent cover of Weird NJ. Their cover art always features unique scenes from across our great state. Of course, I get new copies as soon as possible, but most of the time they are always first added to my continuously growing to-be-read pile instead of being immediately devoured. In this case, I did not have the chance to learn about the creature until I had already met them. That might be a Weird NJ first for this traveler. 

Nonetheless, the story is quite straightforward: in Hainesport, New Jersey, there is a giant troll made of scrap metal who lives in the woods, just off of a highway and guarding an abandoned pottery shop. 

An evening with the author of House of Leaves

In late March I was fortunate enough to attend a rare speaking event featuring the author of House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski. Anyone familiar with my work and interests knows how significant this was to me. The event was hosted at Bryn Mawr College near Philadelphia and an online friend of many years sent the announcement to me in passing. It wasn't highly advertised. I never would have known about it for this message and I'm eternally grateful for their thinking of me.

The host of the event, a professor, had an idea for a project (of which I'm curious to see how it turns out) by providing a litany of secondhand books to attendees of the events. We were to jot down notes and thoughts in the books as we listened to Z. speak, and then the books would be turned into a massive, physical piece of art. At a certain point though, I stopped taking notes that would contribute to this interesting piece and took out my phone to write down things I found significant for myself to think on later. These pieces and stray thoughts are what I'm recollecting now. Some are direct quotes and some are things I inferred from the public conversation. One way or another, it was a night to remember. 

The Shadow on the Road - Leroy, West Virginia

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.

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.