The Holy, Holy, Holy Altar

South Jersey is a weird place. That is partially why I love it. Obviously.

There are loads of Revolutionary War locales and significant pieces of both state and national history. Not to mention the birthplace of our beloved Jersey Devil in the Pine Barrens, the bizarre ecological environment native only to our New Jersey. It's a place that both inspires and creeps out tourists. It's sort of a rite of passage to get lost on the long "country" highways through the scraggy woods. During the Monolith days, we spent plenty of time just driving and getting lost ourselves. Before then, late night summer drives, desperately and unsuccessfully looking for pieces of urban legend and folklore was a staple.

Looking back at the places I've written about on this page, something kind of shocked me. I would have guessed that a majority of these stories took place in South Jersey. But there are actually a lacking few. Most of them involve the northern part of the state or even the Pocono Mountains. I couldn't believe it.

So that brings us to a place called Mount Holly where, of course, you can find something weird in the woods. In remedying that - - -

The Candle Shoppe of the Poconos

There are countless weird things on the side of the road in our beloved Poconos. The mountains cover an area of Pennsylvania across the river from the Delaware Water Gap. Growing up, they were a magical place where my family would spend time every winter. We even dipped our toes in (pun intended?) on their summertime offerings, which extended to water parks and other outdoor attractions to a lesser extent. But the Pocono Mountains during the Christmas season are unbeatable. 

I do not remember the first time that I saw the Candle Shoppe. As a kid, I'm not sure there would have been anything terribly remarkable about the building, besides it being another charming piece of the whole that made up the region. But as an adult, and one who frequently drove through the area, it was hard to now miss the literal giant monkey skull that jutted out of the back of the building, only slightly hidden at the bottom of the dipping parking lot. Now what in the hell is that about? 

The American Treasure Tour Museum

Sometimes, it can be easy to be a bit cynical about being an American. When I was more engaged and outrage-addicted to social media, I wouldn't find much of an argument when international friends would tease that America doesn't have its own cultural identity besides war, money, and McDonalds. A horrific and grim "joke," but one that I think upset people so easily because they could feel the stinging introspection it elicits. I deeply love history, learning local lore, and visiting all of our natural treasures... I want to always embrace them and learn and share in that richness... but I'm reminded of other posts I've seen online, again (and always) posted in a depressing light, of schoolchildren sharing what they think of when asked about their country, and then seeing loads of crudely drawn brand logos, such as Starbucks, Apple, and the aforementioned McDonalds.

An allegedly haunted doll greets all visitors to the museum

Is this really what our children view as their culture? Brands? It was a dismal thought. But I dug into it a bit deeper and tried to find some positivity in that realization. Sure, in late-stage capitalism, corporations have of course forced themselves into some sort of pseudo-religious grip over the masses and overconsumption seems to be the hallmark of all "trends" online, but was it always like this? I think in any society geared first and foremost towards serving capital, that is a natural conclusion. But I think it's easier to find novelty and sincerity around marketing the further back you go in history.

My Weird Collection - Ouija Boards

For a few reasons, Ouija boards are one of my favorite things in the world. I wanted to use the word "favorite toy," but there are some out there who wouldn't like the usage, or at the least disagree with it. Calling them a "decoration" is entirely too reductive, yet straight up proclaiming them as supernatural objects is too incendiary. It may even be something I might not even feel is accurate. 

The confusion and uncertainty that it is presenting me in trying to even write about it sort of paints the feeling of why they are so interesting to me and why I love them so much in the first place. They're spiritual talking boards to some, toys to others, portals to hell for the more-excitable religious types, and some combination of that whole mess to people like me. 

A Danielewski Homage & Book “Review”

I am incredibly excited to share this with you. Even if: this is not for you. Couldn't think of a better day to finally put it out there than on my birthday. 

A few months back, I was lucky enough to receive an advance copy of Mark Z. Danielewski’s upcoming book, Tom’s Crossing. I was over the moon. Still might be. Obviously, his House of Leaves had left a profound impact on me and my work. This experience was something special. 

It’s a Western epic and, at its heart, a ghost story. Its tagline is: no one talks to the dead for free. I’ll leave it at that for now. But from the moment I learned that I was going to be a part of this incredible opportunity, I knew that I had to memorialize it somehow, while also “getting the word out,” as the publisher requested that I do in the letter I received alongside the book. 

This is me fulfilling that obligation. 

I hope fans of MZD and his canon, as well as those who might have enjoyed mine and ours, can gain something from this project. It certainly meant a lot to me. Please share if you enjoy the ride. 

something on the doorstep//allways

Crossing the Waters to St. Hubert's Chapel - Kinnelon, New Jersey

I don't think that I've ever found an abandoned location close enough to me that was accessible only by boat. And it's unlikely that I will find such a place again any time soon. 

St. Hubert's Chapel is this place, almost forgotten.  

When I had first seen images of the chapel, I thought that it was a pretty enough property. When I learned that it was in the middle of a lake, I may have leaned forward in my chair. Thoughts immediately circulated, how far away from it was I, what was security like, could I reach the island with a pair of fisherman's waders, and plenty of other nonsensical things. I let the manic excitement simmer for a bit and did some more digging.

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