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

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.

Mr. Wilkie's Cabin - South Jersey

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.

It Takes a Village - Letchworth Village, NY

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.

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 "done Watchung to death," 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.

The House at Hollymont

The child with black eyes, Tobin, lives under this room.

The Deer Lure - Central Jersey

Certain 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.

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.

Lacey Bridge - Linden, TX

It 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.

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.

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.

Camp Meta - Central Jersey

No, 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.

The Frontier - Upstate New York

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.

The Porcelain Brother - Central Jersey

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.

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 Office Space’d a television monitor, as the electrical detritus and broken glass spattered the lot around the Escape.