Showing posts with label weird nj. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weird nj. Show all posts

Monday, June 30, 2025

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.

Friday, April 25, 2025

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

Tuesday, March 11, 2025

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


 

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. 










Tuesday, February 4, 2025

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.

Friday, June 28, 2024

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. 

Friday, July 10, 2020

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.


Saturday, June 10, 2017

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.