Jersey

CHAPTER ONE: THE MYTH

Commodore Stephen Decatur, a Navy hero of the early 19th century, tested cannonballs at a firing range when he witnessed a strange creature flying across the sky. He fired and hit the beast, but it kept flying across the field. The former king of Spain and brother of Napoleon, Joseph Bonaparte, spotted the Jersey Devil in Bordentown, New Jersey, while he was on a hunt.

Between 1840 and 1841, dozens of sheep and chickens were killed by a creature with a shrill scream, leaving behind unexplained tracks. Sometime between 1859 and 1894, the Jersey Devil was seen carrying off livestock and other small creatures in Haddonfield, Bridgeton, Smithville, Long Branch, Brigantine, and Leeds Point. W. F. Prince, the mayor of New York, noticed that most locals did not venture out after dark because they were too afraid of encountering the Jersey Devil. The devil was witnessed by George Saarosy, a respected businessman, at the New York/New Jersey border. This was the last known sighting before the turn of the century.

In the year 1903, Charles Skinner, author of American Myths and Legends, stated that the legend of the devil had run its course, and that the residents of New Jersey would hear no more of it in the new century. For six years, there were no reported sightings of the devil, until the week of January 16–23, 1909. During that week, the devil left its tracks across South Jersey and most of Philadelphia. Close to two hundred people reported seeing it. This was the largest reported appearance in its long history.

Thack Cozzens of Woodbury, New Jersey, witnessed a mysterious beast with glowing eyes flying down the street. In Bristol, Pennsylvania, John Mcowen heard and saw the strange creature on the banks of the canal, sniffing the air before flying away. Patrolman James Sackville fired at the howling creature as it flew over his head. E. W. Minster, Postmaster of Bristol, Pennsylvania, saw a bird-like creature with a horse’s head that didn’t sound human or like any animal he had ever heard.

In the morning, the residents of Bristol found hoofprints in the snow, circling the area. Two local hunters and trappers said they had never seen tracks like those before. The very next week, the Lowden family of Burlington, New Jersey, found hoofprints in their backyard and around their trash, which was partially consumed. Every yard in Burlington was covered with these mysterious hoofprints. The prints climbed trees, spanned across rooftops, and vanished in the middle of open fields. The same tracks were found in Columbus, Hedding, Kinkora, and Rancocas. A hunt was organized to follow the tracks, but the dogs wouldn't follow the trail, no matter how hard the owners tried.

A quote from a New Jersey resident at the time: “We thought it was over in 1909. We were so wrong."

CHAPTER TWO: THE BROTHER

If you are feeling suicidal, please listen to me. I do not want to make you feel any worse than you already do. I am not a therapist or other mental health professional. I’m only a person who understands pain, suffering, and not knowing what to do about it. I don't know who you are or why you are reading this section, but you are here, alive. I believe you are here because life has gotten too much for you to handle. I understand and I’m sorry for your pain. I wish I could be there with you, right now, face-to-face and heart-to-heart. I hope what I have to offer will help.

I know a lot of people who have wanted to end their lives, so I have a good idea of what you might be dealing with. I will keep this short and to the point. While we are together here for the next few moments, please consider your loved ones, and the people who support you. I'd like to ask you to stay with me for the rest of this article. Let’s begin with this.

Suicide is not the best option; it feels like the only option when pain outweighs love.

***

Ivan had read enough. A hot tear fell onto the keyboard. He swiped it from his reddened cheeks. Ivan’s knees buckled, and for a moment, he almost collapsed on the wooden floor. The moonlight spilled through the attic window, illuminating the two beds and casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the full moon hung in a cloudless sky. Ivan closed the webpage, realizing what he needed to do.

He took a shaky breath and tiptoed over to his bed, covered by a checkered quilt. It reminded him of a villain who disemboweled his victims with a clawed glove from an ‘80s slasher film. He had to sleep with the light on because of it. Monroe had noticed one night and came to stand over his bed, reeking of alcohol. Monroe was a tall man with the strength of ten of them, and a rugged mug that wore the battles of military service overseas. He grabbed Ivan by the bridge of his nose and dragged him out of bed, telling him he was raising a pussy. Fear taught him to stay silent. Ivan never dared to speak out of turn, not just for his safety, but also for his little brother’s.

Ivan had no choice but to embrace his fear, but doing so eventually led to his escape. Instead of being afraid, he found solace in the qualities of the monsters who resembled his pain. A tortured monster coming back for revenge? Ivan could get with that. A man done wrong? Fine with Ivan.

He passed this obsession on to his little brother in hopes that he wouldn’t be afraid like him, and that it would keep their abusive father away.

He rubbed the fine fabric of his quilt, enjoying its softness and the tingling sensation against his fingertips. He stopped, admiring the full moon from his window. Ivan's chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm, a sharp contrast to the stillness of the room. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs to calm their shaking, but his fingers only trembled harder, tapping out a frantic, silent beat against the worn fabric of his pajamas. An old-fashioned silver radio sat on his brown desk, with those dingy buttons whose springs would break when pressed, sending the button right into his face. This radio, however, stood the test of time.

He picked up the radio and unplugged it, rolling the cord up. The motion reminded him of wrapping his little brother in a white blanket as a baby. It was often cold in the attic, when their father wouldn’t turn on the heat—and he’d made it his mission to make his brother comfortable, even if he wasn’t. Clutching the radio, he tiptoed through the bedroom.

He reached the attic door, set into the floor. He'd suggested sharing this room with his brother. He thought it would be fun to climb up the stairs to the one place where he could find some peace. Ivan unlocked the latch and slowly lowered the ladder to the floor below.

His brother was still sound asleep, covered from head to toe with the comforter. “I love you,” he mouthed before descending the stairs.

Once down, Ivan cautiously lifted the ladder and closed it, but it made a clicking sound that might have woken someone. He stopped. One foot still lifted, a mid-step, he listened for the creak of a floorboard, a shift of a mattress, anything. For a brief moment, nothing. Ivan released a deep sigh. He made his way to the bathroom in the dark. Luckily, it was right next to the attic, so he didn’t have to walk far. It was so close he could have jumped inside through the open door.

Ivan turned on the light. With his hand raised, he blocked the light, so his eyes could adjust. Once they had, he placed the radio on the bathroom sink and closed the door. The bathroom was big enough to fit three people for a bath, toothbrush session, and a drunken shit. Ivan turned around and ran the bathwater. As it hit the tub, Ivan crossed the floor in three steps, turned the lock until it clicked, and put his back against the door.

Ivan waited, watching the water fill the tub. He remembered his dad holding his head under that very faucet, the cold porcelain edge digging into his throat, until his thrashing slowed and the water in his lungs felt heavier than any lesson. Ivan kept thinking, “It was just a fucking jacket.”

Ivan knocked the back of his head against the door and grabbed the radio. He plugged it into the socket that lay under the bathroom window. He then placed the radio on the edge of the bathtub. He got undressed as the water was running, throwing his clothes on the floor. Then, he stopped the water.

He stood upright, looking into the still water. Ivan didn't blink or twitch. He stared blankly at the bottom of the white tub. Ivan sucked in a deep breath, lifted one leg, and dipped it into the water. He brought his other leg into the water and submerged himself. Ivan turned on the radio but kept the volume at zero. Then, he wrapped his arms around his knees, hugging them close to his chest. He rocked back and forth, breathing in and out rapidly. Suddenly…he stopped.

Still. Motionless. Moments went by. No movement. Then…

CHAPTER THREE: A MOTHER AND CHILD

It was a special, wonderful day—one this mother would never forget!

The sun was shining brightly. She thought to herself, “How tricky the sun could be, little bastard.”

Despite how beautiful it looked during winter, it could leave you with a bitter chill. She used to love watching her son, Jeremy, play in the grass. He focused his time and energy on playing with his action figures and toys as if the cold didn’t bother him. The mother stood there watching from her sliding door—her son, her all, her beloved. But today, the feeling wasn’t mutual.

She checked the weather forecast, and it said that it would be below freezing. Jeremy didn’t care, though. He would rather freeze than wear those horrid jeans. She told him that it was for his own good, but he didn’t listen. He hadn't looked at her once since she mentioned the jeans.

“That little snob,” she said under her breath. She imagined, just for a moment, grabbing him by his shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattled. It was a goddamn shame that she and Herald couldn’t give him a sibling to play with. Maybe his social skills would be better, and he wouldn't be on the spectrum.

She had once seen a mom with her son at the mall. The son was clinging to his mother's hand, whispering jokes into her ear between fits of giggles. She watched them share a pretzel, the mother wiping salt from the boy's smiling mouth with her thumb. Now, staring at her son's back as he ignored her, she felt the ghost of that pretzel salt like it was sprinkled into a fresh wound. She rubbed his side. He flinched, but he didn't look up, just rolled his eyes skyward and continued to smash his toys together.

“What are you playing with?” she asked her spoiled child.

“The Blue Ranger, stupid!” Jeremy yelled.

She clenched her teeth. “Don’t go to jail. Don’t go to jail. This boy is testing the wrong mother. Calm yourself, girl. Just chill. Shake it off like Taylor Swift.” She slid her tongue over her lips and fixed her hair. “Can I play with you?”

“No!” he muttered.

“Yep, still pissed,” she thought.

“You’ll break it!” he shouted.

“Watch your tone, little boy. You hear me?” she scolded.

He nodded. She grabbed his chin and pulled him close. “Mommy loves you.” She stood up, waiting for a response. He turned his attention back to his toys. “Are you hungry? I’ll bring you something out.” He kept his eyes on the Blue Ranger, turning it over in his hands like she wasn't standing there. “Fine.” She smiled and walked back to the house.

She stopped halfway to the patio door. The back of her neck prickled. Somewhere behind her, out in the yard or maybe in the trees past it, a branch snapped—she turned, and saw nothing. “Am I paranoid? Maybe. Hell, with what’s going on, I’m not taking any chances. He, she, whatever it is, better keep that shit in the woods and not show up here.”

She opened the patio door and closed it softly. She leaned against the cold glass, her breath fogging a small patch on the door. Her fingers traced the shape of a heart in the condensation, then smeared it away. The mother walked to the kitchen table and slipped, her legs flying apart into a split.

She winced, pushing herself upright with both hands on the cold tiles. She checked out the bottom of her shoe and saw something disgusting. “What the fuck is under my shoe?”

The mother took the shoe off and grabbed a piece of tissue. It was pink, moist, and had a fleshy texture. She ripped it off her shoe and threw it in the trash. Getting Jeremy snacks calmed her down, but her thoughts turned to the murders. “How can a person do those things? Who would want to cut up people like that and spray their organs around like it’s a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? Fucking psycho.”

She walked outside, thinking about what kind of asshole the police would be dealing with. She hoped they would catch whoever was responsible before they entered town. She didn’t want to think about anyone doing that to her child. She would have to become a killer herself.

She rushed to Jeremy with snacks. Jeremy sat there, frozen, staring into the trees. “Would you like some snacks?” He didn’t say a word. “What are you looking at?”

She looked up, a scream tearing from her throat. There were mangled remains of a man hanging from her tree. His head was stuck on a branch, with the branch poking through his eye socket. His intestines and bile were splattered over the tree like a Christmas decoration.

Blind panic took over. She couldn’t keep the vomit from exploding out of her mouth, so she fled for the door, almost forgetting her stubborn son. She scooped him up and ran for the patio. She threw the door open, then slammed it shut, bracing it with all her weight. When she looked outside, the wind was blowing fiercely, sending body parts into her backyard.

CHAPTER FOUR: FRIENDS FOREVER

The wind howled, scattering dead leaves around the town of Mays Landing. Dirty snow blanketed the sidewalks and rooftops, leaving the streets so poorly plowed that cars crawled through the slushy asphalt. Sean walked along the salted sidewalk toward Massay’s house. The neighborhood was only four streets, but the houses had new vinyl siding and solar panels on every roof. The stylish decorations of each home showcased their culture, style, and political beliefs.

There was one house that was painted pink and yellow. Every time Sean walked past the house with his sister, he would ask, “Why would someone paint their house like that?”

“Because they’re probably colorblind. Seeing all kinds of shit. I mean, look at how they dress themselves. Nothing but a mess,” his sister usually responded. Sean went quiet in the same way a library does—deliberately, like a rule being followed.

At home, his family screamed over each other at the dinner table, and his father's laugh shook the walls. His mother would clap her hands when she wanted everybody to listen, which never worked. Sean would sit at the edge of the table, eating slowly, watching. They loved him, and he knew it. They just never seemed to wonder what he was thinking.

His clean-cut appearance reminded people of a young Chris Tucker during his "Friday " film. He came from an African American family who prided themselves on surviving the hellscape that is Paterson, New Jersey, and the “Let’s Make America Great Again” regime. After his father got lucky with the Cash for Life lottery, he decided to move them to a safer place—Mays Landing, where the only thing that could scare them was the stories of the Jersey Devil.

Sean’s school life was just as shitty. His peers saw him as an easy target because he always backed down, and his family told him to stop being a punk—a word that cut him deep. It was on this point that he and Massay were nothing alike.

Despite being the laughingstock of the town, Massay wasn’t taking their shit. “Mays Landing can kiss my ass!” Massay once shouted. Sean, however, kept his mouth shut and eyes on the floor when teachers raised their voices. One time in gym class, a kid shoved him into the lockers and Sean did nothing, even though he imagined kicking his ass all the way home.

Sean heard a siren coming from across the street. “What the fuck now?”

Farther down the street, a woman burst from her home, stumbling onto the road. She hysterically pointed to her backyard. The cops jumped out of their cruiser, trying to calm her down, but it did not help. Sean watched as he walked up the street to Massay’s house.

The woman hurried the cops inside. Sean stopped and observed the ruckus. He shook his head and continued his walk to Massay’s home. He stopped at the bottom of the brick steps. Sean stared at the lion's head door knocker, its brass mouth frozen in a silent roar. The eyes were two chips of cloudy yellow glass, and one of the fangs was chipped, giving it a lop-sided snarl. He smacked his lips together and walked up the salted brick steps.

Sean used the knocker on the cherry-colored door. Sean stood there and waited, tapping his shoe against the steps. After a few moments, the door opened. Jenny’s skin was pale like milk, her eyes green as fresh grass. Jenny always reminded him of a scared princess waiting to be rescued. The home held its breath, a silent plea in the creak of the floorboards, the way the door knocker's lion seemed to snarl for a savior.

“Is Massay home?” Sean asked.

Jenny nodded. “He’s in the attic.” She stepped aside, so Sean could walk in, jittery and uncomfortable in her own leathery skin. She folded her arms. “Would you like something to drink or eat? I have last night’s dinner in the fridge if you would like a bite?”

Sean shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no, perhaps later.”

Jenny smirked and lowered her eyes to the wooden tiles. She stared at them, seemingly lost in the bland color scheme.

Sean snapped his fingers at her. “Are you okay?”

She raised her eyes and gave a warm grin. “Of course.”

Jenny stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter without losing her smile. Sean smiled back, then cut his eyes away from her. He strolled in, but Jenny kept her gaze on him. Sean felt her eyes stalking him, tying knots in his stomach.

This didn’t usually happen. She had always been off—smiling when no one was looking, mumbling to herself when she thought no one was watching. This time, though, the knots did hurt.

Sean walked into a dimly lit hallway, leading to the second floor. To Sean’s left was the living room, which was decorated in goth-like style: dark-colored couches, antique decor featuring dragons, mythical creatures, and paintings of monsters hung on the walls.

Jenny folded her hands behind her back and watched as Sean walked toward the stairway. He turned around, but before he could speak, “This way,” she uttered. Startled, Sean jumped back, almost losing his bookbag from his shoulder. “Did I scare you?” Sean fixed his bookbag and gave a short, dismissive shake of his head. “It’s okay. I don’t bite,” she said without losing her smile.

Jenny strutted up the stairs, running her fingernails along the handrail. “Follow me, young one.”

Sean licked his lips and swallowed, the painful knot in his stomach pulling tighter, but his feet carried him up the stairs behind her regardless. He couldn’t help but look at her backside. “For a woman who was damaged, her ass sure wasn’t.” He peeked up and saw her looking back out of the corner of her eye, smiling.

“Everything good back there, Sean?”

“Yes, mi—miss. Always,” Sean stuttered.

Jenny chuckled. Realizing that he had been caught, Sean broke into a sweat, his forehead and armpits damp. “Is she on meds? Off meds? Horny? Or just fucked in the head?” Sean never asked, believing it was none of his business, but he couldn’t make sense of her. “Does she want me to stare? No, Sean, what the fuck?”

He focused on the old house and the squeaking sound that the steps made when someone walked on them. The house was very old, built in the 1920s. He thought about how many feet had walked these steps, causing them to talk to him in a wooden language. They reached the top of the stairway and walked to the middle of the second-floor hallway.

The parents’ room was farther down, and the bathroom door was closed. There weren’t any family pictures on the walls, just gothic-style paintings of witches and demons. One painting had a devil-like creature with horns and claws for hands, tearing a man’s head off. Sean stared at the painting for a few moments, stunned by its violence. He didn’t realize Jenny was staring at him with that eerie smile of hers.

Without taking her eyes off of Sean, she reached up and pulled down the attic’s door handle. The sound of the door opening knocked Sean out of his trance, and he locked eyes with the mother. The door opened and the brown wooden steps unfolded onto the floor. “Have fun,” she said to Sean as she walked down the hallway. Sean looked back slightly to catch the last glance of her.

Sean climbed up the ladder into Massay’s room. He pulled the ladder up, folding into the attic. Sean almost locked it when— “Don’t. She’ll bang if it’s locked,” Massay said.

Massay was as pale as his mother but with dirty blonde hair and eyes so black it was like looking into the abyss. He was the same height as Sean and the same age, eighteen years old. He had a more muscular build to him, though. Massay didn’t lift any weights to get his frame. He was naturally built this way.

Massay had a taste for gothic attire, probably inherited from his family. Massay would never be caught dead wearing anything other than black, red, blue, and sometimes white. He and Sean were both high school seniors studying film, and they shared a taste for horror. Massay lay on his back, facing a 55-inch LED TV with a switchblade in his right hand. He gently rubbed the surface of his left hand with the tip of the blade, spinning it in a circular motion.

Sean walked over to the bed. “It’s fucking freezing out.”

“Welcome to winter,” Massay said.

Sean dropped the backpack next to the bed. He sat right next to Massay, gawking at the knife. “Still playing with that fucking blade. I swear, if you cut yourself, I’m fucking laughing.”

Massay softly rubbed the tip of the blade against his skin, spinning it around with diligence. Sean eyes fixed on the point of the blade as it circled Massay's skin. The air in the attic felt thin, sharp as the blade's edge. Sean’s throat tightened, and he swallowed against a dry tongue. “You still want to do it in three months?”

Massay stopped playing with the blade and sat up. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? Don’t back out on me now. We are so close.”

Sean tried to say, “I know, but it’s just, I don’t know if I want—”

Massay interjected. “Don’t chicken out right now! I need you. Besides, we have three whole months to plan.” Massay put the blade on the bed and gave Sean’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Come on, Sean. Friends forever!” Massay stuck out his right hand. A three-inch cut ran across his palm. He held it out, waiting for Sean to do the same. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”

Sean put out his right hand, which bore the same scar. Their hands embraced with the scar touching each other. For three seconds, they were connected as one.

“So, did you bring the rest of the stuff?” Massay asked.

“Yeah, it’s in the backpack,” Sean said.

Massay jumped up with excitement, eyes locked on the backpack. “Our film class is going to go bonkers for our short.”

“Let’s hope so,” Sean said.

Massay jumped off the bed and dragged Sean to the door. Massay opened the attic door and the steps unfolded. “Come on, pretty boy,” Massay joked. Sean shook his head and followed Massay back to the second floor. Massay ran into the bathroom but shut the door before Sean could enter.

“What the fuck, dude?” Sean said.

“I’m getting ready!” Massay shouted through the door.

“Ugh, fine,” Sean said, annoyed.

“Give me two minutes or go talk to mommy dearest,” Massay muttered.

“Fuck you,” Sean said under his breath.

“I heard that,” Massay replied.

“Good.” Then, Sean’s eyes were drawn back to the violence of the devil painting. Sean stared at the decapitated head and the spinal cord attached to it. “Wicked.”

BOOM!

Something slammed against the parents’ door from inside. Sean froze, his breath catching in his throat.

BOOM!

He heard laughter and whispering. Sean tried to tiptoe toward the parents’ door, but the wooden boards kept giving away his presence. He stopped suddenly when he heard a scream, followed by laughter. “What the hell? Mrs—”

“I’m ready!” Massay shouted.

Sean shook his head. “Thank God.” He walked back to the bathroom, opening the door. Massay was stretched out in the water-filled bathtub, engulfed in bubbles. The bubbles surrounded his entire body with the exception of his head and a few patches of his shoulder. Massay’s right leg was draped over the edge of the bathtub, showing off his black-painted toenails.

“I can’t believe you painted your toenails,” Sean teased.

Massay stuck out his tongue and waved his middle finger in the air like the perfect juvenile degenerate. Sean picked up a black video camera from his bag. The camera was brand new, glossy, and had white stripes along its frame. He turned it on and placed it back down. He picked up an unplugged radio from the bathroom floor and turned back to Massay.

“You’re not going to jump out of the tub, are you?” Sean asked with a bit of suspicion.

“No, I promise,” Massay said with a wide grin.

Sean returned the middle finger to him. He then dropped the radio into the tub. Sean picked up the camera and filmed Massay as he performed his electrocution. Massay had foam coming out of his mouth, making gurgling sounds. Sean steadied his trembling hands and kept filming.

Then, Massay stopped. “Are you ready for the next scene?”

Sean stopped filming and lowered the camera. “What other scene?”

Massay smiled, similar to his mother. “I’ll get the stuff.” Massay got up, splashing bathwater on the floor.

Sean covered his eyes. “Motherfucker!” Massay didn’t respond, and walked out of the bathroom. Sean followed him with his eyes covered.

***

The night had fallen around these two young men. The moonlight cut through the curtains, causing the shadows to dance throughout the room. Sean’s video camera lay on the white kitchen floor. Massay drew a fake knife across Sean’s throat. The fake blood slithered out of a slit in the prop knife, thick and crimson. Sean’s eyes rolled back in his head. He had a deathly grin on his face that he gladly showed the filming lens.

In Massay’s bedroom, Sean filmed Massay cutting off his fake fingers at his computer desk. Fake blood gushed out of the fingers each time they got cut off. The blood splattered across the computer screen. Massay picked up one of his cut-off fingers and popped it in his mouth. He chewed it vigorously before vomiting on the floor. Pieces of his fingers and what he ate for dinner lay on the floor with a sparkling effect added.

THE GIANT GILA MONSTER

Sean ran down Massay’s second-floor hallway. The video camera had its night vision turned on. As he ran through the dark hall, Sean tripped. The camera slid down the wooden boards and spun around, facing Sean. The camera captured him getting eaten alive by a zombie Massay. Massay’s face was caked with white makeup and badly drawn lesions. Blood dripped from his mouth.

Sean’s fake blood and guts flew everywhere. He let out one horrifying scream after another. Massay pretended to eat his organs like a hungry lion attacking its prey. Massay stopped and looked into the camera. He let out an animalistic growl and spat at the screen. Massay and Sean continued to act out different methods of killing one another throughout the night. Massay found great pleasure in this while Sean had a hard time stomaching it.

***

Massay’s parents were in their dimly lit room, talking about what was happening out there. Monroe lay on the bed while Jenny looked out the bedroom window, holding a cup of tea in one hand and twisting a strand of her damaged hair in the other.

“It’s fine, honey. Don’t worry about it,” Jenny said, softly.

“They better hurry the fuck up,” Monroe added.

Jenny's expression turned sour. She stopped twisting her hair, and chugged the rest of her tea. She placed the empty teacup on the nightstand, turned off the light, and curled up under the white bedsheets and comforter. “Nice and toasty.”

Monroe folded his hands behind his head and sucked his teeth. “Time’s up.”

You can purchase the book and/or the cinematic audiobook at www.tdrussell.com