This Horrific Life: Night Riding
In which our heroes return to the weirdest places in New Jersey
There is a taxidermy boar head staring perpetually at a framed memorial print for a long dead Freemason, the mystical symbols reflected in its glass eyes. Several fezzes sit on a nearby shelf. In what would usually be a dining room is a rough shod altar covered with candles, a human skull and a wide array of religious artifacts.
This is Shawn Dillon’s apartment, where I have been watching a horror movie nearly every night in October. Tonight, however, we are going on an expedition into the dark corners of New Jersey. As soon as the last two members of our group arrive, we will journey down isolated roads and explore haunted woods in search of that most seasonal feeling: the creeps. It could almost be the start of a horror movie.
Dave is originally from Oregon. If this was a horror movie, he’d be the character that serves as a surrogate for the audience. He’s never gone night riding before, so the rest of us have a reason to explain things we’d otherwise take for granted. Both Dave and the audience require our exposition. Like this:
Weird NJ started in 1989 as a newsletter put together by Mark Sceurman and Mark Moran for their friends. Its purpose was to chronicle the strangeness of New Jersey - local folklore, urban legends, eccentric characters and the like. Outsiders could order issues through an advertisement that ran in The Aquarian, the local alt-weekly rag. I got my first issue, #8, in 1997.
We had long heard stories of mysterious places like Shades of Death Road and the Devil’s Tower. With Weird NJ, we now had a tour guide. A group of us would get together on a weeknight, hop in a car and go exploring the wilds of New Jersey for some boogeyman or another. School kids get their scares telling ghost stories; college kids night ride.
A favorite destination was Demon’s Alley, a cluster of abandoned houses surrounded by dark woods. The windows were boarded up and someone had painted them to look like they had window shades drawn halfway down. The story we heard was that it was a religious commune and the leader murdered his flock, Jim Jones style. A more plausible explanation was that the land was contaminated with chromium. The truth, though, is that the houses were for reservoir workers - when the workers were no longer required, the houses were left empty. Even back then we knew the truth, but standing in that field in the quiet darkness, the moon faintly illuminating the houses - it was still a thrill.
As Weird NJ grew more popular, there were more cars on those secluded roads. More cars meant a greater concentration of troublemakers. Some spots made the news a couple times, there were accidents. Eventually, the idea of driving out to a spooky spot just to get hassled by the cops was played out. Night riding ceased to be our pastime.
Dave moved out here well after those days were done, but he had read his share of Weird NJ issues. So, tonight, we were going to take Dave out and visit some of the classic spots.
Ian Gonzales brought a CD boxset of old ‘40s radio dramas - The Weird Circle - with him. We were planning on a two hour round trip, so it was a welcome addition to the playlist. We listened to one called “The Werewolf.” It was a silly thing full of forced foreign accents and elaborate exposition, but it set the mood.
If this were a horror movie, the monster would be a werewolf and the only way to defeat it would be to use some trick we had learned listening to that radio drama.
The first stop was Midgetville or, more accurately, what we always referred to as Midgetville. The idea of a community of little people living in equally little houses is so pervasive in New Jersey that there are at least three locations purporting to be the real Midgetville.
Ours is a cluster of small cottage-style houses along the Passaic River. The stories we heard always said the inhabitants were hostile to outsiders, even going so far as to booby-trap the road. If you lived on that narrow road and college kids drove down it at all hours of the night, you’d be pretty hostile, too. One time we had a bottle thrown at our car. The guy who threw it was regular size, going on extra large.
Even if we wanted to drive down that road this time, we couldn’t. The outlet is blocked, effectively making Midgetville a menacing cul de sac. A sign warned that the street was for residents only. As we drove by, I couldn’t help but think that the houses didn’t look nearly as tiny as I remembered.
Annie’s Road is along the same stretch of road as Midgetville. The legend is variation of the phantom hitchhiker story. Annie gets in a fight with her boyfriend and storms out of his car. As she is walking home, she is assaulted by a group of sailors and murdered, her body left on the side of the road.
Her blood still stains the asphalt and her spirit lingers. In a formula seemingly designed to cause accidents, if you drive down the winding road at midnight with the headlights off she will supposedly appear out the car’s back window.
For years, the road was indeed red, though with splattered paint, not blood. Someone would re-splatter it as it faded or when the road was repaved, giving rise to the alternate story that Annie’s father came back every year on the anniversary of her death to mark the spot with a gruesome reminder.
We told all this to Dave as we approached the spot where we knew the blacktop would suddenly turn red, but it never did. The road was freshly paved and no one had replenished the grisly marker.
“Well that’s a bummer,” said Dave.
Undaunted, we continued on northwest, to West Milford’s infamous Clinton Road. Where Annie’s Road is only haunted by one teenage girl, Clinton Road has no shortage of hobgoblins, both human and supernatural.
The road itself, stripped of its reputation, is still a dire affair, 10 miles long, narrow, bumpy, and punctuated by hazardous turns. The woods come up right to the side of the road - there is no shoulder - and the trees are densely packed and looming. Occasionally, Greenwood Lake comes into view, but it does little to relieve the claustrophobic sense of isolation. Even during the day, Clinton Road’s atmosphere is enough to fire the imagination.
The Ku Klux Klan is rumored to be active in the area, as is a sinister cult of Satanists. Xenophobic locals patrol the road in large pick-up trucks, following and waylaying trespassers, blocking the road with their pickup trucks. Sometimes a truck will follow a car only to disappear without a trace - no small feat for a road with no turn-offs.
It is easy to imagine Clinton Road as a place for serial killers to dump the bodies. In fact, one did. In 1983, mafia hit man Richard “The Iceman” Kuklinski hid one of his victims in the woods, the discovery of which eventually led to his arrest in 1986.
Then there are the ghosts, like the phantom boy who haunts the bridge where he drowned. People have reported seeing strangely dressed figures standing completely still among the trees, staring at the road, only to disappear into thin air. Weird creatures roam those woods, too, like ghost dogs and escaped monkeys from the old Jungle Habitat zoo that closed in 1976.
All this, and UFOs over Greenwood Lake to boot!
As we pull onto Clinton Road, the theme from John Carpenter’s Halloween starts to play on the Spotify. We roll the windows down despite the chill in the air.
Ian reminisces about a mutual friend who was spooked by the road, “We were right about here when he started saying, ‘Any time you want to turn around, its cool.’”
“Really?” asks Dave. “That’s like ten feet in. It isn’t even scary yet.”
Ian shrugs. “We were seventeen.”
A few minutes later and the darkness is pressing in on us. I point to the left. “Right around here is where I saw the figure running through the trees.”
“You mean, ‘local kid,’” says Shawn.
“You say local kid. I say shadow demon.”
We soon hit one of the sharp turns and all agree that Shawn’s boxy Kia Soul might not have been the best choice of vehicle as we lurch around the curve. We also agree that the road is far smoother than we remember. It must have been paved sometime in the last ten years.
It is a creepy looking road. We all appreciate that on an aesthetic level, but no one feels any kind of dread. None of us jump in our seats when headlights flicker in front of us. We’ve moved away from the idea that woods equals murderous hillbillies. Instead, it probably means really nice houses on the lake. All the cars that pass are expensive ones.
When we get to the end of Clinton Road, we turn around and go back the way we came. It is the easiest way to get back to the highway and home. Dave is still peering out the windshield.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Bears, mostly,” he replies. “What are you looking for?”
“Demons.” I say.
Ian, a Catholic, groans. “Don’t say that.”
“Oh, come on, demons would be a much better story than bears.”
Back at the beginning of the road, we see a deer making its way into the woods. It’s eyes flash lambent in the headlights, but it seems entirely unconcerned with our presence. We slow down and it disappears into the trees.
“There you go, Stu,” says Dave. “It ain’t a demon, but it had horns.”
Iron Maiden is on the radio. Shawn cranks it up and we head home.
The pump that made the thumping sound that gave Heartbeat Road its name is gone. Gravity Hill was dug up and repaved. They renamed Shades of Death Road - the street sign was stolen to many times, even after they greased the pole. The houses at Demon’s Alley were demolished. Weird NJ has become a magazine of reminiscence rather than news.
Dave doesn’t care. He can’t wait to do it again. And, honestly, neither can we.
To learn more about the strange state of New Jersey, check out the Weird NJ website. I doubt night riding is solely a NJ pastime (though I suspect our weird landmarks are in a higher concentration), so tell me your own night riding tales in the notes!
This Horrific Life is a daily exploration of horror, covering movies new and old (and half-watched), games, comics, music and anything else even vaguely spooky. Follow the collection to make sure you don’t miss a single installment.
