The Jersey Devil (6 page)

Rafael Santiago read the same story as April and Daryl Willet. He had the benefit of living in Egg Harbor City, a very close drive to the Wharton State Forest, the area that had been called the epicenter of Jersey Devil sightings. He'd loaded up his Yaris and headed straight for the Batona hiking trail that cut through the center of the forest.

The kids in the story hadn't been very far from the south entrance to the trail. Rafael figured to spend the night, armed with his camera and phone, ready to record some sweet footage for his blog.

“This'll get so many views,” he said to himself, veering from the trail. “Maybe I'll use this to start my podcast.”

Rafael had been blogging about strange monsters in America for two years now. He'd garnered a group of hardcore followers who supported him with page likes and sharing, but the numbers he'd hoped to have just never materialized. He took time to research every post, double-checking to make sure he had his facts straight and citing his source material. He liked to consider himself a bit of an academic. That alone should have made him the lone voice of reason in the world of the paranormal, monsters and cryptozoology.

By comparison, there were people posting outright hoaxes, and writing them poorly, who had twenty times more followers. It burned his ass, seeing such sophomoric work getting all the attention. But then he realized a few of them were doing something he hadn't considered. They would go to certain “hot spots” and film on-location pieces, like the two guys who gave a video tour of Fouke, Arkansas, where the legend of the Bigfoot of Boggy Creek was born. And there had been the kid who interviewed people in his hometown in Puerto Rico who believed they'd had encounters with the infamous Chupacabra—the goat sucker.

It amazed him that he hadn't thought of it sooner. Of course, short videos were the way to go. Hook them with a video to match their attention span, and keep them coming back for the detailed information he would link to each video.

Since his accident at the casino where he'd worked in Atlantic City—he'd taken a fall down stairs that didn't have a Caution/Wet sign—there had been plenty of time to devote to his little passion. His back was feeling better, but there were still days he could barely get out of bed. His mother was only too happy to have him back home. He was never sure if his father shared her enthusiasm. Pop was a man of few words.

The sun was starting to set, casting long, crooked shadows over the forest floor. Pretty soon it would be pitch black. Rafael had been filming his hike, giving background on the Jersey Devil, stressing that he was walking in the Devil's footsteps. He had to stop himself a couple of times. “You're being overdramatic.”

Then he'd shake it off and resume, knowing that more drama equaled more views. And more views meant . . . well, it justified all of his efforts and gave him a little ego boost.

He'd ventured off the trail so he could find a spot he could claim was where the kids shot the Devil. The forests out here all looked the same. No one would know, even those kids. Filming in night vision to make it creepier, he'd tell the kids' story and hunker down to see if the beast made its return. There'd be a lot of editing that would need to be done, but he had the time. Maybe he'd make several versions. He could have a one-or two-minute teaser, a more robust five-minute video that gave all the nuts and bolts, and a full, half-hour video with music and everything.

Rafael took a swig of water, set his backpack down and took out his tripod. He wanted some nice steady shots. That
Blair Witch
shaky cam stuff made him nauseous as a viewer. He didn't want to subject his own viewers to the same fate.

After he secured the camera to the tripod, he checked his phone.

“No bars. No shock.”

Not that he had anyone to call. He wore his loner badge with pride. Making friends had never been easy. It was why he enjoyed his blog and social media interaction. That was easy. He had hundreds of online “friends.” What else did he need?

Setting the camera to night-vision mode, he sat still and panned around the area.

Need some good scenic shots for filler
, he thought.

The wind scattered the leaves on the ground, flitting around him.

It was quiet out here. He'd never been big on the outdoors. The closest he'd gotten to camping was sleeping in his sleeping bag on the back porch once when he was ten.

There wouldn't be any sleep tonight. He didn't have camping gear. This was all about capturing something that rang of authenticity.

“Come on, critters, isn't anyone curious?” he whispered. “Give me some eye shine so I can make people wonder if the Devil is near.”

Any sound or image he captured tonight could be edited and presented in a way to make his viewers believe he'd had a close encounter with the Jersey Devil.

He stiffened at the sound of scurrying behind him. Swinging the camera around, he searched for the source of the noise.

“Too late for squirrels. Any raccoons out there?”

Even with night vision, he couldn't see any sign of life. Whatever it was must have been small and fast, like a chipmunk or something. Chipmunks were too tiny for even him to make seem larger and threatening in a video.

Rafael's stomach grumbled. He went to his backpack, searching for the energy bars he'd stashed in a side pocket. They were mixed among warm cans of Red Bull. He found a bar, threw the wrapper on the ground and ate it in two bites. It was dense and sticky and tasted like peanut butter-flavored straw, but it would kill his hunger pangs.

Using his phone as a flashlight, he plucked the folded newspaper article from his jeans pocket, reading it over a couple of times, memorizing key parts in the story.

The frenetic sound of flapping wings overhead had him ducking faster than a frightened deer mouse, even though he could tell the flyby was nowhere near his head.

“Bats. Nice.”

Now that was atmosphere!

“I should have gone to film school.” He downed a Red Bull, crushed the can and chucked it into the darkness.

He liked the way the pine trees were bunched together to his right. They looked ominous, like a haunted wood that swallowed up curious little children. Swiveling the camera, he paused when he heard something move. It was quick, seeming to stop the moment he became aware of its presence.

The forest suddenly felt darker, the realization that he had no outdoor skills holding a more dire weight.

Rafael stayed perfectly still, taking slow, deep breaths.

What if it was a bear? New Jersey had seen an increase in bears over the past few years. A few of them had been tracked and shot recently for venturing into people's yards, one of them mortally wounding someone's dog that had been chained up.

The feeling of being watched, even stalked, twisted an icy knot in his stomach.

But wouldn't a bear be louder? Did they take their time with their prey, feeling them out? He had no idea.

There was that sound again! Only this time, it came from somewhere on his left.

A rancid smell rose from the forest floor. His nose crinkled. What was that?

You're being a baby
, he thought.
It's only been dark for less than an hour and you're already freaking yourself out.

Those sounds were real. And so was that smell.

He almost smacked his forehead at his cowardice.

Tilting the viewfinder up, he peered at the screen, the brightness hurting his eyes for a moment so he couldn't make anything out. He rubbed them hard, blinking away the pain.

Rafael looked again.

He felt the warmth on his thighs before he realized he was pissing himself.

“This can't be real,” he muttered, stepping away from the camera.

The image of three creatures less than ten feet ahead of him caused every hair on his body to stand on end. They were no more than a few feet tall—a trio of what looked like upright horses with wings and flicking tails. One of them looked straight at him—into him—and hissed.

“What the fuck?”

Rafael stumbled over his own feet, landing hard on his ass. He could no longer see them, but he heard their shuffling feet coming closer. Closer.

Razor-sharp teeth clamped down on his right kneecap. Rafael wailed, trying to kick it off while protecting his face with his arms. One of the creatures snatched under his armpit, tearing through his shirt and pulling a wet chunk of flesh away. The pain was excruciating.

He cried out, the dense trees absorbing his wails.

When the third creature dove between his legs, he went from praying to be left alone to hoping he would die quickly. It must have severed an artery, because he heard a whoosh of wind, like when he and his father bled the radiators in the fall, followed by the unmistakable sluicing of his blood from the ragged wound.

They were all over him, snatching away pieces from head to toe. When he opened his mouth to scream for mercy, teeth clamped around his tongue and tore it out.

Rafael twitched as his life bled away.

The beasts danced over his body, feasting.

Norm Cranston had meant to work on his book, but he'd gotten sidetracked during some online research, casually checking for new videos on YouPorn. After clicking through several, including a playlist on big-breasted threesomes, his pants had tightened considerably. He was about to remedy the situation when his phone rang. The workout routine of the single male interrupted before it could begin.

He looked at the call display. It was Sam Willet.

Good old Boompa.
Not that he'd call him that. He'd tried once and it felt strange.

“Looks like this'll have to wait,” he said, closing the browser window. His cat Salem jumped onto his lap, bumping into his hard-on. He turned crimson, shooing him away. “Hey, Sam, how have you been?”

The old man sounded thirty years younger than his age. “Keeping busy as always. Got a lot of mouths to feed.”

Norm thought about the man's responsibility. His farm employed not only his family, but probably a quarter of the town. And here Norm often bitched about taking care of his cat.

“You have any more UFOs up y-y-your way?” Norm asked. For a spell in the eighties and nineties, Pine Bush had been a mecca for UFO enthusiasts. On the heels of the flap of Hudson Valley sightings, the rural town had been host to unexplainable lights in the sky for over a decade. Things got so bad, they had to pass a town law forbidding stargazing on the side of the roads. UFOs had never been Norm's thing, but he did find places like Pine Bush fascinating. Aside from the aerial phenomena, there had been dozens of ghost sightings and even one case of someone claiming to have seen a Bigfoot. Norm chalked the lights up to experimental planes from the nearby military base and the rest to general excitability.

“Nah, it's been real quiet. Just the way we like it. But there is something going on not far from here that's caught our attention.”

“Really? What's up?”

Norm knew what it had to be. The Willets were a lovely family, real salt of the earth people, but far from average. The realization had smacked him in the face the moment he'd walked into Sam's house and saw all of the Jersey Devil material and memorabilia scattered on the shelves and walls.

“I think you know what has somehow woken up,” Sam said.

“If I didn't know better, I'd swear you sound excited.”

Sam took a deep breath. “If I'm right, I have some reason to be.”

“You never did tell me the whole story.”

“I'm thinking that it's getting to that time to do just that. But before I do, I have to be sure. You back home or are you out in some pueblo blabbing about the Chupacabra?”

“I'm home. Just taking a break between g-gigs, trying to make some headway on this book I've been contracted to write.” Salem purred at his feet. Norm scratched behind his ears. The cat flopped on the floor, rolling onto his back, wanting his belly rubbed.

“You interested in taking a trip north?” Sam asked.

“I've seen a couple of interesting reports out of the Barrens lately. Is there something else I've missed?”

“I'll send you a link to a story that came out today. No one's saying it's the Devil, but I'm not about to discount it.”

Norm's e-mail bleeped. He opened the link Sam sent.

His mouth went dry.

“Sam, you d-don't think . . .”

“I do, buddy, I do.”

“But the Jersey Devil doesn't k-k-kill people. Maybe a dog or chicken has been attributed to it, but never a person. This just doesn't fit the history, unless you subscribe to the sensationalist crap that says it killed its family when it popped out of the womb—which I know you don't.”

Sam Willet said, “You're right, I don't. For more years than I can count, I thought it was dead. I'd hoped it was alive, just keeping low, but I was starting to give up hope. Maybe it went somewhere else for a while, or hibernated, I don't know. Whatever woke it up changed it. This isn't like 1909. It's brazen now. I have to find out. For the sake of my family.”

For the sake of his family?
Norm couldn't imagine how the return of the Jersey Devil could have any real significance for the Willet family. Of course, it couldn't just be morbid curiosity. Not the way their fascination had been focused on the cryptid.

“Are you serious, Sam?” he asked.

“As a heart attack. And at my age, you don't joke about that.” Norm grinned when he heard the old man chuckle. “Think of this as research for your next book.”

He had to admit, his curiosity was piqued. Depending on where things led, this could be the book that would pad his bank account. He wondered if Sam would let him print his story, even with an assumed name. Three generations of a family gripped by tales of a monster born into legend when the country was young. What could it be that connected all those dots? At its core, the book would be about the people more than the monster, and that, in essence, was what sold.

“When are you planning to go there?” Norm asked.

“Saturday. We're all heading down.”

Norm took off his straw hat, looked at the sweat-stained band, and secured it back on his head. He said, “I'll b-book a flight out of Charlotte to Newark. Tell me where to meet you.”

* * *

Ben Willet sat on the back porch, nursing a beer after sneaking a few nips of Johnnie Walker from the flask he kept under the porch steps. The sun was setting in a violent display of pinks and purples, making the ribbons of clouds in the distance look like cotton candy. The screen door opened and his brother, Daryl, came out holding two beers by their longnecks.

“Figured you'd be ready for another,” Daryl said.

Ben wondered if his brother knew more than he was letting on.

He drained the Rolling Rock and took the proffered Budweiser.

“Where's April?” Ben asked.

“She's coming. She's just drying the rest of the dishes.”

“Mom and Dad know?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

They took long pulls from their beers, staring off at the horizon. Boompa had been excited as hell all day and through dinner. He was upstairs in his room right now, packing. Their mother and father had been more subdued, warning Boompa he'd bust a heart valve if he didn't take a breath.

Ben wasn't as sold on the story as Boompa, but that didn't matter. Their grandfather was heading down to the Pine Barrens with or without them. The latter wasn't an option. They'd need him out there, especially if the old man's hunch was right.

April came out with a full glass of wine. The hem of her shirt was wet from standing close to the sink.

“Thanks for abandoning me,” she said to Daryl.

“What? There was hardly anything left. This beer was calling out to me.”

“You're not even legal to drink,” April said, tapping the bottom of his beer with the tip of her boot.

“If I was in college, I'd be drinking a hundred times more than I do now and that would be acceptable,” Daryl said.

“He's old enough to serve if he wanted, he's old enough to drink,” Ben said. That closed the case. He knew they didn't defer to him because he was the oldest. No, they danced around him on eggshells because they didn't want to upset him. Most times, it pissed him off. Not tonight.

“Come on,” Ben said, pushing off the step, headed toward the cornfield. His brother and sister followed close behind. When they were a few rows in, he stopped and inspected one of the ears. It wasn't ready just yet. Ben loved early August corn. Nothing in the world was sweeter. He'd eat it straight off the stalk. When he was in the Middle East, he fell asleep many a night dreaming about eating corn while he walked the fields.

“Okay, brother, why the secrecy?” April asked, twirling the wine in her glass.

As kids, he and April used to pretend the cornfield was another world, teeming with monsters and heroes, booby traps and secret lairs. Somehow, even if they'd been fighting like cats and dogs all day, the moment they entered the cornfield, they were best buds. To them, there was magic in the endless rows of tall stalks. And in the face of such magic, they had to band together, both to thwart the black forces and revel in the white.

By the time Daryl was old enough to play with them, Ben was driving and had long since lost that tether to the mystery of the fields.

“I want to ask you both something,” Ben said.

“Shoot,” Daryl said, finishing off his beer and tucking the bottle in his back pocket.

“What do you really think of the story about the guy they found mauled to death in the state park?”

April sucked on her teeth for a bit, then said, “I mean, it could be it. I looked on a map and it wasn't far from where that kid took potshots at the Devil.”

Ben shook his head. “That could have been done by any number of animals out there. For all we know, he fell, broke his neck and lay there like an all-night buffet. They have coyotes down there, not to mention black bear and bobcats. Even some wild dogs could have done that to him.”

“You saying you think Boompa's jumping the gun?” Daryl asked.

“I'm saying we have to be prepared for anything. A Jersey Devil is one thing. A black bear is a whole other can of worms.”

April patted him on the back. “That's why we have you, Mr. Munitions. It's not like we're going in unarmed.”

They paused when a flock of geese honked overhead in a loose arrowhead formation. It seemed as if they brought a cooling breeze with them.

“Here's the other thing,” Ben said. “What if Boompa is right? The Jersey Devil doesn't kill people. Hell, for centuries, all the damn thing does is run or fly
away from
people. That kid who shot it said it stuck around long enough for him to empty his gun. It wasn't the least bit afraid until it'd been hit. Those campers said it took their food bag and pegged it on top of a tree. And now this. I don't like the way any of it sounds. This could be dangerous.”

“But we have to find out,” Daryl said. “You ever get the feeling Boompa's been hanging around just to get this chance? Like he refuses to die with this big question hanging over him.”

April rubbed her brow, looking up at a moon that was getting brighter by the minute. “I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind. And I would like to see him get some peace before he joins Grams. We're going to have to be extra careful then,” she said. Her face pulled tight when she mentioned their grandmother. They all missed her fiercely.

“I'll need you all to listen to me then,” Ben said. He felt a tight tension in his chest. It was the same feeling he got whenever his platoon had been asked to check out an abandoned village. You never knew what the hell you were walking into. Guys died or were maimed in the blink of an eye.

“We will, big bro, trust us,” Daryl said.

Ben knew there was no sense asking them both to stay behind. If he could have his way, he'd leave them all at the farm while he sought out the Jersey Devil himself. He was the only one with combat experience, and if the creature's actions were any indication of what was to come, blood would be spilled. He didn't want to see any of them hurt. What happened to him was never a concern.

“Even if we do find it, do you think it'll change anything?” Ben said.

April sidled next to him, lifting his shirt to expose his side. A bright red birthmark marred his pale flesh. The mark was in the shape of a cloven hoof. “You mean like make this go away?”

She dropped his shirt, lifting her own, revealing an identical birthmark. Daryl did the same.

“I don't know,” Ben said. “At least we can find out what it means.”

Their father also bore the same mark. They hadn't seen it since they were kids, but they knew it was there—a brand that had haunted them all their lives. Ben knew it was more than that. Much more. They all knew Boompa's story by heart, how their grandmother was the first to bear it. He'd suspected there had to be more, but if the old man hadn't seen fit to tell them, he must have had a damn good reason.

Maybe the answer was somewhere out there in the Pine Barrens. And maybe the only way to find it was through the barrel of a gun.