The New Jersey Devil is a state-sanctioned cryptid. Our NHL team is named after the legend. New Jersey runs on folklore.
It’s an undisputed staple of Jersey adolescence to buy and read Weird NJ, an alternative publication highlighting the strange, paranormal, unexplained, and silly. Friends gather under the cover of night by a campfire, planning “road trips” to see these spooky Weird NJ spots—a celebrated rite of passage.
Weird NJ is the keeper of modern NJ folklore. For 30 years, readers have been treated to a wellspring of photos, stories, and letters about their uniquely local odd and paranormal experiences.
The stories highlight strange places like the Gates of Hell, which leads to an underground tunnel system in Clifton, the Devil’s Tower in Alpine, a gothic tower where the devil lives, and a plethora of the wild and weird. We should embrace what our home state is—weird, haunted, and extraordinary.
The Parkway Phantom
One rainy evening, I was driving the Garden State Parkway North. I was focused on getting home as quickly (and safely) as possible.
Certain parts of the Parkway have guaranteed traffic spots: the GSP & Rt. 280 exit, the Union Toll Plaza, the exits for LBI and the AC Expressway, and last but not least, exit 82 at Rt. 37 in Tom’s River, which will always have traffic.
I was at a dead stop at mile marker 82 just before the overpass and noticed a man waving his arms. He was close enough that I was looking for a broken-down car but didn’t see one. The man was in a long (what appeared to be) khaki overcoat. He looked panicked, like he needed assistance, and was waving his arms. I looked at the other drivers at the same dead stop as me, but no one noticed. I attempted to make eye contact with another driver to point out what I saw, but no one batted an eye. They didn’t even turn their heads when the man crossed lanes to find help. No one saw him.
Years later, I revisited some Weird NJ issues and rediscovered the Parkway Phantom. I read about it years before and forgotten. The description of the man I saw matched—I was shocked! Of all the times I’ve had Weird NJ paranormal experiences, this one was the least expected.
Spectacular Spectres
New Jersey is nestled between the Appalachian Mountains to the west (the notorious twin of the spooky haunted Scottish Highlands) and the mythic waters of the Atlantic Ocean to the east, sandwiched between two of America's most significant cities.
Foundational in American folklore, the diverse cultural tapestry, including the centuries of violence experienced on these lands against innocent people, contributes to the population of restless spirits.
As a baby-faced journalist in the early 2010s, I had my first opportunity to participate in the time-honored folklore tradition of sharing wild tales we mainly accept as truth.
The Pinelands are the state's natural heartbeat, occupying 22 percent of New Jersey and home to more than 1.1 million protected acres of unique forestry, animal and plant species, and agriculture. Ecology alone can keep your curiosity burning for a lifetime.
Two towns on my beat were small and deep in the Pine Barrens. These towns wanted, nay needed, my journalism. It felt appropriate to choose a folkloric topic in such a moody place. What did I report on? The New Jersey Devil, of course.
The legend goes that Mother Leeds was in labor, preparing for her 13th child. After suffering a traumatic birth during a violent thunderstorm, she infamously decried upon the babe’s first breaths—let this child be a devil! The incantation was so powerful that the babe transfigured into an inhuman nightmare. He sprouted hoofed goat legs and unfurled the leather wings of a bat as protruding obscene horns ascended from his skull. As his front claws and red eyes took shape, sentience glowed behind his eyes as he took the life that just created his before taking to the stormy skies of an unsuspecting New Jersey.
While working at the Shamong Sun in 2012, I interviewed Christine Farina, an associate professor of communication at the Richard Stockton University (then College) of New Jersey and a New Jersey folklore expert. At the time, she was working on a documentary entitled ‘Devil,’ though it’s unknown whether the project was completed or premiered.
“There was one girl in [taking my class] who very seriously swears her mother saw the Jersey Devil. While gardening in the backyard, she saw a monster figure with wings carrying small animals through the woods. She said her mother wouldn’t leave the house for a month after that,” said Farina. People suspected the child was born with a defect, which may be the cause of the original stories. Farina also relayed that a neighbor of Leeds [allegedly] cursed the child.
How could such a fantastical story have a lasting impression on a state’s population? The truth of it, turns out, is way more fun.
The Devil is in…Benjamin Franklin?
While The New Jersey Devil’s lore is an incredible tale, the plot twist is that Benjamin Franklin is a petty bitch (respect) and manufactured the whole spooky story to get back at Daniel Leeds and his son Titan (great name), almanac publishers at the time. The Leeds were mercilessly publicly derided for utilizing astrology as guidance for predictions.
Daniel was also vocal about the state of affairs. He often printed pieces criticizing religious and political figures despite his affiliation with the aristocratic British governor. The Leeds Quaker neighbors didn’t appreciate the heretic publication and berated them publicly, deeming Leeds “evil” and “Satan’s Harbinger. In time, Daniel stepped aside, and Titan took over.
A Feud Takes Shape
A relatively unknown almanac publisher named Benjamin Franklin needed the right attention to boost his publication. He adopted the nom de plume, Poor Richard Saunders. In his letters, Franklin “predicted” Leeds's death “using astrology.” After the date came and went, Leeds published what a fool Franklin was. But Mr. Franklin didn’t play. He wasn’t about to accept another sideways comment (in retaliation to the beef he started) and proclaimed Leeds was truly dead and his ghost was spouting this nonsense.
I say, having receiv’d much Abuse from the Ghost of Titan Leeds, who pretends to be still living, and to write Almanacks in spight of me and my Predictions, I cannot help saying, that tho’ I take it patiently, I take it very unkindly. And whatever he may pretend, ’tis undoubtedly true that he is really defunct and dead. First because the Stars are seldom disappointed, never but in the Case of wise Men, Sapiens dominabitur astris, and they fore-show’d his Death at the Time I predicted it. [Source]
Leeds was absolutely dragged and conjured into lasting folklore. Our prolific state-sanctioned cryptid was built on a Founding Father's petty revenge for printing astrology. Talk about legacy. Pettiness is a time-honored tradition. It’s our birthright.
Folklore takes shape when the truth is mixed with imagination, misremembered details shared in group settings, fun acceptance, and generational retellings. Ben Franklin popped off, spawning this time-honored tale, an incredible detail. Over time, the finer details get lost. The storytelling participants live in the liminality of fact, fiction, and fantasy.
The Peculiar Pinelands
Even more incredible than our time-honored New Jersey stories and legendary DNA-built pettiness are the magical ecological homes of these hallowed haunted havens.
The Pinelands, or Pine Barrens, is a prolific example of hundreds of spooky locations, buildings, villages, portals, and haunted places that peacefully coexist within New Jersey. Its intrigue and wonder are vast.
Ninety-six years ago, pilot Captain Emilio Carranza, known as the “Lindbergh of Mexico,” crashed in a remote location in Tabernacle. His quiet, lone monument sits in mourning, piled high with pennies, a sign of respect from visitors. I’ve been there a few times; the spooky, unsettling feeling there is memorable. People still visit, still get scared, and still share their experiences online, reading like a submission to Weird NJ—a NJ and modern folklore tradition.
Not far from Captain Carranza’s Memorial, you’ll find Chatsworth. You know Chatsworth, NJ, even if you don’t know Chatsworth, NJ. The hamlet is the Capital of the Pinelands, home to Ocean Spray Cranberries. They even have a Cranberry Festival! The small town is also the location of the Blue Comet accident in 1939. The luxury train, aptly named Blue Comet, derailed after going 70 mph (when asked to do a 35) during a bad storm on a trip from Jersey City to Atlantic City. Along the Pinelands route, the speeding engineer spotted a sand and tree landslide covering the tracks, pulled the brake, and crashed. The cook was killed among numerous injured others.
Those are only a couple of examples among hundreds. We’re never beating the New Jersey is Haunted allegations.
This is Where Things Get Weird(er)
Up the road from Chatsworth is the underground king of NJ Folklore, Ong’s Hat, the rumored spiritual portal of the Pinelands, with a story that has evolved into a modern folklore building block. The Pinelands were once filled with industry-focused villages mining silica sand, iron from bog deposits, and other natural resources in the eco-rich Pine Barrens.
Ong was the Number One Guy in the Group in his village and a notorious player. After an argument with one of his ladies at a village gathering, she stomped on his hat. Well, Ong was a little too white-girl-wasted and tossed said hat in frustration high up into a pine tree. The hat allegedly remained for years, earning the location the name Ong’s Hat.
Ong is a Pine Barrens settler surname so that story might hold some water. It’s also rumored the family was bootleggers. This is where folklore evolves with the times. Like all great folklore and excellent works of literature, the truth and fiction are blurred. The modern continuation maintains the location and folds in conspiracy theories derived from the early Internet, Zines, alternative fiction, and copypasta.
In the late 80s and 90s, a collection of mysterious scientific papers appeared. This brochure was printed, passed around, appeared in Zines, and was mailed from person to person. The papers were Incunabula: A Catalog of Rare Books, Manuscripts & Curiosa, Conspiracy Theory, Frontier Science & Alternative Worlds, and Ong's Hat: Gateway to the Dimensions. The works and a myriad of information, partially named the Incunabula Catalog, were uploaded on BBS and FTP systems. The papers eventually migrated onto the early internet and hit its legendary stride 99-’00s. Slate reports that the documents have been downloaded more than 2 million times.
The papers detail an ashram founded by Wally Ford, a jazz musician (yes, his actual identifier), in 1978. He purchased 200 acres in the Brendan T. Byrne State Forest (nestled within the Pinelands).
The Moorish Science Ashram was a haven for people on the fringe dedicated to hermetic politics, esoteric science, chaos magic, and psychopharmacology, among other anti-mainstream pursuits, to be practiced in the privacy of the pines. This earned the group a cult label, though it’s debatable and disputed to this day.
A pair of Princeton scientists, Frank and Althea Dobbs, Entered the Villa and founded the Institute of Chaos, where they conducted Chaos Studies experiments. The two were allegedly raised among a UFO cult in Texas.
The scientists created The Egg, a device akin to a deprivation chamber or something. During one experiment, The Egg with a man inside, disappeared. When The Egg and the man returned seven minutes later, he told them of an Alternate Earth. The conspiracy is that we live on Alternate Earth, while The Egg is on Other Earth, making frequent trips between dimensions.
Supporting documents, videos, and the like added by internet strangers fueled the conspiracy, creating validity to an already mysterious paper trail. Class participation bolsters modern folklore and the alternative reality experience. Collective consciousness and belief are the foundations of cryptids, folklore, and the fantastical. They all feel just real enough. (Does that make Santa a cryptid?)
Enter Joseph Matheny, a power player in Ong’s Hat conspiracy. In 1999, he published Ong’s Hat: Gateway to Higher Dimensions, an immersive ebook containing the Incunabula Papers, book excerpts, and interviews with physicists on the Ong’s Hat conspiracies, including physicist Nick Herbert and Emory Cranston, the proprietor of the Incunabula books.
[From Ong’s Hat: Gateway to Higher Dimensions] Emory: You’ll notice that not one UFO “expert” has ever been abducted. And not one Kennedy-Conspiracy nut has ever been assassinated. These things happen to other people, not to Conspiracy Theorists, right? Well, let’s just say...that’s what I mean when I say...this isn’t a “theory” anymore.
Cranston continues to imply that the theory isn’t a theory anymore when it exists beyond its original confines. It’s real now. It exists here. The Leeds family is of the devil. New Jersey has a devil.
Herbert is legit with published works. His LinkedIn has few connections and no posts, but an exciting About Me chronicles his involvement in several books and his work on the inkjet printer.
For the past twelve years, Nick has maintained a blog at <http://quantumtantra.blogspot.com> See the post <http://tiny.cc/TENYEARS> for a summary of ten years of Nick's interests and accomplishments, including his participation in an Irish music band called BLARNEY and his speculations concerning the future science of quantum tantra.
When you visit the sites, one of which has a giant photo of the cover of Maroon 5’s Songs About Jane (a strange synchronicity for me, very much the same for the Irish band Blarney), dives into the same topics covered in the Incunabula Catalog. So, was the information legit? The definitive: this is fiction suddenly feels questionable. It’s enough that the fiction's plausible deniability generates excitement. It sparks a burning in your solar plexus that can’t be ignored. It urges you to learn and enjoy what you discover.
These generational and storytelling traditions resonate because being a dreamer is inherently human. Folklore and magic give us the tools to dream and experience life in impossible ways.
Siren’s Note: It’s important to keep yourself grounded and not get too deep into any topic that makes you feel detached from reality. Use discernment to identify what is healthiest for you to engage with. Don’t lose sight of the world for one singular topic.
The rabbit holes lead to questions, which leads to dead ends, message boards, people with questions or answers you never considered spawning new questions, and so forth. This deep dive forced me to participate. The point was never to solve it. The hope of understanding is the magic. Finding the clues again for myself sparked excitement, and I wanted to read more! Was I not entertained?
The consensus on the reality of Ong’s Hat unreality is mixed and disputed due in no small part to Matheny. He detailed his involvement and creative process to Slate’s Decoder Ring podcast in 2018. It got so immersive people were emailing Matheny about the synchronicities they experienced while diving into the Incunabula Papers. (Highly recommend the deeper dive!) “If you leave enough flexibility in the framework of the story, people will find those meaningful moments,” he said.
The depths of this go beyond what this essay is capable of, but I encourage you to play with this immersive, creepy, fun experience. Matheny’s contributions to the lore have transcended decades, shapeshifting the Piney Town of Ong’s Hat to an entirely constructed Alternate Reality of Ong’s Hat that lives on today.
The magic of folklore lives and breeds in the liminality. The non-zero chance the circumstances of these tall tales could be real keeps the story alive through generations. So, is it real?
Fiction or Folklore?
One of my favorite books is 2000's House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. It’s an incredible, dizzying journey of confusion and possibility, with doors opening to hallways, which open more doors inside this book, which is bigger than its covers. This folklore-crafting powerhouse has enamored readers and participants for nearly 25 years. It’s told from the perspective of narrator Johnny Truant. His friend, Lude, leads him to discover documents in an abandoned apartment Truant eventually moves into. The documents, created by the owner of the apartment and the recently deceased blind man Zampano, detail a house on Ash Tree Lane in VA. with more square footage inside than outside. The famous documentarian Will Navidson captures the experience with his family as they live inside this nightmarish unreality. Zampano’s record of the film became known as the Navidson Record. The only thing is, there are no recordings of the house to watch. There are rumors it existed, but no evidence of it.
One of the alleged captured movies, The Five and a Half Minute Hallway, chronicled in the novel, has been disputed online for as long as I can remember. The book also had a life of its own, with people sharing short videos or information that claimed to be adjacent to the lore. There are countless message boards about how to read the books and the validity of the information. It’s so legendary that multiple bands I listened to as a teen played songs that were odes to House of Leaves. I saw a TikTok this year with a creator who claimed to have found a recording called the Five and a Half Minute Hallway and “never heard of House of Leaves.”
Siren’s Note: While writing this essay, my TikTok delivered me a woman telling a story about a house that disappeared. She details time loss, timeline jumping, and structures disappearing with a witness. My FYP has been tarot, the Olympics, and dogs lately. The synchronicity is weird (and cool!). A story? The truth? New urban legend? Who’s to say?
Mainstream internet “copypasta” like Slenderman, Sirenhead, and even more recently, the creepypasta-to-screen-adapted Channel Zero circled alternative message boards and online communities before hitting the mainstream.
The copypasta, creepypasta, and threads of the internet conspiracy, like the Mandela Effect, may inspire current authors, akin to the horror novel Mr. Magic by Kiersten White. The novel has shades of the modern folklore we see go mainstream (for better or worse, like Slenderman).
These works potentially wouldn't exist without Ong’s Hat Conspiracy. Ong's Hat is a real place, you can really drive to. Is it a portal? Were there experiments done there? Perhaps. The magical secrets this state keeps are legendary. Folklore will be a lasting tenant of any society. It’s how we pass on history, magic, community, and wonder. The stories will always be told. New Jersey will always be haunted.
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