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In the Pines: THE LEGEND OF THE JERSEY DEVIL, Villain of the Barrens
Content warning: Racism, assault, mention of l*nching
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In 2020, during the early stages of the pandemic, I began yearning for hidden histories and untold stories that took place in my neck of the woods. My main question was born out of a family rumor; the l*nching of Black people in my hometown, or nearby. What I found dragged me down several rabbit holes before the trail went cold, but the dead end is where the story really begins. Writings for In the Pines: THE LEGEND OF THE JERSEY DEVIL, Villain of the Barrens started in earnest in 2022, and were inspired by a news story from the early 1900s, which took place in South Jersey. On my Patreon and Substack I have shared snippets/drafts, as well as research material. All are behind a paywall, with the exception of the first snippet. For my Spacehey community, available below is the first snippet.
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Lakewood, NJ, 1911
Deep in the heart of Cathedral Drive, in his own temple, God would be witness to this jet-black irony. The somber halls of pines were cut through with the echo of booted footsteps and chants, wicked laughter and vile conversation from men hailing from various locations down the coast of Barnegat Bay. Lakewood, Spring Lake, and Barnegat. The mobβs wild eyes bounced and bulged, gleaming with vengeance. The road beneath them absorbed sweat and muted tearsβthe last remnants of Charlesβ lifeβfading into ghosts as the soil dried. Charlesβ eyes glazed over, seeing beyond the sandy road, beyond the trees, into a darkening void. Would there be postcards of villainous triumph? Would there be no evidence at all? At most, he knew he would be a small ink print in a list of many in The Crisis. Charles wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, how he could have let himself become a statistic. He was careful, he was wary, he was polite and agreeable. Things like this didnβt happen to unassuming people. But in the pit of Charlesβ stomach he knew it could. The reality that no Negro was beyond crucifixion was what kept him clutching his bedsheets, his skin veiled with the sweat of night terrors. Heβd tell himself βGod is looking after you, Charles Martinβ. But you canβt pray away a post-traumatic ancestry, nor exorcise living evil. The moment his gaze fell upon his given cross, Charles knew that God was dead.
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Character introduced: Charles Martin
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