the night tales

The old house groaned under the onslaught of the storm, a symphony of rattling windows and whistling wind that seemed to mock our attempt at a cozy weekend retreat. We were five college friends, crammed into this dusty relic in the heart of the New Jersey Pine Barrens: Jake, the pragmatic pre-med student; Adrienne, whose artistic flair usually extended to canvas, not survival skills; Brandon, the history buff who knew a little too much about local folklore; Camila, the fiery political science major whose debating skills were about to be tested in a very real way; and me. five of us – Jake, Adrienne, Brandon, and Camila (and you)– were also the core of our college’s Nerf Club Professionals (NCP) team. Our usual weekend getaways involved elaborate Nerf battles and strategizing, but this trip was different. This trip was about the Jersey Devil. We’d come seeking a thrill, a brush with the legendary creature said to roam these very woods. We told ourselves it was just a bit of fun, a way to spice up our usual antics. But as the storm raged outside, mirroring the growing unease within the house, I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't just playing games anymore. The laughter had died down, replaced by a nervous silence punctuated only by the howling wind. And then, a bloodcurdling screech echoed from the woods, a sound that chilled me to the bone and made it clear: the legend wasn't laughing.