Legends 12: Clinton Road

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Welcome to Lore Legends, a subset of lore episodes that explore the strange tales we whisper in the dark, even if they can't always be proven by the history books.

So if you're ready, let's begin.

Small towns can be strange.

They can feel as cozy as a warm blanket and as comfortable as an old old t-shirt.

Or they can smother you like the plumes of smoke billowing out of a burning building.

Small towns, especially the ones we grow up in, are known.

They're familiar, like living sitcoms, complete with fan-favorite characters, wacky neighbors, and every once in a while, a convoluted plotline.

Oh, and then there are the stories.

If you grew up in a small town like me, you would recognize them all, like a well-worn glove slipping over your fingers.

They always always have the flavor of wild rumor and the shimmer of fantasy, but we love to hear them anyway.

Tales from our community's past painted with a brush loaded with imagination.

Most of those anecdotes are salacious and fun to hear, but within them is always a smaller subset, the ones with a hint of darkness.

How many of us grew up hearing stories about the lonely old widower who is said to kidnap children and murder them in his basement?

Or the demon hiding in the woods that only comes out at night when the moon is high and the wind shakes the leaves from their branches.

Those are the kinds of stories that put small towns on the map, and perhaps no small town has more of those shadows than West Milford, New Jersey.

Because true or not, it's been filling locals with fear for a very long time.

And I'd like to tell you all about them.

I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore Legends.

In the middle of Passaic County, close to where the top of the state nestles between New York and Pennsylvania, is the town of West Milford.

It was originally called New Milford back when it was first settled by the Dutch in the 1700s.

Those same Dutch settlers established a second new Milford in the eastern part of the county sometime later, so the original town was renamed to avoid confusion.

West Milford boasts of a massive body of water called Greenwood Lake that measures nine miles long and has been a summer hotspot for tourists and celebrities dating all the way back to the 1920s.

Those who visit might think all the restaurants and marinas are signs of a wholesome hamlet tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the big city.

And for a while, it was.

West Milford was the crown jewel of northern New Jersey, but thanks to one particular road, its serene image has seemingly been shattered.

It's called Clinton Road, a 10-mile-long, two-lane highway that runs north to south from County Route 23 all the way up to Greenwood Lake.

Although it's one of the longest and most well-known highways in the state, Clinton Road isn't actually part of the county's route system.

Maybe that's part of the reason for the mystery that surrounds it.

Clinton Road's identity seems to be forever shifting.

For a long time, much of it was unpaved, with tires crunching over gravel and dirt in search of more civilized terrain.

It's a fairly straight thoroughfare, although at times it can wind around curves so sharp that they'll cut you if you're not careful.

Travel along its hills and valleys, and you'll notice a lack of homes along the road as well.

In the daylight, walking along Clinton Road can feel like a hike through a part of New Jersey that hasn't changed in 200 years.

But at night, it takes on a much more sinister tone.

The trees on each side converge overhead, blocking out any trace of moonlight at several points, and there are no street lights along Clinton Road.

It's shrouded in darkness that crushes visitors under the weight of countless tragic tales and rumors.

And it's this suffocating darkness that also gives Clinton Road the reputation as one of the most haunted roads in America.

Stories about Clinton Road began in earnest in 1983.

A bicyclist getting his daily dose of exercise had been speeding down an empty stretch of the road when he happened to look up.

He spotted vultures circling overhead and figured that they had found a dead animal carcass to feast on somewhere in the woods.

So the cyclist pulled over and ventured past the tree line to investigate and found a green garbage bag on the ground.

It was open.

and peering out from inside was something he never expected to see.

A human head.

Nearby, another vulture was enjoying its meal.

The police were called and the body was taken to the morgue for an autopsy.

The medical examiner noticed several important features about the corpse, namely the pink spots on his skin that were evidence of cyanide poisoning, as well as the ice crystals on his heart.

Whoever had killed this person had stored him in some kind of freezer beforehand, then moved the body to the woods later on.

The authorities conducted an investigation into the identity of the victim and determined him to be a man by the name of Daniel Deppner.

Debner had lived in Bergenfield, New Jersey, about 45 minutes southeast of where he was found.

Aside from being a car thief, he had also been part of a burglary ring along with several other shady individuals.

This criminal enterprise was headed by a man named Richard Kuklinski.

Now, if that name doesn't ring a bell, perhaps his nickname will.

The Iceman.

Kuklinski was a killer.

Some say he was the killer, responsible for anywhere between 100 and 200 murders over the course of his life.

He had his fingers in several different pies, all of which helped him maintain his bank account and his affluent lifestyle.

Kuklinski worked as a hitman for the mafia while also buying and selling illegal goods on the side, and killed anyone who got in his way without hesitation.

The discovery of Deppner's body not only blew the investigation into Kuklinski wide open, but it also shattered Clinton Roads' idyllic image.

No longer was the peaceful two-lane highway part of the scenic route.

Now, it was the setting for murder.

When a decomposing body is found somewhere, it's almost impossible for that place to shed the notoriety that comes with it.

Family homes turned haunted tourist traps, hotels with rooms no one will sleep in, all because of what transpired within their walls.

Clinton Road followed a similar path.

The once tranquil highway, flanked by lush greenery on both sides and isolated from the rest of the world, now had become the stuff of legends and nightmares.

Stories were being whispered at sleepovers and around campfires about the ghosts that inhabited one of the most haunted roads in America, like the Ghost Boy of Dead Man's Curve.

That's what they call the tight turn over a bridge that overlooks Clinton Reservoir.

Take it too fast and you two might wind up in a watery grave.

Those who peer over the guardrail during the daytime will see coins scattered along the creekbed, twinkling from under the murky water.

They were tossed there by visitors who had heard the stories about the ghost boy who lurks below the bridge at night.

It's said that if you threw a coin over the bridge into the reservoir, the ghost boy would return it to you.

Pennies tossed at night are usually placed back on the road by morning.

As for how the boy died, that story has been a matter of debate for generations.

Some say he had been dared by his friends to stand on the bridge while they drove to nearby Route 23 and back.

When they returned, he was dead.

Another story claims that the boy was hit by a car going too fast around the curve.

Those who believe that version also claim that if a person gets out at Dead Man's Curve and bends down to pick up a quarter near the guardrail, the boy's ghostly figure will emerge and push them into the reservoir to save them from getting hit by the car that killed him.

But ghostly children in search of loose change aren't the only specters haunting Clinton Road.

Travel a little farther, past Dead Man's Curve, and you'll find trails that take you to a clear, beautiful lake called Terrace Pond.

Terrace Pond used to be a perfect hideaway for amorous teens and college students looking to skinny dip away from the prying eyes of the local cops.

But after several tragic deaths, swimming in the pond was outlawed.

The surrounding woods, on the other hand, were fair game for New Jersey campers.

One anonymous witness had been camping with a group of friends near the pond one night, a fire roaring at their feet to keep them warm, when two park rangers came sniffing around their campsite.

The group had been drinking and were surprised and scared by the 1 a.m.

visit.

The rangers wanted to know what was going on and urged the campers to be careful about the fire and the drinking.

The witness then told them that they'd parked their cars up the road and asked if they would be ticketed for that.

And the Rangers, though, told them not to worry.

They weren't subject to any fines or violations.

The following morning, the witnesses and their friends walked back to their vehicles only to find parking tickets on their windshields.

A couple of local police officers drove by and explained why the group had been ticketed, confusing everyone.

So the witness explained the interaction that they had had with the two park rangers only hours before.

The officer asked what the rangers looked like, and so the campers described their appearances, noting the uniforms that they had been wearing.

According to the police, there had been no one monitoring the woods the previous night, but they recognized the description of the rangers as a pair of men who had been killed on the job way back.

in 1939.

Of course, if ghostly park authorities strike fear into your heart, locking yourself in your car isn't going to protect you either.

Which is a terrifying thing, because the specter of one of West Milford's most infamous residents still stalks the road, just as he did when he was still alive.

His name was Giles Jones, and he owned a farmhouse just off of Clinton Road more than 30 years ago.

Back then, the area was mostly empty, rural farmland, with Jones its sole denizen.

He was a lonely and cruel man who lived on the money that he earned from selling his crops.

They say that Jones Jones kept mostly to himself, choosing to spend his time on his property rather than interacting with folks in town.

Those who did catch the occasional glimpse would usually say that they spotted him behind the wheel of his black pickup truck, with a shotgun in his hands.

Local legend says that anyone back then who was unfortunate enough to incur his wrath had been followed by Jones in his pickup, sometimes for miles, until finally being run off Clinton Road.

Because he was one of the only people in the area, Jones treated Clinton Road as his own personal driveway, and anyone caught on its pavement, especially at night, was subjected to his violence and erratic behavior.

Armed with his trusty shotgun, he would jump into his pickup, described of course as black as night, and then chase unsuspecting drivers until they had finally left.

It's said that Jones menaced the community for three long decades until he finally succumbed to a heart attack while tending his farm one day.

He had no friends and no family.

Giles Jones was a man who had made sure that he was entirely alone, and so his old dilapidated farmhouse sat empty following his death.

Roof shingles wore away and paint faded while the black pickup truck rusted nearby.

The property was in shambles when the state finally took ownership of it years later, but the stories about Jones continued even after his death, and pretty soon those stories turned into legend.

Now anyone cruising Clinton Road after 3 a.m.

is liable to run into the ghost of the ill-fated farmer.

All they have to do is honk their horn three times.

Then in the rearview mirror, a pair of headlights will appear.

A loud shotgun blast will soon follow as Jones and his truck chase them down the road.

Don't believe the legend?

Neither did teenager Roger Kavitz.

Kavets and his friends piled into his fire engine red Pontiac Firebird late one night for a joyride.

They decided that they were going to pay the Jones Estate a visit and leave their mark upon his pickup truck.

They were so cavalier, a local bartender heard them bragging about their plans in his establishment and told them to leave it alone.

But Cavitz didn't listen.

Later that night, the sound of a gunshot roused Clinton Road resident Jim Ford from his sleep.

He clambered out of bed and onto his porch where he caught sight of Cavitz' firebirds screaming past his house and a black pickup truck close behind.

White letters had been sprayed onto the side of the truck, and by the looks of things, the paint wasn't yet dry.

When Kavetz and his pursuer finally disappeared down the road, Ford went inside and called the police.

Eventually, the sheriff caught up with Kavitz and his firebird, but he didn't have to pull him over.

The car was sitting right in the middle of Clinton Road, crushed on all sides as though it had survived a demolition derby.

Its body looked like red, crumpled paper, and the teens inside, including Cavitz himself, were dead.

Their bodies had been mangled and bloodied.

It wasn't a case of driver having lost control of the vehicle.

Someone, or something,

had done this to them.

Ford encouraged the sheriff to go to the Jones house and check out the old black pickup truck.

The officer obliged, but was skeptical.

After all, that truck had been there for so long, there was no way it would be able to run.

He poked around the property a bit, and there, where it had been for all those years, was Jones' pickup truck.

Just as he expected, it hadn't moved from its spot and had actually been partially reclaimed by the land.

Weeds and other plants could be seen poking out through the chassis and into the cabin of the truck.

But there was something else.

There, on the sides of the pickup, were the initials of Cavitz and his friends in bright white spray paint.

The sheriff walked around the vehicle for a closer look and then noticed more paint, but of a different color.

This paint was red, the same red as Cavitz's firebird, and it had been embedded deep within the truck's rusted bumper.

Driving along Clinton Road, it's easy to miss the buildings for the trees, but they're there if you're willing to venture off the beaten path.

Just beyond the main road and down a small hill is a massive structure made from hundreds of stacked stones.

It measures dozens of feet tall, with a wide arched entrance on one side.

For years it was believed to be a temple where druids would go to worship, although its true origins are much more benign.

It's an old furnace left over from Clinton Rhodes days as an iron-making community.

A man named William Jackson had started it back in 1826, and his men used the furnace to produce iron from 1833 until 1837.

When operations moved to a larger forge later on, the furnace was simply left behind to collect rain and snow.

And of course, tall tales.

The woods surrounding the furnace have been the subject of numerous stories over the years, dating back as far as the early 1900s.

One New Jersey native, Joseph Percy Crayon, wrote in 1905 that the woods, and I quote, were infested with bands of robbers and counterfeiters to say nothing of the witches that held their nightly dances and carousels and the ghosts that then made their appearance in such frightful forms.

Such goings-on were par for the course in these woods, especially on Richard Cross's modest little abode.

Cross was born in Liverpool, England in 1845, but he moved to New Jersey later in life.

He was a banker who, after he retired, built a house in the woods of West Milford.

Although calling it a house is a bit of an understatement.

What Richard Cross actually built was a castle.

It was a massive citadel made of native stone, which sat on a 365-acre plot of land adjacent to a large body of water called Hanks Pond.

Upon its completion around 1907, the Cross estate was also home to a guesthouse, tennis courts, a boathouse, farmhouse, barns, and stables.

It was officially named Bearfort Castle, but it was locally known as Cross Castle.

The 40-room palace loomed over Clinton Road from its perch atop a large hill.

Sadly, in 1917, Richard Cross passed away and left the home to his family.

They stuck around for a couple of years before selling the whole estate to the city of Newark for $150,000.

The castle sat abandoned for decades after that, rotting away in the woods until teenagers rediscovered it in the 1950s.

Pretty soon, people were coming from all over New Jersey to poke around Cross's old stomping grounds, taking pieces of the home and its adjacent buildings as souvenirs.

Gaggles of teenagers gathered within its stone walls to drink and party, filling the home with more laughter and excitement than it probably ever saw while its owner was still alive.

Eventually, a fire broke out, and Cross Castle was reduced to nothing more than ruined stone walls, which still stood erect at three stories tall.

And it's those skeletal remains peeking out from behind the trees that have inspired all kinds of legends about what might have transpired within.

There were stories of dead bodies found within dungeons on the property.

According to some locals, Satanists would congregate within the ruins and hold eerie rituals late at night, evidenced by the devilish scriptures painted on the walls.

Even the Ku Klux Klan was rumored to have held meetings there.

In fact, a pair of brothers who spent much of their time in the West Milford Woods claimed to have spotted a bonfire going on at the castle one night.

They watched as people wearing white robes and hoods gathered around the blaze, presumably holding a clan meeting of some kind.

But things took a dark turn when one of the white-cloaked members noticed the brothers peering at them from behind the trees.

He shouted at them, ordering them to stop as the other members gave chase.

The brothers ran back to their car and sped away into the night.

They say that the racist brigade followed close behind, with shotguns in their hands.

And on yet another night, a group of revelers drove up to the castle with a couple of six-packs and party plans.

They gathered some sticks and brush and lit a fire.

The flame cast dancing shadows against the stone as they sat and talked.

30 minutes had passed before they caught a strange sound coming from the darkness.

It was chanting, accompanied by the jangling of chains.

Then, out of nowhere, one of the young women in the group seemed to be overwhelmed by a seizure.

Her friends tried to shift her into a more comfortable position, attempting to pry her from the rock she was seated upon, but she wouldn't move.

It was as though she had been glued in place.

Suddenly, the chanting was replaced with silence.

The chains stopped rattling, and the girl's seizure stopped.

No one had any idea what had caused the incident, so they packed up their things and headed home.

But they were far from empty-handed.

They had become the proud new owners of yet another story about the mysterious cross castle of Clinton Road.

Legends have a way of growing over time.

Live long enough in the same community and you too might notice that sort of evolution.

The stories we tell aren't frozen and static.

They evolve, changing with each new generation.

What I find the most fascinating about Clinton Road is just how powerful of an influence one long, mostly uninhabited stretch of road can have over a community.

All these years later, it still features heavily in local lore.

And judging by the stories we've heard today, it's easy to see why.

In 1988, the last remnants of the Cross Castle finally came down for good.

Its stone walls had remained standing for 80 years, a stoic reminder of one man's success and how fleeting a legacy can be when nobody is there to stop the rumors.

A demolition team knocked them down and hauled the rubble away for good.

Cross Castle is no more, but the land, like Clinton Road and the woods it cuts through, still draws curious explorers hoping to prove that the stories are true.

And that's New Jersey in a nutshell.

It's a small state with a big presence.

Travel 20 minutes in any direction, and depending on where you go, you'll run right into the suburbs, the city, or the country.

Just remember to stick to the well-lit roads and always check your rearview mirror.

Every community has their own collection of well-worn legends, like roads that have been traveled by countless souls.

And while we've covered a lot of ground today, we're not quite done just yet.

Stick around through this brief sponsor break for one more tale from West Milford, New Jersey.

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Back in the 1970s, West Milford became home to a theme park owned by the Warner Brothers Company.

It was called Jungle Habitat and allowed visitors to drive through the park on a mobile safari, watching for tigers and giraffes from the safety of their vehicle.

And for the families that wanted to walk around, there was a separate area of the park where they could get their pictures taken with Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird, who would also put on shows at one of the inn park amphitheaters.

Unfortunately, problems plague Jungle Habitat almost immediately.

Months after it first opened, a tourist named Abraham Levy took a taxi through the safari while on a visit from Israel.

He wasn't satisfied with how far away some of the animals were, so he rolled down his window for a closer look.

A pair of lions caught sight of the open window and literally pounced on the opportunity, mauling him across his face and arms.

He eventually accepted his responsibility in the attack, but the incident had tarnished Jungle Habitat's reputation permanently.

Months later, news broke out that several of the animals had escaped and were living in the woods of West Milford.

Residents spotted the occasional peacock or ostrich in their backyards, even a kangaroo, but more threatening predators had also found their way outside the park.

One local came out to his car one morning, only to find an Alaskan timber wolf standing on top of it.

The animals that didn't get out were either shipped to a care facility in Ohio or died from exposure.

Many of the animals, such as the baboons and turtles, weren't made for the harsh New Jersey winters.

Monkeys lost fingers and toes to frostbites, while the tortoises died in the cold.

A baby elephant carcass was also found in the woods by passing hikers.

Its head had been separated from its body.

All of these problems, compounded with protests from local residents who didn't like all the added traffic the park brought, eventually forced Warner Brothers to close jungle habitat for good.

The site was left to decompose as nature slowly reclaimed it for itself.

Those who visit the former park today can find rusted animal cages and tracks from the old tram system.

But that's not all.

Over the years, folks in West Milford have claimed to have spotted evidence of the creatures that were left behind nearly 50 years ago.

Shortly after the park closed, it's said that more animal carcasses were discovered.

They were described as though they had been picked clean by something with big, sharp teeth.

like a wolf or a hungry lion that had slipped away when no one was looking.

The animals that had managed to get away were said to have done more than escape.

They proliferated.

Hybrids such as albino wolf dogs are said to lurk among the trees and forests of West Milford, as do more unexplainable phenomena.

A woman cruising along Clinton Road with her friends once spotted a large animal approaching her car.

They took off, racing away from it as fast as possible, until they were finally pulled over by a police officer.

The creature, of course, had vanished, but the stories didn't go away.

Those who knew of its presence referred to it as a hellhound.

Some even said that it was the Jersey Devil itself.

Regardless of who or what it was, though, one thing is certain: it's a jungle out there, and you never know what might be watching you.

This episode of Lore Legends was produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research and writing by Harry Marks.

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