It’s almost spooky season, my favorite time of the year.  Especially in Vermont, when the days get crisp fast.  Here is Part One of the Story – When the Devil Came to Georgia, Vermont. I had the idea of the story’s name and got carried away.  The Jersey Devil is a favorite legend of mine.  I grew up near the Pine Barrens where the beast lived.  I also lived near Walt Whitman’s summer home where every summer a folklorist would tell the story of the Jersey Devil to kids like me and leave us scarred for life.  I love it.  This storyteller would say the only way to ward off this devil was to put a bit of toothpaste at the end of your nose.

This story will be in the book The Vermont Extended Universe.  Here is Part 1.   Enjoy!

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When The Devil Came to Georgia, Vermont – Part 1

Did you know in Alabama, ice cream in your pocket is a crime? And West Virginia? Underwater whistling earns you a hefty fine. Fact. Strange but true. These quirky laws fascinate me. As a writer for the New Yorker, I was charged with writing a fun story about how the US is more eccentric than we think.

State by state, I discovered America’s legal oddities. Some amused me. Others baffled me. Many left me questioning our collective sanity. The ice cream law, for instance. Its origin? Horse theft prevention, allegedly.  It was written to stop thieves from luring equines with melting dairy treats. It’s crazy, but it’s the law.

My research took me down a path of legislative idiocy Each state held its own surprises. In a twisted way, some of the laws made sense once you understood the backstory.

Then came Vermont. Green Mountain State. Land of maple syrup and Bernie Sanders. Surely, I thought, Vermont would be different. Rational. Progressive. How wrong I was.

Buried deep within Vermont’s statutes, I found it. A single line. “It shall be unlawful for any person to discharge a firearm at an elephant within the state boundaries of Vermont.” I blinked. Read it again. Elephants? Had there ever been an elephant in Vermont? My journalistic sensibilities tingled.  Like the talking cornfield in the movie Field of Dreams, I was being called.   I had to know more.

In all of the written words in the history of the world, the elephant bylaw appeared just once. In the 1873 Franklin County register. Never copied. Never repeated. If not for a diligent high schooler who scanned all the county documents, it might have remained hidden forever.

That student, nameless but not forgotten, had scanned 150 years of meeting notes. A Herculean task. Without their efforts, this legislation might never have seen the light of day. I silently thanked them.

I probably should’ve cursed him. Little did I know, how deep and dark the rabbit hole I was about to enter would be.

“1873?” The voice on the phone was faint. Hesitant. “Yes, I think I can explain it.”

I had reached out to the head of the history department at the University of Vermont. Professor Edward Emerson. His initial response? Less than enthusiastic. “Vermont’s history,” he sighed, “is less of a rollercoaster and more of a lazy river.” I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “In other words, it’s boring. 1873 was no exception.”

But I pressed on. “Was there a reason why elephants would have been in Vermont?” I prodded. “And shot at?”

Emerson paused. “Well,” he said slowly, “There was a flood. If I recall correctly a northbound train got stopped.  And maybe…” He trailed off. I leaned in, though he couldn’t see me. “Maybe what?” I prompted.

“Maybe some animals escaped,” he finished.

“From a train?” I asked, wondering why elephants were on a train.

“It was a circus train,” Emerson replied. I heard a commotion on his end. A student, interrupting our call.”

“Look, that’s all I know,” Emerson said hurriedly. “Just know that some elephants got loose for a bit. Hold on.” I heard muffled voices. My mind raced. Elephants loose in Vermont. In 1873. It was starting to make sense.

“Did they shoot them?” I blurted. The bylaw. The elephants. It had to be connected.

“I have no idea,” Emerson replied, his voice distracted. “I teach Greek history. Vermont is too new. Too boring to be much use to me.” He paused. I could hear the smile in his voice as he added, “I only know about the Elephant because of the photo on the wall at Eugene’s Bar in St. Albans.” Another pause. “Bye now.”

And with that, he hung up. I sat there, phone in hand. A photo in a bar in St. Albans? It wasn’t much, but I guess it was a lead. I twirled my pencil, wondering if it was worth going to Vermont to see a photo of elephants on a wall? My journalistic instincts told me yes. My editor would probably disagree but he often reminds me to follow my gut.

And my gut tells me to go north.

So, with a notebook in hand,  I found myself disembarking from the Amtrak in the sleepy town of Georgia, Vermont. I took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp Vermont air full of pine and possibility.

My first impressions were… underwhelming. I had expected some quaint charm. Thought I’d be writing about Norman Rockwell come to life. Instead, I found myself in a town that seemed to have missed the memo on Vermont stereotypes. No country store with rocking chairs on the porch or bearded men in flannel talking about maple syrup.

As I walked down the main street, a scene from the movie “First Blood” flashed through my mind. John Rambo, walked into a town where he didn’t belong. Where he wasn’t welcome. That’s how I felt. This town was hiding something. I could feel it in the air. I was getting some sideways glances and whispered conversations from anyone who walked by, but I realized it was my light blue cowboy hat.  Once I took that off folks stop paying me any mind.

I took a cab to St. Albans, a much bigger town (by Vermont standards) just North of Georgia, my heart set on Eugene’s Bar and its mysterious photo.

“Closed.” The sign on the window said. I guess I should have checked before planning my trip. The bar is closed Monday through Wednesday. How does anyone make money around here?

I pressed my face against the window, peering into the darkness. Dark wood. Brass fixtures. The walks were covered in photos and signs. Nothing I could make out.

I made my way to the Georgia Historical Society. Another dead end. “Permanently Closed,” the sign informed me. Georgia, it seemed, was not focused on the past.

The library saved me. At least here, some history remained intact, and, even better, the doors were open. But there were no old newspapers to flip through. Instead, I was led to a machine—microfiche.  Ugh. For those born in this century, Microfiche is like scrolling through Instagram, but each image is a full newspaper page.  You load it into a machine, and instead of swiping, you turn a dial to move from page to page.

Every page of the local paper, The Saint Albans Messenger was saved.  I fed the reel into the machine the past flickered to life on the screen. Each page where opportunities to get distracted. Hours passed.  My eyes strained against the dim light of the monitor and the words started to blur.

And then, I found it.  The headline sharpened my focus like a hawk locking onto its prey.

“CIRCUS TRAIN HALTED – The Farham Bros Circus, en route to Montreal, has been delayed outside town due to unexpected flooding. Local residents report a menagerie of exotic animals and curious performers. The circus will return to Philadelphia due to the unsafe conditions of the Northern Route. The residents of Georgia have opened their homes to the performers and animals during the five-day delay. Folks from neighboring towns have traveled hours to get a glimpse of a lion, elephant, or giraffe. Of particular interest is a heavily guarded train car, the contents of which remain a mystery.”

I read it again. And again. A circus train. Elephants. And a mysterious guarded car. This was it. This had to be the event that spurred the bylaw. The only time up to that date that elephants were in Vermont.

What was in that guarded car? Why was it so important? So dangerous? It was a circus so it could be all theatrics. A red herring.

My mind raced with possibilities. Maybe the local men, bored with hunting deer and rabbits, saw an opportunity for a more exotic game.

Why guard the car so heavily then? It had to be something else. Something more sinister.

I scanned the rest of the newspaper. Normal 1873 stories. Advertisements for patent medicines and farm equipment. Obituaries of local citizens. And then, tucked away in the classifieds, something caught my eye. But before I could investigate further, a hand on my shoulder startled me.

“We’re closing, dear,” a kind voice said. I looked up to see an older woman, her gray hair neatly pinned back, smiling down at me. Her nametag read “Helen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I stammered, gathering my notes. “I lost track of time.”

Helen glanced at my work. “Researching the old circus incident, are you?” she asked.

I nodded, surprised. “You know about it?”

She chuckled. “Oh, everyone knows about it. Or I guess, everyone knows there’s something to know, if you catch my drift.” She smirked.”You know, I can show you a photo from that day.”

“That would be incredible,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “I heard there as a photo over at Eugene’s, but they’re closed.”

“Follow me,” Helen said, ushering me out as she locked up the library. “Get in the car.”

Helen was a New Englander through and through, reserved, but kind. Enough to put me at ease to get in a car with her.

Plus, she was a librarian. In my experience, librarians are the unsung heroes of research. While journalism suffers, librarians are the keepers of facts.

As we drove, Helen filled the silence with local trivia. “This is a small town,” she said, her eyes on the road. “Four thousand people, give or take.”

I nodded, jotting notes.

“But most of those go about their own business, elsewhere,” Helen continued. “There’s about two hundred people that matter to Georgia.” She said this matter-of-factly, with no judgment in her voice. Just stating the truth as she saw it. Our families go back to when the town was founded.

Before I knew it, we were back at Eugene’s. We stepped out of the car, and I paused.

“Wait,” I said, turning to her. “You knew Eugene?”

Helen chuckled. “Eugene was my grandpa.” She pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. The bar was dark and still, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and old beer. With a flick of the light, she led me to the far wall.

And there it was. The photo Professor Emerson had mentioned. Black and white, yellowed with age. But clear enough to see the details. The photo was taken from a hill nearby from behind. Several train cars were in view, as were the workers, the onlookers, and some animals. An out-of-focus group of elephants loomed in the background.

The armored train car caught my eye. It was a dark car, clad in more layers of iron than seemed necessary. Pinkerton security guards stood at attention, their faces grim. One door. No windows. Whatever was inside, they didn’t want it getting out.

Helen gently took the photo from the wall and placed it on the bar. “Drink?” she offered.

“Diet soda, if you have it,” I replied, my eyes still glued to the photo.

As Helen busied herself behind the bar, I leaned in closer, examining every detail of the image. “It’s kinda freaky, that car no?” I murmured, more to myself than to Helen.

“Kinda,” she confirmed, sliding a glass of soda towards me.

I looked up at her, curiosity burning in my eyes. “What was in it?”

Helen’s lips curved into a cryptic smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I mean, yeah,” I said, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “That is why I’m here. Well and those elephants. Sometimes the focus of my stories change en route.”

Helen’s expression didn’t change. “Well, good luck,” she said. “Only a handful ever knew what happened, and my guess is they were paid off by the circus company. Farnham Brothers didn’t want their secrets getting out.”

“Wait something happened?”

“Oh, something happened and it left the town forever changed. What that was we don’t know.”

I nodded, turning back to the photo. Something else caught my eye. Between the cameraman and that scary train car was a woman dressed in flowing black. Her face was blurred, either by movement or the limitations of 1873 photography. But even in the grainy image, something was unsettling about her presence.

“That lady is scary,” I said, pointing her out to Helen.

Helen leaned in, squinting at the photo. “Yeah,” she agreed, her voice soft. “Looks like she’s dressed for a funeral.”

We stood in silence for a moment, both lost in thought. Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. The obituaries I had seen in the old newspaper. Two men, both in their thirties, both dead of apparent heart attacks on Main Street.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “It’s in the paper. That weekly paper. Would you be able to get me back in the library?”

Helen raised an eyebrow but nodded. “I suppose I could,” she said slowly. “But why? What did you see?”

I was already halfway to the door. “I’ll explain on the way,” I called over my shoulder. “Come on!”

Helen didn’t ask any more questions. She simply locked up the bar and drove us back to the library.

I filled her in on my hunch. The obituaries. I couldn’t remember many details other than two young men dead of heart attack The possibility that maybe these deaths weren’t as natural as reported.

Helen snuck me in through a side door. I made a beeline for the archives. It was much easier to find what I was looking for this time. There it was, two obituaries, side by side.

Josiah Hadley, aged 34, died in his home on Main Street of a heart attack. No picture, no details. Just a bare-bones announcement of a life ended too soon. And next to it, Jeremiah Flint, a New Jersey native, also died of a heart attack on Main Street. Again, no details. No explanation of what a man from New Jersey was doing in small-town Vermont.

I snapped a picture of the articles with my phone, my mind racing. I thanked Helen profusely, knowing I was pushing the bounds of small-town hospitality. She simply nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. “Be careful,” she said as I left. “Some secrets are buried for a reason.”

Her words echoed in my mind as I made my way back to my hotel. While I think I was moving further from answering the bylaw question, I was on the trail of something hidden for more than a century.

Back in my room I dove into research, my laptop casting a blue glow in the dark room. Hours passed. My eyes burned. I found a podcast about Jeremiah Flint. It had less than fifty plays even though it was a decade old.

I clicked play lay in bed and closed my eyes. A young man’s voice filled the room, enthusiastic despite the poor audio quality. He spoke of Flint’s musical background and his battlefield heroism. But it was the last half of the podcast that gave me chills.

The podcaster spoke of Flint’s legendary hunting exploits. legendary exploits. And then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned a piece of folklore so outrageous it couldn’t be true.

According to the podcast, Jeremiah Flint had captured the most famous monster in America. The Jersey Devil. The young man didn’t get into detail saying he wanted to reserve it for a book.

Could this be connected to the mysterious train car? To the deaths in Vermont?  Was the beast Flint’s heart attack?

I had to know more. The next morning I found the podcaster’s contact information, his name was Alex Richards and we set up a video call later in the morning. Alex looked young, happy, and excited that someone had heard his podcast and wanted to know more.

“Jeremiah Flint is probably the most interesting person that no one ever heard about,” Alex said, his voice deeper than in the podcast. I realized he must have been much younger when he recorded the podcast. Perhaps only 15 or so at the time. The enthusiasm hadn’t dimmed with age. “I always thought about writing a book about him,” Alex continued, “but never have.”

“I can help you there,” I offered. “People will want to know more about Flint after I publish this story. Your podcast even. But I need you to tell me how he captured the Jersey Devil.”

Alex hesitated. “I mean, you listened to the podcast,” he said quietly.”

I shook my head. “I can’t report on your reporting,” I explained. “I need you to tell me. Firsthand. Everything you know. Plus, I need to know how you know.”

Alex nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll tell you the story first. Then tell you how I know. It’ll make more sense in that order.”

I settled back in my chair after confirming everything was being recorded.

“The Farham Brothers,” Alex began, “were the biggest circus at the time. This is kind of pre-Barnum and Bailey. The brothers were still leaning on strange and gross things. They were British and loved showing how odd America was, you know?”

“Revenge for the Revolutionary War?” I joked.

Alex chuckled. “Something like that. Wanted to show us as half-wits. So these guys were into finding and capturing local legends. If they couldn’t find them, they’d make them up. They hired Jeremiah to track down what we call cryptids. If he couldn’t track them, no one could.”

“And he found the Jersey Devil?” I prompted.

“Do you know the origin of the devil of New Jersey?” Alex asked.

I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”

Alex leaned back. “Well, in some shack in the Pine Barrens, Mrs. Leeds cursed her thirteenth child as she birthed it. It came out like a winged beast and lived in the woods. It ate livestock and maybe an occasional child, though that’s been disputed. But it hid. Not wanting to be seen. Mrs. Leeds, unable to forgive herself, took care of him so he wouldn’t be hunted.”

“A mother’s instinct,” I offer.

“Yeah, exactly. That was good for Flint, he found Mrs. Leeds and spied on her for weeks,” Alex continued. “One night, she stood outside her shack and played a music box. The large winged beast came and lay before her while she stroked his head. It had hooves for legs, a large hairless body, and the color and look of severe sunburn. Its face was oversized and lumpy with glowing red eyes.”

“That sounds lovely,” I muttered.

Alex nodded. “It probably was. But only she could soothe him. It wasn’t because of her motherly love. It was the music. That’s what soothed him. Once the music stopped, the devil went back to its beastly ways. She’d play the music and go back inside while the devil flew off into the night, making an inhuman shriek as Jeremiah described it.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. The woman in black from the photo flashed in my mind.

“Flint bought up a hundred music boxes but none drew the creature. He had to have the one that Mrs. Leed played. So he watched the home and waited for the Leeds and the children to all be away,” Alex went on. “When, finally they all were far enough from the home he snuck in and stole the music box.”

“That thief,” I add.

“Might as well kidnapper too. Because the next night, he and other men he hired went into the pine barrens. It was dark and scary. But they were ready. Flint played the music box. The song echoed into the woods. It was not long before he could hear the winged beast circling the sky above them. The men started freaking out. It landed some ways from Jeremiah.  While he was out in the open the other men were hiding behind trees. The area was lit only by a single torch.”

I was on the edge of my seat, completely engrossed. Alex’s voice had taken on a hypnotic quality.

“Flint, never more fearful, saw the devil and the devil saw him,” Alex said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “It did not seem confused as to why it was he, Jeremiah Flint, and not his mother playing the box. Or why they were not near the home. The devil walked slowly towards him. Suddenly, the ground gave out. A rope snaked around his hooves and pulled him into a hole in the ground. There, a steel box was placed. Steel cables, hidden beneath the forest floor, had sprung to life, ensnaring the mesmerized beast. The music box’s song had rendered the Devil docile, allowing Flint to secure it without a single scratch. The men secured the cables so he couldn’t fly away, and Flint covered the box and sealed it.”

“Holy mackerel,” I said, realizing I had been holding my breath.

Alex nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “Right? Flint was a legend.”

“So was the Jersey Devil ever shown publicly?” I asked.

Alex shook his head. “No. It was supposed to be. The brothers paid Flint a fortune and paid him more to be the Devil’s minder on the road, but they knew they had to get the beast out of the country. Head to Montreal, then to Europe. Build up the excitement and figure out the best way to show the devil here. They needed a plan and some space.”

“So that’s what was in the armored train car?” I said, the pieces finally starting to fit together.

“It’s likely,” Alex offered. “But what happened in Vermont, I can’t tell you ’cause I don’t know.”

I frowned, remembering the obituaries. “In the paper, it said that Flint died of a heart attack.”

Alex laughed.. “I mean, his heart was attacked. When his body came back to New Jersey, it was half clawed out of his body.”

This was more than I had bargained for. I’m not sure this is even a story I can run. But I had to know more. “So, then how do you know this story?” I asked.

Alex held up a finger, prompting me to wait. He went off camera, and I could hear things moving around in his apartment. When he returned, he held up a small, ornate box.

“Flint’s wife, Abigail, was my great-grandmother times three,” Alex explained, his voice filled with pride. “This has been passed down. When I was younger, I’d play it for hours.”

“Hoping to summon the devil?” I asked, only half-joking.

“Yeah, that’s what boredom will do to ya,” Alex laughed.

He opened the box, and a haunting melody filled the air. Eerie, yet beautiful. Mesmerizing. I found myself leaning closer to the screen.

“I don’t recognize the song,” I said.

“‘Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming,'” Alex replied. “It’s an old tune. Older than the Devil. And that story is how Jeremiah told it to his wife the night before he left for Montreal. She’d never see him alive again.”

I thanked Alex profusely, promising to keep in touch. I was no closer to understanding the elephant bylaw. I looked at my notes and jotted down the phrase. “Older than the devil.”

Continued in Part 2 coming soon.

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If you like this check out the other stories in The Vermont Extended Universe series.