The first paranormal site I ever visited was in Alpine. New Jersey. It was an eight-story gothic clocktower built from gray rocks that seemed to glimmer. Devils Tower, a landmark that's surrounded by manicured grass and oceanic waters bluer than the summertime sky, held an air of intrigue and, of course, ghostliness.
On the evening I arrived, rolling up in my friend's bombed-out car, it was a little past sundown, and the New Jersey air was cold enough to make your bones ache. We took a tour of the site, and although we didn't see anything unusual, the wind picked up and started to whip through the empty windows of the tower. Sounds rose from the structure—howling, and something flapping and bumping around. I felt a cold, spooky presence, and very uneasy all of a sudden.
We left quickly, both of us figuring we
