By:
There were four of us in those days: Shane, Shane’s girlfriend, Dana, Gary, and me. They were fun times, too. I looked forward to those Saturday mornings of drug use, eating snacks for breakfast, and listening to The Misfits. Our quest: The Gates Of Hell in Clifton, N.J.
The place was bitch to find. We read the articles about the Gates in Weird N.J., and got as much as we could out of it. It didn’t help all that much. Stories and directions contradicted each other. One time Shane, a friend of ours, Bill, and I even went so far as to walk the railroad tracks in Clifton all the way to the Passaic train station in hopes of find thing this place. Nothing.
Luckily, I knew someone in Clifton, and she told me to find the river by the tracks, and I’d be there. If only it were that simple. I didn’t know she was talking about the commuter line. I ended up on some other tracks that seemed to be abandoned, but there was a river back there, and that’s where the fun began.
Shane, Gary, and I investigated the river, and we followed it for a while. It let to some huge pipe/storm drain. That is now what I refer to the Service Entrance to the Gates Of Hell, but we didn’t know it was the Gates at the time. We were used to the pictures we saw in Weird N.J., and that’s what we were looking for. More about that later.
We parked the car at the Pathmark on Paulison Ave. in Clifton, stopped for a minute to admire the attractive Hispanic women doing their shopping, and then set out to finally find this place.
There we were, me in the lead, and we went in carefully negotiating each step. Our backs were starting to complain because we had to stoop a bit as we walked. In the glow of our flashlights, we could see large, thin albino spiders covering the ceiling. Well, I guess that’s what happens when you stay out of the light. Hell, look at how pale I am! Anyway, we also took care to wear hats, just incase anything felt like dropping on us, and biting. We knew the chances of it were pretty slim, but it was purely for safety’s sake. We, Gary, and me were also slowly smoking Middletons pipe tobacco cigarettes because we knew the smoke would keep insects away.
We walked a while, and the light at the entrance was now about the size of a tennis ball. There wasn’t a lot to see on the way other than some occasional graffiti. Finally, I stopped, and put up my arm for everyone else to stop, too.
“What’s the matter?” Shane asked.
“Find something?” Gary quipped.
“Shane. Check this out, man.”
In front of us were water crickets, a lot of them. I’m used to water crickets because I have some in my basement, but not this big. They were all female, and I knew that because their appendages to lay their eggs were bright red, and about as big as a scorpion’s tail. The water was also getting deeper, and we could go no further. Our heads hung in temporary defeat, we went back out.
Once outside, I tooted two lines off a Metrocard, and we sat down to plan what to do next. We had all kinds of ideas, which later proved to be useful. Each one of us set out to find where this place was, get the necessary materials for a good ghost hunt, and do our thing. I even social engineered my brother into letting me borrow his hip waders for the day. Good thing I did, too.
It was another Saturday morning, and my mind was feeling strong that day. All was quiet as we got out of the car at the Clifton train station. This time, we had the place. The only sound was some guy at the station practicing his trumpet, loudly.
“Could you know that off, please?” Dana yelled at him
“Who said that?” the trumpeter answered.
Dana was the only female out on the street at that hour, and this guy couldn’t figure out where the voice was coming from? He can blow it out his ass, as well as his trumpet.
We were all standing there suiting up, ready for this. I felt a bit strange wearing hip waders and walking railroad tracks, but I believe in being prepared. The others were in their old clothes, and Gary had some rubber boots he got from somewhere. We walked.
“Where exactly is this place?” Shane asked.
“The directions I got said that if you go behind the brewery, you see some black tanker cars on the tracks. When you hear the water, that’s it.” I answered.
In all of the other previous attempted, and there were more than a few, we didn’t see the cars. We walked right over it, and didn’t even know it.
We headed back towards the Pathmark, and I could faintly hear water.
“Shane.”
He didn’t answer. He was too lost in thought trying to find this place.
“SHANE.”
“What?”
I squatted, and pointed to where I heard the water running. I looked down, and saw water moving. I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him down.
“Water.” I said still pointing.
To this day, Shane still tells me how amazed he was at seeing me jump down that hill from the tie wall I was standing on. To be quite honest, I’m amazed myself. One jump, and I was down the hill. The others were looking for other ways down. Little did I know that there was a railroad tie staircase not too far from my jumping point. Even if I did find it, I wouldn’t have used it. I had exploring to do. I didn’t have time to worry about stairs.
At this point, I think I should mention the story of the Gates Of Hell. It’s said that “Satanists” do their thing in there. It’s also alleged that there are hidden levels, hidden rooms, a room filled with lit candles and a skull in it, and there is also supposed to be a huge axe in it that humans/mortals can’t lift. Yeah, I know. It’s a wild story, too, but, if in fact the story was fiction, I had to do what Mark Twain talked about by sticking to possibilities.
We climbed down, and stood at the Gates, the same Gates we had seen in the Weird N.J. pics. We were all silent for a moment as we thought about what might be in there. The temptation was too strong, and we headed in, a blast of musty, cold air hitting us in the face.
Out of all of us, I had the heaviest piece of hardware: A flare pistol. It was for safety purposes. If there were some unexpected incidentals in there, a shot from a 12-gauge flare pistol would calm them down real quick.
We walked down the passage way to the where the water was rushing through. For some reason that escapes me now, Gary and Shane went back outside, and Dana and I were standing there, looking at our surroundings. There wasn’t a lot to see. There was another passage in front of us that had collapsed, and there was yet another passage where light was shining in through.
“Did you hear that?” Dana asked me
“You mean that growling?”
To this day, I have yet to figure out what it was in there, but there was something in there. I’ve been back there recently, and I went to the same spot where we stood that day, and the same growling was there. What strikes me is how deep, guttural, and demonic it sounded.
The other two came back, and we told them about what we heard. They listened, and heard the same thing. We walked off toward where the growling came from, and from there the whole expedition went down hill.
Not one thing we had heard about was there. The only thing of note was an insanely huge spider web, we guessed to be at least 20 feet across. We did find a newly dead raccoon, and at one point we walked under a street, and the light coming in from the manholes covers made for nice lighting. Other than that, it was probably the lamest ghost hunt I’ve been on. However, there is another passage in there that we have speculated about. Maybe that’s where all of the fun stuff is. Rest assured, readers, that another trip back there is in the works.
Later in the day, Gary went home, Shane, Dana, and I saw the most horrific sight of the day, and probably of our lives. It was just about a month after the WTC fell, and we headed into the city to see the wreckage.
Eventually, we all went our separate ways. Shane and Dana broke up, but I remained friends with both of them, and Gary became a punk sell out when he and got involved with someone Shane and I consider to be lower than worm shit. Gary, in his mid 30s, lost his virginity to her.