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

When the Devil
Came
Part 1

Did you know in Alabama ice cream in your pocket is a crime?

And in West Virginia, underwater whistling could land you a hefty fine?

Fact. Strange but true.

These quirky laws fascinate me. I was charged with writing a fun story about how the US is more eccentric than we think. I may have gone too far.
State by state, I researched America’s legal oddities. Some were amusing. Others are baffling. For instance, the origin of the ice cream law was horse theft prevention. Allegedly, the law was written to stop thieves from luring equines with melting dairy treats.

I discovered surprises in every state, and when you learned the backstory most made some sense in a twisted way – until I came to Vermont.

While the Green Mountain State protects its maple syrup, it also has a law shielding elephants from harm.

A law so random must have an easily accessible reason, right? Wrong. While I know the reason, I’m not sure I believe it.

While combing through Vermont’s statutes, I stumbled upon a peculiar line: ‘It shall be unlawful for any person to discharge a firearm at an elephant within the state boundaries of Vermont.’ I blinked and reread it. Elephants? In Vermont? Had there ever been an elephant in Vermont? Like Spiderman’s spider sense, my journalist’s feelings tingled This would anchor the story and whole project I had to know more.

The elephant bylaw appeared just once in the 1873 Franklin County register. Never copied. Never repeated. It was not until a high schooler with a summer job scanning the county’s documents noticed the line before posting it online. Even then it was

Without the efforts of PotatoPiro, this legislation would never have seen the light of day and I silently thanked her.

Had I known how deep and dark this rabbit hole would go, I might have cursed her name.

I’ve heard of the bylaw, yes,’ said a distracted voice on the phone, wary of speaking with a reporter. “I saw the posting and yes, I think I can explain it.”

Professor Emerson, head of the history department, spoke with the weariness of someone long bored by his own subject.

If eye rolling is a sound, it would have been the sigh that Emerson gave before explaining, “Vermont’s history is the equivalent of watching paint dry 1873 was no exception.”

Why were there elephants in Vermont” I prodded. “And who shot them?”

There was a pause. “Well, truthfully I have no idea who shot them,” he said slowly. “I can make a guess. A flood washed away tracks and a northbound train was delayed a few days. And maybe…” He trailed off. I leaned in.

“Maybe what?” I prompted.

“Maybe some animals escaped,” he finished.

“From a train?” I asked. “Why would there be elephants on a train?”

“Back then, everything moved by rail—even circuses,” Emerson said hurriedly. “I understand that some animals, including elephants, got loose. Hold on.” I heard muffled voices on the other end.

“And they shot them?” I spouted but the professor was having a conversation with someone else. I pieced it together without him. The circus got held up by flooding, elephants escaped and they were promptly shot. Mystery solved.

“I’d hate to speculate without some proof,” Emerson returned. “I teach Greek history. Vermont is an infant, boring, and of no use to me. He paused again before adding, “I know about the elephants because of the photo on the wall at Eugene’s Bar in St. Albans.” Another pause. “Bye now.”

He hung up, I was frozen in thought. A photo of a bar in St. Albans a town not far from the Canadian border.

Was it worth traveling to Vermont just to glimpse an old photo of elephants in a bar? Absolutely. My editor would disagree, but then again he was the one who told me to follow my gut.

The next day, I was disembarking a train in St. Albans breathing Vermont’s fresh air; full of pine and possibility.

At first glance, this Norman Rockwell town seemed almost too picture-perfect—like it was hiding something beneath the surface.

I should have checked before planning my trip. Eugene’s Bar was closed and would be for the three days I’d be here. How can a bar only open four days a week? I pointed to the closed sign as an elderly woman passed by. ‘Money laundering, right?’ She silently handed me a dollar, as if that answered everything.

How does anyone make money around here? I gave the buck back to the woman.

I turned to the citizens of St. Albans. You should have seen the sideways glances in response to questions about the elephant bylaw from anyone who walked by. I’d ask simply if they ever heard it. No one had.

Peering through the bar’s window, I could just make out dark wood paneling, brass fixtures, and walls lined with old photos and vintage cigarette ads—but none offered the answers I was searching for.

I made my way to the Georgia Historical Society, the nearby town where the elephant law was written. But hit another dead end. “Permanently Closed.” Georgia 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. 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 in the history of The Saint Albans Messenger was saved. I fed the reel into the machine and the past flickered to life.
Each page was an opportunity to get distracted – hours passed quickly. My eyes strained against the dim light of the monitor and the words blurred together.

Before they gave up completely, I found what I needed. The headline sharpened my focus.

“CIRCUS TRAIN HALTED – The Farham Bros Circus, en route to Montreal, has been delayed outside town due to unexpected flooding. Residents report a menagerie of exotic animals and curious performers. The circus will return to Philadelphia while they rebuild the Northern Route.

The residents of Georgia have opened their homes to the performers and animals during the five-day delay. Curious townsfolk traveled from hours away to glimpse the exotic animals, including a lion, an elephant, and a giraffe. Of particular interest is a heavily guarded train car, the contents of which remain a mystery.

I read it again and again on a loop; a circus train, elephants, and a mysterious guarded car. This had to be the event that spurred the bylaw. This was the only time up to that date that elephants were ever in Vermont.

What could have been hidden in that armored car? Something dangerous, or just a circus gimmick? The more I thought about it, the more the possibilities gnawed at me.

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

I scanned the rest of the newspaper and found only normal 1873 stories – advertisements for patent medicines and farm equipment. But then, tucked away in the obituaries, 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 at 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. “Lots of us know 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 was 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 quintessential New Englander: reserved but kind, with a calm demeanor that somehow made it feel safe to climb into a stranger’s car.

Anyway, she was a librarian the unsung heroes of research and community. While journalism dies, librarians remain.

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 know Eugene?”

“Eugene’s dead. This is my place.” Helen chuckled. “Eugene was my grandfather.” She pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. The bar was dark and still. The air carried the heavy scent of aged wood and stale 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. 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 looked like a shadow clad in iron. Grim-faced Pinkerton security guards stood at attention. One door. No windows. Whatever was inside, they were extremely concerned about it getting out.

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

“Just 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.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” she confirmed, sliding a glass of soda towards me.

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

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

“I mean, yeah,” I said, perhaps too eager. “That is why I’m here. Well and those elephants. Sometimes the focus of the story changes. ”

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

“What secrets?”

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

I nodded, turning back to the photo. Then, something strange caught my eye. Between the cameraman and the armored train car stood a woman in a flowing black dress, her blurred figure an eerie anomaly in the scene. Her face was blurred, by movement and the limitations of 1873 photography, but even in the grainy image, something was unsettling about her presence.

“That woman in black—there’s something off about her,” I said, gesturing to the blurred figure in the photo.

Helen leaned in, squinting at the photo. “I suppose,” she adds, her voice soft. “I’d say she’s dressed for a funeral.”

We joined in silence for a moment, both lost in thought. I thought about a funeral and like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. The obituaries I saw in the old newspaper. Two men, both in their thirties, both dead of apparent heart attacks. Both died 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 tonight?”

Helen arched an eyebrow, her expression skeptical, but she 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,”

On the ride, I filled her in on my hunch about the obituaries. I couldn’t remember many details other than two young men dead of heart attack at the same location. 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 and no explanation of what a man from New Jersey was doing in small-town Vermont. He wasn’t leaf-peeping that was for sure.

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

Her words echoed in my head on the walk back to my hotel. While it felt like I was moving further away from the elephant and the bylaw question, I was on the trail of a bigger story – the one that was going to land me a Netflix documentary.

Back in my room, I dove into research, my laptop casting a blue glow in the dark room. The hours flew by, my eyes burning from staring at the screen. Finally, I unearthed a podcast about Jeremiah Flint—a forgotten figure in Philadelphia folklore. It had less than fifty plays even though it was a decade old. The title of the episode?  Jeremiah Flint – The Man Who Captured the Devil.

I gave my eyes a break, clicked play, and lay in bed. An enthusiastic young man’s voice filled the room along with some terrible audio quality. No wonder it had only 50 plays, he never even introduced himself. The podcaster spoke of Flint’s legendary hunting exploits. And then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned a piece of folklore too outrageous to be true.

According to the podcast, Jeremiah Flint had captured perhaps the most famous monster in America, after Bigfoot – the Jersey Devil. The young man was light on details saying he wanted to reserve it for a book as only he knew the truth.

I immediately put the Jersey Devil into that iron-clad train car, with the fearful Pinkerton guards, and connected it to the two heart attacks.

The next morning I tracked down 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.

“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 meekly. “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 need more details than you gave.” I explained. “I need you to tell me everything you know. Plus, I need to know how you know.”

Alex nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you the story first. And 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 to attack crowds. I don’t know if rides even existed. They were British and loved showing off how weird America was, you know?”

“Revenge for the Revolutionary War?” I joked.

Alex chuckled. “Something like that. They wanted to show us as half-wits. Their words. 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 now 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. Flint 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. “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 call him a 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 hid behind trees. The area was lit only by a single torch.”

I was on the edge of my seat entranced.

“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 music was working.

The devil moved slowly towards him. Suddenly, the ground gave out underneath him. Ropes snaked around his hooves and pulled him into a hole in the ground. There, a steel box sat waiting. Steel cables, hidden beneath the forest floor, had sprung to life, ensnaring the beast. The music box’s song had rendered the Devil docile, allowing Flint to secure it without a scratch to him or his prey. The men secured the cables so he couldn’t fly away, and Flint covered the box and sealed it.”

“Holy mackerel,” I blurted, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

Alex nodded, grinning. “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 gave him more to be the Devil’s minder on the road, but they knew they had to get the beast out of the country. The plan was to 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.”

“Alex, you need to write this book.” 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 all this?” 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 along with the Flint’s story. Abigail wrote it all down and kept this music box. 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 and simple, yet beautiful. 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 exactly 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 stay in touch. The elephant bylaw remained a mystery, but I was now chasing something far bigger—a legend. I glanced at my notes, and with a sense of foreboding, jotted down one haunting phrase: ‘Older than the Devil.

Part 2 coming in the next issue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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.