Picture this.

It's 2 o'clock in the morning on a chilly, rain-slick night in Passa County, New Jersey.

The air has that damp, heavy chill that clings to your clothes and makes your breath hang in the air like smoke.

You and two of your pals are crammed into a beat-up sedan.

You aren't on your way home, and you certainly aren't outrunning errands.

You're on a pilgrimage.

You're driving down Riverview Drive, a narrow, twisting ribbon of asphalt that hugs the black,

sluggish waters of the Passaic River.

On your right, towering oak and maple trees arch over the road, creating a thick, claustrophobic canopy that completely blacks out the moonlight.

On your left, just beyond a rusted, scratched metal guardrail sits Laurel Grove Cemetery.

Thousands of silent headstones and weathered monuments fade into a thick blue-green river fog.

The driver, who was acting incredibly brave back at the diner, is suddenly very quiet.

He turns down the radio because the signal has devolved into low-rhythmic static.

He glances down at his cell phone resting in the cup holder.

It's dead. No bars, total silence.

He presses on the brakes, slowing the car to a crawl.

The road is incredibly narrow here. There are no painted lines, just cracked uneven asphalt that feels like it's slowly being swallowed by the woods.

He pulls the car over near a sharp blind bend.

This is the spot.

According to the local high school lore, if you want to see her, you have to follow the rules.

You have to turn off your headlights, letting the absolute darkness of the woods envelop you.

You have to tune the radio into an oldie station, the kind of music they danced to back in the 1960s.

...