If you were to stand on the black sands of Port Mammoth, New Jersey, in the dead of winter,

you would feel a wind that doesn't just blow past you.

It feels like it's trying to push you into the bay.

The salt air is thick and heavy, carrying a low-hanging mist that blurs the shoreline until the dark water and the dark sky bleed into one.

And right there, standing on the edge of the salt marsh, is a massive three-story white

clappered building. It is incredibly old. It looks like it's sprouted from the mud long before

this country even had a name. Most nights it sits completely empty,

staring across the gray expanse of the Sandy Hook Bay toward the distant twinkling lights of the

New York skyline. It was a damp, quiet evening in 1975 when a married couple pulled their car

off of Port Mammoth Road. They weren't there for a

history lesson. They just wanted to watch the tide come in. But as they sat in the quiet of their

car, the wife's eyes kept drifting toward the dark silent house. The husband was a classic

skeptic. He didn't believe in the supernatural. He clearly didn't believe

the local teenagers who whispered that the old house was crawling with spirits. But he had his

heavy, portable video camera with him and he figured it would be fun to get some footage of the

old place in the dark. He stepped out of the car, the cold air immediately biting at his face.

He raised the camera to his eye, squinting through the viewfinder and aimed the lens at the first floor window.

He adjusted the focus, waiting for the glass to catch the pale moonlight.

And then, his fingers froze on the lens.

Inside the pitch-black room, gliding slowly past the window, was the figure of a man.

He was dressed in the heavy, weathered garb of an old sea-time captain, complete with a thick,

wild gray beard.

...