The Jersey Devil Read Online Free

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    â€œI swear you do that just to hound me,” Sam said.
    Daryl’s sad blue eyes sparkled for a moment. “You found me out.” He happened to look down and said, “No need to salute. I’m not an officer.”
    Sam chuckled, covering his slight bulge with his shirttail. “Why don’t you go downstairs and fix me some breakfast? Make yourself useful.”
    Daryl clomped down the stairs. “Same as always? Farina with prune juice and a Metamucil chaser?”
    â€œKeep it up, kid. You won’t be young forever.”
    Sam closed his bedroom door, gathered his shirt and overalls and went to the attached bathroom. He looked out the window. It was still dark out, but he could see a pink sliver of light on the horizon. The air drifting through the open window was chilly, but the weatherman said things would warm up by nine. The farm needed constant nurturing. It wouldn’t be long before the place was overrun by his farmhands and family. Sam had been born and raised in the Bronx, and he never could get over how just an hour north from a city of concrete and apartment buildings, Pine Bush was as rural and countrified as the Deep South.
    Giving himself a dry shave, he heard the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra wafting from the stereo in the kitchen. The kid, and everyone else around Sam, knew all about his passion for the American standards sung by real men—Sinatra, Dean Martin, Mel Tormé, Tony Bennett, Bobby Darin and Nat King Cole. The smell of eggs and sausage coupled with the greatest music ever recorded got his old bones in motion. Daryl had become a hell of a cook, and he was Sam’s favorite person to see first thing in the morning. Sam only hoped he could help his grandson find his way in the short time he had left. Farming just wasn’t in him. He did everything they asked of him, but Sam could tell Daryl didn’t have a passion for it.
    He got downstairs before the rest of the family so he could sneak a sausage link.
    â€œYou want a slice of toast with that?” Daryl asked, working up a huge pan of scrambled eggs. He’d baked two loaves of bread the day before. The butter was also made right on the farm. Sam felt sorry for all the billions of people who didn’t own farms and had no idea how incredible breakfast could be.
    â€œI can wait,” he said. “I think I’ll check my e-mail first.”
    The old floor creaked under his weight as he walked to the living room. Sam was old, but he was still a big man, just over six-three, and spry as a man half his age. He found his iPad on the side table next to his lounge chair and turned it on.
    The first thing he looked through were the multiple Google alerts that his granddaughter, April, had helped him set up when he got the tablet a year ago. He was not one to be left behind by the changing times. He’d bought a computer in the early nineties, using it mostly to keep records for farm business. When the Internet came along, he was hooked.
    Can’t believe all the stuff these tablets can do , he thought, marveling at the slim device in his thick hands.
    He was about to click on the links for his cryptid alert when his daughter-in-law, Carol, swept past, patting his shoulder.
    â€œMorning, Boompa,” she said with a yawn. Carol was just shy of fifty and slender as a pitchfork handle, with a bosom that looked surgically enhanced, though she was as real as the day was long. He looked at her, silhouetted by the lamplight, and said to himself, You picked a wonderful woman, Bill, even though you had to do your picking awfully young. Not many guys win that lottery.
    She tied her long, dirty blond hair into a ponytail while she looked out the big front windows. There wasn’t much to see now, but soon enough, the entire farm would be lit by the morning sun.
    â€œMornin’, dear,” Sam said.
    â€œIsn’t it a wee bit early to be looking for monsters? I bet you haven’t