Amityville Horror Now Read online

  “Had the crazy dream again. Nightmare, more like. I dunno if it’s me or not, but it seems to get more scary every time I have it. I’m not sure why. Guess it’s because George Lutz explained it so vividly on those damned tapes. And I keep listening to them, over and over, tryin’ to figure out how to start the book–”

  He stopped again, seriously shaken, and buried his head in his hands.

  “God, sometimes I wish I’d never heard of Amityville. I should ‘ave just stayed with me music. But I guess it’s too late for that now ...”

  Suddenly he realized what he was doing. He snorted aloud, angry with himself.

  “Shit! What am I doin’ here? I’m spillin’ me guts to a bloody tape recorder!”

  He lashed out at the microphone as if it were a live thing. The stand and microphone flew across the room and slammed against the nearby wall with a loud boom. John lurched to his feet and snapped off the recorder, then stalked back to the bedroom, muttering to himself.

  “Shit! Shit! Shiittt!”

  As he reached the bedroom door, his shoulders slumped. This attempt to ease his tension failed miserably.

  “Damn it!” he mumbled out. “It was a silly idea, anyway!”

  As he disappeared back into the bedroom, he sighed bitterly. “Guess I better try and get some sleep,” he said into the empty room. “Or I’ll be a complete mess by the time I get to London.”

  Outside, the sun was just coming up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The International jumbo jet touched down on the end of the main runway at London’s Heathrow Airport. Its dual bank of wheels squealed in complaint for a scant few seconds. This was quickly replaced by a familiar deep rumble, a series of repetitive tattooed thumps, and the high-pitched whine of its four huge Pratt and Whitney engines as they battled to slow the massive vehicle’s speed.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” the captain said, over the loudly buzzing intercom, “Welcome to London.”

  Flight 761 had completed its long journey from Los Angeles.

  John sighed. He’d hoped to at least get some rest during the long eleven-hour journey, but that wasn’t to be. Instead, every time he drifted into sleep the nightmare was back, each time worse than the time before. He wanted to sleep – needed to sleep – but after the first two hours, he knew he didn’t dare. He just had the hostess bring him a continuing series of cups of coffee.

  Great, just bloody great, he grumbled to himself as he peered out the window of the jumbo jet. Welcome to London. I’m more tired now than I was when I left L. A.

  The whine dropped to a soft hum and he wondered how much longer he could go before he finally got some sleep … some peaceful sleep.

  ********

  After rescuing his bags and guitar from the baggage carousel, John finally found his way to British Customs. This station was a series of metal tables at the end of the long, winding covered hallway leading directly from baggage and standing between them and the rest of the terminal. At least there’s not a line, he thought as he approached the first desk. I’m making good time so far, I may actually beat my own record if …

  He stopped in his tracks and thought, Oh, no, the moment he saw the Customs Agent. He was a shabbily distinguished man with a decidedly long face, a pointed chin, shiny silver-grey hair, and a steely look of bored authority. John had run into his kind before at airports in ten countries around the world. Bureaucrat, that expression said. The most important man in the world, if only to himself.

  He sighed bitterly. I’m going to be here for hours.

  He didn’t even look up as John stepped up. “Here, please, sah,” the agent said in a bored, nasal voice. He gestured vaguely at the table in front of him. “Open them awl, please, sah.”

  He went through John’s bags at a turtle-slow pace and in complete silence, except for the occasional “huh,” or “so.” He was clearly enjoying his undisputed ability to make everyone wait for no particular reason at all.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, he lifted one last set of black pants and a shirt from the suitcase and checked under them. After finding nothing – which is exactly what you found under every other one, John thought acidly – the agent carefully, slowly replaced each of the items in the exact same position they had been in when he started. Then, after one final pat-down of the entire contents, he clicked the lid shut.

  Thank God for that, John thought. He was beginning to wonder if this guy would ever get done. He lowered the bag to the floor, about to leave …

  “That, now, please, sah.”

  John looked dumbly at the floor, struggling to understand. “That? You …. my guitar?”

  The Customs Inspector looked at him archly, as if John was clearly the stupidest man in the world. “Yes. Sah.” He flicked an impatient finger at the guitar case.

  John almost groaned out loud … but of course he didn’t. Instead, he lifted the case onto the desk and even forced a warm smile as he did. He’d learned a long time ago that this was not a time for impatience, and this was not a person you wanted to piss off.

  As the agent checked his hard-shell acoustic guitar case, lifting the instrument out of its felt-lined resting place and even opening the small draw to peer at the guitar picks inside, John fought to stay casual. Calm. Serene. It was no mean feat; he was tired.

  Finally the search was over. The agent looked squarely at John – for the first time, actually. Then he smiled and pointed to the nearby exit, his words unusually warm for someone in his position.

  “Thank you, sir. You may proceed ... and welcome to London.”

  John glanced up and smiled automatically.

  “Thank you–”

  He stopped short as he noticed a strange symbol pinned to the Customs Agent’s shirt, directly over his heart: a rounded design wrought in pewter: part Celtic symbol, part Hebrew sign, part Tolkeinesque decoration, all twisted together. John frowned. An amulet? He thought. A sigil—a symbol of something … dark. Something wrong.

  For some inexplicable reason, the bizarre piece did more than simply catch his attention. It sent a strange, almost precognitive shiver down his spine.

  He couldn’t help himself. As much as he wanted to be done with the agent, he found himself pointing at the bureaucrat’s shirt and stuttering out, “Ah … excuse me. What’s that?”

  The Customs Agent looked blank. “What’s what, sah?” He seemed baffled.

  “That symbol you’re wearing,” John snapped. He was barely able to hold his growing impatience in check.

  The Customs Agent looked down at his chest, still puzzled. He was a courteous man, an often rare quality for someone who had to face an endless line of people trying to conceal things from him. But he had a schedule to keep, and schedules were important.

  “What symbol would that be, sah?” He was clearly impatient himself.

  John raised his right hand and pointed to the man’s chest.

  “There! On your chest! I’ve never seen it before, but there’s something about it–”

  But the symbol was no longer there. In its place was a shield: a badge long worn by all British Customs Agents.

  John shook his head, confused. Damn, he thought. I must be even more tired than I thought.

  He didn’t want to cause a scene. He wasn’t even sure why the brooch, strange as it was, mattered at all. “Uh ... never ... never mind,” he muttered. “Sorry.” Still confused, fighting to clear away the cobwebs, he moved on.

  The Customs Agent watched him go for a beat, clearly suspicious. Should I make a note? The expression said. Should I report that odd fellow?

  But that was so much trouble. And really, he was … fine. Just fine.

  The agent shrugged and turned his attention to the next person in line. Back to it, he told himself. Back to it, old son, as a large lady in a very large hat dropped two purses and a make-up bag on the desk with a loud thump.

  Thirty seconds later, he had forgotten John entirely.

  *******

  Joh
n walked down the long, wide central exit hallway at Heathrow, in a crowd of other arriving passengers, towing his bulky wheeled suitcase with the hard-shell guitar case strapped to it, his briefcase slung over his shoulder. He was weary, very weary, and still rattled by the appearance of that phantom shape, that … Dark Sigil. The walls of the corridor slipped past, barely noticed, bland and colorful at the same time: a garish potpourri of mind-numbing advertisements, virtually, and often actually, the same advertisements and directional signs he’d seen at half a hundred airports in a dozen different countries through the Seventies and Eighties.

  And then …

  … they began to change.

  At first it was so subtle, so obscure it was barely noticeable. But the further he walked, the more obvious the changes became. Soon it was impossible not to notice: a repeating cycle of the Dark Sigil was somehow woven into every advertisement, every image.

  It was in the wallpaper. It was twining through the carpet under his feet. It had replaced the international symbols on the signs to the restrooms and baggage area. Even the ads themselves appeared to be for the Dark Sigil.

  He stopped dead. He stared at the walls. His head was actually pounding at the dissonance, trying to see and understand what was clearly not there.

  “This is crazy,” he said to no one in particular. “Crazy.”

  His reverie was abruptly interrupted when the airport P.A. System blared out:

  “Arriving passenger, Mr. John G. Jones, please contact The Airport Message Center. Mr. John G. Jones to the white courtesy telephone, please.”

  John looked around in obvious confusion, the strange symbol momentarily forgotten. The P.A. blared again, more insistent now:

  “Mr. John G. Jones, please.”

  That’s really wild, John thought. What are the odds there’d be two ‘John G. Jones’ arriving in England on the same day, at the same time? He sighed, smiled a little smile, then hurried to the end of the hallway and made his way into the Airport Main Hall.

  But the now refined announcement confused him even more.

  “Mr. John G. Jones, British Overseas Airways arriving passenger from Los Angeles California, please go to the nearest white courtesy telephone, for a message. Mister John G. Jones, please!”

  John frowned, trying to process the facts. That can’t be coincidence, he thought. Not two of us on the same flight. Then it hit him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “The Reverend,” he said aloud. “He must of forgot to tell me something.”

  He shook his head, feeling a touch embarrassed. His tired thoughts had begun to conjure up all sorts of freaky possibilities. He walked to the nearest clearly marked cubicle and grabbed the receiver of the white phone perched on a ledge inside — then stopped abruptly and stared in disbelief at the decal etched into the wall just above the phone.

  The Dark Sigil, big as a saucer.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he stuttered.

  “Hello! Is anyone there?” A heavily filtered voice, sounding similar to the one on the P.A., finally broke through his confused thoughts. He quickly realized it was coming from the receiver in his hand.

  He lifted it to his ear. “I’m John Jones, but I don’t think you could have a call for m—”

  The filtered female voice cut him off.

  “One moment, please.”

  Before he could react, there was a click in his ear, followed by a voice with a brutally strong Cockney accent. The man was speaking so loud, John winced and pulled the phone a few inches from his head.

  “Is ‘iss John G. Jones?”

  John cautiously eased the phone back to his ear. “Sure is. Is that you, Rev—”

  “Go ‘ome, Jones.”

  John was dumbfounded.

  “W ... what?” He didn’t recognize the gruff, snappish Cockney voice at all.

  “Git back on the plane an’ go back t’ the States now.”

  “Who is th–?”

  Click.

  John stood and stared at the handset for a long moment. Then he frowned, shook his head, and returned the receiver to its cradle. He turned and started to walk away–

  But the phone rang again.

  John turned back, his anger now beginning to rise. He snatched up the phone and said, “Ok! Now I’m startin’ t’ get just a little pissed-off –.”

  The crazy caller’s voice shrieked at a deafening level.

  “Y’RE STILL HEEEEERE!!!”

  The scream rose and rose and rose until the plastic receiver rattled in his hand. He held it at arm’s length, but even this was not far enough to keep him from hearing.

  “–Are y’, friggin’ stupid, you Ozzie git? GO ‘OME. FERGET THE LUTZES. FERGET THAT ‘OUSE. AND STAY AWAY FROM REVEREND MEDHURST! OR ELSE!”

  Before John could respond, there was another loud click. The phone was again dead.

  He staggered back a step and stared at the receiver still gripped in his hand. Finally, almost delicately, he returned it to its cradle … and waited for a good minute or two.

  There were no more rings.

  What the Hell’s goin’ on? he thought. Am I finally startin’ to lose it? Is this another one of those lack-of-REM sleep things I used t’ get after too many drugs and not enough sleep?

  But, of course, there was no answer to be had. At least not yet. He looked around, recovering, and noticed with some relief that the walls were normal again: no more Dark Sigil. He ran his fingers over the spot where he thought he’d seen one just moments before – and then corrected himself.

  “No,” he said aloud. “I damned well did see it! I’m not imaginin’ things!”

  He quickly looked about, suddenly conscious of where he was and of how crazy all this might seem to some casual bystander. But there was no one within hearing range; no one in the large hall appeared to even notice him. They were all too preoccupied with getting wherever it was they were going.

  He shrugged, bent down to pick up his bags, and headed for the exit, mumbling, annoyed, as he went.

  “‘Welcome to London, Mr. Jones.’ ‘Enjoy your stay, Mr. Jones.’ ‘Get the hell OUT, Mr. Jones.’ If this is the way you welcome people, remind me to stay home next time.”

  *******

  In his dingy hole-in-the-wall office, Brendan Babbitt hunched behind a desk stacked with crap and clutched an old-fashioned Bakelite telephone receiver so tightly in his hand his knuckles turned white as snow.

  “Idiot,” he muttered. And then loud: “Idiot!”

  Babbitt was twenty-eight years old and large-framed, though from some angles he looked like a petulant teen, and others like a bitter old man. His pasty complexion and narrow-set, squinting eyes gave him a strange, almost fishlike demeanor.

  To say the office was a mess was almost an insult to the other messes. There was hardly a spot anywhere that wasn’t covered with heaps of paper, magazines, books and trash. One entire corner was nothing but stack after stack of ancient books on the occult, and on Satanic Rituals in particular. That dusty, teetering tower reached almost to the ceiling.

  Brendan slammed the old receiver down on its huge black base with a loud crash. Then he cackled – actually cackled, like a Saturday matinee villain.

  “All right, Mr. John G. Jones. If that’s the way yer want t’ play it, let’s see ‘ow yer ‘andle the next few hours.”

  After that, he just couldn’t stop laughing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The looming glass doors out of Heathrow opened with a whispery sigh and John ventured out into a bright, cold English morning. The air was crisp and the brisk chill gave him a temporary second wind. He quickly checked about, spotted the nearest taxi rank and, baggage in tow, strode towards it.

  The bulky black British taxi-cab has been an icon for more years than John could remember. It was rare, if not near impossible, to see any film, documentary, news report, or especially any travel advertisement that didn’t feature at least one of them – along with Buckingham Palace and a red double de
cker bus rounding Piccadilly Circus. So it was no surprise to see a line of them at the cab-rank, and since there were very few customers about, this early in the morning, it was also no surprise to see a number of the drivers bunched in a group, stamping their feet to keep warm and talking about the things cab-drivers do when times are slow.

  The balding driver of the first cab in line quickly left the group as John approached and hurried over to take care of his potential fare. As he drew near he pulled his coat tightly around himself and flashed a well-practiced, hopeful smile.

  “Taxi, Guv’ner?”

  There was that Cockney accent again, almost as strong as the lunatic John had just encountered on the white courtesy telephone. But this one had a pleasant ring to the ear, especially to an Aussie who’d been hearing variations on it all of his life. Although many Australians would undoubtedly argue that it wasn’t so – especially with the nationalistic fervor rising in Australia these days – there wasn’t much doubt in John’s mind that what was now considered the Strine (Australian) language, had deep roots very near to the town where this cabbie was probably born and raised. It offered John a welcome, of sorts – a hint of normalcy in a life that had become an almost continuous nightmare over the last few weeks.

  He couldn’t help himself. He smiled and tossed back a warm, “Too right, mate!”

  Even with just these few words to go on, the Cabbie quickly sussed out John’s origin. “What part of Downunder are you from, Guv’ner?” he asked as he opened the rear door and waited for John to climb in.

  “Sydney, originally,” John answered. Sharp as a tack, this one, he thought. “But I been spendin’ a lot of time in America, lately.”

  “You don’t say,” the Cabbie said. “And where might you be headed today, Cobber?”

  He smiled; realizing John immediately caught the change from ‘Guv’ner’ to ‘Cobber’.