Amityville Horror Now

by John G. Jones

  “London, Guv’ner,” John said, smiling broadly.

  The Cabbie grinned back, grabbed John’s bags and guitar, and fitted them into the empty space in the enclosed front section of his cab as John stepped into the spacious rear of the high-roofed vehicle.

  He sat on the right side, directly behind the driver’s seat. He’d been in America for almost six months, this last time. But now, as he relaxed back against the well-worn leather, he quietly marveled at how ‘right’ things suddenly felt. It’s true that the simple things can make all the difference, he thought. A Cockney accent. A cabbie who instantly knows where you’re from. The fact that cars drive on the left side of the road; which is actually the right side to me. It’s like the old saying: God’s in His heaven all’s right with the –

  His comfort dissolved the instant he saw the medallion. It was hanging from the rear-view mirror, swaying slightly from the movement of the cab as he climbed in. It should be a St. Christopher’s medal, John told himself. But not this – not this.

  It was the Dark Sigil, twisting at the end of a thin bronze chain, all bizarre spikes and strange, stunted swirls. Try as he might, John couldn’t ignore it – couldn’t look away, any more than he could stop the shadowy wave of dread that seized him firmly in an icy grip.

  *******

  The Cabbie dropped into the driver’s seat, still smiling at the warm exchange with his first passenger of the morning. Good chance of a fair to middlin’ tip here, he thought as he slid open the glass partition to make it easier to keep their conversation going as he drove. “So,” he said jovially, “what’s your destin–”

  “–What the heck is that?” John demanded.

  The Cabbie frowned, rightly confused by this sudden change in the young Australian. He’d been at this job way too long not to know that something had happened to upset his fare, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it might be.

  “What’s what, Guv’ner?” he asked, trying for the same warmth they had exchanged just seconds before.

  “That damned ... shape. It’s everywhere. Is it some new advertising thing?” John almost spat out the words; no hint of warmth here.

  Don’t tell me I got another live one, the cabbie thought. Still, he tried not to telegraph his concern as he answered the pony-tailed Australian.

  “I’m sorry, Guv’ner, I don’t ‘ave the slightest idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  John stabbed his right forefinger through the open window. “THAT! ... that damned ... whatever it i–”

  And then he stopped – just stopped, choked off in the middle of a word. The cabbie turned and glanced at him, saw him staring bug-eyed at the bronze medallion hanging from his mirror that his wife had given him years ago as a good-luck charm.

  “You awright there, Guv’ner?” He peered at his passenger, wondering what the devil was going on.

  *******

  John could hear the concern in the cabbie’s voice. No, he thought. It’s more than just concern. He’s beginning to wonder if I’m some kind of nut case. If I’m not real careful here, I could find myself on the footpath, with my bags and guitar, and no one willing to drive me anyway.

  “Yes!” he blurted out, trying desperately to sound normal. “No! I mean ... fine. I’m fine. Just ... just drive.” He could tell his blathering did little to alleviate the cabbie’s concern. He eased back in the seat, summoned up all the energy and warmth he could muster, and said, “The Royal Arms Hotel … please.”

  The cabby squinted at him for a moment, thinking hard, and then seemed to make the decision. He turned without another word and pushed at the large starter-button on the scuffed dashboard, shoved at the gearshift, and eased the ancient car out onto the ring-road that circled the entire airport. John could see the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, flickering from the road to his passenger and back to the road, keeping a sharp eye on the man in the back seat as they made their way to London.

  *******

  The drive to London was uneventful. The open, green fields that encircled the airport rolled along uninterrupted for five miles at a stretch, then a small group of food shops and a petrol stop – obviously designed and built at the same time as the Motorway system – would appear, all garish colors and super-modern architecture. The cab hurried by each one, and the deep green fields would return.

  John sat in the rear of the taxi, afraid to say anything. Normally he would have continued the banter he and the cabbie had started back at the airport – had some fun, helped pass the time of the journey. But that was before that damned Sigil messed with my head again, he thought. He could see: the cabbie was much more reserved now; except for the periodic checks in the rear-view mirror, he kept his eyes on the road, straight ahead.

  He’s still not sure about me, John thought. Can’t say as I blame him.

  It was a definite relief when the city began to appear: first a stray building, then a group, and finally small outer communities. Within minutes, John found himself in the middle of England’s largest city. But, as the large black taxi-cab threaded its way through the streets of Central London, John sat in the rear, brooding. He wasn’t about to say anything; not after what had happened since his arrival in Blighty. In fact, he tried not to look, not to acknowledge what was going on outside the window of the old cab, as if that might somehow negate its validity.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t help glancing up from time to time … and every time it was the same: the strange, sinister Sigil seemed to be everywhere: on billboards ... on the side of a passing bus ... in department store window displays … even on benches at the bus stops.

  Not there, John told himself, over and over. Not there, not there, not there. And yet the Sigil didn’t fade, didn’t disappear. If anything it grew even more abundant as he approached the last few blocks to the hotel.

  After what seemed an interminable amount of time – though it was probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes – the cabbie eased his vehicle to a stop in front of The Royal Arms Hotel. Without a word, he jumped out, grabbed John’s bags and guitar and deposited them on the footpath. Then he turned and spoke, using only the words he absolutely had to.

  “That’ll be ten pound, Guv’ner.”

  Amazing, John thought. Same Cockney words, but spoken without even the hint of amusement. Now they sounded almost like a curse. He quickly pulled out his wallet and peeled off a ten and a five-pound note. At least I can try and make up for what happened with a good tip.

  When the cabbie saw the bills, he did seem to relax a bit. He even snapped off a, “Thanks, Guv’ner. Very generous.” But even with the tip, he wasted no time getting back into his cab. He left as quickly as he could.

  John sighed and watched him leave. Well, that couldn’t of gone much worse, he thought. I hope t’ hell that’s not some kind of portent of what this whole bloody trip’s gonna be like.

  Seriously distracted, he wheeled around … and rammed into a dazzling woman in a long flowing dress. She wore a glittering woven-silver circlet in her flowing blonde hair. She was statuesque, looked to be in her twenties and had a smile that instantly ripped at John’s heart like a giant can-opener.

  His breath caught in his throat and he silently thanked the Universe. Maybe the trip won’t be nothing but crap after all, he thought. If I was ever to try drawing an angel, she’d be it.

  Still – he’d just rammed into her, and not very gently. Without another thought, he put out a hand to steady her, and the woman reached out at exactly the same moment.

  For a long beat they just stood there, holding each other. Finally, they both stepped back and John blurted out, “I’m really sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  The angel’s smile beamed even brighter. “It’s all right! No damage done.”

  From the corner of his eye, John spotted the hotel bellman as he started to load things onto a trolley. But, he didn’t want this encounter with the angel to end – not yet! He quickly added, “my … ah …
my name’s John. John Jones.”

  “Jennifer Carron,” the angel said.

  Then, again at the exact same moment, they both reached out.

  The handshake might have lasted a lot longer. John certainly wasn’t in any hurry to break it. But his eyes were abruptly drawn to the soft silver necklace hanging around her pearl-white neck; and more particularly to the amulet dangling from it, resting in the soft curve between her perfectly shaped breasts. It was also silver, but had a warm, almost golden glow to it. And although it seemed to have an inherent lightness about it, there was no doubting a vague similarity to the Sigil John had been seeing since he’d arrived in London.

  Unable to hide his confusion, he pointed to the symbol and blurted out: “Excuse me, but – that … that symbol … on your necklace.”

  He lifted his eyes to find Jennifer still smiling at him, a mischievous grin now on her face. “Oh! So that’s what you were staring at.”

  John stammered, close to blushing. “Ah … ah! Look, I’m sorry. I ... it’s just that it looks a lot like one I’ve been seeing everywhere since I got to London. Not exactly the same, but –”

  He paused momentarily, but then asked: “What is it?”

  Jennifer’s smile was abruptly gone. Something about what he had just said had changed her entire mood. She frowned, concerned.

  “You say you have been seeing this everywhere?”

  John was taken aback by her brusque response. But he nodded and answered, nonetheless.

  “Yeah. On badges, signs, in store windows … damned near everywhere. And then it’s just ... gone.” But as he checked-out the amulet more closely, he shook his head and corrected himself. “No: now that I look closer, I can see: actually, the one I’ve been seeing is ... I dunno, darker. Kinda ugly lookin’–”

  He stopped abruptly, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Bloody ‘ell! I must sound like a right nit.”

  Jennifer laughed softly at his Australianisms. “Not at all. Actually it is very …” Now she hesitated, almost blushing. “Ah … attractive.”

  John couldn’t help but smile himself. Even in this short time, even with all the confused stammering, they were clearly taken with each other.

  But then Jennifer’s smile quickly faded; her tone abrupt, more urgent. “I’m sorry, but, I don’t have time to fully explain – not at this moment.” She touched the amulet at her neck ... almost caressed it. “I can tell you this much,” she said. “This symbol and its ...’ugly’ cousin are both older than England itself. This version represents an ancient order dedicated to the light.” She frowned, and then visibly shuddered. “The other, I’m afraid, is something very much darker. Terrifying, one might say.”

  An ancient, evil order? John thought. Y’ gotta be bloody kiddin’ me! Once again, extreme fatigue closed over him like a huge cold hand. His emotions had been whip-sawed back and forth too many times since his arrival in England; he was beginning to wonder if this was just another one of his nightmares, momentarily disguised. All designed just to terrify the shit out of him. He opened his mouth to tell her just that, and she lifted her slim beautiful hand to stop him.

  “Further explanation will have to wait, I’m afraid.” The smile grew almost affectionate. “I am sorry.”

  John was befuddled. “But I—”

  “Just know this,” Jennifer said, cutting him off again. “I came to warn you. You must take care. You are in grave danger.”

  Strewth! John thought, anger rising in him. That’s enough. A beautiful meeting with a gorgeous English Rose, a perfect ‘meet-cute’ moment … and now it was all turning to crap.

  It must be another nightmare. Because if it’s not … I’m in huge shit.

  “Danger? What do you mean? What kind of danger?”

  “A kind you are not, as yet, prepared to meet,” Jennifer stated without the slightest hint of frivolity.

  Stone the crows! That does it, John thought to himself, unable to hide his exasperation any longer. Nightmare or not, I’ve had enough of this. He looked Jennifer squarely in the eyes. “Is it me, or is everybody in England crazy?”

  She appeared about to respond … but then stopped herself. Instead, she paused for a moment, and then pointed over his shoulder at the hotel bellman who was maneuvering his trolley through the hotel front doors.

  “Mind your luggage, John.”

  Instinctively, he wheeled about to see the Bellman disappear inside the hotel.

  “Naw, he’s got it under control.”

  Then he realized what Jennifer had just said. He whipped back around.

  “Wait a minute! What kind of dange–?

  She was gone.

  He spun slowly around. He checked the long street in both directions. But there was no sign of his angel anywhere. His shoulders slumped and he stood, staring tiredly at nothing in particular for a long beat.

  “If she was ever here,” he mumbled sarcastically.

  Finally, he left curbside and headed for the entrance to the hotel, mumbling one last time to himself as he went.

  “Boy, this is turning into one real fun trip!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The foyer of the Royal Arms Hotel was decidedly British. Like a number of the ‘better’ hotels in London in the early Eighties, it had escaped – at least so far – the seemingly mad desire of many hoteliers to join the modern era: to modernize. It was one of the reasons John picked it as a place to stay. That, along with the fact that it was reasonably close to the church where he would have his first interview regarding the Lutz family’s trip to England – the trip they took soon after their terrifying experience in Amityville.

  He stood at the lobby’s main desk, noting some of the many eighteenth-century touches that were considered – by some – to be archaic, and by others – including him – to be quaint and rather charming. Heavy red velvet drapes covered entire sections of the walls; small cubicles branched off in all directions; at the far end of the hall the sign above the entrance to the huge Carvery appeared almost as ancient as the hotel itself, and in a walled-off area clearly designated as the Smoking Section a blue cloud of cigar smoke billowed slowly towards the overly ornate ceiling.

  John dragged his attention back to the task at hand and fought to get a grasp on his thoughts. But he was so tired that keeping his mind locked on any one point was becoming close to impossible. Current events hadn’t exactly helped in that area: The nightmares that plagued him endlessly; the bizarre symbol that seemed to be following him; Jennifer, the beautiful angel who made things even stranger, then promptly disappeared. It had all began to turn to mush inside his brain. Still, he stooped forward and signed the register, and then the credit card slip, as the desk clerk reached out to answer the ringing desk-telephone.

  “Royal Arms Hotel!” The desk clerk’s voice held the perfect amount of British aplomb. Here he was, the first-forward representative of a culture, a country with a heritage that dated back literally a thousand years – before Australia had even been colonized, or America had become a major player in world affairs, before it had been anything but a blot on a piece of parchment.

  “Why, yes, sir!”

  Now the desk clerk looked straight at John as the Australian finished signing the credit card slip and slowly straightened to full height.

  “He’s here at the desk, signing in. One moment please.”

  As the very British clerk handed the phone to him, John glanced up … and froze in place, unable to hide a frown. There, between the thumb and forefinger of the clerk’s hand was a tattoo: of the ominous Dark Sigil.

  “Mr. Jones. The telephone call you’re expecting …”

  John’s obvious confusion appeared to have no effect at all on the hotel clerk, even when John further hesitated, then stuttered out: “But I wasn’t expecting any call ...”

  Instead, the desk clerk stood, waiting, patiently, holding the phone out to John. The caller had asked for a guest and the guest he would have.

  Resigned, John s
hrugged and added: “I mean ... Ah! Never mind. Thank you.”

  He sighed, took the phone and put it to his ear. As he did he glanced down at the clerk’s hand again. No tattoo. Never was, he thought. Just another… what, hallucination, maybe? God, I hope so.

  His attention was still drifting as he spoke into the phone: “G’day!”

  “GO! ‘OME! NOW!”

  The screeching voice snapped John back to the here and now with a harsh jolt. There was no doubting the identity of the caller: it was the lunatic Cockney from the airport courtesy phone. His insane outburst was so loud John instinctively flinched back from the receiver. A beat later the phone clicked loudly.

  John gingerly eased the receiver back to his ear, expecting more ... but there was nothing but a burring disconnect tone. He fought to retain some sort of calm as he gently placed the receiver in its cradle on the desk.

  When the desk clerk looked up inquiringly, he shrugged and stated: “Wrong number.” And before the clerk could respond in any way, he added: “I won’t be taking any calls in my room, all right?”

  “Very good, sir,” the clerk responded with a hint of disdain.

  John was not thrilled by his attitude. “You understand? No calls.”

  This time the duly chastised Desk Clerk’s answer was crisp, no suggestion of an attitude of any kind. “Of course, sir. Not a one.”

  John grabbed his guitar and hurried towards the elevator, fighting to make his actions seem normal, even though his mind was screaming.

  *******

  A little over three minutes later, John was carefully assessing Suite 412 of the Royal Arms Hotel as the bellman went about his duties like a well-trained automaton. He placed John’s bag against the wall, under a large print of an English pastoral scene, and carefully set the briefcase on the desk. After a quick, perfunctory check and recheck of every single appointment in the room: pillows, writing pad, telephone, complementary chocolate – he tugged at the bottom of his brightly colored vest, with both hands, straightened to his full height … and waited.