John reached into his pocket with his free hand and placed a bill on the Bellman’s rapidly extended right hand. The journeyman hotel worker glanced at the tip, and, obviously happy at what he saw, snapped to attention.
Damn, John thought as he suppressed the smile that desperately wanted to break out on his face. If he clicks his heels together and shouts, yawohl!, do I raise an arm and shout back in German?
He managed to contain the smile a few seconds longer as the bellman turned and strode out of the room like a soldier on parade; then somehow closed the door behind him without it making a sound.
Finally alone, he told himself. He’d never experienced such complete relief before.
He put the guitar on the floor by a tall standing lamp and flopped down on the bed with a huge sigh. “Two weeks! I have to put up with this shit for two bloody weeks, before I can go home?–”
– and insistently, insolently, the old-fashioned phone on his bedside table rang, so loudly it made him jump.
“And there,” he said, shouting into the silence, “Just as I ordered! How nice to see, my explicit instructions are being carried out to the letter!”
He snatched up the receiver. “That’s it, Mate! I don’t care if you’re the bloody Queen! You do this one more time and I’m calling the cops, or Bobbies, or Interpol, if that’s what it’s gonna take t’ make y’ go away! Y’ got that?”
He held the phone away from his ear and waited expectantly. But instead of the usually braying shriek, there was a protracted silence.
After what seemed an eternity, John eased the receiver closer to his ear, still tensed, ready to grab it away in an instant.
A thin, somewhat confused, very proper British voice spoke from the receiver.
“Mister … ah … Mister Jones?”
John frowned. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, dear,” said the voice on the other end of the call. “I’m terribly sorry. It appears I have reached the wrong number. This is Reverend Arthur Medhurst. I was looking for a Mister John Jones.”
John slapped his forehead with his right hand and winced. “Oh, God! I’m sorry, Reverend! Ah ...! No, no, this is me. Though I feel like a complete twit at the moment.”
The relief in the Reverend’s voice was obvious. “Well, I am awfully glad to hear that! That it’s you, that is. Not the, um, the ‘twit’ part. Actually, I couldn’t remember if I sent you my phone number at the rectory, so I thought I should call and leave it, just in case. I do hope I didn’t cause any confusion.”
John relaxed a touch, though he still felt a little stupid about shouting at this man of the cloth. “No! Not at all. It’s just I’ve been having these crazy crank calls since I arrived.”
The Reverend’s momentary hesitation was brief but palpable. “Oh, dear! From whom?”
John tried to wave it away. “I don’t know. He knew my name ... and yours. But he was mostly just screechin’ like a maniac and threatenin’ me. Said I should go back to America, or else.” He couldn’t hide the fact that he was still somewhat flustered. “I’m damned if I know what his problem was.”
This time the Reverend’s hesitation was too obvious to miss, and when he spoke again it was with a strangely flat certainty. “It would appear, my boy, that it is my turn to apologize.”
John hesitated, surprised; then he frowned. “Y ... you ... you know who it was?
“It’s … possible, my boy. Yes.”
John quickly snapped out in disbelief. “And you told him I was arriving today?”
“Good Heavens, no.”
“Then how did he know?” John could feel the heat of anger rising again.
“I’m afraid he is privy to far too many things. Far too many.” Before John could think of what to say next, the cleric quickly added: “I am sorry, my boy. I ... Um! ... I will try to explain more tomorrow, at our meeting. If you still wish to meet, that is.”
For a long few moments John thought of pulling the plug on this entire deal, of getting on the next available flight and heading back to America. It sounded tempting, but he’d come a long way to get the story he needed for the book he was writing. And anyway, he was beginning to get royally pissed at the idea of somebody he didn’t know messing with his life. What the hell! he thought. I’m here. May as well try and find out what the nutter with the bad Cockney accent’s goin’ on about.
“Yes, of course, I’ll be there,” he finally told the Reverend. But he kept his next thought to himself: Even if only to find out what that mad phone-calling fool’s problem is.
“Oh that is a relief,” the Reverend’s quickly responded. “Let’s say ten o’clock, then? I believe you have the address. If not, any London cabbie will know it.”
John could actually feel the Reverend’s relief at his reply, even through the phone connection. He really is sorry about this, he thought. Somethin’ tells me his explanation is gonna be a doozy.
The truth was, John was also relieved. He’d been faced with a heap of weirdness since he got here; but now tomorrow he might get some kind of explanation.
“No worries!” he chirped into the phone. But then, realizing the old English gentleman might not understand what he meant, he quickly added: “I mean ... that’s great. I’ll see you in the morning. And thanks for being so understanding.”
The deep sincerity in the Reverend Medhurst’s voice was undeniable: “Oh, dear boy, I feel certain that I am the one who should be saying that to you. Tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
He heard the muted click of a broken connection, but he didn’t move – not for a long moment. He found himself turning the entire exchange over and over in his mind … and he couldn’t help but frown. Something’s wrong, he told himself. I don’t know what the hell it is, but something’s wrong. He stood there, phone in hand and deep in thought, for long seconds, until he absentmindedly returned it to its cradle.
He was still standing there, chewing lightly on his lower lip, trying to make sense of all that had happened, when the phone again rang. He reached down and answered it this time without really thinking.
“Yes, Reverend, was there something el—“
“–I WARNED Y’! I WARNED Y’, N’ NOW IT’S TOO LATE!”
But it wasn’t Reverend Medhurst. It was that crazy Cockney, shouting even louder than before. John opened his mouth to respond to the madman –
– and the voice was replaced by an ear-shattering, inhuman wail. It spewed from the phone, filled the room and sent wave after wave of involuntary fear raging through John’s entire body.
“Bloody ‘ell!” he shouted.
Desperate to stop it, whatever it was, he grabbed the phone cord, ripped it from the wall and hurled the handset onto the bed. It bounced once on the mattress, flew through the air, slammed into the wall, and crashed to the floor.
John stood, staring at the broken pieces of the phone, fighting to slow the pounding of his heart. Finally, he flopped onto the bed, impossibly tired.
He eased himself back against the large stack of very crisp pillows and let out a long, bitter sigh.
“Man,” he said. “Oh, man, what the fuck have I gotten myself into here?”
CHAPTER FIVE
St. John’s Church was an impressive ancient stone edifice at the center of what was obviously a large square in times gone by. Nowadays the entire area was enclosed by a low, skillfully designed fence that helped to accentuate the impression of both age and grandeur. The church and nearby Rectory now stood at the heart of an immaculately tended series of gardens, alive with the fragrant blooms of a hundred different species of flower indigenous to the British Isles.
The morning sun was already well up when John exited yet another black London taxi-cab, carrying a bulky duffel bag and made his way through the wooden gate in the recently painted fence. He immediately noted the antique hand-scripted sign prominently positioned in the flower-bed closest to the gate:
St. John’s Church
Consecrated in
the year of our Lord 1412
Gotta keep verifying the antiquity, John thought as he made his way toward the rectory building. Still, it’s hard to actually comprehend how long this place existed before Australia was even found by the Brits.
He felt a touch light-headed from the wafting potpourri that enveloped him in a comforting cloud. Even though he’d finally gotten some sleep last night, the pleasant smells and warming sun gently lulled him into a continuing reverie. Not that it was actually lost, he thought, still thinking of his home country. Must have been a real kick in the pants for Captain Cook when he realized the aboriginal race weren’t savages or animals. But as it turned out it was only a temporary inconvenience. They went ahead and planted the good old English flag in yet another colony that would one day finally decide they weren’t too thrilled about the idea.
Hell, I guess I can’t feel too high and mighty. All my ancestors were from England or Wales, after all. This is practically my homeland. As he walked deeper into the grounds, he drifted back to a conversation he’d had just a few months ago, on his last visit home to Sydney.
He’d been seriously torn about whether to even write the book on Amityville and the Lutz family’s experiences. He’d gone home to Australia in an attempt to clear his head, one way or the other. One particular night he was shootin’ the breeze with his mum when he mentioned that he knew where he’d gotten his singing voice from: she had a voice like an angel herself, after all; she’d even sung professionally for a short time. “Still,” he said, “when it comes to writing … I know I don’t have that kind of heritage.”
His mother begged to differ. “What are you talkin’ about?” she said. “One of your ancestors was a famous writer.”
Figured she was just pullin’ me leg, John thought. So he’d laughed: “Go on!”
“It was on your grandfather’s side of the family, she insisted. “A couple of generations back. Name of J. B. Priestley. ”
“Ridgy-didge?” He still thought this was some kind of Aussie humor and waited for the punch line. But she wasn’t joking.
“Fair dinkum! My mum, Essie, your grandmother, used to talk about him from time to time. Said he taught at Cambridge University; that he was the last smart one born into the Priestley family. Used to joke that it was a shame your granddad didn’t inherit any of his brains. I checked one of his books out of the library, a couple of years ago. It was pretty decent”
John wasn’t sure which fact was more surprising to him: that he had a famous ancestor who was a writer; or that his mother had read one of his books. The only books he’d even seen her read were romance novels.
Their conversation was interrupted when a neighbor came by to say hullo, and they hadn’t talked about it again. When John got back to Los Angeles, he checked it out and was pleasantly surprised to find out his mother had been right. His ancestor was not only an acclaimed author; many of his books were still in print to this day. He could never be sure if that fact had anything to do with his decision to go ahead and write the Amityville book.
Couldnahurt, he thought, as he reached the door to the Rectory and brought his mind back to the task at hand.
*******
The word ‘archaic’ perfectly described the St. John’s Rectory Study, right down to the matching wall-length bookcases and centuries-old furnishings. It even applied to the comparatively modern table, circa 1850, where the Reverend Medhurst and John sat having tea and chatting. It was a pleasant surprise for John: it was more like two old friends rather than men who’d just met for the first time.
The Reverend was in his sixties, with thinning hair and a time-worn face. He was dressed in the familiar black garb of a British cleric, with sprinkles of dandruff peppering the shoulders of his black coat. He sat perched on a high-backed chair beside one of the bookcases as he chattered away.
“I tell you the absolute truth, Mr. Jones. I was totally flummoxed when His Holiness called me in one day and said ‘Arthur? I want you to perform exorcisms at St. Johns, whenever the need arises.’ Quite frankly, I thought he was mad as a March hare. But what was I to do? He was the Archbishop of Canterbury, after all. One cannot simply say, ‘No thank you, sir, how about a little parish in Norwich?’”
He took a biscuit from a filigreed silver plate that matched the equally ornate long-necked tea-pot, and nibbled at it. Then he quickly added, “Oh, this is quite good. Do try one.”
John shook his head politely. He felt vaguely uncomfortable with this entire conversation “Look, Reverend. I appreciate your hospitality. But I have to be honest. This whole ... deal–”
“’Deal?’” the reverend interrupted, not understanding.
“Ah … exorcism. Demonic possession. Heaven, Hell, incantations. It all just seems a little ...”
“A little fourteenth century, eh?”
“Let’s just say ... far-fetched.”
The reverend poured John another cup of tea, unperturbed. “You’re right, Mr. Jones. Absolutely right. I couldn’t agree more. Milk and sugar?”
“Ah … just milk, thanks.”
The elderly cleric eased back in his chair, nursing his cup and saucer. “The difficulty is, you see, that farfetchedness aside for the moment ... if that is a word ... it happens to be real. Quite real, in fact, and quite dangerous.”
He sipped at his tea before speaking again. “It’s all terribly upsetting, you know. Depressing, in fact.” He fixed a serious stare on the young Australian. “So then, if you feel that way so strongly, may I ask, Mr. Jones—”
“Please, call me John,” John cut in.
“John, then,” the reverend added. “John: Why are you here?”
“The truth, Reverend?”
“That really is so much easier in the long run, don’t you think?”
“The truth is, your name came up when I taped my interviews with George Lutz. He told me some pretty crazy stuff, you know, about what happened to the family while they were in Amityville ... and after. That included their trip to England and your ... ah... ‘cleansing ritual.’”
The reverend smile slightly. “Lovely term, that. Thought it up myself, you know.”
“Look,” John said. “I’ve never really believed any of this ... supernatural ... stuff. But, it’s a good yarn and the book-buying public’s obviously intrigued by the story. So I figured, what the hell.”
He suddenly realized what he had just said: “Ah ... excuse the blasphemy.”
The reverend grinned, looking comically blank. “Oh, did you blaspheme? Sorry, I must have missed it.”
He smiled … but it faded rapidly, replaced by a look of frank concern. His tone was blunt but inoffensive. “So what you’re saying is you’re just the intrepid book writer, yes? Research everything as best you can, yes? Get the story and all that.”
“Pretty much ... more or less,” John fought not to be offended himself.
“Well, I must say, Mr.– John. That’s absolutely perfect. Spot on.”
John couldn’t hide his surprise. “It is?”
“Absolutely. A healthy skepticism is a very sensible trait. More a survival skill, actually, I should think, in this day and age. And I sincerely hope you never have reason to change your opinion about ‘all this.’” He gently waved his cup in an encompassing circle. “For your sake.”
John waited, unsure what to say next. The reverend saw his hesitation and leaned forward, trying to make it easy on him. “So, now: how can I help you?”
“Well ... actually ... if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to tape the cleansing ritual.”
“‘Tape’ it’?” Once again the reverend didn’t understand.
“Record it on audio tape,” John hurried on. “So I can get the exact words for the book. I have all the equipment right here.” He pointed to his duffel bag. “Unless it’s against the rules, or something.”
The reverend scratched at his clean-shaven chin, considering the request. “Well ... while the ritual of exorcism is quite ancient, to my knowledge there
are no sanctions against doing as you ask.”
“Dynamite!”
“Might I suggest we do this ... ah … ‘taping’ ... in the church? That way you might get a better idea of things.”
“Would that be all right?”
“Certainly, my boy.”
John smiled. It worked for him. “Ya bloody beauty!”
The reverend stood and motioned to his young Australian visitor. “Come along, then!”
John got to his feet, grabbed his duffel bag from the floor near his feet, and followed the reverend out of the room.
*******
The sun was high in the sky when the reverend and John left the rectory and made their way through the flowerbeds, along the path to the church. As they went, John questioned the elder cleric. “Reverend Medhurst, can you tell me why you thought the Lutzes needed cleansing? I mean, is there some kind of test, some ... criteria you use?”
“Well, it has to do with why His Holiness chose me for this particular line of work,” the gray-haired cleric said. “It’s this ‘ability’ I seem to have, you see.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“It’s rather like putting on spectacles. I look in a certain way, just so, and I can see ... the most extraordinary things. I see the ... darkness that can seep into one's soul. And I know, just like that, if it is the kind of darkness that can be cleansed by ... well, by me.” The reverend smiled almost shyly. “I would have to be able to do that, wouldn't I? Else how could I know who needs to be exorcised and who's simply having a bit of indigestion?”
John fought not show his disbelief in pretty much everything the reverend had just said by quickly asking another question. “And ... and the Lutzes?”
Amityville Horror Now Page 4
