Amityville Horror Now

by John G. Jones

  “Oh, that was very sad. Very sad. When they came to see me, they both had dark clouds hanging over them. Terrible, oily things. A sure sign to me that cleansing was in order.”

  John pulled a face, fighting to hide his skepticism while he tried to figure out what to say next, but he simply couldn’t.

  “Dark clouds? Really, Reverend, I ...” He stopped talking, his mind racing. How the hell can I explain how I feel without pissin’ off this bloke? He obviously believes all this stuff, and I need my story.

  Reverend Medhurst realized this was not easy for the young Australian, so he smiled and tried a different tack. “Some things are not easy to put into words, Mister Jones – ah, John.”

  What a crock, John thought. But I can’t say that. Better try and change the subject, here.

  “I ... ah ... I guess ... not. But look, Reverend, I just–”

  Not to be put off, the reverend interrupted him, pushing his point; he felt it important for him to understand at least this much.

  “Let me ask you: have you ever tried to explain how you feel about your wife?”

  “I’m not … ah … married,” John stuttered out.

  The reverend hurried forward, impatient.

  “Your lover then. Perhaps your girlfriend. Or how you feel when you see a child being born? About the touch of your parent’s hand when you’re troubled, even as a grown man? You can’t explain it, can you? Impossible. Words are inadequate. Even embarrassing. The fact is, John, every day we encounter the inexplicable in even the most ordinary lives. We simply can’t describe it ... so we put it aside, we turn away; we concentrate on the parts that are easier to explain. But that doesn’t mean the inexplicable – the miraculous, really – isn’t there.”

  John didn’t know what to say. What could he say? Obviously the only way for me to work with this old bloke is to keep me mouth shut and not rubbish his opinions about all this, he thought. Even if the old codger is a few pennies short of a full quid.

  At that moment they reached the huge front doors of St. Johns Church and Reverend Medhurst reached out and pushed one of them open.

  John felt a huge relief that he didn’t have to try and fashion any kind of answer to the reverend’s questions. Saved by the door, he thought as the massive aged-wooden door swung open and they both went into the church.

  John and Reverend Medhurst were so involved in their conversation that neither of them noticed the person standing on the far corner, across the street from St. John’s Church – or the fact that she was making sure not to be seen. If either of them had caught sight of her, they surely would have wondered why Jennifer Carron was eavesdropping, why she watched them so intently as John entered the sanctuary for the first – and last – time.

  What could possibly be so important?

  CHAPTER SIX

  John entered through the massive oaken front doors of St. John’s Church and immediately stopped and stared, awestruck. The word ‘impressive’ leapt to mind, but it didn’t really give this ancient stone stalwart of the Christian faith the respect it deserved.

  Demanded, was closer to the truth, John thought. If ever any place demanded a feeling of awe, this is it. They sure as hell don’t build them like this anymore.

  He slowly made his way down the center aisle, stopping again and again and spinning on his heels, trying to take it all in. But he couldn’t possibly do it in a few seconds.

  Maybe not even hours, he thought. Hell! Besides its mind-boggling grandness, it looks like there’s stuff tucked away in every damn nook and cranny. Probably been there for centuries, some of it. And it seems so … BIG … in here. From the outside it looks like a small country church, slightly out of place in one of the largest cities in the world. But in here …

  It was the overall grandeur that first grabbed at the senses. Its vaulted, ornate ceiling reached high into the air. Massive walls were dotted with stained-glass windows, each depicting an often quoted scene from the Bible. Small, somehow strangely out-of-place gargoyles perched atop huge cornerstones. Carved winged angels formed a silent honor guard the full length of the church, their time-locked stares peering from alcoves chiseled into the massive stone walls themselves. A statue of The Virgin Mary dominated the area leading to the sanctuary, and the altar was draped in intricately embodied pure white silk cloth. On it sat a row of matching, delicately filigreed golden candle-holders, braced by a pair of solid silver crosses encrusted with precious jewels. Anywhere the eyes rested there was yet another reason for wonderment. Everywhere the eyes looked there were flaming candles, dappling all this ancient beauty in a mixture of sunlight streaming through leaded-stained-glass and flickering candlelight.

  Finally, unable to find the truly appropriate words to express what he felt, John stuttered out a single, “W… wow!”

  The reverend smiled, totally understanding the young Australian’s momentary flabbergasted state. He’d entered this hallowed edifice so many times over the last few years that one might think he would begin to take it for granted, but that wasn’t the case. That was never the case. Again and again he had swallowed hard and even now had to fight back the hint of tears at the astonishing beauty of the place where they now stood.

  “‘Wow’ indeed,” the elder cleric stated. It was also the best he could do under the circumstances.

  The two men stood in reverent silence for a long beat, soaking in the religious ambience. It was John who finally spoke first, even though a part of him felt somewhat sacrilegious for doing so.

  “You actually perform exorcisms here, mate?” It was all he could think of to say.

  “Yes. We do,” The reverend stated. And his next words held more than a touch of the awe John was still feeling. “But we do far more than that, dear boy. Far more!”

  “Like what?”

  The words jumped out of John’s mouth before he realized there was the hint of challenge in his tone. But, although he was surprised John would even have to ask, the reverend did not appear to notice any suggestion of confrontation.

  “Why, we save lives here, dear boy. Lives and souls!”

  John stared at him, and then quickly looked away. He wasn’t about to go anywhere near a discussion on that point; so he awkwardly attempted to change the subject.

  “Oh! Ah! So!”

  He scanned the area, looking for something … anything … to help him not get into a long drawn-out disagreement about the finer points of religion. Still a touch stunned by the glistening gold and silver pieces carefully placed there, he finally pointed at the altar in the sanctuary, deciding this would do just fine.

  “Do you ... ah, do you use the altar?”

  The reverend understood John’s reticence. Believing, or at the very least understanding, the general tenants of Christianity that was one thing … something a young man born and raised in Australia could easily grasp without being particularly threatened. But they were now touching on aspects of this ancient faith that were considered extreme to many, if not most; even those many, many millions dotted about in practically every area of the world who in all other aspects would consider themselves, “Good Christians”.

  The old man smiled and answered John, trying not to sound too matter-of-fact about all this. “During an actual ceremony, I would. But for what you say you need, it’s not necessary. We can simply sit here.”

  The reverend pointed to the nearest pew, then moved a short distance into the row and eased himself down onto the solid wood bench.

  “In point of fact, these days exorcisms are done in any number of other places, it would seem.”

  As the old cleric spoke, John moved into the next aisle, pulled a microphone, a gooseneck mike holder and stand, and a small cassette tape recorder from his duffel.

  The best our 1980’s electronics can offer, John thought, proud of the fact.

  “Though, I must say, when the need arises, I prefer the more formal ceremony,” The reverend further noted, as he watched John preparing his recording equipment. />
  Only half-listening, John set up the cassette recorder, then bent the gooseneck attachment over the back of the pew, so the microphone hovered in front of the reverend. Then he rested his arms on the back of the pew and sat, facing the cleric.

  “So!” He pointed to the mike. “Just speak into the microphone there, so I can get the ... the feel of it.”

  The reverend eyed the microphone, suddenly a tad apprehensive.

  “Oh! Right! Well, then. Um...”

  “Just the way you normally would,” John said reassuringly. “Whenever yer ready.”

  The reverend sat up straight and rearranged himself on the bench, although he really didn’t need to. It was obvious he was stalling; but John had been a musician and a singer for years, so he understood the trepidation some people felt when faced with the concept of being recorded, of their exact words being fixed in time for all eternity.

  No way to argue that you didn’t say it, when someone can playback your statement word for word, John knew. Kinda like having all your warts or blemishes on show for anyone to see.

  “Um ... Well, all right, then.” the elder cleric said, and again with the slightest hesitation, he softly cleared his throat. “A … ahem!”

  But when he finally spoke, his voice suddenly held a surprising authority ... each word spoken clearly and precise.

  “I BIND, BY THE TRUE GOD ... THE LIVING GOD. IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER ... AND THE SON ... AND THE HOLY—”

  With no warning, John reeled back from his perch on the rear of the pew and clutched at the pit of his stomach.

  Alarmed, the reverend stopped speaking and moved towards his young visitor.

  “Are you all right, dear boy?”

  For a brief few seconds John had felt a queasiness that made him swallow rapidly to stop actually throwing up. But the instant the reverend had stopped the ritual, the feeling was just … gone.

  John cautiously straightened, then took a deep breath, unable to hide his momentary surprise. “Uh ... yeah! Yeah! I’m ... fine.”

  The reverend wasn’t so sure. “We can do this some other time, if you are not feeling well, dear boy.”

  John answered a touch too quickly; both anxious to get on with it and genuinely confused by what had just happened.

  “No, no. Really I’m fine. It’s just ... it’s nothing. The tape’s still rolling. Please continue.”

  The reverend frowned, still not sure. But John fought to regain his composure, and motioned again to the microphone. Finally, the reverend pushed aside his concern. “Quite. All right, then.”

  After flashing one last quick glance at John, the cleric again slipped behind the waiting mike. This time his words were even more pronounced, more emphatic, and a tad slower, more an order than an invocation.

  “I BIND BY THE TRUE GOD ... THE LIVING GOD. IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER ... AND OF THE SON ... AND OF THE HOLY SPIRIT ...”

  This time John buckled forward, grabbed his stomach, and groaned loudly, in obvious pain.

  The reverend stopped again, and this time he scrunched his eyes into a squinted, almost comical stare, and locked his gaze on John’s now pain-wracked face. After a long few seconds, the old cleric shook his head and barked at John, a new authority now in his voice. “Switch off the tape, John. Now!”

  Though still clutching his stomach, John nonetheless tried to argue, forcing his words through the pain. “No, Reverend! I … need ... this tape.”

  But the reverend was adamant now, his voice a command, not a request. “I said. Switch off the tape. This instant!”

  John wanted to argue some more, but the pain was just too intense. He groaned again as he leaned forward, fumbled about, and clicked off the tape. Then he slumped against the hardwood back-rest, trying and failing to override the bizarre agony ripping at his guts.

  As John moved, the reverend placed a hand on his head and stared down intently at him. Now he could see it clearly: a roiling, filthy cloud that churned above the young Australian. As he watched something only he could see, black, oily tendrils twitched from it and snapped into the youngster, at the head, at the heart, and again and again in his stomach. It looked evil and parasitic … and it was growing bigger and more obscene by the second.

  “Is it any better since I stopped the invocation?” Reverend Medhurst asked.

  Surprised, and very definitely confused, John straightened and wiped cold sweat from his brow.

  “Yeah. It is … a little. I don’t get it, Reverend. What th’hell was that?”

  The reverend removed his hand from John’s head and frowned, angry at his own sloppiness. I must be getting careless in my old age, he thought. A few years ago I would have caught that immediately.

  “Reverend!” John insisted, forcing his words through still clenched teeth. “What’s goin’ on ‘ere, mate?”

  “Curse me for a novice,” the old cleric finally stated. “I should have examined you closely, the moment you arrived. You are so obviously infected.”

  He stared intently at John still seeing something privy only to him: The black cloud-thing rippled and bulged with new power. Tentacles, thick as fleshy arms, slithered down from it. For a moment, the cloud-thing resolved itself into a shape – the singular, rounded, twisted shape of the Dark Sigil. It hovered over John like a beacon, then trembled and collapsed into a parasitic cloud even thicker and blacker than before.

  “What the hell are y’talkin’ about?” John sputtered out. Though he was still completely unaware of it, as he spoke, the reverend could see the tentacles of the dark abomination slip over his cheeks and even slither in and out of his ears and mouth.

  “I am truly sorry, dear boy,” the reverend said. “I should have seen it sooner.” Then he frowned as he stared again at John, eyes squinted almost shut now. “In fact I am at a loss to explain why I didn’t do so.”

  John tried to control his skepticism, but was not totally able to. “Look, Reverend, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but–”

  “–Respect has not a thing to do with it, John.” The Reverend Medhurst had come to a decision and would not be dissuaded. “You are in serious trouble. You need to be cleansed.”

  “I told you, I don’t believe in—”

  “–Frankly, your belief or lack of it does not matter a whit, dear boy. It must be done!” There was a coldness now in the cleric’s voice. This was not up for debate. It was just fact. There was nothing more to discuss, just things to be done. He forced himself to release some of the pent-up tension from his shoulders; he relaxed his eyes to give at least a hint of softness as he tried to reason with John.

  “Now look, John. You came a long way to get this interview, to get my voice on your ... ‘tape’. What better way to get what you need, than to go through it? To experience it, first hand?” But even though he tried for softness, the officious, low growl was back – almost before it had left. “And I can assure you, you will not get what you require any other way.”

  The reverend didn’t wait for an answer. He simply urged John to his feet. “So come along now,” he said.

  John sighed. He wanted to argue further, but realized he’d already lost. He’d come a long way to get this interview for his first Amityville book; and even though there were other people the Lutzes had met with, others that he planned to interview before he returned to the U.S., this was the one he intended to build everything else around.

  He’s got me by the short and curlies, John thought. Who’d a’ thunk, the old geezer had a kick-ass side to ‘im.

  He set about gathering up the recording equipment; and – less than thrilled to lose the argument – he did what many Australian’s do when under stress: he attempted a joke.

  “Blackmail! From a cleric, no less,” he said. “Who would’a guessed?”

  His attempt at humor fell flat. The reverend was past joviality. This was serious business to him.

  He seized John’s hand and led him toward the front of the church. At the steps leading up to the sanctuary, the rev
erend allowed John a few short moments to set up the recorder and mike. But the moment he was finished, he turned him about and dropped both hands firmly on his shoulders.

  “Now! Kneel down here, John. There’s no time to lose.”

  John was a little taken aback at the power in his voice, and quickly sank to his knees.

  “That’s better,” the reverend snapped out. “Now, wait here. I will need a moment to prepare.”

  As he turned and climbed the few small stairs, John was unable to contain his deep-seated concern about this entire turn of events, but this time his quip was an entirely nervous reaction: “Isn’t it a little bit late to be checkin’ the manual, mate?”

  Once again the cleric didn’t respond to John’s somewhat feeble attempt at humor. Instead, he stopped at the altar, slipped on a crimson mantle, dipped his thumb in the font of Holy Water, and then made the sign of the Cross on his forehead. Then he stood, eyes closed, not moving, in silent prayer, preparing himself for what was to come.

  Finally, his eyes snapped open, an ‘inner fire’ burning deep in him. A long beat later, he wheeled about and made his way to where John knelt, waiting, and placed his crossed hands on the Australian’s head.

  John’s eyes were now closed, though tremors rippled through his body – more tension than pain.

  Finally prepared – as best as one could prepare in this case –the reverend took a deep breath, readying himself for what only he knew was soon to come.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Reverend Arthur Medhust stood at the foot of the few small steps to the St. Johns Church sanctuary and took a deep breath. He let his eyes wander around his beloved church one last time, drawing all the peace he could from the familiar, majestic surroundings.

  The Australian author John G. Jones was kneeling in front of him. Through no fault of his own, the young man had suddenly found himself thrust into some kind of residual fallout from the Amityville Horror. All he had wanted to do was write a book about the events that had befallen the Lutz family after they left the infamous house in Amityville, New York. Instead, the youngster had become a hapless victim of the darkness himself.