Amityville Horror Now

by John G. Jones

  “But, sir,” the vested camera expert called after him. “Maybe there’s something we can do. If you’ll just give me a day or two, I’ll do some research on the matter.”

  John barely heard the last part of the expert’s plea. All he could think of was getting out into the fresh air. He clutched at the antiquated wooden handle and dragged the door open so quickly it sighed loudly in complaint.

  He slammed out of the shop, veered to the right, and stopped for a short moment to catch his breath. One hand rested on the window of the shop next to the camera store: Polistas, the sign above the window stated. Fine Men’s Clothing Since 1807. Behind the old-fashioned dark wood-framed window – every shop in the arcade had one just like it – a modern-looking mannequin stared blankly out at him. It wore a no-doubt-ridiculously-priced yachting jacket and matching ensemble. John surmised the cab driver had been right: this was obviously one of the most expensive shopping areas in all of London.

  Still on the edge of frantic, he pushed himself away from the window and broke into a run. At that moment, his senses were almost overwhelmed by a combination of wondrous smells: lavender, lime; bluebell, violets, and much more. As he hurried past Penhaligon’s Perfumery – another store here in the arcade since the 1800’s – he was thankful. The unusual jumble of odors warmed his being, gave him a jolt of energy.

  John ran faster … for a few more seconds. But his frantic escape was abruptly halted by a solidly built man, wearing – of all things – a traditional Edwardian frock coat and gold braided top hat. He held up his right hand and stated in a stentorian bellow: “I say! I say! You can’t do that here in The Burlington Arcade. Not for over two hundred years.”

  John stopped and frowned. “Do what?”

  “Run, my son. Run.” He opened his frock coat and showed his badge. It looked similar to the London Police, but the design appeared ancient. “Now, I understand that you are probably a visitor,” the official smiled, “so you might not know the rules. But we Burlington Beadles have been enforcing the law here in the arcade since the day it started.”

  “The law?” John was still fighting to gain control of himself. He couldn’t quite get a handle on all this.

  The Beadle counted off the rules with a flourish. He’d obviously done this many times before. “No running. No singing. No whistling. No prams or strollers. No oversized packages that might cause inconvenience to the other visitors.”

  In a way, John was thankful for this interruption. He finally caught his breath and regained a modicum of normalcy. “Sorry! I didn’t know.”

  The Burlington Beadle smiled ever broader. His jowls actually bounced as he stepped aside and waved John on with a flourish. “Then be on your way, good Sir. And God speed.”

  John couldn’t help but smile. He tipped an imaginary hat to the Beadle as he made his way the full length of the fancy arcade with the high arches, past the old-fashioned shoeshine stand. He was still smiling as he joined the busy crowd on the footpath of Piccadilly Street.

  *******

  A few minutes later, John reached Piccadilly Circus. He eased his way out of the normal flow of pedestrians and stood at the curb, staring at the huge neon displays perched atop the building directly opposite. For the next few minutes he stayed that way, watching the milling crowd … and suddenly feeling totally alone. The realization of what had happened in the church, both earlier and then later with the camera, began to finally hit home. What the hell’s going on? he asked himself. What have I gotten myself into, here? Bumped from time to time by a harried passerby, he gazed idly at the large centerpiece of the circle: The Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain.

  Some years ago, John had become interested in Eastern Philosophy and read a number of books on the subject. During that time, a form of meditation practiced for millennia by certain spiritual groups had caught his attention, and it had become a part of his daily routine for almost every day since. Besides the overall joy of centering his thoughts and striving for total relaxation of both body and mind, he also found it beneficial when things in his life got out of control. From the time he’d gotten involved with the events at Amityville, and particularly these last few months, he’d found it very helpful.

  Normally the process was practiced in some quiet place, often early in the day before the affairs of the world got into full swing – certainly not while standing on the curb of one of the busiest and largest traffic roundabouts in the world. But at this moment, in this highly elevated emotional state, and with the serene cascading stream of water gurgling from the statue of the Greek god Antero at the top of the fountain … something was happening to him. He was beginning to feel as if this was a kind of meditation of its own.

  Watching the constantly falling stream, his mind was finally a blank … and there was peace in that. It was just the kind of normalcy that he desperately needed.

  A good deal later he remembered that he was supposed to meet an old mate from Australia that same afternoon – in fact, he was already late. He sighed, and reluctantly turned to join the crowd in the nearby pedestrian crossing. When he reached the other side of the street he headed off at a brisk pace towards Chinatown, on his way to Wardour Street in London’s Soho District.

  He felt better now. He felt, for the first time since he’d come to London, that he could go on.

  CHAPTER NINE

  John left Shaftesbury Avenue after a short detour to Chinatown to check out a restaurant he and his old friend Andy might visit for dinner. A minute or two later, as he made his way down Wardour Street, he found himself in front of The Marquee Club, long considered one of the most famous venues for rock music in all of England. He lost himself in the endless wall of postings for coming events, momentarily forgetting his meeting. Among the weeknight newcomers listed were two of John’s all-time favorites, each headlining for a single Saturday night performance: The groups Yes and The Kinks. He checked the dates and times, wondering if he would still be in London, and if so, if he could still get tickets to one or more of the shows.

  He scribbled a series of times and dates on a scrap of paper, then forced himself to return to his reason for being in London in the first place … and suddenly realized he had a problem he hadn’t counted on. He was so sure he’d remember the name of the tea shop where he’d agreed to meet Andy that he hadn’t bothered to write it down. After all, he’d told himself at the time, there can’t be that many old-fashioned tea houses in such a short street.

  His memory had let him down on two fronts. First: Wardour Street was much longer than he remembered – blocks longer, in fact. Second: There seemed to be an old-fashioned tea shop every six or seven storefronts.

  He stopped in front of one of them that looked veritably ancient. Ye Olde English Coffee and Tea Shoppe, he read. That sounds like it. In truth he wasn’t sure, since most of London’s myriad tea and coffee houses had some archaic-sounding name. Still …

  He sighed, already tired of the game. If he isn’t here, at least I can sit down for a minute or two. I’ll say I’m waitin’ for someone.

  A raucous jingling heralded his entrance to the Ye Olde English Coffee and Tea Shoppe. He was not a bit surprised at what he found inside. The tables, the chairs, the wall-hangings, the pungent, but pleasant mixture of aromas, even the costume worn by the female ‘serving wench’, all spoke of an eighteenth century coffee house from a time before the India Tea Company instigated the rise of tea and the demise – for a short while, anyway – of the coffee shop. Back then, coffee would have been the mainstay; tea had yet to become the ‘drink of the English’ that it had been ever since.

  John quickly noted that Andy wasn’t here. Still, he really did love these old reminders of English history. He let his eyes soak in every detail.

  What a fabulous place, he thought. He knew the timing was all wrong, of course – it would be some years later, in fact – but he couldn’t help thinking he wouldn’t be surprised to find C.S.Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and other members of the Inklings in a place
just like this, huddled together at one of the few long tables set against the far wall, busily discussing their latest book ideas. The thought was a pleasant one and he was unable to hold back a brief smile.

  He broke from his wool-gathering as the ‘wench’ – wearing a colorful blouse, hand-embroidered, puff-sleeved, and tightly fitted to exaggerate her regular-sized bosom – motioned him to a nearby table. He explained his presence; she said it was fine for him to wait for his friend.

  John sat at one of the small oaken tables and sighed in relief, hitching himself forward in the modern-day replica of a nineteenth century turned-legged chair. But his relief was short-lived. Instead of easing back in the chair, he snapped upright and strained to hear something … something … odd.

  He thought he could hear a distant echoing voice mixed in with the loud rasp of chair legs on wooden-plank floor and the tinkle of china on the tabletops. It sent an uneasy warning ripple down his spine.

  He frowned and stared about. Everything seemed normal enough … until the half-whispered voice spoke again, this time closer. The words were abundantly clear:

  “Y’ don’t get away that easily!”

  John was instantly sick to his stomach. In a flash he was back in the darkest moment of the reverend’s cleansing … the moment when the axe drove into his heart.

  Everything went black.

  He sat on the bottom of the pool and stared in fascination at the sunlight formed chlorine-green water fairies. They danced all around him. The flared sleeves of his sailor-suit waved like leaves in a soft breeze. Tiny bubbles of air trickled from the sides of his mouth and gamboled towards the surface. The twelve feet of water above him was enough to make everything utterly surreal, although he was much too young to know what that meant. He was totally alone, perched there on the marble-tiled floor of the public swimming pool, much more relaxed than he should have been considering the circumstances.

  Everything seemed peaceful enough. He’d followed his Uncle Keith from the public area tables where his mother and Aunty Beryl were setting up a picnic lunch. No one noticed him leave as he ran to the edge of the huge pool at the Ramsgate Swimming Baths, where he watched with fascination as his uncle dived into the shallow end of the pool. He planned to stop at the edge … but his feet slid on the wet tile of the skirting. Before he had the chance to cry out, he was in the water.

  He quickly sank to the bottom.

  There was no way for him to know that up above a lady had seen him fall in. At that moment, she was shouting to his uncle. Seconds later his uncle was running along the side of the pool, staring down, frantically trying to locate him.

  He didn’t care. He was simply enjoying the sights around him.

  Then everything abruptly changed.

  A huge splash broke the surface of the water and seconds later his Uncle Keith was streaking towards him, arms outstretched.

  The look of fear on his uncle’s face scared him. Frightened, he whooshed out all of the air left in his lungs. When he took a large breath, trying to replace the air, his mouth filled with water.

  He was too young to understand, so he tried harder. The chlorinated liquid gushed into his lungs. He coughed! He gagged! He was suddenly terrified.

  His uncle reached out and snared him tightly in his arms, then pushed off from the bottom of the pool. He rushed towards the surface like a speeding dolphin.

  But the water had already filled his lungs. He was drowning. To all intents and purposes, he was already dead. There was nothing he could do.

  His mouth was full of water…

  “Mister! What are you doing? Are you alright?”

  John opened his eyes. He tried to breath, but his mouth was full of water. Without really thinking, he violently spewed a large amount of liquid into the air. It barely missed splashing on a young girl in a bright yellow mac who was wearing a hospital intern’s outfit and holding an umbrella.

  He realized his neck was bent back, head facing skyward. He lurched up and swung his head into its normal, face-forward position. Then he bent forward, grabbed his knees, coughed again and again, and dragged a large amount of air into his lungs.

  Thoughts raced through his mind, tumbling over each other. Where was he? What was he doing here, standing in a heavy downpour with his head back and his mouth open?

  Rain!? When the hell did it start to rain?

  “Were you trying to kill yourself, or something?” the very British young girl asked, a worried frown twisting her pretty face.

  “No.” John stopped his racing thoughts and struggled to control his breathing. “No! I ... I … ah ... I felt kind of dizzy, so I came out of …” He quickly checked to be sure he was still where he had been, and then added. “… ah … out of the coffee shop to get some air.”

  He straightened, and as he did the young girl stepped back a bit, still not sure about him.

  John slowly got his breathing back to normal and tried to put her at ease. “Actually, I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? I’m working as a nurse’s aide at London Hospital, so I can I can take you there if you like?” His more normal attitude seemed to convince her he was no threat, so she eased back closer.

  John smiled and put on his best Aussie smooze. “I only got inta town yesterday, and I think I might ‘ave picked up somethin’ on the plane trip. I hope I didn’t frighten ya?”

  “No! I’m fine,” the girl in the yellow Mac said. “But it’s a good thing I came by when I did. You could have drowned, you know … standing like that, and all.”

  “It wasn’t rainin’ when I got here.” John put out a hand and in seconds a small pool of water filled his palm. “How long’s it been rainin’?”

  “About an hour.”

  John could see his question caused her to frown, so he quickly added. “Heck! Where are my manners? I don’t even know yer name.”

  “Melanie! Melanie Sanborne.”

  John smiled warmly. “John Jones, Melanie. I’m glad to meet ya, and I appreciate yer helping me, here.”

  Melanie smiled back. “It was nothing, really.” She seemed relaxed, but a part of her obviously wanted to leave this entire situation behind her as quickly as possible. She stared at John, long and hard one last time. Then, convinced it was okay to leave him, she quickly added: “If you’re sure you’re all right, I better be going. I’m expected home.”

  “I’ll be fine.” John forced a smile and tried to make his words sound at least a little more normal. “My hotel’s just a couple ‘a blocks away. Thanks again.”

  Without another word, Melanie swung the umbrella back over her head and hurried off down the street.

  John watched her go, fighting to keep himself from totally losing it, to somehow get a grip on things yet again. An hour. A bloody hour! I gotta get a hold ‘a meself. This whole fuckin’ thing’s gettin’ outta control.

  Even as he was thinking this, he was remembering the dream; except it wasn’t a dream. It was something that had happened to him when he was four and a half years old, in Sydney. Some … thing had reached into his mind and pulled up a memory from his childhood. Had used it against him. Had tried to kill him with it.

  But why? It didn’t make any sense.

  He fought harder to control his emotions … without much success. Hell! If that Melanie girl hadn’t come by when she did, I’d probably be dead by now. He stared about, trapped in confused thought, not really seeing anything. And how the hell did I get out here? The last thing I remember’s sitting in the coffee shop. It was a clear, sunny afternoon, then.

  He leaned back against the red brick wall next to the coffee shop window, still trying to make some sense out of all this. But just as before, there were no answers. At least not any he could find.

  Finally the rain stopped and the clouds began to clear away. He straightened, tugged at the bottom of his leather jacket, and headed towards the main road.

  Meeting with Andy would have to wait. It was still only mid-afternoon
but he was seriously dog-tired. It had already been a helluva day. He needed to get back to his hotel and try to get some rest.

  CHAPTER TEN

  John left the north end of London’s Wardour Street, strode along the wide footpath of Oxford Street and turned into Rathbone Place. In the distance he could just make out the protruding marquee, emblazoned with the Royal Arms Hotel’s logo, and the matching green carpet running from its fancy glass doors out to the edge of the curb. He was intent on getting back to his room, stretching out on his bed and sleeping for as long as he could. He picked up his already quick pace and lengthened his stride.

  He hadn’t been to London for some time, so even now, as he hurried, he couldn’t help drinking in the ambience: his attempt, however feeble in this modern and ever-changing world, to hold onto the past. If what he’d read in one of this morning newspapers was correct, he wasn’t alone. The old feeling still permeated certain areas of what had become a huge, contemporary metropolis. Many Londoners, it turned out, railed against the rush to destroy anything and everything that spoke of the past. The traditions that kept alive the memories of the ‘good old days’ were still important, it turned out, regardless of how distorted those memories had become. The newspaper reporter had also noted that tourism, always a handsome source of revenue for the country, was fast becoming one of, if not, the major industry. That alone, he maintained, might well stop the complete destruction of a past that for years now had appeared to be rapidly disappearing.

  John, a confirmed Anglophile at heart, inwardly cheered the report as he continued to enjoy some of the surrounding sights and sounds. Off to his left he spotted an intricately fashioned monument, dedicated to Prince Albert, which must have been there since Queen Victoria’s time. A few steps further on a group of street-artists, their makeshift stalls propped against the fence of a small enclosed park, tried to entice him to become a patron of the arts. He didn’t stop. He was too intent on getting back to the hotel.