Amityville Horror Now

by John G. Jones

  Moments later, the stranger entered the foyer of a tall, very modern office block.

  John followed.

  Inside, the aboriginal man hurried across the large foyer, strode purposefully past the bank of elevators and disappeared around a corner. John rounded the corner just in time to see him open a security door and enter. He caught the door before it could close and hurriedly followed the stranger inside.

  He found himself on a wide landing at the top of a poorly lit stairwell that led down, well below street level. John stopped on the landing, his nose twitching involuntarily. It was hard to explain, but the place smelled ... dusty. He sneezed, then sneezed again. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness he realized why: there were dust clouds literally billowing around him. The entire place was covered in it. It couldn’t have been used for a very long time. The stairs were so thickly layered that the stranger’s rapid descent had broken it free, sent it puffing into the air.

  He could see the aboriginal man below him: he was taking the stairs downward, three at a time. He would soon be out of sight.

  John pinched his nose to stop another sneeze and called after him. “Hey! Wait! Wait! I just want to talk to you.” His voice bounced off the walls and slammed back at him.

  But the stranger didn’t react to his call. Instead, he quickly opened yet another door and disappeared through it.

  John clambered down the stairs to a new, formidable security door. He tried to open it, but his best effort couldn’t even shake it in its frame.

  “Damn!” He thumped the handle, frustrated ... then stood there staring helplessly at the door.

  “You Can’t Be Here.”

  The dry, crackling, non-corporeal voice echoed all around him, at once everywhere and nowhere.

  John spun around, searching for its source, but there was no one to be seen. He called into the air, venting at least some of his frustration. “Aw... Come on, man. Who are you? N’ what’s this all about?”

  There was no answer, and then everything once again turned brilliant yellow … and …

  John was standing, somehow unnoticed, at the edge of a perfectly formed circle of gnarled and twisted oak trees, hundreds of years old, somewhere in the wilds of St. John's Wood, London. It was night, but the area was draped in silver-white moonlight that highlighted thirteen robed and hooded figures. They formed a human circle inside the bizarre oaken grove. Each robed figure stood, arms outstretched, finger-tips touching those of the person on either side of them.

  Standing at the exact center of the human circle was yet another hooded black-robed figure, its head bent in obeisance.

  The thirteen began to chant, its derivation hinting at an ancient Gregorian requiem.

  As the chant grew louder and louder, the figure at the circle's center pushed back the hood to reveal … Jennifer.

  At this moment a thick grey mist swallowed up the scene, John’s visions ended...and he was suddenly...

  …back in The Pirates Refuge Pub. He snatched his hand away from Jennifer’s wrist, the connection broken. He sagged forward and leaned heavily on the bar, his heart pounding in his chest.

  Jennifer wasn’t much better. She looked around, dazed, clearly confounded by what just happened.

  John straightened and stared at her, expecting some kind of answer. His words reflected the utter exhaustion he felt. “What the heck was that?”

  “I have no idea.” She was just as confused as he was.

  “I ... I saw some bright yellow flashes. But I have no idea what it was, or how it happened.”

  “But you did it!”

  Jennifer straightened now and stared at him, fighting to understand. “No! No, I didn’t. You did.”

  “Me?!” He gaped at her, stunned. “That’s impossible.”

  Jennifer stared at him with a new, deep respect. “You ... somehow connected with me ... overrode my normal control. You ordered me, and I had no choice but to allow you to use me.”

  “To do what?”

  “You know better than I, I’m sure. What do you remember?”

  Though still confused, he tried to verbalize what he could remember. “There were some ... some guys I didn’t know ... a wild looking old dude in a cape… crazy yellow lights, and...”

  And, just like that, he suddenly remembered the last part of his vision: “And I saw you,” he said, unable to hide his astonishment. “With a bunch of people in robes … in a ... a kinda stand of old trees … like a … a witch’s circle.” He stuttered out these last words and stared at her, flabbergasted. “What the bloody ‘ell’s happening t’ me? What is all this? And who the hell are you?”

  “You saw the future,” Jennifer blurted out. His revelation had shaken her to the core; and, not stopping to consider the affect her words might have, she quickly added: “The foretelling was true. You are the one.”

  “Jennifer, what a’ y’talkin’ about?”

  His questioning voice suddenly brought her to her senses ... and the realization that she’d spoken without thinking. She had to side-step the question, redirect the situation and get out of there as quickly as she could.

  She hurriedly reached into a cloth bag dangling from her left wrist, and extracted a soft velvet case.

  There was fear in her words now, as she handed the case to him. “John! Forgive me. I cannot tell you any more, right now. But you have to believe me when I tell you, you are in serious danger. And please! Put this on immediately... and wear it always. Never, ever take it off.”

  “This is way over the top,” John mumbled. “T’ say I’m bamboozled by all this is puttin’ it mildly.”

  She looked him squarely in the eyes, her gaze a mixture of helplessness, pleading and genuine warmth. It stopped him cold. “Please, John. I can’t think of any good reason why you should ... but ... but I am asking you to trust me.”

  He groaned, unable to hide his continued frustration. But, reluctantly, he resigned himself to the fact that she either couldn’t or wouldn’t explain any further. He reached out and took the case.

  “Ah ... What the hell!”

  He slowly turned the rectangular case in his hands, checking it out. Finding what he was looking for, he flipped up the fancy catch on the front. The spring-loaded lid pinged open to reveal a delicately filigreed silver cross with solid silver chain. Both rested in perfectly shaped indents in a thick velvet interior that matched the case’s exterior.

  John was openly surprised. It was the last thing he expected to find. “It’s beautiful. What’s it s’posed to do?”

  Jennifer didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted the gift from the box and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Be safe, John.”

  Then she placed the chain around his neck.

  As the cross swung down and touched his chest, a pristine white aura surrounded it, sending shafts of light streaming off in all directions. It was joined by a deep, swelling, harmonious hum.

  John stared down in disbelief. But as he reached out to touch the cross, both the hum and the glow were abruptly gone.

  “Wow! That’s wild. Did ya–”

  He never finished his question to Jennifer. When he looked up, he found the stool where she had been sitting was empty.

  He wheeled about, checked out the rest of the pub; but there was no sign of her.

  He sat staring about in disbelief as the publican moved down the bar, carrying yet another pot of coffee. He motioned to John’s mug. “Looking for another refill, me hearty?”

  John sat, speechless; the publican topped his mug up anyway. As he finished, he spotted the cross hanging on John’s chest. “Nice bit o’ flummery there. Looks old as me second wife. You buy it ‘ere in London?”

  John didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed at the stool next to him. “Did you see where that girl went?”

  “Girl?”

  “She was just sitting here: beautiful girl, long blonde hair.” He pointed to the spot where Jennifer’s drink glass had sat on the bar. “Ordered that lemon squa–” />
  There was no sign of the glass.

  The Publican frowned at John. “Me bucko, there ain’t been any beautiful wenches ‘ere in a month o’ Sundays. Not even one as could be called pretty, if truth be told.” He pointed to John’s coffee mug. “Y’ better be careful wi’ those, matey ... they can pack quite a wallop.” His laugh rose to a loud guffaw as he headed off down the bar.

  John sat for a long few minutes. He was in overload. So many crazy things had happened to him in the last few hours that he was past stunned ... past shocked … past incredulous. He was just numb, all over. He stared down at the chain and cross, resigned now.

  “Bloody ‘ell, Jonesy! What the heck ‘ave ya gotten yerself inta this time?”

  He got slowly to his feet and dropped a tip on the bar, mimicking the old barkeep’s pirate accent. “Thank ‘e, matey!” Then he headed for the door.

  The publican swept back, scooped up the bills and quickly made them disappear. Then he called after John, in perfect English, no hint of the comical buccaneer now.

  “You be safe, John,” he said.

  John grinned as he swung open the antique glass door; then he froze in place, his brow furrowing into a deep crease. “Wait a minute,” he mumbled. “I didn’t tell him my name!”

  He stood, the open door clutched in one hand, thinking back. I’m not going crazy. I didn’t tell him my name. And he was too far away to overhear our conversation.

  Should he turn around? Go back? Confront the barkeep? And what would he say, anyway? Were you listening to our conversation? The old beer-slinger could hardly say yes – he’d already said Jennifer was never there. Was there something John should do about it?

  Anything?

  At that moment a light afternoon breeze wafted through the open door. Like the proverbial ‘breath of fresh air,’ John realized the futility of this line of thought. Hell! Why should I think this is strange, after all that's happened since I got ‘ere to London?

  He didn’t feel weird thinking about his conversation with Jennifer. It happened. He had no doubt of it. He sure as hell couldn’t explain how she’d disappeared, again. But she was there.

  He turned and stared back at the Publican. But the old innkeeper looked away, suddenly feigning an intense interest in drying a wet glass with the edge of his apron.

  Fuck it! Fuck it all! John thought.

  As he left through the frosted glass door, he mumbled aloud to himself, one last time. “I gotta get some sleep or I’m gonna end up in a nut house.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was early evening in Suite 412 of the Royal Arms Hotel, London. John was awake after three of the most peaceful hours of sleep he’d had for so long he couldn’t remember. He was stretched out on the bed, savoring the contentment of the simple, but totally necessary process: sleep itself. It was so fundamental most people rarely ever thought about how hard it would be to exist without it.

  John knew.

  It truly is the little things that count, he thought.

  The mattress sighed pleasantly as he got to his feet. He swept up his briefcase and clicked on the standing lamp that hovered over the small desk. As he sat, he lifted a leather portfolio and an assortment of clippings and notes from the briefcase.

  The leather portfolio was one-of-a-kind: hand-tooled, with a soft, intricate design worked into the outer cover. He placed the portfolio on the desk and opened it wide. Inside, carefully fitted into matching leather flaps, was a book filled with blank pages. On the left flap, written in pen on the leather itself, was a fluid, artistic handwritten dedication.

  John ran his fingers fondly over the inscription.

  It read:

  My Darling world-travelling son,

  I pray that God keeps you safe and that you continue to follow your dream. Remember, always, dreams are for believers.

  All my love, Mumsy

  “What d’ ya know, Mumsy?” John smiled a warm, remembering smile and spoke into the air. “I might finally ‘ave a reason to use this thing. Maybe if I keep a record of all this, whatever this is ... it’ll finally make some sense one day.”

  He grabbed a pen and sat trying to decide what to write. Okay! What’s a good title for this thing? But nothing immediately came to mind and he sat and stared vacuously at the equally blank page.

  It was a good five minutes before he finally put pen to paper. Even then, he scribbled experimental ideas for a title, one after the other; but quickly drew a line through each one and tried again.

  Journal was his fifth attempt.

  Journal about Amityville came next.

  He drew a line through each and wrote again: Amityville Now: The Journals of John G. Jones. It received the same treatment as those before it.

  Naming the damned thing had seemed like a pretty simple concept when he first thought about it, but now that he was actually doing it, as was often the case, it was not so easy.

  He stared long and hard at his last attempt. Close, but no cigar, he thought. I’m not sure what it needs, or—

  It came to him without further thought: a flash of insight. “It doesn’t need anything. It has too many words.”

  He wrote it out again, then scratched out three words, rearranged a couple, and finally had his title: Amityville Now: The Jones Journal.

  He sat back and checked it out, then nodded. It worked for him. But how to start?

  And just like that the words flowed onto the page, with remarkably little effort:

  It's amazing what an exorcism'll do for you. You start the day thinking, I'm jet-lagged and tired and I really don't feel up to doing this bloody interview! Then you die in a way you could never have imagined ... and your whole world changes forever.

  It would be many pages and early the next morning before the words ceased coming and he again fell into a relaxing sleep.

  *******

  “My boy! I have had many people explain what they felt, or saw, during one of my cleansings. But I have to tell you, what you just told me may well be the most unique.”

  It was ten o’clock the next morning and the Reverend Medhurst and John again sat at the table in the study of St. John’s Rectory. The reverend was once more sipping tea from a china cup. Except for a hint of tiredness in his voice, the old cleric sounded totally recuperated.

  John couldn’t help checking him out, surprised he looked so normal. “Yer sure you’re all right, man? Ah ... Reverend. Seriously, I thought you were dead.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, dear boy.” The reverend brushed John’s concern aside. “I’m made of much sterner stuff than that!” He motioned with his cup and added: “Amazing what a good cup of tea can do. Quite the restorative, don’t you find?”

  John stared at the empty cup on the table in front of him.

  “Actually, Reverend: I can’t stand the stuff. Never could. I’m more of a coffee man.”

  “You should have told me, dear boy,” the reverend frowned. “I would have had Mrs. Ridgewood get some for you. But never fear, next time I will be sure to have coffee for you, although it might only be instant.”

  They sat for a short while, neither speaking. It was the reverend who finally broke the awkward silence.

  “I’m afraid I cannot give you much of an explanation for what you saw. Though I am glad you were also able to explain the full extent of the exchanges during your somewhat bizarre phone encounters at the airport.”

  “To be honest, I didn’t think they could possibly have anything to do with you. I figured you were just humoring me.” John’s upper lip curled a little as he tried to make light of the crazy calls. “Anyway,” he said, hopefully. “Maybe I somehow imagined the whole thing. I read somewhere once that lack of REM sleep can do that.”

  The reverend had other ideas. “I am afraid, dear boy, that from your description it could well have been Brendan Babbitt, a tortured soul I have been trying to help for some time.”

  John stared at him in open disbelief. “But you said you never told him I was arriving
yesterday.”

  “And I didn’t!” the reverend stated indignantly, almost choking on his tea at the thought. He spluttered out. “But, dear boy, I am so sorry you had to—”

  “–Then how could he know?” John hadn’t meant to be so abrupt, or sound so accusatory; but the words fired out of his mouth before he had a chance to soften them.

  The old cleric wasn’t upset in the least by John’s aggressive outburst. He sighed heavily and stared off into the distance, momentarily lost in thought.

  “I am afraid it is impossible for me to truly explain, at this moment, in a way you could accept. Perhaps one day. But I have to say, I cannot for the life of me imagine any way in which you two could be connected.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t even him.” John’s words clearly reflected his last hope that all this was some kind of crazy mistake.

  The reverend didn’t answer. Instead, he reached to a small nearby table, slid aside a number of books and pulled a medium size photo from between them. He checked the photograph himself, and then handed it to John.

  The man in the snapshot looked normal enough; no sign of bloodshot eyes, or wild unruly hair. But John recognized him in an instant.

  John turned to the reverend, baffled. “This is Babbitt?”