“Yes.”
“Reverend! This is the crazy loon that attacked me in my vision.” He can’t hide his confusion. “But I’ve never seen this bloke before. I mean, not in the flesh. So why’s he pissed-off at me?” He shook his head, fighting to make some sense of all this. “This is gettin’ too weird for words, mate.” He slipped into pure Australian, so disturbed this time he didn’t bother to apologize for the blasphemy. “I mean ... bloody ‘ell! I’m just writin’ a book, damn it!”
The reverend stared at John but didn’t speak, as the puzzled Australian author handed the photo back to him.
*******
Brendan Babbitt’s office had grown even messier in the last twenty-four hours, if that was even possible. Clouds of dust billowed into the air as Babbitt rushed wildly about, grabbed armfuls of paper, magazines and trash and hurled them against the wall, on top of another large pile of trash. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his actions, but he cackled insanely to himself, as if what he was doing was very important.
Every few seconds he grunted out: “Soon, Brendan! Soon! Soon, now!”
*******
In the sitting room of St. John’s Rectory the Reverend Medhurst and John continued their discussion.
“It would appear, John, from what you told me, that these ... visions ... are perhaps in some way precognitive.”
“Precognitive!” John can’t quite get his head around this idea. “Ya can’t be serious.”
“We are not dealing with simple black and white situations here, my boy.” The reverend was suddenly intense, frustration obvious in his tone and manner. “My goodness! Most people – even many of my fellow clergy, who one might think should perhaps know better – are still reticent to accept that supernatural events like this even happen.”
John shook his head in agreement. This he could totally understand. “Can’t say I blame them for that. I sat with the Lutzes and glibly told them I believed them. But now I think on it. I ... I don’t know.”
“I understand. But, tell me, then. How do you explain the things you saw?”
“Damned if I know, Reverend!” John shrugged and took a stab at one possible explanation. “Hallucinations ... maybe.”
“I suppose that could work for you. At least for now.”
This didn’t sit well with John. “What do you mean, for now?”
The reverend leaned forward, each word carefully considered. There was no hint of condescension, or humor.
“Well. You mentioned seeing this lass Jennifer on the street, here in London, yesterday. You also saw her during the cleansing. And at the public house she seemed to have something to do with yet another round of what you call ‘visions.’”
“Couldn’t that all have just been the power of suggestion, or somethin’?” John’s response bordered on desperation. He would have really liked that to be true. “I was havin’ some pretty vivid dreams even before I left America.”
“I suppose that is possible.”
“But ... you don’t believe that?”
The reverend could see John was having a hard time with all this. He shrugged and tried to soften his pessimistic outlook, somewhat – at least verbally. “My current vocation makes me tend towards cynicism, more than most.” He placed the empty tea cup on the table and looked squarely at John. “It would seem to me that all of this is somehow connected to what brought you here.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t explain Jennifer.” John hurried on. “How could she be connected to Amityville?”
“Perhaps she isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
The reverend looked at John as if he’d entirely missed the point. His words were a statement, not an opinion.
“My boy! The events in Amityville may well have been a trigger of sorts. But believe me, Amityville is not the only place evil exists. It has existed forever.”
“Again. What’s that got to do with me?”
The old cleric got to his feet. He walked over to a nearby cabinet, pondering all the while, and refilled his cup from a fancy bone-china tea-pot. “We know the Lutz family moved into the house at Amityville, and after a series of … well, let’s call them ‘bizarre’ incidents, they were forced to leave.”
“And their problems didn’t end there.”
“Quite!” The reverend returned to the table. “But from what you have told me an entire family was murdered in that house sometime earlier.”
“Actually, my research seems to indicate that those murders were just a small part of it.” This was an area John knew something about. “There are numerous reports of satanic rituals being practiced there in the eighteen hundreds. In fact, the plot of land the Amityville house was built on has a history of weird stuff that goes back generations. Maybe all the way to the Algonquian Indian tribes.”
The reverend nodded, but didn’t speak.
John thought on what the reverend had said, coming to a conclusion that raised a number of questions in his mind.
“All right. Let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that there is...” He hesitated, still unable to quite accept what the reverend had said as gospel. “... ah! I dunno ... something ... something bad loose in the world–”
John’s hesitation prompted a sharp, interrupting response from the old cleric.
“–Evil, John. Evil. You can say it without feeling like a fool. There is evil in the world, after all.”
The reverend pushed the point further. He obviously felt it important for John to understand what he believed the young Australian was up against.
“My boy, we exist in a wondrous creation. Some believe it a random event ... others divine grace. I, of course, am in the latter camp. But regardless of what we humans might wish to believe, or, in some cases have been taught, in this creation there is both light and dark. Day and night. Good and evil. Each at odds with the other. We were given free will, an awesome responsibility. We must choose which to embrace: the light or the darkness. Certain weapons are at our disposal, the most simple and perhaps most powerful being love. And there are others...”
He briefly touched the cross hanging at his neck. “Symbols like this, and many age-old esoteric practices, all are imbued with the power of the light.”
Without really thinking about it, John reached up and clutched the cross Jennifer gave him tightly in one hand.
The reverend quickly went on. “And, before you ask – yes we are in a war ... a constant battle. The light against the dark. A battle that has raged since the beginning of time. Evil does exist. It is a real, palpable thing. Yet its presence, in many cases, has become so accepted, we no longer even acknowledge it for what it truly is.”
“Like what?” John asked.
“It is only our Victorian moralistic perceptions that somehow distinguish mass murder, or genocide, or even obsessive greed and cruelty, as somehow normal and uniquely different from what you are talking about.”
He looks directly at John, his eyes burning.
“But look carefully, John. Evil is writ large across all of history. Often it is on a national or worldwide scale, other times as small as – well, as small as a series of bizarre events in a single house in Amityville.”
John sat thinking, a touch stunned by the reverend’s intensity. Finally he voiced the question most important to him.
“Okay. So, again for argument’s sake, let’s say that a fragment of that, that ... evil, did cause all the problems at Amityville. And that somehow I've inadvertently become involved. What do I do about it?”
“Well John. It would seem to me, that ‘the game’s already afoot,’ as Sherlock Holmes would say. That you are moving along a predetermined course – a course that may involve this Jennifer lass, for instance, and perhaps even others.”
“Others?”
“Should you come face to face with evil, whether you wish to, or not ... you might well be glad for some help.”
John shook his head, confused, totally at a loss.
“I
n any event, I am sure it’s not over. Not for either of us.”
“Oh, great!” John couldn’t hide his frustration. “Just ... bloody great! What have I gott’n myself into?”
The old cleric slowly got to his feet. “I wish I could give you a precise answer to that question, dear boy. In any case, come along, now. It’s been an eventful couple of days, and we could both do with some rest, I’ll warrant.”
John got to his feet, but suddenly remembered something. “Reverend! What do I do about this Babbitt dude?”
Reverend Medhurst suddenly looked sad, honestly concerned. “Actually, John, as reluctant as I am to do so, I think it is time I took a hand in Brendan’s ... ah ... situation. It will not be easy, I’m afraid, but I must, of course, do all I can to protect his mental well-being.”
John had no idea what he meant. But something about the old cleric’s manner and tone alerted him to the fact that this was something he should leave alone.
He and the reverend headed for the door.
*******
At the curb outside St. John’s Church, the reverend and John stood beside a waiting black London taxicab.
“Reverend! I gotta tell ya ... the future you’re suggestin’ for me’s not sounding like a bowl of fun.” John tried to put an edge of humor on his words, but he failed miserably.
The reverend attempted to alleviate his concern. “Forgive me, dear boy. I am an old fool, sometimes. And old fools are prone to saying very silly things. Rest assured that you will be protected at every step along the road.”
This had the desired effect. John’s tension eased noticeably. He even grinned. “Would it be considered uncool for me to give you a hug?”
“I am sure it would be, in some circles,” the reverend said and he smiled warmly. “But then I don’t mix in those circles, anyway.”
John swept the reverend into his arms and locked him in a bear-hug. The old cleric returned this genuine warmth. At almost the same instant, the two men broke from the hug and stepped away from each other.
John climbed into the taxicab, without another word ... and it moved away towards the nearby corner.
As the taxicab rounded the corner, the reverend’s smile immediately faded. His eyes were now like intense rays. His words were ominous. “I am truly sorry I had to be so evasive, dear boy. But at this point, the less you know, the more protected you just might be.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
John had finally had a short meeting with Andy at the Ye Olde United Kingdom Tea and Coffee House; and yes, it was on Wardour Street. In fact John had walked right past it after his encounter with the young British intern. He’d started to try to tell his mate about the craziness he’d been going through since he got to England, but some instinct told him that wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead, they talked about the latest news from Australia and planned the times for their upcoming recording sessions.
John could tell that Andy had been a little put off by his old friend’s obvious inability to concentrate on the subject at hand. John made an excuse about delayed jet-lag. It was true: his mind just wasn’t really there, and when he suggested cutting the meeting short his mate wasn’t too disappointed. Finally they agreed to meet again in two days, and John headed back to the Royal Arms. It was around eight p.m. when he entered his hotel room and clicked on the standing lamp, actually relieved to be back.
After a long shower, he opened his guitar case, lifted out the guitar, and plopped down on the edge of the bed. It took only a few seconds to tune two of the strings, and then he began to play and sing. The self-penned song, “A Better Day Is Coming,” always made him feel uplifted and this time was no exception. He soon drifted into his ‘musician’ mode – that special, unique place that was hard to explain to anyone but another musician. For the first time since arriving in London, he felt the stress of the last few days drifting away.
For the next hour and a half, he practiced song after song. Then, happy with his effort, he laid the guitar down and eased himself back across the bed.
In no time he was fast asleep.
*******
The ring! At three-fifteen a.m. precisely, John’s guitar strummed out a single C chord. It was a pleasant enough sound … but no one had touched the instrument.
John stirred, snorted once, then again; but he didn’t wake.
THERING! This time the chord was louder, more insistent. It hung longer in the air. But John continued to sleep. The room was again quiet. John slept on in oblivious peace.
The customarily loud brrring! of the hotel phone ended that in a heartbeat. John’s eyes snapped open at the jolting sound of it. He jerked upright, still half-asleep and groaning, lurched across to the small bedside table and dragged the receiver from its cradle.
“G’day?” he mumbled, still yawning.
There was no answer.
“Is someone there?"
There was still no reply.
He shrugged, about to give up … and a burring, toneless chatter, along with something like hollow sticks thwacking other sticks, drifted from the receiver.
John was tired, angry and almost awake – which he wasn’t happy about. “Oh, come on!” he barked into the receiver. “I’m not ready for this kind of shit. Not again–”
He stopped, mid-sentence, suddenly remembering something, and stared past the handset, past the cradle. The end of the phone cord was dangling uselessly on the floor, at least five feet from where he had ripped it out of the wall the night before.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He pulled the line towards him like a length of rope and seized the frayed end: nothing but bare wires. No phone call was coming down these wires. No way. No how.
John got to his feet, and shivered, suddenly cold. Strange that, he thought as he patted his arms with both hands. He passed a hand over his eyes, struggling to force his thoughts into some kind of order –
– and the guitar thrummmed again. Twice. The tone hard, metallic, like someone dragging nails across the six metal-wound strings – a chalk-down-the-blackboard kind of thing.
John wheeled about and stared at the guitar. “What the hell …?”
He was so stunned by the sound, that didn’t immediately notice how he’d changed. His hair and eye-brows were now covered in thick frozen icicles. His breaths were visible in puffy streams.
Forgotten for the moment, the hand holding the receiver dropped to his side. He frowned, his eyes sweeping around the suddenly refrigerated room. “Damn! I must be dreamin.’ This can’t be happenin’ ..?”
A crackling hiss spewed from the phone. Purely on reflex, he returned it to his ear. An inhuman gabble blasted from it, staggering him with its intensity.
“Bloody Hell!”
He slammed the phone down on its cradle, his breath puffing out in white clouds. He hugged himself tightly as the cold reached freezing point …
… and the phone rang again.
He snatched up the receiver. “Who’s there–?”
The unnatural vocalization pounded at him. He slammed the phone down, but this time held his hand on it, waiting. There was empty silence for a long beat ...
… then the phone rang again. This time even the ring sounded strangely distorted.
He didn’t answer at first. The knuckles on his right hand blanched as his grip tightened. After the third ring, he ripped it from its plastic cradle – its cord still dangled uselessly – and held it about two feet from his ear.
For a beat there was nothing. Then a stupefying babble gushed from the handset, filling the room.
John staggered back and dropped the phone. It fell to the floor with a loud thud. He drove his fists against both ears, trying to blot out the noise, but he couldn’t. He stumbled wildly about, crashing into the lamp, knocking it askew. It wobbled back and forth precariously, then reached the tipping point and fell to the floor with a loud, rattling crash.
The cover of the lamp was broken by the fall. The light still worked, though now it illuminat
ed only a small section of the floor and the dropped phone receiver. The soft beam of the lamp showed a faint hint of dark smoke, little more than a wisp, drifting from the handset. This accelerated, quickly expanding into a black cloud. It belched from the small holes in the plastic instrument, thick and noxious.
John stumbled wildly about the room, almost unaware of the smoke, stunned by the din he couldn’t block out with his hands, literally blinded by the intense noise. The cloud tore at his throat, burning like acid. His eyes narrowed, teared, quivered in their sockets –
– and suddenly the babble stopped.
Completely.
All was quiet.
All sign of the freeze was gone. Everything seemed normal. The phone was still on the floor; there was no sign of the dark cloud. The only evidence of the … attack? … was the damaged lamp. It still illuminated only a small section of the floor near the desk. The rest of the room was draped in shadow.
John cautiously lifted his hands from his ears and stared around the room. Every muscle in his body was clenched, waiting, unsure.
But nothing happened. He began to relax.
“I warned y’ what would ‘appen, y’ git. Now it’s time to find out what y’ really up against.”
The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. It was Babbitt's voice, John recognized it immediately, but he wasn't screeching this time. His words were a forced, whispered hiss, dripping with evil.
John couldn’t tell exactly where the voice was coming from. He circled about and called into the air. “Babbitt! Is that you?”
There was no answer. He tried again, his anger rising. “How the heck did you get in here? What do you want?”
Babbitt’s voice called from the darkness one last time. “Sorry, y’poor fool. I don’t ‘ave time t’ give y’ lessins.”
John’s senses were suddenly heightened. He knew where Babbitt’s voice had come from. He wheeled about and concentrated his attention on one corner of the room that was draped in shadow. It was hard for him to make out an actual form in the dimmed light, but before he could move toward it, he heard a deep animalistic growl that said it all.
Amityville Horror Now Page 11
