Amityville Horror Now

by John G. Jones

  Whatever it was ... it wasn’t good.

  A massive claw, bristling with five vicious talons, swept from the darkness. It rushed straight towards him. John reacted more by instinct than anything conscious. He hurled himself to the right, slamming his thigh against the desk, barely getting himself out of the way.

  The huge claw whooshed past. He felt the breeze of its passing much to close for comfort. Its five talons hammered into the wall, slashing through wallpaper and plaster as if they were putty.

  John turned, planning to run for the door … but in his haste, he tripped over the base of the fallen lamp and toppled to the floor with a sickening thump. Before he could even move, a second, larger, even more alien claw reached from the darkness and closed tightly around his neck. It lifted him into the air as if he weighed nothing. His feet dangled uselessly a foot or more above the carpet.

  John was still unable to see what – or whatever – the bizarre claws were attached to. It must have been massive. But how could something that huge fit in the shadow of a normal hotel room?

  I’ve finally gone completely round the bend, he thought. I’m danglin’ from a fuckin’ great claw of somethin’ that obviously plans to turn my lights out, for good … and I’m worrying about what the damned thing might look like!

  As he hung, suspended, John tried to move, to somehow break free. The best he could do was to jerk his body about in the air. On his third twitch, the silver cross Jennifer had given to him slipped out from under his shirt and swung back and forth.

  Another bellowing growl ripped from the shadows and the talon rose high, preparing to rip John open from his neck to his navel. John was helpless … but he suddenly remembered Jennifer’s words about the cross. In desperation, he reached out and closed the fingers of his right hand around the talisman and – unsure of anything else he could do – he stretched out the chain and rammed the cross against the bizarre claw.

  The sound John heard when Jennifer first placed the cross around his neck hummed in his mind again. The cross was suddenly ablaze with light.

  A screech that sent the hairs on his neck leaping to attention, wailed from somewhere in the darkness. The talon reeled back into the immediate shadows … but John was still held firmly in the grip of the second claw.

  With no warning, it swung him in the air like a rag doll, and hurled him across the room. He thwacked against the far wall, the pain more than he could handle. It felt like every bone in his body was broken. His awareness faded. He slumped into a heap on the floor.

  But the dark intruder wasn’t finished with him. It ROARED so loud everything in the room RATTLED, and the vicious claw swept forward again …

  ... But the deathblow never landed.

  The door to the suite crashed open and a beam of intense light streaked in. The dark thing wailed in pain and stumbled back, trying to hide in the rapidly receding shadows.

  Jennifer was suddenly there in the room. Her Light Sigil – the beam of light emanating from it – was held high in her right hand. Without a word she strode forward, reached into the nearest shadowy corner … and dragged Brendan Babbitt out into the light.

  Babbitt wailed pitifully, desperately trying to cover his eyes. “Please! Please, don’t ‘urt me!”

  Jennifer’s was in no mood for gentleness. Without uttering a single word, she turned back to the open door. Then, dragging Babbitt’s frail, flailing body behind her, she left Suite 412 of the Royal Arms Hotel.

  The door POUNDED shut behind her. The room was once again thrown into darkness. John, hunched against the far wall, groaned in pain, but didn’t move.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  John was stretched out, face down, on the bed of his London hotel, one hand loosely draped over the body of his guitar. He still wore the clothes from the night before. Everything in the room seemed normal.

  The doorbell rang … then rang again ... and finally rang a third time.

  John woke with a gasp on the third ring. He sat up on the bed, wide-eyed, and stared about, obviously confused. “How the hell did I get up here?”

  He gently checked the muscles in his neck and shoulders, and even turned the guitar over, looking for damage. Everything seemed okay. Then he remembered something and stared over at the far wall by the desk.

  It also seemed perfectly fine, no obvious damage. The print of the English pastoral scene hung where it had since he checked in. There was no sign of the five deep gouges made by the taloned claw. The standing lamp was still standing, undamaged.

  John sighed, rubbed at his eyes and frowned. “Hell! If my dreams get any more real, I’m gonna need a scorecard to tell me when I’m awake and when I’m asleep.”

  The doorbell rang one last time. He shook his head, still feeling stupid, and got to his feet to answer it.

  At the door, he stopped and took a deep breath as he checked the viewer.

  “Oh, boy!” His shoulders sagged tiredly. He really wasn’t ready for this, but he knew she would just keep ringing the bell until he answered. So he clicked the lock and opened the door.

  Jennifer breezed into the room. She wore yet another flowing dress, still wore the circlet of silver and Light Sigil, and carried two Styrofoam coffee containers. Her demeanor was the exact opposite to John’s.

  “Coffee with cream and honey. Just like you like it ... or, at least, will like it,” she smiled.

  Perky, he thought. It’s the perfect word to describe her. And this early in the mornin’, I need perky like I need a hole in the head.

  He was past being surprised by her sudden appearances. He simply shut the door, walked back into the room and flopped down on the bed. “Hi, Jennifer,” he said tiredly, not even trying to hide the fact that he wasn’t particularly happy to see her at this moment.

  Jennifer wasn’t put off at all by this lack of an enthusiastic welcome. She put the coffees on the desk, grabbed the chair beneath it and slid it over in front of John. Then she retrieved the coffee containers, sat on the chair and handed him the cup with the large magic marker cross on the side.

  John half-nodded his thanks and took a sip.

  “Look,” he said, weary of the game, “if you’re gonna disappear again and leave me with more questions than answers, could y’ do it now and let me get back to sleep. I’m beat. I had a helluva nightmare last night. At least I hope it was a nightmare…”

  His words trailed off and he stared at his guitar, unsure why, but momentarily confused.

  She stared intently at him, taking stock. “So I see,” she said. “I thought I better check on you and make sure you were all right, and clearly that was a good idea. You don’t look well at all, John.” She frowned, her tone a tad apologetic. “And, if you don’t mind me saying so ... you’re babbling a bit, too.”

  He didn’t answer. What the hell can I say, he thought. Either I’m crazy, or she’s whacko, or we’re both nuts. Instead of saying anything, he sipped his coffee and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

  His silence worried Jennifer and her smile faded. “Are you all right?” she asked

  Okay, so I ain’t gonna be able to just sit here and keep me gob shut, he realized. So! What the hell. Nothin’ left but to tell her what I really feel. Maybe that’ll get rid of her an’ I can get back to sleep.

  “Why wouldn’t I be all right?” He didn’t even try to temper his sarcasm. “Aside from the fact that it appears I’ve been seeing visions of the future ... even though that’s impossible. And last night, in a dream, I got a phone call on a dead phone, then some kind of ... I dunno, monster, tried to kill me. And, to top it all off, I damn near froze to death ... in my hotel room, no less.” He took a quick breath and half-gestured at her with his coffee container. “And then, of course, there’s you. A self-professed white witch, who assures me everything will be fine ... but has no idea what that means.” He shook his head and shrugged. “As we say in Australia, everything’s clear as mud in a beer bottle.”

  Jennifer perched on the front edge of
her chair and leaned forward. For a long few moments her eyes, like twin lasers now, never left his face. Then she abruptly relaxed, her mood once again cheerful. “Ah! So! You still have your sense of humor. I’m sure that’s an Australian thing.” Then she smiled warmly. “Actually, it probably has a lot to do with your ability to survive all ... this. Keep a good thought, no matter what. That sort of thing.”

  John sighed deeply, in full surrender. “Yer not even going to try to explain any of this, are ya?”

  Her words contained a hint of genuine helplessness. “Not won’t, John ... can’t. I’m truly sorry; but I just cannot give you the answers you want. This is all new to me, too.”

  John leaned forward, to emphasize his point. “Or – just a thought here – ya could be completely out of ya mind. And I could be joining ya.”

  She dismissed this with a wave of her hand, her perkiness back in full force. “Oh, you don’t believe that.”

  “Y’ do know how bloody infuriatin’ that is, right?” He could no longer keep the tiredness from his voice.

  “Yes, I think I probably do.” She brushed this aside, hurrying on. “But I didn’t come by to just bring you your morning coffee, John. So please, please, listen carefully.”

  She inched closer to him. Her eyes were full. “It’s time to go home. The evil has you in its sights and you are not yet ready to stand against it. Things could get much worse if you stay.”

  “Worse?” John was totally incredulous. “How’s that even possible? Besides, I can’t go just like that. I have other people to interview here in London. And recording sessions, I've waited months for. Then I'm booked to talk to some people in Europe who met the Lutz family when they were here–”

  “–John!” She abruptly cut him off. She was pleading now. “You have to go back to America. Now.”

  John was about to continue his argument.

  But before he could say another word, she leaned over and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

  He was stunned. Still, after the initial shock, he joined in, getting into it, starting to make it hot and heavy. But, just as things were about to get seriously torrid, she pulled back and broke the kiss.

  This diversion had the desired effect ... John was momentarily taken aback.

  Jennifer herself was a touch taken aback. “My!” she said, a little breathless. “Ah! Yes! Well, then!”

  John leaned forward and tried to kiss her again. But, with no warning, she abruptly got to her feet and hurried to the door. John was left, titled forward, all puckered up and totally off balance.

  He jerked back and struggled to push aside the chair she was sitting on, that now blocked his way. “Wait–”

  Jennifer reached the door ... opened it … looked back one last time, and then quickly left. John threw the chair aside, and staggered to his feet. But it was too late ... the door slammed shut with a loud bang.

  “Jen! Wait a minute!” He stumbled to the door, dragged it open and rushed out.

  John slid to a clumsy stop in the hallway and checked in both directions. There was no sign of Jennifer. She was gone again.

  “Bloody ‘ell!”

  He sagged tiredly against the doorjamb and sighed heavily.

  *******

  Brendan Babbitt’s had somehow cleared a small area of his office; the rest was still a chaos of paper and trash. He sat hunched at the edge of the cleared space, prattling to himself and making wild gestures with his hands. His voice was a strangely distorted version of his normally broad, seedy, Cockney accent.

  “Let’s see ‘ow ya ‘andle this, then, John G. Jones.” The distorted edge to his voice made his normal craziness a touch ominous. After a moment, he stopped talking, stopped gesturing, and just sat, his open palms facing the cleared area.

  Nothing happened at first. Not for the longest minute. Then a tiny ball of deep orange fire flared into existence in the middle of the cleared space and hovered there, four feet off the floor.

  Babbitt cackled gleefully, a strange mixture of his normal voice and something … else.

  The fiery ball grew larger ... then swept outward, transforming into a totally unnatural, fiery wall of flame. Babbitt was beside himself with joy. He stood and began to jump up and down, his cackling louder and more intense. As if in concert with his insanity, the crackling flames exploded with inexplicable power, quickly doubling in size. It could only be seconds before their ferocity would engulf the entire office.

  The Reverend Medhurst’s voice boomed out of the empty air: “Brendan!” he called. “What are you doing? You cannot let this dark thing make you its pawn. Resist it!” The disembodied voice was firm, but his words had the edge of almost parental authority, as if he were scolding a small child.

  Babbitt hunched himself into a tight ball at the sound of Medhurst’s word. He shuffled back and cringed in the nearby corner, his eyes darting about – first staring into the air, then into the flames. After a moment he spoke directly to the fierce glowing aberration. “Reveren’? Is that you? I’m sorry, really I am.” His voice was now a soft pitiful whimper, all trace of distortion gone. “I tried ... ‘onest I did.”

  The reverend stood a few feet inside the open office door and he was not pleased by what he saw. He now strode purposefully across the room, a large ornate cross held firmly in one hand, and placed himself between Babbitt and the flames.

  “Brendan! Send this abomination back where it came from. Now!”

  But Babbitt was past any normal understanding. He sat in the corner and whimpered like a mangy cur.

  The Reverend Medhurst realized the truth: It was all too obvious that this poor wretch couldn’t do as he instructed. The reverend would have to do it himself.

  He turned and stood, facing the unnatural flames, the cross held high. Then he uttered a series of alien words that sounded almost like Latin, but weren’t. As he did, he marked out an intricate, bizarre, but clearly distinct pattern in the air with his free hand.

  “Anto ladinau oso seculorum, an Ecto.”

  The flames faltered ... but persisted. As if somehow sentient, they struggled to survive. The fiery red bursts attempted to take shape; for an instant actually molding themselves into a roughly outlined, flaming absurdity.

  The reverend shouted louder – it was now a command. “ANTO LADINAU OSO SECULORUM, AN ECTO!”

  As the reverend’s shouted words filled the room, the flame-thing lost its battle. It folded in on itself, quickly returning to the size it was when Babbitt first conjured it up.

  Then it whoomped out of existence.

  The reverend now turned his attention to the cringing Babbitt. He looked down at the pitiful excuse for a man and sadly shook his head. “What am I going to do with you, Brendan? I can’t just let you run loose. But, what?”

  Babbitt reached out and grabbed the cleric’s leg, clutching it tightly to his chest. “I’m sorry, Reveren’. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

  “All right, Brendan. All right.” The reverend was after all a man of the cloth. As such he couldn’t just dismiss his compassion for one of God’s fallen creatures. “Lord knows it is not your fault He saw fit to make you such a weak vessel.” He reached down and gently tugged at Babbitt’s shoulder. “But you need to come with me, now. We need to get you some help.” He pulled Babbitt to his feet. “Come on.”

  Brendan stood, grinning vacuously, not at all understanding what the Reverend meant. He shuffled along, smiling, as the old cleric lead him from the room and gently shut the door.

  *******

  The Bellman left Suite 412 of The Royal Arms Hotel dragging John’s wheeled suitcase behind him.

  John stood by the open exit and took one long last look around. Without consciously intending to, he reached up and touched his Sigil, the cross. Then he groaned and mumbled out: “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Afraid if he delayed any longer he might change his mind, he grabbed his guitar and briefcase and left, slamming the door hard behind him.

  He made his way along the hall t
oward the lift, the morning sun warming his face. He wasn’t sure if Jennifer was right in her concern, but he had to admit that just leaving that room made him feel good.

  As he boarded the lift and pushed the button for the ground floor, he told himself that if he ever came back to London, he would definitely stay at a different hotel.

  If John had been able to see what happened in room 412, just seconds after he left, he would have realized how lucky he was to be leaving at all.

  His heavy-handed exit shook the wall that fronted the desk … and the print of the English pastoral scene fell to the floor with a loud clonk. With the painting gone, they were no longer covered up:

  Five deep parallel cuts gouged through wallpaper and plaster, from an attack savage enough to even splinter the edge of the main wooden beam.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The shades were lowered in the First Class cabin of British Overseas Airways Flight 2472 from London to Los Angeles. The endless low-rumbling audio backdrop of the four giant airplane’s engines had lulled most of the passengers to sleep. Some wore eye shades with the BOAC logo prominently displayed; others had their own personal shades. Many were twisted into what appeared to be seriously uncomfortable positions. The seats were wide and the lighting was dim.

  John was slumped forward in seat 6A, asleep. He wore his customary black leather jacket, black T-shirt and black jeans. With no warning, he cried out and jerked awake … sweating, wild-eyed, disoriented, and obviously terrified. He fought to control his fear as he stared around and tried to get his bearings, tried to get himself under control.

  Anthea, a charming if nosy silver-grey-haired sexa-genarian was seated next to him by the window. She saw his distress and leaned over placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Are you all right, honey?”