It had been more than an hour since his weirdness with the phone; no matter how slowly Randy drove to beef up the bill, they should have made it to Amityville a long time ago. It wasn’t that far. They had no doubt arrived and were already working on the boathouse, Charlie surmised. And they were ordered to park on the street, so the chance they would hear the radio from the van parked out on the street was slim at best.
Still … he wanted to talk to them. He felt like he needed to talk to them.
It had taken him quite a while to get himself together after the … whatever it was. He’d sat at his desk, his mind an utter blank, for--
“Damned if I know how long,” Charlie said into the empty office. Somehow hearing a voice, even his own, helped. He was almost his old self.
Almost.
So … what the hell happened here? And what, he asked himself, should he tell Emily, if anything? How could he explain it? The fact was, he was already having trouble remembering the details. Had he really wanted to kill himself? Really? By the end of the day, he suspected, he’d be convincing himself it was all some kind of illusion, that it never really happened. That he’d fallen asleep at the desk and dreamed the entire thing.
After one more moment he forced himself to stand up. He focused on remembering how happy Emily always got at Christmas. Her smile, her warmth to friends and neighbors, and her outright joy during this time of holidays. She called it “the happiest time of the year,” and she meant it. She believed it with her entire soul.
The answer was obvious. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell anyone. He’d have to keep this whole episode to himself.
He was half into his overcoat when the phone rang. It’s almost certainly Emily, he thought. I’ve been a lot longer than I should have been and she’s beginning to worry. But even though he was sure who it was, he couldn’t bring himself to answer the call. Not tonight.
“I’ll hurry more than usual,” he said aloud, as he opened the door and the bell clanged loudly. “Better that, than …”
He left the alternative hanging. He just closed the door behind him and hurried out into the cold night, wrapped in the sweet aroma of hot apple cider.
* * * * *
Randy stood at the boathouse door and dragged at its brass-plated handle for the tenth time. Still nothing. It was as if it had never opened at all.
He took a step back, hands on hips again, and glared at the old structure. “Beats the heck outta me,” he said to no one in particular. “But there has to be a reason. Has to be.”
Owen knew that his partner actually liked his job. For all the jokes and the willingness to declare victory and withdraw from the field – padded invoice in hand – Randy really did like to fix things, and this was bothering him.
“Owen,” Randy finally said. “Why don’t you go back to the van and bring the large toolbox. I guess we’re gonna have to take this lock totally apart and see what’s happening inside.”
Owen shrugged. Truth be known, he would be happy to be back at the van, even for a short break. And not just for the few seconds of warmth the front section of the van might still be holding.
“Oh! And you better radio Charlie and let him know this might take longer than we thought.”
Owen shrugged. “S’already been a while,” he said, and he found himself surprised at how rough his voice sounded. He suddenly realized these were the first words he’d spoken aloud since … since that thing happened to him. He swallowed in a dry throat and said, “He probably already left for home.” Then another thought jumped into his mind. “Hey,” he said, “I could drive back to that shopping area we passed a few miles back and use the pay-phone to call him at home, if you want …?”
Randy was much too busy now, deeply entrenched in his new puzzle. The eagerness in Owen’s voice slipped right past him. “Um … yeah,” he said distantly. “Maybe … ah … maybe you better do that.” He barely gave him a look.
Another thought suddenly popped into his mind. “Hey. Do we still have that bunch of locks in the truck?”
“I never took them out after that job we did over in Plainview.”
“Good!” Randy said. “Then while you’re grabbing the toolbox, check and see if one of them could fit into this door without too much rebuilding. Then go and call Charlie. Tell him we may be forced to replace the entire locking system, and even adjust the doorjamb, and is that okay, or will he have to call and get some kind of authorization from this Lutz guy.” He glanced up at the fading light of the already pale late afternoon. “And you better bring me that lighting rig of yours. It looks like it’ll be dark before we get done here.”
“You got it,” Owen said, struggling to sound casual. It took everything he had to keep himself from breaking into a run, a full-out sprint, on his way back to the van.
CHAPTER THREE
Owen eased the Danvers & Son Ford van to a stop in front of the small group of stores on Merrick Street, across from Combs Bait and Tackle. He didn’t rush to get out; even if the van’s heater wasn’t working up to full capability, it was still a lot warmer in here than it would be standing outside at a pay phone. Besides, the thought of talking to Charlie didn’t thrill him. And it meant he’d be one step closer to returning to the house on Ocean Avenue, and he was definitely in no hurry to do that.
He’d tried to reach Charlie on the radio, but as expected: no answer. Now he would have to interrupt his boss’ Christmas Eve.
Not good, he told himself. Not good at all. He had enough trouble talking to Charlie at any time; the thought of trying to talk to him on the phone while he was in the midst of his family Christmas only made it worse. As for the house –
No. He really didn’t want to think about it. Especially the last five minutes on the property. But he couldn’t stop himself.
It shouldn’t have happened. He’d taken the toolbox and lighting rig to Randy at the boathouse, and was heading back to the van. That was all. He shouldn’t even have glanced at the main house, much less slowed down as he passed it. There was no reason to: the house was in total darkness, just as it had been since they’d arrived. As the sunlight faded, the entire building was draped in early evening shadow. Owen assumed the family was out. If any lights had been switched on inside, they certainly didn’t show through the windows.
He was almost past it when he heard the voices.
They were raised in anger or fear. Not loud at first, but as he slowed he heard them escalate to shouting. Then they got even louder – closer, somehow – and swooped up the scale. They were screaming now, three voices – maybe four, maybe more. It didn’t sound to Owen like an argument. It sounded like someone was in dire trouble, and right there, just inside the porch.
He found himself stopping and straining to listen, even though he didn’t want to. The screams were joined by what sounded like a swarm of seriously agitated wasps or bees, and now the voices had a new element: sheer panic. And pain.
What the hell? Owen remembered all the instructions: no talking, no visiting, don’t interfere. But he couldn’t just ignore these people if they were in trouble. Someone in there needed help.
Every rational bone in his body was telling him to run, don’t walk to the van, and get the fuck out of there. But he did exactly the opposite: he walked to the covered-in front porch, pushed his face against the wire-mesh screen of one of the large windows, and peered inside.
The insect drone and the screams got even louder as he touched the window … but all he could see was darkness. As he strained to make out something – anything – in the shadowy gloom, the screams became piercing wails. Then something slammed against the inside of the window, moving so fast it was a complete blur, colliding with the glass so violently it shook the pane in its frame and drove Owen’s head back as if he’d been slapped.
He cried out as he stumbled back and fought to keep his footing, but one boot-heel missed the edge of the porch and he fell, flailing his arms. His butt thudded unceremoniously on the gravel walk
way.
“Well, shit,” he said, only to himself. Then he stared back up at the house, at the window he had looked through, and saw … the thing.
At first glance it looked like a young boy, maybe six or seven years old. But its face was twisted into an evil caricature of the wholesomeness of youth, and the eyes weren’t really eyes at all, but flaming orbs. Scarlet light blazed where pupil and iris should be.
For a long moment, the face floated inches inside the window, a hand’s-breadth from the place where Owen had foolishly pressed his face. Then it moved back into the shadowy porch, receding quickly, it as if it had never been there at all.
Still on the ground, legs thrust out in front of him, Owen turn to look back at the boathouse. Randy must have had heard that, he thought. The screams were so damn loud. But if he did he never responded. He never even called out to make sure everything was okay.
A part of Owen wanted to race back to his partner, tell him what happened. He scrambled to his feet with every intention of running straight to Randy, but …
He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Without a conscious thought, he felt himself turning the other way, to the driveway. He ran -- headlong and half-blind -- and didn’t stop until he’d stepped off the property entirely and entered Ocean Avenue itself.
The van had been right in front of him. He scarcely remembered getting in, turning the key, and driving away.
Now, standing at the pay phone a mile or two away, even the simple act of remembering the fear that had gripped him back at the house was enough to twist Owen’s mind in knots. He pushed all thought of it from him and stared through the windshield instead, fixing on a mother and her small child who were hurrying into the nearby convenience store. He noted their heavy coats and boots, the mittens, even the balaclava the little girl wore. Mundane things. Ordinary things. Things that held no hint of confusion, or fear.
He took in a breath of air with just a hint of warmth, let it out slowly and did it again. Soon his breathing returned to normal. He was better. Just a little bit … better.
Ten minutes later, he knew he had stalled as much as he could. He couldn’t very well just sit here all night and leave Randy waiting out there in the cold. He grabbed some loose change and climbed down from the van.
The first pay-phone he tried had no receiver; someone had decided to tear it off, metal cord and all. The second was gouged and mangled by what looked like multiple blows from a meat tenderizer. Finally the third and last one in the set – though scarred and scratched – seemed functional. The phone and its receiver were still intact.
Owen dropped his coins into the slot and dialed Charlie’s number from memory. As he waited, he stamped his feet in an attempt to ease the chill that was already creeping into his toes.
The briiiing, briiiiing, briiiiing of the phone seemed to go on forever. He was about to hang up when the receiver clicked and a cheery female voice hollered at him over the background laughter, chatter and the clink of glasses and plates. It was obviously a Christmas get-together of some kind. He hated himself for interrupting.
“Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays or Season’s Greetings, whichever might be appropriate,” the voice said. “You have reached the Danvers house, how may I help you?”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Danvers. It’s Owen Blake.” Owen fought to add even a hint of seasonal joy to his voice but failed miserably. “And … ah … Merry Christmas to you, too.” If anything, he was more uncomfortable talking to Emily Danvers than he was to Charlie. “I am really sorry to intrude on your evening, but is Charlie available?”
“Of course, Owen,” Emily said. “I’ll just get him for you.”
Before Owen could take another breath, Charlie hurriedly called into the phone. “Owen? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Charlie would obviously not be happy to be interrupted on Christmas Eve, at home; but even with that Owen couldn’t help wondering at the hint of urgency behind the question. And it sounded like his forced whispering into the phone was being done so as not to be overheard. As if he were expecting some kind of trouble, even though all they were doing was fixing a lock on a boathouse door.
“Well, actually,” Owen said. “It’s this job in Amityville.”
“Yes! Yes!” Charlie snapped, irritated. “What happened?”
Charlie’s tone threw him off even more than usual. Owen had to really concentrate to stay on topic. “Well! The, ah … ah … the lock seems to be okay, but the door still swings open and shut. Randy can’t figure out why. It doesn’t seem to make sense.” He was finally getting it out now. “He thinks we should replace the lock, and we have one in the van, but he is not sure if you might have to call and get authorization for us to go that far--?
“No!” Charlie barked, cutting him off. “No, I can’t do that!”
Must be hard to talk, with all those guests at the house, Owen realized. “Well maybe we could knock on the door, explain the problem and ask what he wants us to--”
“No! You can’t do it either!”
The words almost leapt out of the phone. Owen was so stunned, he didn’t respond.
“Mister Lutz made it absolutely clear, damn it,” Charlie said between clenched teeth. “That isn’t to happen under any circumstances. If the lock needs to be changed, that’s not a problem, but--”
He suddenly stopped, mid-sentence. The pause went on for so long Owen was about to say something when Charlie abruptly spoke again. This time Charlie’s words were draped in an unusual mixture of both concern and confusion.
“Owen, is … is everything okay over there?”
“Well … not exactly,” Owen admitted. There seemed to be a question behind the question, but Owen was having enough trouble following just the one conversation. “It’s kind of strange the way the door’s reacting--”
“Okay,” Charlie said, again cutting him off. “Listen carefully. I want both of you to--”
“Charlie Danvers!” Owen heard the voice of Charlie’s wife cut through the crowd noise behind him. She sounded some distance away, but insistent. “Charlie, it’s Christmas Eve and we have guests. Tell those boys to go home and enjoy the rest of the evening, and you come back to our friends.”
Owen could tell he was half-covering the receiver as he answered his wife. “I will, darling. I just have to finish here; I’ll join you in a moment.”
There was a rustling as Charlie removed his hand. “Okay,” he said again, more urgently than ever. “Some--”
The call cut off, as sharp as the slice of a knife. There was silence on the line … and silence ... and then Owen jumped at the loud, ugly burr of the dial tone
He stood at the pay phone and stared at the receiver in his hand for a very long moment, the cold from the frozen concrete seeping into his bones. Then he hung up and called again.
This time there was no answer; nor the second time. Or the five other times he tried before he finally gave up and put the handset in its cradle one final time.
* * * * *
Charlie had waited for Emily to return to their guests so she couldn’t hear what he was about to say. He didn’t want to worry her, and he didn’t want to deal with her questions – not now. As soon as she returned to the other room, safely out of earshot, he turned away and bent over the phone.
“Owen,” he said, quickly and urgently. “Something weird happened at the office after you both left. I don’t know what it means, but considering what’s already happened in that house, I don’t feel good about you being there. So get the hell out. Go home. Don’t wait around, just leave. You hear me?”
There was no response. The line was dead silent. “Owen! Are you there? Did you hear me? Owen? Owen!”
He pulled the receiver from the side of his head and glared at it. Then he put it back to his ear and listened as hard as he could, blocking out all the noise of the party-goers. There was no Owen. No dial tone. No –
It hissed at him. It wasn’t the familiar buzz of the dial tone or a jarring busy signal. It w
asn’t the sound of static or an open line. It was a living thing, hissing like a snake or an angry cat, and as he listened it began to grow louder and louder and louder …
“Oh, my God,” he heard himself say. “Not again.” He remembered what he had heard at the office; he knew what came next. Without the slightest hesitation, he slammed the phone down on its base, cutting off the connection, and backed away.
At that moment Emily called from the living room doorway at the end of the hall. “Charlie! Come on.”
Charlie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood staring down at the phone, not sure what to do. He couldn’t call Owen back; he had no idea where he was. He wasn’t on the radio so that option was out, too. But I should do something, he told himself. Something to help them.
Finally, he gingerly lifted the receiver and held it a short distance from his ear, ready to slam it down instantly if he needed to.
But there was no sound now. Not even the regular dial tone. The phone was dead.
He tapped at the base a number of times and checked the receiver each time, but there was no change. The line was dead.
All right then, he told himself. He dropped the receiver into its cradle and just stood there, staring blankly down at it, his mind abuzz. What the hell should he do? He considered driving over to Amityville to see if Randy and Owen were all right, but they could very well be gone before he got there. And it was horribly cold outside, and dark as a coal sack. Besides, how would he explain his actions to Emily? He couldn’t think of a single excuse he could he use that wouldn’t create a storm of questions – questions he really couldn’t answer.
After another long pause his shoulders slumped. He realized there was nothing really he could do. They were in the hands of Fate.
“Randy’s a good Catholic, Lord,” Charlie mumbled under his breath. “Please, help him. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave him and Owen in your hands.”
Amityville Horror Christmas Page 3
