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knew she'd fall to pieces.
She had just finished putting fresh cases on her .pillows and was plumping them up when
she was embraced from behind. She froze, then instinctively called out, "Danny?"
The grip around her waist tightened. It was stronger than the familiar woman's touch she
had experienced in the kitchen. Kathy sensed that a man was holding her, increasing the
pressure as she struggled. "Let me go, please!" she whimpered.
The pressure eased suddenly, then the hands released her waist. She felt them move up to
her shoulders. Slowly her body was being turned around to face the unseen presence.
In her terror, Kathy became aware of the overwhelming stench of the same cheap perfume.
Then another pair of hands gripped her wrists. Kathy says she sensed a struggle going on over
possession of her body, that somehow she had been trapped between two powerful forces.
Escape was impossible and she felt she was going to die. The pressure on her body became
overwhelming and Kathy passed out.
When she came to, she was lying half off the bed with her head almost touching the floor.
Danny had come into the room in answer to her call.
Kathy knew the presences were gone. She couldn't have been out more than a moment.
"Call Daddy at his office, Danny! Hurry!"
Danny returned in a few minutes. "The man on the telephone says Daddy just left Syosset.
He thinks he's coming back here."
George did not come back to the house until early afternoon. When he reached Amityville,
he drove up Merrick Road toward his street and stopped off at The Witches'Brew for a beer.
The neighborhood bar was warm and empty. The juke box and television set were silent, and
the only sounds in the place were those of the bartender washing glasses. When George
entered, the man looked up and recognized him from the other day. "Hey, man! Good to see
you again!"
George nodded in return and stood up at the bar. "A Miller's," he ordered.
George watched while the bartender filled a glass. He was a roly-poly young guy,
somewhere in his late twenties, with a stomach that suggested he liked to sample the beer he
sold. George took a long sip, half-emptying the tall stein before putting it down on the dark
wood bar. "Tell me something," George belched. "Did you know the DeFeos?"
The young man had resumed his glass-washing. He nodded. "Yeah, I knew them. Why?"
"I'm living in their house now and-"
"I know," the bartender interrupted. George lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "The first time
you came in here you said you just moved into
112 Ocean. That's the DeFeos'."
George finished off his beer. "They ever come in here?"
The bartender put down a clean glass and wiped his hands on a towel.
"Only Ronnie did. Sometimes he brought in his sister Dawn. A cute kid."
He picked up George's empty glass. "You know, you look a lot like
Ronnie. The beard and all. I think you're older than he is, though."
"Did he ever talk about their house?"
The bartender put a new beer in front of George. "The house?"
"Yeah, you know, like did he ever say there was anything funny going on there? Stuff like
that." George took a sip.
"You think there's something bad about the joint? I mean, now after the murders?"
"No, no." George raised a hand. "I was just asking whether he ever said anything before the,
er-that night."
The bartender looked around the bar as if to confirm that there was no one else around.
"Ronnie never said anything like that to me, personally." He leaned closer to George. "But I'll
tell you something. I was there once. They threw a big party and Ronnie's old man hired me to
take care of the bar."
George had finished half of his second beer. "What did you think of the place?"
The bartender spread his fat arms wide. "Big. A real big joint. I didn't see too much of it,
though; I was down in the basement. A lotta booze and beer flowed that night. It was their
anniversary." He looked around the bar again. "Did you know you got a secret room down
there?"
George pretended ignorance. "No! Where?"
"Uh-hunh," the bartender said. "You take a look behind those closets and you'll find
something that'll really shake you."
George leaned over the bar. "What was it?"
"A room, a little room. I found it that night I was down in the basement. There's this
plywood closet built up beside the stairs. I'm using it to ice beer in, see? When I bumped a keg
against one end of the closet, it seems the whole wall is loose. You know, like a secret panel,
something out of an old movie."
"What about the room?" George prodded.
The bartender nodded. "Yeah, well, when I bumped the plywood, it came open, and I could
see this dark space behind it. The light bulb wasn't working, so I lit a match. And sure
enough, there's this weird little room, all painted red."
"You're putting me on," George protested.
The bartender put his right hand over his heart. "God's honest truth, man, so help me. You'll
see."
George finished his second beer. "I'll certainly have to look for that."
He put a dollar on the bar. "That's for the beers." lie put down another. "That's for yourself."
"Hey, thanks, mail!" The bartender looked up at George. "You want to know something
really flakey about that little room? I used to have nightmares about it."
"Nightmares? Like what?"
"Oh, sometimes I'd dream that people-I don't know who they were-were killing dogs and
pigs in there and using their blood for some kind of ceremony."
"Dogs and pigs?"
"Yeah." The bartender waved his hand in disgust. "I guess the place-the red paint and
all-really got to me.
When George got home, he and Kathy both had stories to tell each other.
She described the frightening event in their bedroom, and he related what the bartender at
The Witches' Brew had told him about the red room in the basement. The Lutzes finally
realized that there was something going on that was beyond their control. "Please call Father
Mancuso,"
Kathy begged. "Ask him to come back."
Father Mancuso's superiors had been concerned with his health and had dropped by to look
in on him. Father Mancuso told them that he felt much better that morning. They also decided
to spend some time together to review the priest's workload. Most of the backlog was quickly
cleared up and put in a superior's briefcase. A secretary would do the typing.
Father Mancuso saw the clerics to the building's entrance and then walked back into his
apartment. The phone was ringing.
He was still wearing the soft white cotton surgical gloves he had found in a drawer. The
priest had explained to the Bishop that he had put them on his hands to protect them from
cold, but his real motive was to hide the ugly rawness of his blisters. The priest's telephone
rang five times before he picked it up. "Hello? This is Father Mancuso."
The voice on the other end came through loud and clear. "Father. This is
George!"
The priest couldn't believe his ears. It was as if George was standing right in the room with
him. He was so surprised that he blurted,
"George?"
"George Lutz. Kathy's husband!"
"Oh! Hi! How are you?"
George held the receiver away from his ear and looked at Kathy standing next to him in the
kitchen. "What's with him?" he whispered to her. "He sounds like he doesn't remember me."
Father Mancuso knew who George was, all right, but he was still stunned to hear from him
on an open line without any interference at all. "I'm sorry, George, I didn't mean to be rude. I
just wasn't ready for your call this way after all the trouble I've had reaching you."
"Yeah," answered George. "I know what you mean." Father Mancuso waited for George to
continue, but there was only silence. "George? You still there?"
"Yes, Father," said George. "I'm here and Kathy's right beside me." He looked at his wife.
"We want you to come back and bless the house."
Father Mancuso thought of what had befallen him the first time he had blessed the Lutzes'
home. He looked at his white gloved hands.
"Father, can you come right away?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]