Amityville Horror Christmas
Date: 2018-03-25 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Thriller; ghost story; amityville; christmas ghost stories; Suspense; Paranormal; haunting; Supernatural; Horror
Description: December 24, 1975. Two innocent handymen are summoned to 112 Ocean Avenue to fix a boathouse door. Little do they know that the Lutz Family is living through a nightmare in the main house...and now they will be sharing that nightmare. In the next few hours, Owen Blake and Randy Hallowell will encounter inexplicable events, malevolent spirits, and a force beyond understanding. If they survive, it will change them...forever. Now: Experience the previously untold story of what happened at the Amityville house on that awful Christmas Eve.
Publisher: Createspace

Amityville Horror
Christmas

A Holiday Novella

John G. Jones

Wombaroo Books
Los Angeles, California

Copyright 2013 by John G. Jones

Smashwords edition

Praise for John G. Jones and his work...

“Even more readable and horrifying than its distinguished predecessor--it’s a chillingly told bestseller.” -- Frank DeFelitta, Bestselling Author of Audrey Rose and The Entity

“Chilling, convincing, compulsive reading ... a terrifying adventure of the spirit.” -- Brad Munson, author of Inside Men in Black II, The Mad Throne, and Rain

...and from readers on Amazon:

“Once you started, you just can’t stop reading. It is a precursor to Jordan’s Wheel Of Time and other great writers. It’s excellent!”

“It is an awesome book!”

“You wouldn’t believe what is so hard to believe. Chilling, intense action, which never seems to let up!”

© 2013 John G. Jones.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted or distributed in any in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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PROLOGUE:
CHRISTMAS PAST

There’s something about Christmas and ghost stories. Maybe it’s because the holiday itself is based on a supernatural event – a whole mess of them, actually: phantom stars in the sky, virgin births, and visitations by angels. Perhaps that’s why Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol as a ghost story, all about three very memorable spirits of the past, present, and future, and how they changed an old man’s life.

Maybe that’s why Brad and Kiley asked Grandpa Owen to tell them a ghost story that Christmas Eve. Enough with the merry gentlemen, and Bible stories, the good cheer and the red-nosed reindeer. Time to get a little scared before bedding down, so Santa could finally stop lurking in the shadows and sneak inside.

“Come on, Gampa,”Young Kiley said. “You always have good ones. Tell us a scary story. A Christmas scary story!”

Owen was about to pull some piece of holiday fluff out of his memory, some half-remembered tale from a half-forgotten book … when his daughter-in-law Sherri pulled him up short. “Here you go,” she said, as she placed a cup of hot cider on the table beside his arm chair. As usual they’d set it up very nicely for him, a stack of comfortable pillows angled just right, so that the old wound in his side wouldn’t bother him too much. It always bothered him more in the winter time, especially around Christmas. He blamed the cold when anyone asked, but he knew it was more than that. It always had been, ever since he’d been so badly hurt back in ’75. Ever since good old Randy had almost single-handedly carried him out of danger that unbelievably awful Christmas Eve.

The sudden, sharp burning in his right side, just below the ribs, and the sweet smell of cider brought it all back. Randy and Charlie Danvers and that terrible Rotting Girl. The bitter, cutting cold, the fever … and the bizarre puss-filled infection that threatened to take over his entire body. The vicious black dog. The shadowy man with the axe who wouldn’t help them, even when they screamed and screamed …

There was no way Owen could have known that Christmas Eve night that what they went through was just a part of something that would soon make a tiny hamlet in Long Island, New York, infamous across the world … and come to personify the word ‘horror’. That would burn the name Amityville into the psyche of modern culture, through word of mouth and even books, television and movies. That what they had inadvertently stumbled into was a series of events that would for all time be known as: The Amityville Horror.

“I have a story for you,” he heard himself say. And though he knew it really wasn’t what they wanted to hear, it was the one he had to tell. Because, even though it was more than thirty years later, and he was snug in his children’s home, far from Amityville, a part of him was still there.

Still there.

CHAPTER ONE

Charlie Danvers sat behind his desk in the office of Danvers & Son in Hicksville, Long Island, one hand still resting on the large, heavily worn receiver of the old Bakelite phone. He was trying to make some sense of the call he’d just taken. The word weird came to mind, right along with bizarre, strange, and …what the hell.

I guess Christmas is always a pretty discombobulated time, he thought. People are all tangled up with buying presents, seeing family, making sure there’s enough to feed everyone that might be coming for the holidays. The last thing they want to worry about is a problem with the house. Still, he had to admit, at least to himself, that even with the added stress of the year-end holidays, the call he’d just taken ranked right up there as one of the strangest he’d ever gotten.

He looked at the pad with the name and address of the man who’d just called him scribbled on it and felt a chill trickle down his spine. Something colder than the freezing weather just beyond the foggy window. The man had sounded like he’d passed stressed some time ago and was now bordering on hysterical. In fact, if it had been a woman he would certainly have used that term, even if Emily said it was ‘chauvinistic.’ Feminism was one of his wife’s newly acquired causes and she tended to bring up the topic more and more often these days. “It’s 1975, Charlie Danvers,” she would say. “Not 1875. And the sooner you men get used to the idea that things really have changed, the better.” She always added his surname when she wanted to emphasize a point; she’d been doing it since the day they were married almost thirty years ago. One of the many things I love about her, he told himself. For all of their mutual eccentricities, they’d always had a warm and loving relationship, possibly because he’d always treated her with the kind of respect she was now talking about.

He sighed and looked thoughtfully around the shabby, familiar office he’d inherited from his father. Not even the cheery aroma of the piping hot apple cider wafting from the bowl on the office hotplate – a Christmas tradition at Danvers & Sons since the days of his Dad – could lift his spirits.

Unlike his marriage, the business of being the “Son” in “Danvers & Son” had always been a love/hate relationship, even after all these years. Not that he didn’t appreciate the gift; it had kept him and his family in a style that – well, they weren’t rich, by any means, but they were well above anything close to middle-class. It was just that he’d always imagined himself doing something more creative with his life. Like so many youngsters, he’d had big dreams as a boy. He wanted to be a train engineer, maybe even an aviator. He wanted to travel and take chances. It had never even occurred to him that at the age of fifty-six he would be running what was essentially a glorified ‘fix-it’ shop, even if the fix-it jobs ranged all the way from broken faucets to using a mobile crane to lift a damaged roof. And he was proud of what they’d accomplished: they’d built quite a reputation in the Islip/Minneola area as the go-to guys, the ones you called when you had a big problem. That reputation had generated very substantial profits.

Still, he thought as he watched the steam rise lazily from the cider. Still, there’s nothing unusual about my life, is there? Nothing special, nothing out of the--

His wool-gathering was interrupted by the distinctive clang of the old brass bell -- also courtesy of his Dad – that hung above the shop’s front door. It jerked open and let in a blast of frigid air, so strong and cold it seemed to propel the two bodies that accompanied it. He huffed in surprise as Randy Hallowell barged into the room, followed closely by his young assistant, Owen Blake. Randy was laughing, as usual. Owen was pensive – also, as usual.

Almost a shame to have to break that good mood, Charlie thought, as Randy called out, “Merry Christmas, Squire.”

Randy grinned as he wiped the grease from his hands with a heavily soiled rag and took a deep whiff of the hot cider. “Shame I can’t stand the stuff,” he said, and stomped over to drop his heavy frame into the chair in front of Charlie’s desk with a wheezing thud. “So there you go,” he said, as Owen quietly drew out the ladle and poured himself a cup of punch. “Lock replaced, window re-glazed. Last job for this bitch-cold Christmas Eve, done and done. Time to break open the bubbly, share a quick Yuletide celebratory toast, and – while the bubbles are still popping in our ears – head for hearth and home.”

Charlie smiled and shook his head at the thirty-year-old family man. Randy was an avid reader, and lately he’d been going through a Victorian phase, hence the nonsense about ‘Squire’ and ‘hearth and home’. In the fifteen years Charlie has known him, he could always tell what Randy was reading simply by his conversation. A few months back, during his Raymond Chandler period, he sounded like a bad imitation of Humphrey Bogart. He was glad when that had ended. But now this …

Owen leaned his butt on the credenza in the corner and sipped his cider, showing no emotion, just taking it all in. If Randy was the one who couldn’t stop talking, his partner was the one who barely spoke at all, and when he did it was usually in short, almost staccato bursts followed by long, stubborn hours of silence, as if every word cost him something in a coin he didn’t like to spend.

Deep, Charlie thought. It wasn’t that Owen didn’t think about things, or that he didn’t have an opinion. Charlie suspected he had tons of them. He was bright and observant, and a terrific problem-solver, especially for a twenty-two-year-old. He just didn’t care to give them voice, especially around his boss or his partner. Maybe he went home to his dog and chattered like a magpie, but Charlie suspected he’d never know.

“Well … ah …” Charlie hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s not totally done and done.”

Randy stared at him, frowning in disbelief. “You’re shitting me,” he said. Owen didn’t change expression at all. He just stopped moving.

Charlie sighed. Both of his men had had a long day already, he knew, and it was cold out there, really cold. They were ready to begin their Christmas celebrations; the last thing they would want to hear about was one more job.

But Charlie had promised the strange caller he would at least make an attempt. It had seemed very important to the man. He needed help, and ‘help’ was Danvers & Sons’ stock in trade.

“What do you mean?” Owen asked.

Charlie was shocked by this uncustomary outburst. My, my, he thought. Four words in a row? It actually made him stutter before he answered.

“Aah … ah … well, there is another job. If you want to do it.”

Randy had already begun shaking his head, so Charlie quickly added the kicker: “The customer’s willing to pay extremely well for the inconvenience,” he said. “We’re talking bonus, here.”

Randy stopped shaking his head and frowned, just as Charlie thought he might. He knew Randy had two young kids and a wife who didn’t work, and of course there was the added burden of Christmas. He clearly didn’t want the job, but just as clearly, he couldn’t afford to say no. Owen, on the other hand, was a different story. No wife, no girlfriend, no obligations. He could be at the Cask and Cleaver with a beer in his hand in half an hour with no real regrets, no matter how big a cash windfall this might include.

But he also wasn’t the kind of guy to let his partner down.

“It would have to be a pretty damn big ‘bonus’ to convince Randy to change his plans,” Owen said grudgingly. “He’s been going on and on about getting home to the family for the last two hours.”

Damn! Charlie thought. That’s the most I’ve heard him volunteer since I first hired him, three years ago.

He upped the stakes. “Triple the normal fee. And it sounds like a q and e, all the way.” That was their personal code: ‘q and e’ for ‘quick and easy.’ Just the kind of job they all loved, especially at this time of year, and especially in weather like this.

“Triple, Squire?” Randy asked, holding to his Victorian affectation, but not quite believing what he’d just heard.

Charlie nodded, hating himself a little. “Triple,” he said firmly. “Just fix a boathouse door that keeps banging in the wind, and you’re home for dinner.”

Randy’s forehead scrunched into a disbelieving frown, all hint of his Victorian silliness abruptly gone. “You’re kidding. A boathouse door? On Christmas Eve?”

“No joke,” Charlie said, eying the name and address on the pad in front of him. “I guess it’s been getting worse and worse. The owner says he can’t spend Christmas with it banging loose. Says it’s driving him … crazy.” Actually, Charlie realized, he hadn’t said that at all, but that’s what it sounded like: crazy. He felt a sudden stab of regret at bringing this up at all. “Look,” he said, ready to take it back --

“Has he tried changing the lock?” Randy asked.

Charlie stopped short. He’s going to take it, he realized. And now he couldn’t very well take money out of the man’s hand. So he shrugged and said, “Beats me.” The die is cast, he told himself, and he wondered distantly why this had all suddenly become such a big deal. “Sounds like a few minutes, at most. And he’s willing to pay for driving time, too.”

“Driving time?” Randy was even more confused now.

“Yeah,” Charlie added. “He’s … ah … he’s over in Amityville.”

Randy groaned again. “Ah, hell,” he said. “Why call us? Why not those idiots in West Babby, or even Bart Calvin over in Levittown? They’re both closer.”

“I guess the other shops are already closed,” Charlie smoothly lied. The truth was that he’d wondered the same thing. The answering machine at the shop in West Babylon said they were closed for the holidays, so he connected with Bart Calvin at his shop in Levittown, and Bart told him he’d already done some work for this same customer. Calvin had been called in to check out a problem with the heater in the house early last week, and even though his workmen couldn’t find anything wrong, the guy had paid the bill before Bart could even send him an invoice. Same guy had actually called back earlier that day … but his boys wouldn’t take the job. None of them. Charlie had pushed him on this point, and Bart had turned funny on him – almost defensive. He said even the most desperate guys on his crew suddenly had something better to do. “Makes sense actually,” Calvin had said. “Considering.”

Before Charlie could ask ‘considering what?’ Calvin had hung up. Without so much as a “goodbye” or “Merry Christmas,” just … click.

Charlie decided there was no point in bringing any of that up. Still, Randy again seemed reluctant to do the job.

“Look, boys,” Charlie said, feigning disinterest, “If you’d rather not do the job I’ll call the guy back and tell him we can’t do it.”

Randy hesitated, clearly thinking of exactly that. But after a few long seconds, he shrugged. “Nah, nah, let’s do it. Hard to turn down such an easy job. Not one that’ll help pay for at least some of the kid’s toys.” He grinned. “But fair warning: it just might take us a long time to get there and back. What with him paying for the driving time and all.” He wiggled his eyebrows; Charlie chuckled in spite of himself.

“Kind’a thought it might,” he said. And truth be told, I could use a few extra bucks myself. These holiday seasons are killing me.

He copied the name and address from his scratch pad to a blank work order, added Randy’s and Owen’s name in the right spot and scrawled Fix Boat House Door next to the words Special Instructions. Then he tore it loose and handed it to Randy.

The chair groaned in complaint as Randy pushed himself to his feet. He took the page, looked at it, then stood, holding it out in front of him, and like a town crier bellowed out, “Good tidings, my friend! Show us your door, tell us your story, and Owen and I will make it right!” And then in a stage whisper: “And make a few bucks and hurry home for the holidays!”

“Oh, hell,” Charlie said. Randy’s silliness had reminded him. “I almost forget; don’t do that.”

Randy looked puzzled. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t talk to the guy. Specific instruction: You don’t ask for anyone, you don’t talk to the family, even if you see them. In fact you don’t go anywhere near the main house.” Those had been the customer’s exact words and he’d heavily emphasized the point. Twice. He had even made Charlie promise to use those words exactly with his ‘boys.’ That’s what he called them: his boys.”

Randy frowned openly now. “That’s crazy.”

“He made a point of it,” Charlie shrugged. “Was adamant about it, actually. You don’t drive onto the property; you park on the street. And you don’t bother anyone in the house. Not his wife. Not the kids, nobody. You just make your way around to the boathouse at the back, do the job and leave.”

When he said it out loud, it sounded even weirder than when the customer had said it on the phone … but Charlie tried to take the edge off. He forced a smile. “Hell, I wish they were all like that. Would make your job that much easier.”

It was Owen’s turn to frown now. And when he spoke again, Charlie couldn’t hide his total amazement.

“What was that address, again?”

“One Twelve Ocean Avenue, Owen. Why?” Charlie asked quizzically. “You know it?”

Owen waited his customary long moment before answering, and when he did, his words were little more than a mumble. “No. But it sounds familiar.”

For a long, uneasy beat no one spoke. Then Charlie leaned back in his ancient desk chair. It squealed in protest. “Look,” he said, sighing, “maybe we should let this one go.” He rubbed at his chin. “Actually, this client sounded kind’a weird, and it is Christmas Eve. I’m sure you’d rather be with your family--”

“What do you mean weird?” Randy asked, cutting him off.

Charlie gestured his confusion with both hands. “I don’t know, just … weird, that’s all.” He thought on it and added: “Nervous. Really uptight and kind’a jittery.”

“Well, hell,” Randy said, laughing. “You said he had kids, right? You know this season will do that to any parent. Turns me into a damned blithering idiot most every year.”

Randy’s mood abruptly changed, just like that. For some reason, the mention of kids had either wiped away his concern or reminded him how much the extra money would help. He grinned and turned to Owen. “What do you say, Owen? Want to make some easy bucks before we call it a night?”

Something about Owen’s demeanor made Charlie think he’d rather say no, but the boy was loyal – always had been. He wasn’t surprised when he shrugged lightly, turned and headed for the door without another word.

Randy wheeled on his heels and quickly followed, calling back to Charlie as he went. “Don’t forget, this one’s triple. And a good couple of hours of traveling time, since I’m sure the traffics gonna be really heavy.” His raucous laugh filled the room; and back in his terrible Victorian accent, he said, “Merry Yuletide to yers and the fair Lady Emily, Squire.”

Then he was gone.

As the clang of the doorbell faded, Charlie sat alone for a few minutes, not wanting to move, but not really sure why. Then he picked up the ancient phone and called his wife. He explained he’d be a few minutes late; she said they could hold dinner for a little while, but he’d better get a move on.

Charlie rarely discussed the business with Emily these days. Truth be known she just wasn’t all that interested. But this time he needed to talk. He told her about the strange call, and when he mentioned the address she did something she almost never did: she interrupted him.

“Ocean Avenue, you say?” she asked, an edge of concern in her voice.

“Yes,” he said. “Why?”

“Charlie Danvers,” she shot back, her tone edging on reproach, “I swear you would forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlie had been a little worried about his memory lately; the last thing he needed was her teasing him about it. And he was thinking of Owen’s strange response to the address, too.

“The murders, Charlie. The murders. The young boy who killed his entire family. Mother, father, even his sisters and brothers. They lived on Ocean Avenue.”

“I’ll be damned; you’re right. It was on Ocean Avenue. No wonder Owen thought it sounded familiar.” Charlie rubbed at his chin. “Do you remember the exact address?”

She thought for a long moment. Charlie imagined her frown and the shake of her head. He’d seen it a million times. “No,” she finally admitted. “No idea. But never mind: I’m sure it’s a different place.” He voice suddenly grew distant. “Still, it was a terrible thing.”

Charlie started to say something, to break her mood – and then she took care of it herself. He could actually hear her straighten up and force a smile. “So!” she chirped, determined to be cheerful. “When will you be home? The Rasmussens and the Tilneys will be dropping by for some Christmas punch any time now.”

“I just have to make a quick call and let the customer know Randy and Owen are on their way, so I’ll be there shortly.”

“Good, darling,” Emily added, her natural warmth returning. “I’ll see you then.”

Charlie smiled as he broke the connection and looked at his scratch pad one last time. He could feel himself smiling as he dialed the number. It was amazing, but something about the way Emily called him ‘darling’ still made him happy, even after all their years together.

He listened as the familiar burr of the dial tone was replaced by the elongated rings of the phone in Amityville. Once … twice …

A wailing screech ripped at Charlie, so loud and sharp it felt like a spike had been shoved deep into his brain. He dragged the phone away from his head, but the rasping, nerve-shattering shriek didn’t stop. It grew louder. It swept out of the phone and filled the room … filled Charlie with such dread and horror he simply couldn’t move.

Then came pain, a pain unlike anything he could ever remember. It tore at every nerve ending, ripped at the center of him – slashed at his spine, his knees, elbows, even his fingers. Charlie wasn’t a young man; he’d had a mild heart attack a few years earlier, and he knew what that felt like. This was nothing like it – nothing. It was fire and ice and cutting and crushing all at once. It was too much to bear, too much to even accept. All he could think of was somehow ending that pain – now, now.

“One way,” he heard himself say through the suffocating ocean of pain. He knew it with startling clarity: One way: Death.

Death was the only answer. He had to kill himself that instant. No thought, no wondering, no hesitation, just a swift clean death.

He could see his pointed letter opener a few inches away on the desk, barely visible through the bloody haze of agony. He knew what he had to do. He reached out …

Then, as abruptly as it started … it was over. Done. The terrifying sound, the unstoppable desire to end it all cut off as quickly, as viciously, as it had come.

Charlie Danvers sat, panting like an animal, drenched in sweat. He fought to bring his gasping breath back under control. He forced his fingers to pull out of painful fists and flex, and only then did he realize that he’d been saved by pure instinct. Without any conscious thought on his part, his inner self had acted; while he was dying, in those awful endless moments, one fist had thumped down on the phone base and cut off the call. If it hadn’t -- if the phone was still pouring its evil into the room …

It was a long time before he recovered at all. It was even longer before he thought of trying to reach Randy and Owen on the two-way-radio. It’s got something to do with that house, he thought. He didn’t know why, but he knew it was true. Something to do with that family.

He pawed at the crumpled paper from his pad. It was him, him.

George Lutz

112 Ocean Avenue

Amityville, New York

* * * * *

The air was already cutting-cold and getting colder as the Danvers & Son Ford van made its way into Suffolk County and on towards Amityville. It was going to be another freezing night, one of the worst of the season so far. Randy was willing to put a buck down that it would make it to the single digits. Owen didn’t care to bet.

All that was normal enough; what wasn’t normal was that hickety-burp of the van’s heater. It had chosen today to start having a problem. It still worked enough to keep the temperature in the sealed-off cabin a little warm – maybe eight or ten degrees above freezing – but Randy and Owen were both glad they had decided to wear their heavy coats and gloves. “It’s like driving a damn icebox,” Randy grumbled.

The older man was driving, as usual. As he turned the van onto Merrick Road and got it up to speed, he glanced over at Owen. His young partner was never exactly a gas-bag; he kept most of his feelings to himself. But he had seemed even quieter than usual since they left the office.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this, Owen?” Randy eased the van past a stalled car, then looked over at his partner. “Cause if it isn’t okay for you, it isn’t okay with me.”

“I’m good, Randy. Truth is I don’t really have much planned for tonight. With most of the family out in California these days, it’s pretty much just me.” Owen clutched his hands for added warmth and then blew onto his tightly woven woolen gloves. “I just wish I could remember what it is about that address.” He frowned, even more introspective than usual, and pulled at his right ear lobe as best he could with the covered fingers of his right hand. It was his familiar I’m thinking gesture. “It’s right there on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t get a handle on it.”

Ten minutes later Randy eased the van to a stop a few feet past the driveway of 112 Ocean Avenue. It was an old wooden-framed Dutch Colonial, painted white all around. There was a covered-in porch with a decorative balcony on the second floor above a latticework of vines, brown and stiff as arthritic fingers in the midwinter. Two curved windows, like glaring eyes, hovered in the wall just above the second floor landing. The property was deep and narrow; a gravel path led down one side in a gradual decline, all the way to the Amityville River. Randy could almost see the edge of the gray clapboard of a boathouse, half obscured by leafless brush and the dying midwinter light.

It looked spooky … but every new place looked spooky on a day like this, with the color drained out of everything from the chalky sky to the beaten metal of the river.

Suddenly Randy had a deep, almost biting desire to get this done, so they could get the hell out of Amityville.

All Owen wanted was to remember what the hell it was about this place that was bothering him so much. It was important. It was.

What was it …?

CHAPTER TWO

The boathouse at 112 Ocean Ave Amityville was a stout wooden box with a sharply peaked roof to slough off the snow. That wasn’t a concern at the moment, Randy thought as they made their way past the main house. The sky was cloudless, a hard, almost brittle blue, and there hadn’t been snow in the area all month. Cold enough for it, he grumbled to himself as he hunched inside his parka, but not yet.

The house to their right was a little larger than normal, but otherwise pretty standard. His experienced eye could see a few problems along the eaves and some clapboard that could stand to be replaced but by and large it was in pretty good shape, especially for an older Dutch Colonial so close to the river. He wondered if the inside was as trim as the exterior, but he knew he wasn’t going to get a chance to find out, at least not on this trip.

In the last instant before he turned his attention to the boathouse, he thought he saw a shadow at the second floor window. Just a quick movement, a flicker of shadow, but … something.

Never mind, he told himself. Doesn’t matter.

“Pretty sturdy,” he said, a minute or so later, as Owen joined him in front of the wide boathouse door. Randy tugged at the brass-plated handle again. Again it didn’t wobble under his gloved hand. The hinges didn’t rattle; the planking didn’t flex.

He gave it a good jerk, but it didn’t budge. “Solid,” he said unnecessarily. No kidding, said Owen’s sidelong scowl.

Randy pulled at it a third time, harder still and though it rattled this time, and gave off a faint, high-pitched clink, it stayed firmly shut. Owen stepped to the hinges on one side, then the other; he tapped them with a gloved finger and then shrugged. No problems there.

“Well, I don’t get it,” Randy said. “Seems copacetic to me.” He huffed in frustration, a huge billow of warm breath bursting from his mouth. The sun was about to disappear below the sparse tree line, and it was getting even colder.

Owen rapidly patted both arms with his gloved hands, trying to keep warm, and stepped back. He didn’t like it here. He wasn’t quite sure why, not yet, but he just didn’t like it here. He’d been having dark, tangled thoughts ever since they’d walked onto the Ocean Avenue property, and that big house … well, just looking at it made him shiver. Actually shiver, and not because of that icy breeze from the river. He would never say so, out loud -- even if he was one of those people who like to talk just to hear his own voice – but there was something not right about the entire gig. And what were those weird instructions from Mr. Lutz all about? What could make a client with a problem like this not want to explain it to the workmen he hired. Damn! Most of the time we can’t get rid of them, he thought. Usually they’d be out here, toolbox at the ready, not only explaining the problem, but trying to tell us how to fix it, even though they called us for help.

Not really sure why he was doing it, Owen actually said as much out loud. “Usually, we’d be talking to this Mister Lutz already, but from what Charlie said, guess we better not. Weird, that … don’t you think?”

“Hey,” Randy said, shrugging. “You know what I always say: don’t rock the boat.” He grinned at his partner. “Get it? Rock the boat?”

Owen gave him a sleepy, unimpressed glare. Randy chose to ignore it. He just turned back to the boathouse door one last time. “Well, damned if I know what the problem is, but it ain’t getting any warmer here. Let’s hike on back to the van, call Charlie, tell him we got here okay and make sure the address is right. Then, if it is, we tell him the problem’s fixed and we head home for Christmas before we freeze our nuts off.”

Owen was so caught up in his own thoughts that for a few seconds Randy’s words didn’t sink in. Then, abruptly, they registered, loud and clear. His partner was suggesting they get the hell out of there, and he couldn’t wait to do just that. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Not much point in trying to fix something that isn’t broken.”

Owen was two full strides ahead of Randy as they retraced their steps from the boathouse, across the rear lawn, to the main building and the gravel path. But as they reached the left-most corner of the house there was a huge crash behind them.

The two men turned as one and just stood there, stunned, as the boathouse door creaked open to the full extent the solid hinges would allow. It stayed there for a minute, waving slightly, and Randy realized he was actually holding his breath…

…until the door again thundered shut, so hard the entire boathouse shuddered. Without a hand or even an errant breeze touching it.

“Well I’ll be damned!” Randy was genuinely astonished. He stood there, hands on his hips, a deep frown creasing his broad forehead. He chewed on his bottom lip. “Guess there is a problem here.”

Given what happened to them both over the next four hours, it was too bad Randy didn’t take that moment to look at Owen. Things might have been different. As it was, he was focused entirely on the mysterious slamming door, and didn’t see Owen grunt and double over in pain as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

Every molecule in the younger man’s body was screaming in pain, a series of microscopic explosions ripping his nervous system to shreds. His face was sickly white, as if all the blood had drained from it. His eyes were locked in a fearful glare -- dull, staring, devoid of any expression. If he’d been able to, he would have spun himself around and bolted along the side of the house back to the van. But the pain, and the paralyzing, all-encompassing fear that accompanied it, held him tightly in its grip.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move at all.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe or you’ll die. He forced himself to gulp in a single mouthful of air … and it was enough. His lungs abruptly unlocked with an almost audible pop. He took in a huge breath and staggered back a step as his vision cleared. A moment later he found he could straighten up, heart still pounding, and all the while Randy remained complete unaware, still surveying the boathouse and scowling.

And all over a slamming door, Owen told himself. What the hell just happened here? And why am I feeling like we should run, not walk, away?

Randy was holding his breath, too, but for an entirely different reason. He was poised, waiting to see if the damn door would open and slam shut again. But … no. After a long couple of motionless minutes, he decided nothing more was going to happen.

“Well, hell,” he mumbled “Don’t that beat all.” He sauntered back to the boathouse, resolved to checking it out one more time. “So much for leaving right away,” he muttered, his good humor evaporating for the moment.

Owen didn’t follow him – not right away. Even though he was able to move again, he just couldn’t force himself to do it. He thought of calling out to his partner, but there, too: nothing happened. It was more than strange. Owen never had trouble talking to Randy, telling him what he thought, what he felt. Not usually. They were partners; they had a special kind of connection, and had for years. Of course, Charlie was another matter entirely. He’d always had a hard time talking to him. He was their boss, after all, and Owen was never comfortable airing his thoughts around the person paying his wages. Besides, Randy was verbose enough for both of them, so it worked out well.

But not today. Today something stopped him. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell Randy about the uneasiness he’d felt since the moment they’d arrived back at the shop; about the weird feelings he was getting every time he looked up at the old house, or the unaccountable, inexplicable fear that was banging at the back of his brain, turning him into a veritable basket-case. Something was telling him they should get out of there, and get as far away from this place as possible, as soon as they could. But he simply … couldn’t … speak.

It took all the effort he could muster for him to push all that aside and walk slowly back to the boathouse.

Randy didn’t notice a thing.

* * * * *

Back at the office, Charlie lowered the radio-microphone and clicked off the main unit. He’d tried calling Randy and Owen again and again with no response. It wasn’t likely another call or two would make any difference.

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 walkway.

“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 wasn’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.”

He hung up the phone, shuffled down the hall towards the living room, and tried not to feel like a coward as he called to Emily. “Coming!”

Some hours later, when a number of their guests were leaving, Emily grabbed the phone to call a cab for Shawn Tilney; he had imbibed just a little too much of the Christmas spirits. Charlie tried to intercede, afraid of what might happen if she so much as touched the phone … but it was working perfectly.

Charlie had put away quite a bit of ‘holiday cheer’ himself by that time – a good deal more than he normally did – and he was far too warm and tired and confused to do much more than push the whole thing out of his mind.

They’ll be fine, he told himself over and over. I’m sure of it, they’ll be fine.

* * * * *

At 112 Ocean Avenue, Randy had finished dismantling the lock assembly on the boathouse door and slipped the main mechanism and the handle out of the carved wooden niche where it usually sat. He’d checked every piece as he went, but so far he couldn’t find anything that could begin to explain the bizarre opening and slamming of the door. He was working now with a unit Owen had designed and built that cradled a powerful flashlight in a spring-loaded rig and attached to a number of different places like doors, cabinets and sharp corners. Just as well, he thought. It’s getting darker by the damn minute.

Owen hadn’t returned yet, but it was already obvious to Randy that unless the problem really was a faulty lock – and he didn’t think it was – then they weren’t gonna be fixing this problem tonight. The light above the boathouse door might be enough for general use, but even Owen’s rig wasn’t enough to do close work. Besides, he thought. It’ll soon be cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. And, anyway, it’s Christmas Eve, damn it.

The thought triggered an unconscious reflex, and he reached up and held the small crucifix hanging on a chain at his neck. There I go cussing again, Jesus, he thought and grinned. Still, I imagine I won’t be the only one doing that tonight. It’s a fair bet Father Lonigan will be handing out a large bunch of Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s after the holidays.

He checked again for Owen, but there was no one coming down the gravel path. There was nothing outside but deepening shadows and an ice-cold wind. The mild breeze did make him think of something, though. Maybe I’ll go inside and look again, he told himself. Maybe it had been some kind of freak wind off the river. He carefully laid out the pieces of the dismantled lock on an oilskin cloth, then swung open the door and stepped inside.

It was still light enough to make out the general shapes and shadows inside the structure, but Randy didn’t want to take any chances. He fumbled around and finally found the bank of three light switches a few feet inside the boathouse door. The first was for the outside light over the door that he’d switched on a short time ago. The second switch turned on a light hanging outside the riverside entrance to the boathouse. When he clicked the third switch a large single bulb hanging near the center of the structure came to life. Nothing fancy, just a high-wattage bulb with a painted green hood; but it did the job. Randy could see everything fairly well, even a nearby section of the river itself.

It was much like most boathouses, at least in this area. The slip held a nice-looking boat, something less than five years old, with twin outboard motors. The planked walkways around it were worn but solid; a couple of spare oars and a row of tools – hammers, saws, screwdrivers and such – hung on the weathered walls. Above the tools was a wooden shelf, two or three feet below the ceiling, stacked with what looked like recently used moving boxes. A large boathook and other boating tools dangled the length of the side wall, from the shelf to the wall above the door.

Randy stood inside the boathouse and swung the door open and shut a couple of times. He couldn’t help wondering about what he observed. I don’t get it. My hardest effort at slamming this damned thing barely shakes the structure at all. So how the hell did it make such a loud noise and shake the shit out of this place when Owen and I were standing by the corner of the house?

No explanation made sense. Instead, he turned his attention to the river. It looked normal enough. A little crap floating in it, but that was to be expected. The whine of a distant powerboat that had passed minutes before Randy entered was still fading off up river. A series of small wavelets from its wake lapped against the nearby shore and sent the Lutz boat bobbing back and forth, thudding against the plank walkways. Everything seemed pretty much as he expected ... and then he realized something else. This building’s facing across the river, but most heavy winds would come from the right, off the ocean. It was doubtful, he realized, that on all but a few rare blustery days, wind off the river could be the reason for the door’s bizarre behavior.

He’d seen enough. He shrugged, still at a loss, and decided to wait for Owen outside. He turned back to the door ... but when he pushed against it, it wouldn’t budge. He pushed a second time, not thinking all that much about it. It still wouldn’t move.

Now he frowned. “What the hell!”

He pushed at the door twice more, hard, with no effect. Then he began to get angry. “This is just crazy,” he said to no one in particular. He checked out the hole where the lock would normally be, then laid his hand flat against the wooden door and gave it a solid push. It wouldn’t budge, so he leaned his shoulder into it and drove it hard against the door. The entire wall shuddered, but the door didn’t move.

What did move, however, was the wickedly sharp boat hook hanging over his head. The heavy-duty gaff, its solid steel tip glittering, dropped from its rigging and plummeted straight down.

Randy took a step back to consider his next move, and the twenty-pound shaft swooped by, just inches from his nose, and slammed into the wooden floor, point first.

He stumbled back in shock. “Damn and blast!” he muttered, astonished, and stared up at the crisscross rigging. Then he looked down to the spot where the hook was firmly embedded. “Now that could have been bad,” he finally mumbled. “Real bad.”

At that moment he heard Owen calling from outside.

“Randy! Where are you?”

“In here,” Randy called back. “But the damned door’s stuck and I can’t get out.”

A short beat later Owen’s right forefinger poked through the hole where the lock had been and the door swung open with no hesitation.

“What door are you talking about?” Owen asked, staring at his partner.

“The one you just opened without a thought,” Randy said. “I couldn’t budge it. Damn near got skewed for even trying.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re not alone there, Owen.” Randy swung the door back and forth with no trouble. “But a few minutes ago this stupid thing was jammed shut so tight my full-body weight couldn’t move it an inch.” He stared again at the door a deep furrow creasing his forehead. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“I don’t know. But ...”

Owen stopped, his words hanging and Randy stared at him, confused. “What is it?”

Owen looked away trying to hide his nervousness; unsure if he should open up to his partner. He wasn’t exactly sure how he would even do that; but Randy just waited patiently.

Finally Owen decided he had no choice and he slowly turned back to face Randy and tried to explain as best he could.

“I should tell you what happened up at the house, before I left ...”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Damn, Owen!” Randy said. “That’s … that’s … ah …” He frowned, rubbed at his forehead, looked down at the ground and finally stared up at the old house. Anything but look his partner in the eye.

Even though they were standing outside the boathouse, even though the evening breeze was rising and cutting through his coat like a knife made from ice, for the first time since they got here Owen didn’t notice the cold. He had just told his partner about the weird feelings he’d been having since Charlie first told them about the job, about the paralytic fear that had attacked him when they first set eyes on the boathouse, about everything that had happened on the porch: the screams, the noise, the boy with the blazing eyes. He had planned to ask Randy -- even beg him, if he had to – to just pack things up and get away from this place. But the way Randy looked while he was telling him – the way he looked now ...

Randy was stone-faced, absolutely expressionless. He didn’t speak or asks questions the entire time Owen spoke – the longest speech he’d given since high school, he realized bitterly – and now, even after he’d stopped, Randy just kept standing there, saying and doing nothing. And finally, when he did, there was a coolness, a distance in his voice that Owen had never heard before.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Okay. So ... what did Charlie say we should do?”

Didn’t he hear anything I said? Owen wondered. Didn’t it mean anything to him?

Owen hesitated to say anything more. The phone call had been weird, too, to put it mildly, but Randy’s reaction was just ... No. I won’t mention it, he decided. Instead, he just shrugged. “Said we could change the lock, but we can’t bother anyone in the house for any reason.” He pulled the replacement lock out of his overcoat pocket and handed it to his partner, glad that he had thought to bring it with him from the truck. Randy took the lock and peeled away the clear plastic seal without another word.

Owen stood well away from him, his mind racing, trying to think of what he could say to make things right. I could tell him it was a joke, he thought. I could tell him my mind was just playing--

“Misters?”

It was a voice – a little girl’s voice. Both men stopped what they were doing and looked around – one to the left, one to the right.

“Please help me. I can’t find my Mommy!”

“Is that – is there someone’s in the boathouse?” Owen asked Randy. But the blank look on his partner’s face made it obvious: he had no idea, either

“Not when I was in there,” he said. “Unless they were hiding somewhere I couldn’t see.”

The little girl’s voice came again. “Misters!” she called, and again, it seemed to come from all around them, every direction at once. “Please help me! I don’t know where my Mommy is!”

The plaintive tone tore at Randy’s heart. “Come on,” he said, and turned to the boathouse door, completely forgetting the lock still clutched in his hand.

Owen watched him turn, but hesitated yet again. “Wait a second,” he said. “Randy, this doesn’t make any sense. Where could she have come from?”

Randy didn’t hear him, or pretended not to. Owen made a sound deep in his throat and followed his partner. There was nothing else he could think of.

The door opened easily and silently, as if there was nothing wrong with it at all. They stepped into the gathering darkness together.

Two steps inside the boathouse, Randy stopped so quickly Owen almost crashed into him. “I don’t get it,” Randy muttered; absently sliding the lock into his coat pocket as he scanned the room. “There’s no one here.” He shook his head and frowned. “I could have sworn what we heard came from in here.”

“Me, too.” Owen peered into every corner of the wooden shed. “But there doesn’t seem to be anywhere someone could be hidin--”

All three boathouse lights flickered off, then flickered back on. Then they did it again … and once again.

“What the--” Randy began … and then the lights flicked off and stayed that way.

It wasn’t total darkness. The last light of day and distant lights provided a faint glow but it scarcely mattered. Most of the boathouse interior was immediately thrown into deep darkness. Anything could be waiting there now.

“God damn it!” Randy sputtered.

“Randy, let’s just--”

The lights blazed on, brighter now than they’d been just seconds ago. At least that’s how it seemed to Owen. He had to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness ...

… and the source of the voice showed itself, not twenty feet away.

She stood at the end of the far walkway, staring out at the river, her back to them both: a little girl, her long curls partly tucked up under a loose bonnet. She wore a deep blue pinafore over a grey short-sleeved blouse. She was barefoot, and a rag doll dangled limply from her right hand.

“What the fuck?” Randy wasn’t a foul-mouthed man; he used to joke it was lazy and stupid, and he was only one of the above. But there was a ragged tone to his voice as he muttered. He had been pushed too far. He was starting to crack, and Owen could clearly see it. “Where in the name of God did she come from?” he said under this breath. “She wasn’t here a few minutes ago.”

“Something’s really not … not right about this,” Owen said. He took a step back towards the door. “I think we should get out of here--”

The little girl, still faced away from them, spoke again: “Please help me,” she said. It sounded so pathetic – so lost.

“Are you crazy, Owen? She’s a little girl and she needs our help. We’re not going to just leave her.”

Owen frowned at his words. Randy wasn’t thinking clearly. Something was confusing him. “Randy! Think it through. She wasn’t here a few seconds ago … where did she come from? This is all wrong--”

“--Do what you want,” Randy grated. “I’m gonna try and help, if I can.” He strode towards the end of the shed with a sudden, mad determination.

Owen didn’t move. “Look at the pool of water she’s standing in, Randy,” he said. There was a pleading tone in his own voice, just like the little girl’s, and he hated it. “Look at the weeds wrapped around her feet. She’s been in the water. She’s soaking wet in the freezing cold. None of this makes any sense.”

Randy stopped midway between the little child and his partner. “What are you saying? That this is just another ‘weird thing,’ like your whim-whams before we got here, or your tummy ache, or you tripping off a porch you weren’t even supposed to be standing on and blaming it on ghosts? That’s the problem here?” He turned back to the little girl with an angry, dismissive wave at his partner. “Fuck that, limp-dick. I’m going to help her find her mother.”

The words stung Owen. He clamped his mouth shut and watched Randy hurry down the walkway without another word.

“Oh, thank you, Mister,” the strange little girl whimpered. “Thank you.”

She must hear him coming, Owen thought distantly. So why hasn’t she turned around.

From a distance, from the back, she appeared to be six or seven years old, but now Randy was close enough to finally see more details: her dress was filthy and full of holes. Her hair – what he could see of it under the bonnet – was a knotted mess. And she was soaking wet. Water was dripping from her tattered hem to the wooden deck.

When he was about ten good steps away, she began to turn.

Her bonnet fell to the floor, but instead of releasing a tumble of little-girl curls bouncing playfully down her shoulders, it loosed ugly dark clumps, matted with dirt and dried blood.

It looked like the entire back of her head had been blown away by a large-bore rifle. Pieces of blackened bone and tissue, what must have been her skull and brain, glittered wetly in the tangled mess.

Randy skidded to a stop, but he couldn’t help looking at her. As she completed her turn, he heard himself make a high, keening sound – something like a groan, something like a strangled scream – as he clearly saw her face for the first time.

The flesh from her chin to the brow line was mottled with decay. Cheek bones poked dully through gooey slabs of dead tissue below her empty eyes. But no – not quite empty. The sockets were roiling with tiny pale maggots squirming to escape. The skin on her arms and fingers was split; shards of bone and rotting muscle glittered and pulsed there. She was a corpse, a rotting corpse, dead but still walking.

Walking and talking.

“Thank you, misssssster...”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, protect us!” Randy made the sign of the cross and clutched his crucifix, but he couldn’t back away. His legs wouldn’t move.

So I’m not crazy, Owen thought giddily, still standing just inside the door of the boathouse. Everything he’d seen, everything he’d felt had been real. Catholic like Randy, atheist like Owen himself had always been, it didn’t matter. It was real, and it was coming for them.

Coming for Randy, at least. He still stood just feet away from the dead thing, but every muscle in his body was locked. He was unable to move, unable to think.

The Rotting Girl had no such problem. She dropped the doll into the water and raised her arms, curling her fingers into bony claws and shuffling forward, straight for him.

“Misssssster...”

Owen moved without thinking. He lurched to one side and tried to pull an oar from its mounting on the wall, but when it refused to budge, he turned and charged forward anyway, straight towards the spot where Randy still stood frozen in shock.

The Rotting Girl and Owen both reached Randy at the same moment. She reached out, shattered fingers grasping for his shoulder, but Owen seized her hand and forced it away from his friend.

The Rotting Girl jerked back, trying to break free of his grasp, but Owen clutched tightly, clamping his fingers just below her wrist, and shuddering at the cold, slimy pulpiness of her flesh.

She jerked her arm to get away. I won’t let go, he told himself. She hissssed at him and jerked harder, but he still wouldn’t release her. She tugged harder. And harder –

The arm separated at the shoulder – just tore away. She spun off into the darkness and left Owen standing there holding the dead limb like a rotting tree branch. A thick, dark liquid – not blood, not river water – dripped slowly from the ragged end and plopped to the deck.

Then she was back. Out of the shadows, still focused on Randy, her one arm was up and grasping for him just as before. But as the Rotting Girl approached Randy a second time, leaning forward to show a mouth full of putrid teeth, Owen lashed out. He swung the corpse’s own limb at her like an oversized baseball bat, following through with all his might.

He was right on target. The limb struck the Rotting Girl’s head with a loud thwack and she stumbled back. Wet flakes of gray/black ash, like burned newspaper, exploded silently into the air … both arm and skull poofed into a meaty powder and pattered to the floor in a fine dust, or evaporated into thin air.

Owen staggered back, shocked by what had just happened.

And yet she still came at them. Headless, one-armed, the Rotting Girl was still upright and surprisingly agile. She took advantage of Owen’s momentary confusion and lunged forward, wrapped her one arm around Randy’s neck and dragged him to the end of the walkway. Randy gasped and gurgled, but only pawed weekly at her. He was still too far gone to do anything.

Before Owen could move, the Rotting Girl pitched herself backward as hard as she could, and dragged herself and Randy both into the murky river. The splash was as thick and sickening as a corpse thrown into a pool of oil, and Owen rushed to the edge of the deck just in time to see them sink out of sight, still locked together, pulled down swiftly as if the water was conspiring to help this … this …

“Abomination,” Owen said under his breath. It was a word he’d never spoken aloud in his life. “Not fit to live. Not supposed to live.”

With no thought of the consequences – no calculation of the frigid water temperature, the depth, the river currents, even the dark – Owen took two steps back then charged to the edge of the wooden walkway and plunged head first into the Amityville River.

CHAPTER FIVE

At first the cold was so intense it wasn’t really cold at all – instead it was a soundless explosion of pain that nearly killed him. Owen surged to the edge of unconsciousness; for one instant he nearly passed out six feet under the surface of the Amityville River, but in that instant he knew, as sure as he knew anything, that he would die if he let that happen.

So he stayed conscious – barely. Find him, he told himself. Find him fast.

But how?

He kicked his legs, diving even deeper, and a strange kind of crystal clarity flowed through him. He could see his arms, still pointed straight out in front of him in a classic diver’s pose, but as he surged forward he realized he couldn’t feel them at all, and the water was so murky he could barely see the tips of his fingers.

Keep going, was all he could think. The Rotting Girl and Randy had tumbled into the river just moments before. They shouldn’t be far ahead.

His half-seen fingers abruptly tapped against something, and without hesitation he grabbed at it as hard as he could, as if clutching for safety. Though he couldn’t quite feel it through his freezing hands, he got some sense of bulk, of shape. It was big, thick-edged, and heavy. A work boot? He asked himself. Something like that. And since the Rotting Girl had been barefoot, slimy, thin … it had to be Randy. It had to be.

His lungs began to ache as he curled his legs under him to stop his forward motion. He tightened his grip on the thing in his hand and dragged back on it with all the strength he could muster. He lifted his other arm above his head and stroked, hard, dragging himself through the water. Up, he ordered himself. Up, up, it can’t be that far. It can’t--

He burst through the surface of the river, and frigid air rammed into his lungs. It was almost as painful as diving in had been; but an instant after his head broke through, he hauled his arms up as well, and Randy came with them, head first. He realized with a distant amusement that he hadn’t seized his buddy’s work boot at all; it had been the shoulder of his parka. Soaking wet, it was thick as a winter blanket, and heavy as stone. Randy wasn’t unconscious as Owen had feared; his partner began spluttering and cursing as the air hit him, flailing his arms about, disoriented and terrified, but awake.

And alive, Owen thought as he struggled for one more breath. Alive.

They were only a few feet from the wide riverside opening to the boathouse. “This … way,” Randy choked, and struck out for the walkway and the rusty ladder at its edge.

But Owen swam the few strokes to the edge of the weathered deck, his limbs as heavy as iron, and took a firm hold on one of its pylons. Only then was he comfortable enough to look back, to scan the water for any sign of the Rotting Girl.

There was none. The water rippled and humped around them, thick and slow-moving in the freezing air, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Three minutes later, both men were stretched out on the walkway planking, panting like a pair of laboring steam engines, drenched to the bone. Their teeth chattered like jack-hammers, air scraped through lungs like icy sand paper, but they were alive. For a long time, that was all Randy could say to himself, over and over:

Alive.

Some time later, when Randy could finally speak, he chose his words very carefully. He was distantly surprised at how normal his voice sounded. He had assumed it would be grating and hollow, like something from the grave. Instead he just sounded tired – weary beyond words.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I couldn’t stop myself. I knew it was stupid. I said, you’re insane, but I did it anyway. I did it … anyway.”

He had to stop and gulp in another breath of sharp-edged air. He’d spent all of his thirty years in New England, but he had to admit: he had never been so cold. Never. “I owe you my life,” he said harshly. “I was a goner. For sure. Thank you, Owen. Thanks ...”

He coughed up some river water and gulped in another breath. Owen turned his head to look at him, still breathing deeply, still pulling himself together. “It was just so … so unbelievable. You’re my partner. My best friend. I should’ve tried to understand, but it was just … so … crazy.” He forced himself into a sitting position and almost laughed: he could hear a thin crackling all around him, the water was freezing into a thin sheet of ice on his parka, and shattering softly when he moved. “Part of me still thinks this must be a dream,” he panted. “A nightmare, really. And I’ll wake up any second.” He shivered convulsively, his teeth still chattering, and cracked the beginnings of a smile. “Though I gotta say, I’ve never been this cold in any dream.”

Owen was still flat on his belly, looking up at his friend, dully amazed that the man was even alive, much less talking. “Randy,” he said, his voice rough and thin.

Randy leaned over him, still shivering. “Yeah, buddy?” he said. “What do you need?”

“Randy ...” he said it one last time. “Please.” He forced himself to roll over, to take in a deep breath and focus on the roof of the boat house. “Please shut the fuck up.”

Randy laughed. It hurt to do it, but he did it anyway, even though his face felt like a block of ice. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Neither of them spoke for a full five minutes – not until some feeling started to creep back into their hands and feet. Simply being out of the water and sheltered from the rising wind helped somehow. As soon as he was able, Randy pulled himself to his feet and forced a grin. “Come on, you lazy shit. We better get ourselves somewhere warm pretty soon, or we’re gonna freeze to death. After all the trouble you went through, that’d be a stupid thing to do.”

He put out a hand and gripped Owen’s arm, helping him to his feet. “Let’s get back to the truck,” he said, slowly recovering. “Those spare overalls in the trunk oughta come in handy about now.”

“No kidding. We--”

The water beneath the motor boat suddenly began to slosh back and forth. They turned to see it churning into foam, as if the outboard was revving at full throttle, but the engine was silent and unmoving. In seconds the boat’s small white hull was thudding against the dock – first on one side, then the other.

“Jesus Christ,” Randy hissed, his good Catholic training slipping for once. “What now?”

He took one impulsive step forward and a wave of river water splashed upward, rising abruptly between the boat and the dock. Owen watched in mute disbelief as the wave stopped in mid-surge and stood in the air for a moment – just stood there, a frozen column of murky green pointing straight up out of the water. In moments it began to take another form, growing thinner at the top, splitting into separate spindles, growing thicker at the bottom, becoming a solid, stony black.

It was turning into an arm--a hand. And its fingers ...

He shouted a warning to his partner. “Randy! Look out!”

Randy turned, confused, as the thick fingers abruptly shot out and wrapped around his left leg. Owen saw it dig into the dripping denim, even into the flesh of his partner’s leg as Randy cried out.

It was trying to drag him back into the water.

Except it’s not water at all, Owen realized. Not anymore. It was almost dark now, and the shed’s pathetic lighting made it hard to see anything clearly, but that much was obvious: the water of the Amityville River was no longer water at all. It was some kind of thick ooze, with a sheen like oil sludge. And the smell lifting from it was suddenly, inexplicably beyond belief. It hit him like a wide, flat, invisible hand, so foul Owen had to fight to keep from throwing up.

“Get off!” Randy shouted, and reached out and grabbed hold of a main beam in the wall of the boatshed. “Let go!” He kicked at the solidifying muck as it dragged at him, as the motor boat still heaved and bucked in the ooze. His face was twisted into a painful grimace. “Jesus! What the hell is that god awful smell?”

Owen turned and looked frantically around the boathouse, fighting to keep his lunchtime sandwich in his stomach by sheer force of will. A weapon, he told himself. Anything. Anything to help.

The boat oar he had tried to pull down from the wall was still near at hand. Now he saw what the problem was: it was held in place by two small harnesses, leather strips and snaps. This time, as Randy yowled and kicked behind him, he got a better grip on the wooden shaft, set his feet, and jerked with all his might. The oar came loose in his hands with a metallic rip, and he wheeled it over his head and turned as he lifted it, acting without thinking.

The oily goo, thick as tar, stretched across the walkway less than a yard from the edge of his boots. He bellowed as he drove the working edge of the oar into the ooze, and as he hit it, it broke apart, as if he’d severed a limb. In that moment, the ebony arm with its crudely made fingers, the part that was curling around Randy’s boot, was separated from its source. For one moment Owen let himself grin. Got it, he said. GOT it!

Then both edges reached out to each other, overlapped, joined. It was whole again ... and still pulling Randy back, towards the roiling blackness under the boat.

“Oh, God!” Randy said, kicking and kicking, “Oh, God, it’s burning through my boot.” He wrapped his arms even more tightly around the beam and heaved at it, pulling with all his might to get away.

Owen whammed the oar down and cut through the ooze a second time. Once again, in less than a heartbeat, the two ends quickly rejoined, reformed as if they’d never been split.

Owen didn’t stop. He went at it again ... and again … and still again, slamming at it each time almost before it had time to reform.

Making progress, he realized after the tenth, maybe fifteenth blow. Each time it took the ooze a little longer to reform. Each time the gap got a little larger. Once more, he told himself, forcing his aching limbs to pull the oar up above his shoulders and driving it down again. Once. More.

On the twentieth impact, the impossible limb was weak enough, severed for long enough, that Randy, bellowing like a madman, was able to kick out and pull his leg free. He lunged back, staggering past Owen, and Owen instantly backed away with him, putting three, five, ten feet between them and the twitching ooze that was still flowing out of the river.

For one mad moment, it looked as if the oily tentacle was actually hesitating – thinking – considering its next more. Then, finally, it retreated, slithering away, slipping off the walkway and back into the black muck below the motor boat.

“Good,” Owen grated, thinking. But when is this going to end? When?

But the problem wasn’t over yet.

“Damn it to hell,” Randy said, almost weeping with frustration and pain. “This shit is eating through my boot.” Owen looked at the leg where the ooze had touched it, and saw a slimy trail running up and down the denim. Randy started to reach down for it with his thickly gloved hand, and Owen got one syllable into a warning before Randy yelped in pain and jerked his hand back. “Ah, shit!” he shouted, and hobbled back, farther into the shed. “Get it off, man! It burns like hell!” He plopped on to the deck, landing unceremoniously on his butt, and dragged frantically at the top of his boot.

“Don’t let it touch your skin!” Owen shouted. He let go of the oar and it thumped to the deck.

“Gotta get it off,” Randy said, gasping in pain. He was verging on hysteria. “Feels like it’s gonna burn right through my leg!”

Owen looked in every direction, and spotted a pair of heavy-duty work gloves dangling from a thick nail, next the harness that held the oars. He grabbed them and dragged them on over his soggy woolen mittens without another word, hurrying to Randy’s side.

The gloves did the trick, but only just. Randy took his hands away as Owen dragged on the heel of the wet boot. After two tries it slipped off. Moments later the gloves themselves began to smoke, giving off a stink almost as bad as the goop. In one smooth motion Owen slipped them off and hurled the gloves and boot together off the deck, into what had once been water from the Amityville River.

The gloves and boot, still smoking, plopped onto the ooze, but there was no splash. Both men watched as they bobbed on the surface for a long, long moment. Then the goop surrounding them rose up and swept over them like a greedy, fingerless hand, and dragged them down, out of sight.

As they watched in mute horror, the roiling, bubbling mass slowly settled. The swells subsided. The liquid under the boat changed color, moving from black to a murky green. Then, like a wave of stacked dominoes falling in a wide spread, the clear, normal water rippled outward, wiping away the last of the black sheen as it went. Within seconds, there was no sign the viscous liquid had ever been there.

Owen thudded down next to Randy, gasping for breath. “Did we get it all off?”

Randy dragged up his trouser leg and checked out his ankle and bare foot. There was an angry red welt running from the top of his shin, just below the knee, down to the edge of his toes. “Yeah,” Randy said between teeth clenched in pain. “Yeah, but it left a pretty nasty burn. Hurts like a bitch.” Owen was amazed to see a stiff, defiant grin on his partner’s face. “Still,” Randy said. “That’s nothing compared to what would have happened if I’d ended up in that black stuff.”

Neither man spoke for a long moment. Finally, still struggling to master the pain, Randy said, “I don’t suppose you have any idea what in Hades name that was?”

Owen shook his head. “Not a clue,” he said.

“Jesus, Owen,” Randy was back to his old self, all hint of his earlier nastiness gone. “Can this be really happening? What in God’s name have we gotten ourselves into here?”

Owen just shook his head. He was still trying to breathe, trying to fight off the deadly cold that was cutting through his soaking wet clothes. “All I know is I can’t take much more.”

“Me neither,” Randy said. There was no hint of his usual good humor. “We gotta get out of here soon or we never will.”

Owen got to his feet, still shivering, and put out a hand to his friend. “Can you walk?”

Randy pushed himself up, leaning against the wall for support. “I dunno,” he said. “Let’s see.”

CHAPTER SIX

Randy had trouble putting his full weight on the injured leg, so Owen grabbed the oar and had his partner use it as a crutch. Randy threw his other arm around Owen’s shoulders for more support.

Owen, as usual, kept his mouth shut. He hadn’t said anything about it – no point in worrying his buddy – but the burn looked serious. He was sure they would need to go to the Suffolk County Emergency Room as soon as they were out of here.

The numbing cold wasn’t helping any, either. Both men were still soaked to the skin, shivering openly, and the abrupt drop in temperature as the evening set in only made it worse.

Right now, Owen told himself, all that matters is getting out of here and getting some help.

They made their way slowly and carefully towards the boathouse door. There was no longer any confusion about their next move. They planned to leave 112 Ocean Avenue, as far behind them as they could, as soon as they could.

With Owen’s help, Randy shuffled along the planked walkway. They were almost to the door when a strange sound began to slowly trickle into the boathouse: a constant drone, like an approaching swarm of bees or wasps or ...

Randy heard it first. “What’s that noise, Owen?”

Owen had heard it before, at the porch window at the front of the house.

“I’m not sure, Randy,” he lied. He tried to nudge his partner along a little faster. “But I think we better get out of here before we find out.”

Randy responded to the urgency in his partner’s voice. He swung his wounded leg forward even harder, trying to move faster–

–then abruptly he stopped short.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Owen couldn’t help but notice the drone was getting louder. The last thing he wanted was for them to stop, for any reason.

“The floor,” Randy said. He frowned as he stared at a particular spot on the wooden planks, midway between them and the door.

“What about it?”

“There was a deep gouge in the wood,” he said. “Right there, when we came in. Now it’s gone. And where the hell did the boathook go? I thought ...” He glanced left and right, suddenly confused.

“Randy,” Owen said, doing his best to be patient. “Is this important? I really think we need to hurry.”

Randy looked up and said “Wha--?” He glanced over his shoulder at Owen, then back at the door. “Damn it all to hell! How did that get back up there? It was stuck in the floor, man. I mean stuck. And now...”

Owen looked up and saw the boathook dangling from a crisscrossed jerry-rigged set-up that was hooked to the large wooden ledge. He actually didn’t remember where it had been before, and what did it matter? It was the buzzing drone that concerned him. It had almost doubled in volume and he was sure that wasn’t good.

“Come on, Randy,” he said, pulling his injured friend forward. “Come--”

A swarm of flies, thick as oil smoke, swept into the boathouse, blotting out the feeble light of the single bulb above them. The roar they brought with them was both deafening and terrifying as they surged forward, straight for the men.

They let go of each other, backed away from the cloud of flies separately. Randy put up his arms as if to fight them. Owen barely had time to say “What--”

–and the swarm hit.

Randy and Owen were driven back, each of them thrashing wildly, clawing away handfuls of flies from their eyes, nose, mouth. But the swarm never ended. For every patch they cleared, an even greater phalanx surged forward to fill it. And more came. And more, until they couldn’t see or hear or even breathe under the assault

Frantic, Owen tried to see Randy, to grab him, to get to the door, but he couldn’t make him out through the barrage. The flies were hitting so hard now they were literally dying on impact; the bodies began to pile up at his feet. Owen thought he felt a wound open up above his right eye; he thought he actually felt the flies moving inside him, under his skin, but he couldn’t reach up to be sure. For an instant – just an instant, the cloud cleared a bit and he thought he could make out a motionless figure covered in insect corpses slumped on the floor against the wall. He thought it was Randy, but he couldn’t even check that.

And then, with the same kind of clarity he had felt when he dived into the freezing river, Owen realized something. This could kill them. He and Randy could literally drown in this impossible swarm unless he did something – now.

He forced a hand free, filled it with flies as thick as porridge, and squeezed. Even as the air turned sour in his lungs, even as he felt his strength draining away, he fought them, fought them. And in the midst of the deafening roar, his heart pounding in his ears, he thought he heard … a sound.

Words. He realized he was most certainly hallucinating, but the words came again … louder … more insistent.

At first they were little more than mumbled fragments. But the fragments became words, and the words formed into sentences.

“The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want.”

The strength and volume of the words began to almost equal the roar of the insects.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters.”

Owen was an atheist. He had lost what little faith he’d had in any God at all when he was only nine – when his mother died without saying goodbye. It had turned him into a skeptic at an early age, and in the fifteen years since then, nothing had happened to convince him otherwise. There was no “God.” There was no “supernatural.” There was just the here and now, what was flat and full and real and right in front of you, and nothing more.

Until today. Until that chilling twist of fear found him standing in Charlie Danvers’ office. And now …

Now, in spite of everything, the words of the psalm brought an unexpected comfort to him, even as the buzzing roar of the insects pulled him down and down and down ...

Am I hallucinating? he wondered as his knees began to buckle under the endless assault. Is this some heavenly choir sent to carry me across from this world to the next? Could I have been wrong all along? Could I …

But the voice rose to a shout. The words filled the air. And he realized it wasn’t any angel; it wasn’t the voice of God.

It was Randy. Randy was shouting the prayer with a conviction so strong it tore at Owen’s unbelieving heart. It made him want to cry in joy.

“He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

Driven to his knees, gasping for breath, Owen realized that somehow, impossibly, the words were having an effect on the insects. They were still there, still gushing at him from every angle, but … there were fewer of them. He was sure of it. The swarm seemed to suddenly lack the power it had displayed just seconds ago.

Now Randy’s shouted words filled the boatshed, actually becoming louder than the roar of the flies. Or was the attack lessening in intensity? Or was it both?

“Yea, Though I Walk Through The Valley Of The Shadow Of Death, I Will Fear No Evil: For Thou Art With Me; Thy Rod And Thy Staff They Comfort Me.”

Yes. He was sure of it. The attack was losing steam, faltering. The endless stream was beginning to recede. The roar was retreating to a loud and barely painful buzzzz ...

Randy shouted the last words of the Twenty-Third Psalm so loud it almost shook the boathouse.

“SURELY GOODNESS AND MERCY SHALL FOLLOW ME ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE: AND I WILL DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD FOREVER. AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!

And just like that … it was over.

The horrible noise trailed away. The last of the flies disappeared into the shadows. Owen and Randy found themselves knee-deep in mounds of dead and dying flies, but there was no sign of any in the air. Not even one.

Randy stared at his friend and partner as Owen slowly, painfully, pulled himself to his feet. Randy slowly looked down at his own hand; he was distantly surprised to find he was tightly clutching the crucifix at his neck.

Owen gaped at him. His old friend’s face beamed with a conviction Owen had never seen before – had never felt in his life. He could only hope to feel anything like it, ever.

Before either of them could speak, the masses of dead flies piled around them began to disintegrate, to fall to dust. Within seconds a light wind, terrifyingly cold, whipped around their ankles and lifted the dust away, carrying it from the boathouse, leaving no sign there had ever been even one fly there.

Owen stared at Randy, at a total loss for words. He wanted to laugh with joy. He felt like crying for the same reason. He wanted to ask Randy what had just happened – how had it happened. Without really thinking about it, he stepped forward, intent on doing something he rarely ever did to anyone: give his friend a huge hug.

At that moment Randy shouted a warning:

“Owen! Look out!”

Untouched, unbidden, the boathook above their heads broke away from its netting and leaped at them, its vicious barbed tongue pointed straight down. As it neared the floor it turned, as if moving under an unseen hand, and the barbed, solid-steel arrow-shaped head ripped into Owen’s side just below his seventh rib. The force of the blow drove him to the floor with a loud crash.

“Owen!” Randy shouted, and fell to his knees next to his friend. “Owen ...”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Owen was … content. He was floating, suspended in a colorless, comforting cloud, in that timeless moment beyond sleep and waking. It would end soon, he knew. Soon, he thought sleepily, he would have to get up and get ready for work. He’d have breakfast at that place he liked on the corner; he had to get the Chevy serviced before the end of the week, and maybe he’d call …

Maybe …

The searing pain pierced his side, a burning hot lance as thick as a human arm, shoving into him, splitting skin and muscle, scraping against bone. He gasped like a drowning man and tried to curl around it, make it stop, but he couldn’t move. The comforting fog was shredding like a windblown cloud, and now the real word roared over him: the aching cold, the freezing water, the choking darkness.

And the pain. Oh, god, the pain ...

His eyes opened. He gulped in a frigid breath and remembered it all, so quickly it was like colliding with the wall. He was lying on the filthy deck of a boathouse in Amityville, New York, in the middle of a nightmare he couldn’t even begin to explain or understand. And he felt as if a red-hot poker had been jammed deep into his left side … and it was still there.

He tried to sit up. He couldn’t help himself. It only made the pain worse, surging through him like molten metal; it made his entire body jerk convulsively.

“Owen! You’re awake. Thank God.”

He turned to the side and Randy’s face filled his entire field of vision. For a second the angle seemed all wrong; then Owen realized he was stretched out on the floor and Randy was hovering over him. He could feel Randy’s arm around his body, holding him, propping him up.

“It all happened, didn’t it?” he said, his voice rough and weak at the same time. “It’s all … still happening.” He tried to sit up again, and the pain soared. Oh, God. He leaned back, panting like a sick animal. “Bad … luck ...”

Randy grimaced and shook his head. “No,” he said. “More than that. That fucking thing came for you, Owen. Aimed right at you.”

“Im … possible.”

Randy almost snarled. “It’s all impossible, man. The rotting girl, the flies, that shit that came out of the river. That kid with the eyes you saw in the house, all of it.”

Owen couldn’t argue with him. It hurt too much. But he remembered it all, and he knew it wasn’t over.

The looming image of Randy’s face pulled away as his partner fell back and leaned against the rough wooden wall of the shed. “The boathook,” he said, licking his dry lips, almost blue from the cold. “It fell from up … up there when I first came in, missed me by an inch. And when we came back it was up there again. I didn’t put it there. You didn’t put it there.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair, and Owen heard ice crystals crackle under his nerveless fingers. “And you didn’t see it come down, man. It aimed for you. It pulled itself out of the netting and pointed at you, straight at you. Even turned itself in mid-air so it wouldn’t miss. God ...”

“That’s … crazy,” Owen said. He tried to sit up again, but the pain was almost too much to bear. He shuddered and moved a gloved hand towards his side. How bad was it …?

Randy grabbed his wrist and squeezed. “I don’t think you should touch it. It looks infected and it’s getting worse.”

“Infected?” That didn’t make any sense. “How long have I been out?”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Then it couldn’t be infected yet. Could it?”

Randy shrugged, looking strained and helpless at the same time. “You’re asking me what can and can’t be? After all that’s happened? Give me a break.”

Owen nodded dully. How could he argue with a man who’d save them from drowning in flies with some kind of … religious intervention?

That had really happened, too … hadn’t it?

“All I can tell you is that you have a fever and the wound has begun to look pretty damned nasty.” He wiped a heavy sheen of sweat from Owen’s forehead and frowned. “And you’re sweating like a pig, man.”

This simple action made Owen stop and take stock of his body. Randy was right. His entire right side was tingling with a sickening chill, a combination of biting cold and wet, but his face felt hot, damp and clammy. And the area below his rib cage, on his left, was flaming hot.

“Man, that hurts,” he said between clenched teeth. “Feels like it’s still in there.”

“A piece of it is.” Randy winced, as if it was somehow his fault. “I tried to pull the damned thing out, but the tip broke off. The entire front end of the hook is solid steel, but still … it somehow broke off.”

Randy swallowed hard. Owen noticed for the first time that his partner was sweating heavily himself. “It was only a couple of minutes before your whole side started looking … well, bad. Infected. Look, I know it can’t spread that quickly, but … it is. And I have no idea what to do.”

Owen shook his head, suddenly weary beyond words. “How could you? How could anybody?” Then, for the first time, he remembered that Randy had an injury of his own. No wonder he looked like hell. “Hey, what about your leg?”

Randy jumped as if he was surprised. Owen realized his buddy had drifted off for a moment. “What? Oh. Um … I … don’t ... I don’t know.”

Half-aware, Randy reached down and pulled up the leg of his jeans. Owen almost gagged.

“Damn, Randy!” For a moment, Owen forgot his own pain. The burn on Randy’s leg had actually spread. And worse: its edges were the vicious, wet red of infection, and fissures along the length of it were filled with a sickly green pus, so thick it was actually dripping from the wound in more than one place.

No wonder he’s having trouble concentrating, Owen realized. He must be in as much pain as I am.

It pushed him to a realization, as painful in its own way as anything else that had happened: We both have to get out of here and to a hospital quick as we can. And nobody’s going to help us. We’re on our own.

He made himself sit up. It didn’t matter how much it hurt. “Randy,” he gasped, if only to distract himself from the fire in his side, “can you still walk at all?’

Randy took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. If I use the oar like a crutch. Maybe the wall.” He looked around the room. “Do you think you can help me try and stand? I might pass out, but I’ll do my damnedest not ... to not ...”

He’s driftin away again, Owen thought. “Randy! I need you here, man. We have to work together or neither of us is going to get out of this.” Then he remembered what had happened just a few minutes earlier – a lifetime ago. He reached out and shook his partner hard by the shoulder. “Randy! Grab hold of your crucifix. Hold it has tight as you can.”

Randy reacted this time. He turned to him, sweating brow creased in confusion.

“Your crucifix, Randy. Around your neck.”

The older man looked down at his chest. His eyes widened in surprise, as if he’d never seen the thing before. But his hand came up – agonizingly slow – and wrapped around the artifact.

The reaction was instantaneous. The confusion immediately cleared from Randy’s eyes. He took a couple of deep breaths, straightened up, and began to ease himself to his feet, wedging his shoulder against the wall.

Good, Owen thought. Excellent. He pulled his own hands back, braced them against the wall and tried to stand as well.

Pain like nothing Owen had ever felt before ripped through his body. He teetered on the edge of blacking out again, only halfway to his feet. But he refused to let his mind close down. I have to, he told himself, pausing and gasping for air. There’s no choice.

He was up. They both were. They grinned at each other, almost laughing. “Nothin’ to it,” Randy said and coughed. “God ...”

A high, rough whirring sound cut through the silence beyond the shed. They both stopped moving – stopped breathing.

Someone’s out there,” Randy whispered.

Grinding, Owen realized. It sounds like a huge knife-sharpener. Like the stone-wheel grinder they used to sharpen tools back at the yard in Hicksville.

Randy was right: there was someone out there.

Without thinking, Owen turned his face to the ceiling and shouted, as loud as he could. “Help!”

Randy’s eyes widened in fear. “Owen, no! Don’t!”

There was no answer. Owen tried again. “Please, whoever’s out there? We’re in the boathouse! We’re hurt. Help us!”

The grinding continued without a pause, and a new sound was added: the metallic squeal of a blade held tight against the spinning stone. Squeeee ....

“Stop it, man,” Randy hissed at him. “We don’t know who that is. We don’t know if they have anything to do with … all this.” He gestured weakly at the shed, the boat, the water, the hook – all the horrors that had occurred just in the last few hours.

“How could it be worse, Randy? We’re dying here, man.”

Randy had to nod. It was true. “Let’s just look first,” he said. “Let’s get to the door, take a peek.”

The grinding went on. There was no change. Owen nodded wearily in agreement and took a deep breath.

The door looked a thousand miles away. The slow, excruciatingly painful journey along the rattling wooden wall seemed to take forever. But finally, truly amazingly, they both reached the door.

Almost in unison, the sank to their knees, then sat completely, just inside the entrance. They were exhausted.

The whining, grinding continued.

Randy was the first to stir. He shook Owen roughly by the shoulder until he opened his eyes.

“Okay,” he said, his voice thick with fatigue, “I’ll push open the door and you take a--”

The door surged open a full foot with a deafening bang! They both shouted and ducked as a huge black animal-snout, bristling with viciously sharp fangs, thrust itself through the gap and snapped at them, snarling madly.

The men scrambled back, their pain forgotten for a moment, as a huge black dog tried to shoulder its way through the half-open door, teeth bared and gnashing, spittle flying from its jaws. Its shoulder rammed against the doorpost and stopped its forward lunge, half-in, half-out of the shed and bare inches from Randy’s face. Then the animal pulled back a fraction and came at them again, even harder. The door rattled ominously in its frame, on the verge of collapsing.

Owen could feel the animal’s hot breath on his clammy cheeks, see its tongue lolling and straining for him as froth and drool splattered off its muzzle. It lunged again, and again, crazed and yowling, desperate to get at them.

Randy rolled to one side and pushed away the agony that pulsed from his leg. He crawled to the wall, five feet to the side of the huge black dog’s maw, and pushed himself into a standing position. “Kick him!” he shouted over the snarling and barking.

“What?” Owen was still on his butt, not three feet from the beast’s snapping jaws. “What--”

“Kick him in the fucking face, Owen! I’ll slam the door!”

Owen blinked at the animal as it snapped at him again. He got it. Okay …

Randy threw out a hand and spanned the two-foot gap between the post and door itself.

“One!” he shouted. He had a sudden vision of the animal leaping up and seizing his arm in its jaws. Oh, shit, don’t think about that, he ordered himself. “Two!”’

Owen braced himself and raised his booted feet. He took a breath.

“THREE!”

He punched out with both feet, as hard as he could. The bottom of his boots connected with the black dog’s massive muzzle and he heard an audible crunch. The beast yowled in pain, but it shook it off and kept coming … harder than ever.

Again, Owen told himself. He pulled back his feet, half-expecting at least one of them to stay behind in the animal’s jaws, and kicked again. This time the dog gave a high yelp of real pain and reared back. Got him that time, Owen snarled, if only to himself.

The instant the animal’s muzzle cleared the opening, Randy hauled on the door with all his might – more strength then he thought he had. The force of it actually pulled him forward, and for one instant he found himself looking out at the open yard in front of the boat house and the Dutch Colonial beyond.

The dog was gone – disappeared as if it had never been there – but there was a man standing next to the house, midway between the porch and the boathouse. He wore a heavy-weight Pendleton shirt; his hair was a wild, knotted mess, his beard matted and unkempt.

He was standing next to a grinding wheel that was still spinning in the lamp light, holding a huge axe.

He wasn’t looking at them. He wasn’t paying any attention to the madly barking dog or the shouts from the shed. In fact, he was half-turned away, bent over the wheel, intent on sharpening his axe to a vicious point.

In the moment he saw him, the man twitched and looked at Randy – just for an instant, less than a heartbeat – then went back to his work.

Randy’s glimpse came and went in the literal blink of an eye. He didn’t have time to see any more or call out a word. The door slammed shut with a cavernous bang! And they were alone in the boathouse again.

Alone, but nothing close to safe.

It was the man’s eyes that bothered Randy. There was a look in them, a frenzied glare as he bent over the sparkling, shining axe.

It scared him more than any vicious dog.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“There’s a man out there.”

Owen looked at Randy and tried to push the pain away one more time. “What are you talking about?”

“Outside. By the house. There’s a man there. It must be the owner, what’s his name, Lutz. He’s sharpening an axe.”

The experience with the dog had stolen most of the energy reserves from both of them. Randy sank to the ground again, across from Owen, as the whirring and grinding outside went on and on.

How long can it take to sharpen one fucking axe? Randy asked himself. Five minutes? Ten? He’s been out there for half an hour, goddamn it. What the hell is wrong with him?

Randy peered at the suppurating burn on his leg. It hurt so much the intensity literally soared off the scale: his nerve endings were fried, and everything from his left thigh down was just a vast, burning, throbbing ache. I’ve heard this can happen, he remembered. You go numb before … before you lose the leg.

He pushed the thought away – there was no point – and leaned forward to take a careful look at the wound in Owen’s side.

It was worse than ever – that was obvious at a glance. The infected area seemed to have doubled in size; bright red streaks stretched out from it in all directions, like the fast-growing roots of an evil tree. Owen groaned at the relatively tiny pressure of the blood-soaked parka on his skin. That’s bad, Randy thought. He watched with alarm as Owen’s head fell back and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.

Randy reached out and slapped him lightly on the cheek with one gloved hand. “Wake up, Owen. Come on, man. Don’t pass out of me now.”

Owen gasped and his eyes flew open. Randy could see: It took him a long time – too long -- to realize where he was, what was happening.

Owen smacked his dry lips. “Jesus,” he said, “Isn’t he done yet?”

As if on cue, the shrill sound of steel against stone stopped, and the whirring buzz of the spinning wheel began to slow and fade.

“He’s finished,’ Randy said. He turned back to the door. “This is our chance.” He leaned forward and cracked the edge of the door, this time careful to hold onto it in case the dog – or anything else – attacked from the shadows.

The man with the axe was standing next to the grinder, running his thumb carefully across one of the glittering edges of the tool. The large black dog sat at his feet, tail wagging, staring lovingly up at its owner. It panted heavily, its short breaths blossoming into clouds in the freezing air. As Randy watched, the grinding wheel slowed to a stop and fell silent.

The man would surely be able to hear them now. He had to.

“Now!” Randy said.

In chorus, the two men made as much noise as they could – screaming, shouting, pounding the walls of the boast house – anything to attract his attention.

“Heeellllp!” was the best Owen could do. He could feel the last of his energy leaking away with the blood and pus of his wounded side. He started to slip into unconsciousness again, but forced himself back and shouted again: “Heeelllpp!”

“Please!” Randy screamed. “Help us! We’re in the boat house, right here, right here! We need your help!” He bellowed at the top of his lungs until his air gave out. Then he waited for the grinder to respond.

The man with the axe never even looked up. He just stared lovingly at the vicious looking double-edge blades and stroked first one, then the other edge with his thumb. Over and over, up and down.

Randy filled his lung and tried one last time. “HEEEEELLLPPPP!”

This time, the dog’s ears twitched and it abruptly stood and turned towards the boathouse … but the man still didn’t move. It made Randy stop short. If the only attention he attracted was the animals, they could be worse off than ever: it had nearly killed them once already. On the other hand, he told himself, if the dog does come, his owner will have to notice. At least we’ll have his attention. He redoubled his efforts, pounding on the door, shouting as loud as he could.

He was so intent on the task he didn’t notice when Owen finally slipped into unconsciousness one more time.

And the dog did react. Its ears perked again, and it quirked its head at the boathouse, curious and confused. Randy rattled and banged the door and shouted again, and the dog began to bark even more loudly than it had before.

It sounded like it wanted to kill them both. Was eager to kill them.

“Good boy,” Randy said under his breath, pausing to gather himself.

But the owner didn’t care. He just hefted the axe and rested it in the crook of his arm, then turned and walked away towards the house.

Randy couldn’t believe it. “Hey!” he shouted. “HEY, what are you DOING? WE’RE OVER HERE!”

Randy hollered again and again until his throat was raw. But even as the dog’s barking grew louder and stronger, the owner continued walking away, paying no attention to his pet or Randy’s shouted pleas for help. As he reached the far corner of the house, the man in the Pendelton whistled loudly without turning back and called gruffly, “Harry! Come here!”

The dog immediately stopped barking, turned, and loped off after his owner. A few seconds later the two of them disappeared around the far edge of the house and were gone.

Randy found himself on his knees, gasping for breath. He was still sitting, staring out into the cold night, when Owen groaned and opened his eyes again.

“Did it work?” Owen’s voice was feeble and thin as paper. “Is help on the way?”

At first Randy didn’t answer. He was too stunned, too shocked. Finally he shook his head and sighed. “No,” he finally said, so softly he wasn’t sure that Owen heard him. Not at first. He cleared his throat and said, “He went back into the house and took the dog with him,” just a little louder.

“He didn’t hear us?” Owen asked, fighting to stay conscious.

“I don’t know.”

“Wow,” Owen said. It was a tiny little sound. His hand reached out blindly and found Randy’s arm. “Wow,” he gasped again, his fevered thoughts fighting to understand.

“Guess … guess we’ll just have to take care of it ourselves.” Randy said. He took a deep breath, gathered his strength and forced himself to his feet. When he spoke, he spoke with all the positive force he could muster. “Okay,” he said. “We can do this. The van isn’t that far away. Just rest for a few seconds and then we’ll get started.”

Owen wanted to be strong, but he was terrified at how weak he had become. His shoulders slumped and he had to fight not to break into tears. What the hell’s wrong with me? he asked himself. I’m not a blubberer, no matter how tough things get. He tried yet again to gather his thoughts, to pull himself together, but … God, it was so hard.

“Randy,” he finally mumbled out. “I don’t think I can do this. I want to, but I’m … I’m not sure I can even stand up.”

Randy stared at Owen for a long beat. His friend’s face was beet-red and literally pouring sweat. He was obviously burning up. It’s a bloody miracle he’s still conscious at all, he thought. But he also realized that there was no way he could carry Owen out of here without at least some kind of help, however feeble. He was weak himself, and his leg would never take the stress.

“Owen,” he asked, “do you ever go to church?”

Owen gaped at him and swallowed. “No,” he said. “Not since Mom died. You know that. Swore I wouldn’t.”

“Well, do you at least know the Lord’s Prayer?”

“Well … yeah. I learned it in Bible School when I was six. Everybody did. Even my Jewish friend Jonathan knows the damn Lord’s Prayer. But--”

“Then here’s what we’re gonna do,” Randy said, cutting him off. “I’m going to help you stand up, and then you and I are gonna recite the Lord’s Prayer and walk out of here.”

Owen shook his head, utterly confused. “What difference will--”

“No more questions,” Randy said. “No more delays. Come on!” Randy bent from the waist, ignoring the excruciating pain in his leg, and slipped a hand under Owens right armpit. Somehow, with more grit than plan, he got Owen all the way to his feet, leaning half on the wall and half on Owen himself.

Finally, after a couple of hard bumps, he moved them both through the door. He leaned Owen against the outside wall of the boathouse and slumped back against it himself, fighting to catch his breath. They couldn’t stay like this. He knew that. If they paused too long they wouldn’t get any further.

Fuck that, he told himself. He quickly straightened, clutched his crucifix tightly in one hand, clutched at Owen’s coat with the other, and pushed them off the wall.

First they had to get across the lawn to the gravel path. Then up the path to the driveway. Then along the driveway to the curb, and beyond that the van, just a short distance further.

It’ll never happen, he said to himself as he hobbled and staggered, dragging Owen, blocking the blinding pain in his leg. But it has to.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name,” he said. He could feel Owen’s knees beginning to buckle. He hauled him upright with all his might. “Come on, Owen. Say the words.”

He started over. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come; thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.”

Much to his surprise, Owen’s eyes fluttered open. He took a huge breath, as if he’d been underwater, and his chest swelled.

“Atta boy,” Randy said, feeling he was about to falter himself. “You got it now.”

They said the next lines together as they stumped across the grass to the gravel path. “Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

They nearly tripped as they stumbled from the grass to the gravel. It was less steady, harder to get footing, and it felt like it went uphill, if only a little. Up fucking HILL, Randy said to himself, ashamed of cursing on the inside as he prayed aloud. But really, god damn it. I don’t remember it being even a little bit uphill when we came in.

They took the path one step at a time. Owen was swaying like a drunk, but making progress, and they continued together: “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

The made it to the side of the house. Randy crashed into the clapboard, scrabbled at it for support, even though he was actually terrified of even touching it after all that happened. But he was fully aware: they had no choice. He coughed from deep in his lungs, the air so cold it raked at his throat. “More than halfway there, buddy,” he said. “I can almost see the van.”

It was a lie: the darkness had closed in around them entirely; he couldn’t even see the end of the driveway. But you have to hope, he told himself. You have to.

He dragged at the younger man and almost shoved him down the drive. “Come on, man,” he said, still coughing and gasping for air. His leg was burning like acid. He could feel the infection rising up, grasping for his thigh, his groin. “Come on, almost there.”

They recited the last line as they staggered, wounded and bleeding, down the driveway of 112 Ocean Avenue, moving through the cold and the dark, like explorers returning from Hell.

“For thine is the kingdom … and the power … and the glory, forever and ever.”

They were almost there: at the end of the drive, at the dip into the street. And now he really could see the van, squatting against the curb. Just a few more yards.

Then Owen’s legs gave out. He fell to his knees on the asphalt in the middle of the night bound, darkened street.

“No,” Randy said. “No fuckin’ way. Get up. Get up and do that last line again, Owen,” He hauled on the icy, wet, blood-soaked coat of his partner and forced him to his feet. To hell with the leg, he said. To hell with the pain, I don’t care. We are getting the fuck out of here. We are getting the fuck OUT of here.

“Last line!” he said, and half-dragged, half-carried Owen to the Danvers & Company van.

“Forever and ever,” they said together. And one last time: “Forever and ever.”

They hit the back of the van with a metallic, ringing BANG, and Randy almost burst into tears. It wasn’t even locked. They hadn’t even bothered. Now they just had to get inside and go, go.

“Amen,” he said, his cheek so tight against the metal of the van he thought it might freeze there.

“Amen,” said Owen, still standing. “Amen.”

CHAPTER NINE

Randy eased back against the faux leather driver’s seat and let the warm air of the van’s heater flow over him. We made it, he told himself. We actually go out of there.

The seat next to him was tilted back as far as it could be, so that Owen could at least stretch out. He had passed out completely even before the sliding door of the van chunked to a close.

Randy breathed and breathed again. The pain in his leg was deeper and more devastating than ever; it had become a part of him, somehow; a steady, raging agony that he couldn’t escape. But the continuous roar of it made it somehow easier to cope with, at least for a while longer.

It was just so warm here. So nice, after all the fear. So …

Randy jumped as if he had been touched by a live wire. I passed out myself, he realized with mounting horror. If I do that again, I might not wake up. It would be the worst irony of all: to escape from the nightmare of 112 Ocean Avenue, only to die in the damned van on the way to the hospital.

Hospital, he told himself, and leaned forward – pain flaring – to shove the car into gear. Thank God it was an automatic; he couldn’t possibly have handled the clutch with the throbbing mess his left leg had become.

The engine gave him its usual ticking purr, and he pulled away from the curb, still thinking Hospital. But which one; where? He didn’t know Amityville that well. Back in Hicksville he’d go straight to St Francis or even into the city, but that was almost an hour from here. There had to be something closer. Hadn’t they passed some kind of hospital or medical center on the way? He’d scarcely noticed it, but he was sure there had been something, somewhere along Merrick ... but where?

The van hit a pothole and jounced roughly. He heard Owen groan as a bolt of sheer agony shot up from his rotting leg and he gasped in surprise and pain. Shit, he told himself, just find something. You can’t just drive around …

He turned off of Ocean Avenue onto Merrick, confused. Should he turn onto Broadway? It was a throughway, but how far would it be to a medical center, and could he see it from such a major road. He was sure they’d passed something and they didn’t come that way. No, he thought. Injured or not he was sure he’d seen a hospital somewhere along this long boulevard of car sale yards, stores and large, well-kept homes. Just … keep going, he ordered himself, fighting off the pain and shock with less and less success. Just …

“HE SHOT THEM!”

Owen screamed at the top of his lungs. It made Randy jump again, then yelp at the pain that caused. He turned in the seat as he drove, to look at his friend. Owen was still stretched out, but his arms were up, reaching for something, grasping for something.

“HE KILLED THEM ALL! MURDERED THEM! I REMEMBER NOW, HE – LOOK OUT!”

Suddenly he was pointing to the windshield. It took Randy a precious moment to realize what he was trying to tell him, then he turned, shouting himself, to look where he was going –

A line of Christmas carolers – all dressed in white, looking more like angels that holiday celebrants – was crossing the street directly in front of them. Without a thought, Randy lifted his only working leg and jammed it down on the brake pedal. The tires of the van squealed like a living thing and the entire vehicle lurched wildly to the right.

“Shit!” he cried out. “Shit, shit, shit!” He was vaguely aware of Owen bracing himself against the sudden movement as he tore at the wheel, skidding on the frozen road, the engine roaring in complaint. An instant later the flat nose of the van punched into the muddy soft shoulder and slammed to a stop less than a foot from the line of singers.

The carolers didn’t seem to notice at all. They continued to cross Merrick, walking in pairs of flawless, flowing white, each carrying a flickering lantern. Not one of them turned to look at him; instead they seemed intent on singing and following, one after another.

“Son of a bitch,” Randy said entirely to himself. His heart was thudding in his chest, triple time. His leg throbbed as horribly as ever and he watched dumbly as the carolers reached the right side of the road and prepared to continue on their way. He reached over Owen and groped blindly at the crank in the door so he could lower the window and apologize ...

… and as the window lowered, admitting a blast of frigid air, he heard them singing for the first time. It was like a choir of angels, sweet and full … performing his favorite song: Silent Night.

The lead pair of carolers turned and began making their way down the pavement. They were about to pass by the van when Owen suddenly cried out again – in pain rather than fear. The sound of it sent a new chill down Randy’s spine.

He turned in his seat to face Owen, and his heart sank. The bright red infection was even showing in his face now: trails of it were reaching up from his collar in a scarlet spider web along his neck and jaw. His eyes were flecked with red, and the sunken areas below them were a sickly blackened yellow. He was glistening and slick with fever-sweat.

Randy took a moment in the stalled van to grope in the glove compartment for a rag. Then he leaned back and mopped the shining brow of his partner. He’s really sick, he told himself. Very, very sick.

He put the rag on the seat next to him and almost against his will very carefully peeled Owen’s sticky shirt away from the wound in his side. What little hope he had faded completely. A stench like rotting meat filled the van. He had to hold his breath to keep from gagging. It was appallingly clear: the infected area had grown to at least three times its original size and it was pulsing like a living thing. The wound was a flaming red, and the heat from it radiated with such ferocity that Randy could feel it on his outstretched hand. The entire area around it was streaked with long black trails of putrefaction and flushed a sickening pallid grey. It was beginning to look like the skin on the Rotting Girl.

He’s not sick, Randy corrected himself. He’s dying. My God, he’s going to die in this fucking van.

Owen’s eyes opened a fraction. “I remember now,” he said in a ragged voice barely above a whisper. “That house. There was a family there. A boy killed his family. Remember? He heard voices. He … heard … he killed them ...”

Randy did remember. It had been a big story not so long ago. Some Italian name. A kid with no criminal record, no drug history, no nothing, got up one night and killed his parents and siblings with the family rifle. Then he waited patiently for the cops and told them voices made him do it. Voices …

Twenty-four hours ago, Randy would have joked about that. Owen would never even have brought it up. But now … now he had no doubt it was true.

Every word, he thought. That poor kid …

Owen’s eyes closed again and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

He’s never going to make it, Randy told himself, panic rising in his throat. I don’t even know where I’m going, and he’s dying here, man, he’s dying.

He turned back to face forward in the driver’s seat and pawed at the ignition key. He couldn’t just sit here on the side of the road; he had to go. But –

The cab was suddenly filled with the angelic voices of the carolers: Silent night! Holy night! Son of God love’s pure light. Radiant beams from thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace ...”

Without really thinking about it Randy stopped, closed his eyes and touched the crucifix at his neck. For just a moment, he whispered a silent prayer for his friend.

At that moment, he felt the power of the artifact again, just as he had in the boat house. It crept up his fingers, into his body, and changed him yet again: comfort, warmth, power.

I wonder, he thought. I wonder …

He opened his eyes … and to his surprise, he found a nun dressed all in white, standing on the pavement, staring solemnly through the window at them both.

Randy opened his mouth to speak to her when the lantern in her hands suddenly flared brightly. She smiled and nodded to Randy, and lifted her hand to make the sign of the cross just outside the window where Owen’s head rested. Then, without a word, she walked back and again took her place at the end of the line of carolers.

Randy, stunned into silence, watched them slowly file by. For the first time he saw that they were all sisters of the same order, all dressed in blinding white robes and wimples of a design he didn’t recognize – certainly not one of the orders he saw in town, or at the local Catholic church.

But … just seeing them gave him hope, somehow. Just knowing they were there.

He didn’t take a moment to even think about it. He simply turned as he lifted the crucifix from around his neck, and reached out to place it on the exposed wound in Owen’s side.

Owen groaned. His entire body jerked violently. The instant the icon touched the wound, the infected flesh split open with a loud, sickening squelch and released an invisible cloud of foul-smelling gas. The lips of the wound actually parted and revealed an awful secret.

Randy’s eyes widened at the sight of the tip of the boathook, that shard of shining metal, still piercing Owen’s side, buried more than an inch deep.

He couldn’t stand it anymore. The blood, the gummy pus, the stink of it was more than he could bear. He pulled his hand back slowly, retreating in spite of himself, feeling as if he was somehow desecrating the crucifix with the touch of the diseased flesh ...

…but as he lifted the crucifix clear, the tiny knife-blade of metal came with it, stuck to the cross by the blood and ichor he was trying to avoid. Randy gasped at the sheer horror of it as he pulled it from his partner’s body.

At that same instant, Owen stopped groaning.

Overcome with revulsion, Randy dropped the crucifix and the piece of metal into the rag he had used to mop Randy’s brow, then wiped frantically at it. It had to be clean, he told himself. It was wrong, wrong to have it covered in this evil muck. He scrubbed the metal for at least thirty second then carefully opened the cloth. The crucifix was fine; it glittered serenely in the light of the passing lanterns, almost glowing against the grimy skin of his palm.

And the shard of metal, no larger than a fingernail, pulsed with a light of its own: a dark, evil scarlet that made Randy want to scream.

He stared down in disbelief at the small piece of metal. Could this really be the cause of what Owen’s going through? Could this be what’s killing him?

Without another thought, he picked up the rag and snapped it out the open window. The tip of the hook went flying in a short, ungraceful arc and clattered to the pavement of Merrick Road.

Randy turned away from it instantly. He concentrated on getting them back on the way. The hospital’s got to be right up here, he told himself. It’s going to be fine.

He never saw the metal tip flare momentarily, burning with its own evil light … then disappear altogether.

But just as he was about to accelerate away from the curb, Owen spoke from the passenger seat.

“Randy …”

The sound of his voice actually startled Randy. He turned to face him one last time, choking back what he really wanted to say: I thought you were dead.

He was astonished. Owen looked better. Not healed by any means, but the fingers of infection on his neck and chin had faded, and the wound looked smaller, somehow – less angry.

Owen’s eyes flickered open, and there was the light of sanity in them again. He focused on Randy for the first time since they had made it back to the van.

“Hey,” he mumbled, licking his cracked lips. “Hey, if I can …I think I’d like to go to Christmas Mass with you.”

Randy had to fight back tears. “You’ll be welcome, Owen. And don’t worry: you’ll be there.”

The instant before he said it, Randy didn’t believe it himself. It was just empty encouragement for a dying man. But as the words came out, he knew it was true. Owen was going to live.

The end of the line of caroling nuns now slowly made its way past the van. The last caroler, the nun who had stood by the window next to Owen, beamed at Randy with a beatific smile, and then followed her sisters off down the street, still singing. They both heard the fading strains of Randy’s favorite Christmas hymn one last time:

Silent night! Holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round young virgin mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace! Sleep in heavenly peace!

Randy looked over and smiled at his friend. When he looked back, there was no sign of the caroling nuns. Not on the sidewalk, not anywhere in the distance. They had disappeared, as if they had never been there, at all.

“Hang on, man,” Randy said to Owen. “We’ll be there real soon.” He eased his right foot down on the accelerator and gently eased the van away from the muddy curb and back onto the road. As they drove forward, Owen called to him again.

“Oh … Randy?”

Randy heard him, but for the next few seconds he fought to keep his concentration on the road, squinting through the pain, searching for a sign.

As he approached the next intersection, then eased to a stop, checking traffic, he saw it: a square blue road sign with a huge white “M” and an arrow pointed straight ahead. Relief flooded over him. He closed his eyes and crossed himself. He had no idea what had happened, or how, after all they’d just been through they had managed to make it here; but he felt he had to give thanks.

“Thank you, Lord,” he whispered.

And then, more loudly, he finally answered Owen: “What is it, buddy?”

Owen’s voice, stronger now with every syllable, called warmly to him: “Merry Christmas, Randy.”

Randy smiled and drove on. “Merry Christmas, Owen,” he said. “A very, Merry Christmas.”

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Wombaroo Books

The Amityville Horror: The Sequel

The story didn’t end when the Lutzes escaped Amityville with their lives. The Evil they unleashed there followed them–across the country and around the world. Now the full story of what really happened can be revealed, in the first complete and authorized sequel to The Amityville Horror.

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Amityville Horror Now: The Jones Journal

Book One of The Light Warriors Series

John G. Jones is a real-life author with books on the worldwide & New York Times best-seller-lists, an Australian writer, musician and producer who worked with the Lutz family to produce The Amityville Horror II and its sequels, telling the truth about what happened after the Lutzes left Amityville. Now he tells the rest of the story: how the Evil that was unleashed found him, how it changed his life forever. And now, for the first time, John shares the terrifying true story of his own paranormal experiences, and his work with an extraordinary group of gifted allies that fight to keep the escaped Evil from taking root in our world. The fight will never end – it can't. Because every confrontation, every supernatural experience, has taught them one terrible truth: Evil never dies...it just changes shape.

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The Supernatural

A new edition of John G. Jones’ first, transcendent novel, years out of print. Lance is a very good con man, already on the run, who finds himself chosen by a higher power to be something far greater with his life…and far more dangerous. Will he survive the transformation, or lose his humanity in the bargain?

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The Amityville Big Book of True Horror

Welcome to our world! Here are thirteen stories of real horror: the hauntings, possessions, and supernatural attacks — the true history of the shadow-world that hides within our own. A full-size coffee table book for the fundamental fright fan.

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… and get the latest news on Amityville projects and the world of horror, suspense, and the supernatural, real and imagined all at

AmityvilleNow.com

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Table of Contents

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE