John’s immediate reaction was automatic and totally out of his control. Every muscle in his body tensed; and he almost jumped out of his skin. He let out a muffled yelp … and in that same instant, realized where he was, and that he’d just woken from yet another crazy nightmare. He’d hoped they might stop when he left London, but obviously … no such luck.
Anthea stared at him, openly confused. John struggled to put her at ease; he forced himself to relax and strained to sound as normal as he could when he said, “Ah, yes. I’m ... I’m fine. Just ... just had a bad dream.”
Anthea relaxed, her smile reminiscent of every grandmother on the planet. “Oh, my goodness. I have them all the time, you know.” She pointed toward the nearby cabin window, even though the shade was down. “After all, we are flying at over 35,000 feet in the air. It’s not surprising that we might feel stressed about that fact.”
John was still shaken, but nodded, trying to be friendly. “I ... I s’pose so.”
Alice, a very pretty, very British flight attendant, made her way down the dimly-lit aisle and paused next to John. She had introduced herself shortly after take-off, her manner warm and friendly. John had responded in kind, introducing himself and smiling warmly while noting every shapely curve, abundantly obvious thanks to her company uniform – tightly-fitted blouse, scarf and shapely fitted blue skirt. Now she bent forward, her voice pitched just above a whisper so as not bother the other passengers. “Can I help you, Mister Jones?”
John forced another smile and asked the first mundane question that came into his mind. “Ah... yes. Yes, actually...” He hesitated; double-checking her name on the tag that was pinned to her blouse, just above one of her firmly shaped breasts. “… Ah ... Alice. How long before we land in Los Angeles?”
Alice smiled, noting that he stared at her breasts a touch longer than necessary as she checked the lighted face of her watch. Her brow wrinkled as she made the calculation. “Let’s see. We left London just over four-and-a-half hours ago. So ... about seven hours more, Mr. Jones.”
“John. Please,” he said with all the warmth he could muster. He was feeling more normal now and the fact that Alice was an extremely beautiful woman had fully registered with him.
She blushed rouge-red, also clearly attracted to him. “John, then.”
“Ah ... Alice.” He wanted to make small talk, exchange conversation, maybe get to know her; but he couldn’t think of anything ‘cute’ to say. Finally, he stuttered out: “Is … ah … is it all right for me to get something out of my bag? From the overhead?”
Alice began to straighten, intent on getting what he wanted.
“I’d be glad to ge–”
“–No!” John realized he had interrupted her a touch too sharply, and struggled to moderate his tone. “No worries. I’d rather get it meself.”
“Oh! Well, if you’d prefer.”
Alice frowned lightly. She was getting crossed signals, here. She thought John was attempting to ‘hit’ on her, something that came with the territory on this job. She often spent hours on a flight, fending off some would-be Casanova that she wouldn’t be seen dead with, or even ever speak to, if it wasn’t required. But in this case, she was totally open to the idea. John was handsome and he had an Australian accent. Her last boyfriend had been Australian and she had a lot of peasant memories of the time they spent together until his work required he return ‘Downunder’.
Still confused, she eased back, out of his way, but she didn’t leave. In fact she wedged her butt against the edge of the opposite seat so he was forced to rub against her as he got to his feet.
John couldn’t help but notice Alice’s openly suggestive move. Under normal circumstances he would have definitely forced himself a little harder against her, just to let her know he was interested in having their encounter escalate to something more. But the nightmare had been incredibly vivid, and although his question to Alice about the overhead bin had begun as nothing more than a way to fill an awkward moment, now he realized it had an actual purpose: he wanted – in fact, he felt a pressing need – to write down the details of this latest nightmare in his new journal, to capture those disturbing images before they faded.
So instead of expanding their ‘meet-cute’ moment, John turned and stood on tip-toes, the muscles in his upper-body tensing as he strained to reach the briefcase that had slid to the back of the overhead bin.
As he did, Anthea and Alice both checked out his well-toned body, then exchanged an amused, appreciative look. John finally snagged the briefcase and lifted it from the overhead-bin. A moment later, Alice quietly eased the bin shut, and John returned to his seat, settling back as he swung the case into his lap. His fingers actually tingled as he zipped it open and pulled out his leather-bound journal.
”Well, then. If there’s nothing else I can do,” Alice smiled demurely, trying to keep John’s attention. “I’ll leave you to it ...”
Her words hung in the air for a long few seconds as John, distracted now, opened the Journal. Then he realized she’d spoken, and what she’d said, and he mumbled out: “Ah! Thanks. Thanks, Alice.” It was clearly dismissive. His attention was now plainly on the journal in front of him.
Alice gave an ‘Oh, well’ shrug to Anthea and headed back down the aisle.
John opened his journal to the last page of his notations and reached for the pen in his inside jacket pocket.
“GOTCHA!”
The voice was totally unexpected. John instinctively looked up … and was blinded by an intensely bright flash of light joined by a loud mechanical clash. It illuminated the entire First Class cabin.
The flash was gone as fast as it came. As John’s pupils slowly adjusted to the regular dim cabin lighting, he saw the reason for the bizarre intrusion: a young boy about ten years old was hanging over the back of the seat in front of him. He was holding a ‘state of the art’ Polaroid Instant Land Camera, c. 1980’s and had a huge grin on his face.
Before John could react in any way, the Polaroid clicked twice and ejected a large cardboard tongue with a mechanical grinding sound.
“Took your pitcher!” the young boy said as he peeled the shiny covering from the stiff cardboard and revealed an instant photograph of John’s astonished face.
John was in no condition for any more shocks … but the youngster seemed very pleased with himself. John didn’t want to force his less-than-pleasant mood on anyone else. He forced one more weak smile and said, “You sure did.”
The boy’s mother turned in her seat. “Come on, Errol, stop bothering everyone with that idiotic camera!” With a long-suffering smile she dragged him backward. He gave a bitter sigh and disappeared behind the seat.
John returned to his journal, thankful for the mother’s intervention. He liked kids, but at this moment, with all the craziness he’d been through, this just wasn’t the time. He quickly skimmed through a few pages of the Journal, to the one he wanted. On it were a number of hastily scrawled, hand-written notations and a large, crude, roughly drawn image. The effect was fascinating, slightly chaotic, even a touch ominous.
“Going to do a little writing, are you?”
John moved his free hand over the journal, hoping to block Anthea’s view, as he prepared to write. “Um ... just making a few notes.”
Anthea was obviously a curious woman with nothing to do at the moment. As she spoke, she leaned over and stared at the page of the journal.
“My goodness ... that’s very...” She searched for a word that wouldn’t offend. “... ah ... different, isn’t it?”
He looked up at her, surprised she would intrude like this, and even a little guilty about what was on the page.
Anthea realized she was prying ... but she’d reached an age when she didn’t care much what people thought of her. “Ummm...” she said, her tone judgmental. “I just couldn’t help noticing your strange ... Ummm ... doodlings.”
John tried again to cover his work. “It’s just ... some notes and ... ah... stuff,
I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t forget.”
Actually, most of the page was taken up by the crude image of a demon John had seen in one of his visions: Cruel curled horns, a mouth full of fangs, eyes set deep in shadow and ringed with burning embers.
Anthea’s tone abruptly changed. “Oh, you poor man.”
John frowned and stared at her, surprised by her tone. “What?”
“Why would anyone want to remember that?” She reached out with one carefully manicured, age-wrinkled hand and actually touched the drawing.
John stared down at where her finger touched the journal. But it was no longer a nice old woman’s finger. It was a claw, gnarled and curved. And it didn’t just touch the image. It dug in. It tore at it, as if it were ripping into human flesh, until blood welled up from the page.
John stared in horror at the bloody mess. Then he jerked his head up to see …
… Anthea’s now monstrous face: twin curled horns, a mouth full of jagged teeth and deep set eyes burning like embers. This image was even worse than the one in the journal, because it was real.
He barely had time to gasp before the face exploded into a puff of ash, like a balloon full of soot – a sudden cloud of filth that appeared with a muffled pfufff!
John was momentarily stunned into inaction. Then, almost without realizing he was doing it, he reached up and touched his cheek. It was spattered with teardrops of ash.
“GOTCHA!”
John snapped his head around.
The little boy had crawled up onto the back of the seat again. But he no longer had the camera. And he was no longer a normal little boy. He was on all fours; his arms and legs bent in all the wrong places. He looked like a giant spider in a boy’s shape, with a boy’s face. John stared at him, not believing what he saw. The spider-boy bared his teeth; but they were like no teeth John had ever seen before. His mouth was a perfect circle filled with needle-sharp metallic fangs.
He hissed at John. “Gotcha! Gottttchaaa...!”
The boy’s mother rose up over the seat – at least John thought it was his mother. The figure staring at him vaguely resembled the woman he’d seen earlier, but this thing’s face was literally melting as he watched, its eyes leaking thick red tears of blood. Her hair – if it was really hair – was thick, gooey rope and there were creatures crawling in it, frightening things unlike anything John had ever seen.
“Leave the poor man alone, Errol,” the mother croaked, her voice crackling like some hoary sorceress. She couldn’t keep the sadness from her next words: “We can’t have him. He’s already marked for a terrible death ... just not by us.”
John had to get out of there.
He swept the Journal off his lap. As it fell to the floor he tried to get to his feet, but a figure loomed over him, stopped him short.
Alice.
“Oh, no you don’t!” All traces of the polite, neatly coiffed stewardess were gone. Now she looked like some insane animal: her hair flowed wild, her skirt was hitched up over her hips, her uniform blouse was open to the waist and her naked breasts were erect and firm. There were long blood-tipped fangs behind her equally blood-red lips.
She swung out of the aisle, levered around, spinning her entire body, and slammed into his lap, straddling him, trapping him in his seat, driving her naked breasts into his face.
He fought to move, struggled for breath. Her nipples and ample bosom were jammed so tight against his nose and mouth he couldn’t breathe.
She lurched back, allowing him to gasp in air, but as he did, she ripped open his shirt and clawed ten long, razor-sharp fingernails down his chest, ripping into his flesh, leaving a trail of blood everywhere she touched.
“You don’t get away that easy, pretty boy. My pretty pretty pretty boyyyyy.” Her voice sounded like some mechanical recording device, unfeeling, uncaring.
John grabbed her by the shoulders with both hands and tried to lift her off of him; but she planted her mouth on his and sucked at him in a horrible parody of a passionate kiss. He tried again to push her away, but she just pushed harder against him, grinding her mouth against his. One hand swept down and clawed at his crotch.
He struggled underneath her, tried to get her off him, tried break his mouth free of hers, but he couldn’t. In desperation he reached for the cross dangling from its chain and clutched it tightly in his right hand.
Light suddenly streamed from the space between them, brighter and brighter. They were soon lost from sight in a pure pristine blaze.
Alice loosed an ear-splitting scream, as if every inch of her flesh were being torn from her body. It was a terrifying, agonizing, almost living thing. It swelled in volume, filled the entire plane.
Louder…
… and louder…
… and LOUDER.
John jerked out of a nightmare … again. Again sweating, again looking around in shocked disbelief. But now the cabin windows were open. It was late morning, not night.
Andrea put a comforting hand on his arm. “Are you all right, honey?”
John flinched as she touched him. He turned to her almost convulsively, ready to defend himself if he must; but she looked perfectly normal. She smiled a warm motherly smile.
A second later Alice was by his side. “Mr. Jones! Is everything all right?”
John just stared at her, still unable to speak. He nodded his head to tell her yes, as convincingly as he could.
“We’ll be arriving in Los Angeles in about fifteen minutes,” Alice said, smiling warmly at him. “But we still have time if you would like one last coffee before we land?”
“Th-that would be nice,” he finally managed to say.
When Alice moved back down the aisle and Anthea returned her gaze to something outside the window, John was at last able to get a grip on things. He’d been in a nightmare in a nightmare.
Great! he thought. Like one nightmare’s not enough. So much for the hope that the damned things might have ended when I left England.
He eased back in the seat, sighed, heavily and hissed between clenched teeth, so low only he could hear it:
“Is this crap ever gonna end?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The late afternoon sun streamed through the bedroom window of John’s apartment in Santa Barbara, filling the room with a deep-orange glow. He was stretched out in bed, facing the wall, apparently asleep.
The doorbell rang, but John didn’t move or acknowledge it in any way. A few minutes later the doorbell rang again, three times in succession. This was followed shortly by a sharp series of knocks, each louder and more insistent than the one before. None of it had any effect on John. He didn’t even turn from the wall.
At the front door, the fumbling metallic scratching of a key being inserted into the lock was followed by a loud click. The front door to the apartment swung open, and Andy Burling, John’s Australian friend, stepped cautiously into the apartment, calling out as he did.
“John! Mate! Are you here?”
Andy was broad shouldered, with longish ash-brown hair and chiseled features that some would definitely call handsome, He had a strong Australian accent and was obviously concerned when he didn’t get any response to his call.
He walked into the living room and stopped, his mouth gaping in astonishment. Set up in front of the recording equipment, mikes and musical instruments, was a mid-sized desk. On it sat a grey Selectric typewriter. Beside the typewriter was a neat stack of papers almost eight inches high. The desk was tidy, obviously well-used … but it was the only neat area in the entire room. Five circular rattan trash bins were stuffed to overflowing with screwed up sheets of partially used paper.
It was pretty obvious that when the bins were filled, all attempts at order had ended. The rest of the large room was covered in trash: screwed up paper; empty orange juice bottles; a stack of dirty plates and utensils and heaps of used white cardboard containers from some place called Organic Fast Food We Deliver. Residue from more than one of the containers was spilled on t
he carpet and trailing off toward the kitchen. It was already beginning to smell to high heaven.
“Strewth!” Andy grabbed his nose, his face wrinkling against the stench. He couldn’t believe it. “Jesus, Jonesy, what the bloody hell y’ bin up to?” He stepped over a small pile of trash and peered at the top page of the stack of papers on the desk.
It was a cover page that read: Amityville Horror II – A novel based on the true continuing story of the Lutz Family … by John G. Jones.
Andy quickly checked the kitchen: it was even more messed up than the living room, with open partially filled containers dropped on the floor and just left there. He knew John; he knew he had a habit of getting a little myopic when he was creating, but he would never have let his placed look like this. Not if he was okay.
Andy strode out of the kitchenette and headed for the bedroom, “Jonesy! Jonesy! Were the hell are ya?” When he reached the bedroom door and saw John in the bed, he never even broke stride. If his longtime mate hadn’t answered all his calls, it had to be because he wasn’t able to.
He grabbed John’s shoulder and pulled him away from the wall. “Jonesy! Come on, mate, wake up!” Then he saw John’s paste-white face and the pillows and sheets. “Oh, shit!”
The area around John’s head was a literal pool, and his face was still pouring sweat. He tried to react to Andy, but he was obviously delirious. The best he could do was groan feebly in pain.
Andy reached for the phone and thumped out 9-1-1. While he waited for someone to answer, he called back to John, his worry disguised by an attempt at rough Australian mate-humor. “Hang in there, now, you pain in the arse. Don’t you go doing anything stupid.”
*******
“He has an advanced case of pneumonia. And he’s had it for weeks. I’m amazed he didn’t die before you found him. He appears to be responding to treatment; but it’s still too early to tell, for sure.”
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