Amityville Horror Now

by John G. Jones

  It was a few minutes after midday when he found himself on George Street heading for his hotel. He checked out the store windows as he went, as always. But this trip felt different; something had changed in his life. He noticed more little things, dallied longer in front of stores like David Jones’ and Loews, ostensibly looking at the merchandise but really trying to regain a feeling he felt he’d lost.

  He was inwardly admonishing himself for his mawkish emotionalism as he reached Kings Street and suddenly had a flash of déjà vu. It was like he was doing something exactly the same as he’d done it not very long ago, including the traffic light at the crossing with one yellow light not working.

  Then he spotted the electronic store on the far corner. It was the one from the bizarre vision – or whatever it was – that he’d had in The Pirate’s Refuge Pub, right down to the huge sign on the window.

  What would happen, he wondered for a moment, if I just turned around and walked the other way? What if I didn’t do what I did in the vision? But, of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, he crossed the road, stood in front of the store window, and stared at the bulky personal computers – he knew what they were this time – with their large monitors flashing a continuous message in either green or amber. But part of him was concentrating on something entirely different: the reflections in the glass of the people passing by behind him.

  There he was: the tall aborigine from his vision long ago.

  John turned, joined the bustling crowd, and followed him. But this time he barely paid any attention to the people in the crowd or the cars passing by. Instead he hurried to put less distance between himself and the man he was once again following.

  As before, the stranger entered the foyer of the tall, very modern, office building. And, as in his vision, John followed.

  The stranger strode purposefully past the large bank of elevators and rounded the corner. John followed, but inched closer as he did. Both men went through the first security door, and though he was prepared for it this time, John again sneezed heavily. Still, even as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he hurried through the cloud of dust. He called after the stranger as he rushed downward, taking the stairs three at a time.

  “Hey! Wait! Wait! I just want to talk to you.” His voice again bounced off the walls and slammed back at him.

  As before, the stranger didn’t react to his call. Instead, he quickly opened the second door and disappeared through it.

  This time John caught the heavy door before it closed and rushed through.

  Inside was a frail, heavily aged wooden landing. A narrow set of equally rickety and ancient stairs led down, apparently into the bowels of the earth itself. The walls here weren’t really walls at all, but appeared to be carved from the ancient rock formations common to the Sydney area.

  Below him, half in shadow, he could see the stranger still hurrying downward. But John stopped on the none-to-safe landing, momentarily unsure about going further.

  He hadn’t seen this in the vision. He was in uncharted waters. But he could no longer hear the stranger’s footfalls, so he surmised that the bottom couldn’t be too far away.

  Well, he finally told himself, I’ve come this far. He took a deep breath and made his way downward. The stairs shivered as he went, like a nervous series of mini-earthquakes. He took it much slower than he had in the other stairwell.

  When he reached the rough stone floor at bottom of the stairs, he stopped and peered about through a kind of misty gloom. There was a single tunnel ahead, just over standing height, leading away into the darkness.

  “What in blazes have I got myself into now?” he mumbled into the air. He was strangely comforted by the sound of his own voice: it was nice to have company, even if it was only himself. Then he asked himself. “And why the hell am I even doing this?” And the momentary comfort dissolved.

  The mist abruptly thinned and he spotted a faint light in the distance. Is that some kind of sign, he wondered. Or am I just fooling myself here?

  He stood there, trying to decide: forward … or back the way I came?

  John had made it point for most of his life to try and follow his instincts. It seemed that almost every time he ignored what felt like the right thing to do, it somehow backfired on him. But this was pretty damned wacky: to go walking into something as weird as this…

  … and he knew in a heartbeat that he was going to do it.

  “Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound,” he said into the empty air. Then he moved carefully forward.

  The mist slowly cleared as he went, and the small tunnel abruptly opened out into a huge grotto, deep in the Australian earth. Everything about this subterranean grotto screamed, old – maybe even older than civilization as we knew it. The walls were covered with ancient aboriginal art; the dancing flame of torches revealed a number of other caverns leading off from the main room. At the center of the grotto, a partial ring of dust-covered, hand-painted skulls and other ancient aboriginal talismans circled a large flaming fire-pit. The Dark Symbol was there – an eerie, shrouded, misty thing. It floated above a spot where the clear indentations of two skulls – now missing – had lain for countless centuries.

  Bizarre, John thought, and that’s an understatement. He stood in awe for a long moment, overwhelmed by what he saw, and equally overwhelmed by the smell: a mixture of dust, stale firebrands, ancient wet earth, decaying foliage, rotting flesh – from what he couldn’t be sure – and what smelled like some kind of exotic oils. It was almost too much. John stood for a long minute torn between throwing up or inhaling more deeply; it was that strange and unique.

  He did neither. He just pushed the smell aside and cautiously approached the empty spot in the circle of skulls, his eyes flashing about, trying to look in all directions at once.

  Without warning the fire at the center of the pit rapidly shrank in on itself, becoming a small flame. Then it exploded, with a huge sighing whoomp, into a coruscating being of pure energy, a full-fledged Energy-Fire-Beast that reached almost to the roof of the old cave. It was hard to get a clear fix on it as it flickered wildly, but it was definitely animal-like in shape. Still, whatever the animal it represented might have been, it was long gone from this earth, possibly hundreds even thousands of years ago. This creature was an ancient; something old when the history of mankind had yet to be written.

  As it raged to full size, a ball of intense energy streaked from the being, straight at John.

  The attack was so unexpected he barely had time to get out of its way. He dived to his right and landed head-first in a small mound of putrefying earth.

  The bolt of fire missed him, hit the ground nearby and spluttered out. But before he could move, a second blast streaked down and trapped him in its energy beam. John curled into a fetal ball and screamed in agony.

  “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

  But he was suddenly no longer alone. A wizened aboriginal Karadji, a witch doctor, stood over him. He looked hundreds of years old; his wrinkled, worn flesh barely covered his skeleton. His face was smeared with unique painted markings. He wore a cloak, woven by hand from dozens of species of indigenous Australia birds, some long extinct. In his right hand was a bone that appeared human.

  John started to speak to him. He opened his mouth –

  –but the Karadji raised the bone scepter and blocked another surging bolt of fire, sending it slamming at the nearby ancient rock wall.

  Debris rained down on them as the Karadji stepped forward and stood in the spot the two missing skulls once occupied. He pointed the bone scepter at the bizarre energy-fire-beast and begun to chant, soft at first then louder and louder, until it filled the cavern.

  The energy being seemed unaffected by either the old bone or the ritual chant. It streamed forward like liquid fire itself, crossing the grotto … entering the circle of skulls … and finally, horribly, engulfing the old aboriginal.

  But the chant continued. The being stopped and swelled, as if trying to enclose the sound itsel
f. It shifted through a series of color – deep red, blinding yellow, swirling purple. The Dark Sigil twisted, then transformed into the White Sigil … then the Sigil itself grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter. In a heartbeat the scene was lost to John, swallowed in a huge ball of White Light.

  John struggled to his feet as a thick billowing mist covered the entire circle. For a moment he was alone with the smoke and flame, trembling in the impossible heat ...

  … then the Karadji Master walked unharmed from the fire. Draped in mist, still glowing like an ember, he appeared more vital despite the battle.

  “You Cannot Stay Here.”

  His voice was the old crackling voice he had heard earlier when it spoke to him during his vision.

  “Be thankful the cost to you was so small.”

  “I ... I don’t understand,” John stuttered out. “Why am I here? What … what is all this? What do you mean? What cost?”

  John never got an answer. The mist was suddenly back. He barely had a chance to voice his frustration –

  “Damn it, don’t–!”

  … when the swirling cloud swallowed them both.

  John stood motionless in the grey nothingness of the fog for a count of five ... then ten … and when the unnatural mist cleared, he found himself in a different place entirely.

  He was standing on the crowded footpath outside the front of the anonymous office building – the structure he had entered a short time ago. People hurried about, intent on their chosen destinations, ignoring him completely.

  There was no sign of either the Karadji, or the younger Aboriginal he had followed into the basement grotto.

  John didn’t move for the longest time. He struggled to get his bearings as people bustled past him, entering and leaving the building. Then he noticed his reflection in one of the large nearby windows. He frowned and reached up and touched a clearly defined two-inch wide silver-white streak standing out from his long brown hair, flowing from his forehead back along the right side of his head, just above the temple.

  “I’ll be damned!” he whispered. “So that’s what you meant.”

  He reached up and touched the silver-white streak again. Then he grinned and shrugged. “Hmmm! Looks pretty cool.”

  *******

  John was in his room at the Grand Quay Hotel, packing his bags for the trip back to the US, when the doorbell rang. He answered it to find the hotel concierge holding a very large, flat, wrapped package.

  “What have ya got there, Bernard?” John always tried to get to know as many of the hotel staff where he was staying; it was advantageous in all sorts of ways. At the very least, it made things seem friendlier, somehow.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Jones,” Bernard answered, happy that John had remembered his name. “This package was left for you at the desk.” He awkwardly handed John the bulky package.

  John frowned. “Are you sure this was left for me, Bernard?”

  “Oh, yes.” The concierge confirmed. “The instructions were very specific.”

  John struggled to drag the package into his room. He figured someone must have made a mistake. “Who sent it?”

  The concierge shook his head. “I asked, Mr. Jones. But the courier didn’t seem to know.”

  John pulled at his chin with his free hand, balancing the package against his leg. “Well, I’m flying back to the States in the morning and I doubt I’ll be takin’ this with me, whatever it is.”

  “If you need any help in that regard, please don’t hesitate to call,” Bernard said in his smoothest concierge voice.

  “Thanks, Bernard. I’ll let you know what I want to do with this as soon as I figure out what it is and who sent it.” He handed him a large Australian bill. Bernard smiled warmly and left.

  John closed the door, grabbed the package and struggled with its size as he carried it to the nearby couch. He perched it there, then ripped away the wrapping.

  It was a painting ... but not just any painting. The main shades were earth-tones, with light colorful additions that highlighted it perfectly. But it wasn’t the colors that made this art work unique. It was what it showed.

  Two members of an Aborigine tribe stood in a ceremonial Corroboree Circle, illuminated by the huge blazing fire at its center. Seated around the circle were elders of the tribe. The Karadji Man – the same one who had saved John’s life in the underground grotto – was there, placing his cloak of bird feathers around the shoulders of a young member of the tribe.

  John stood back, astonished. “Wow!”

  He gazed at the painting for a long time ... then looked even closer. He reached out and touched the face of the younger warrior. It was the stranger he’d followed into the grotto.

  “I’ll be damned. You again, whatever your name is.”

  He sighed loudly, then stepped back and rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “Well, there ain’t no way I can leave this behind. Guess I better get to it and figure out how I’m gonna get it back to LA.”

  He reached for the phone and dialed the number for the front desk. While he waited for someone to answer, he stared again at the painting. He was having a hard time taking his eyes off of it.

  It took him a second to realize his call had been answered. He quickly said. “Bernard! I’m gonna definitely need yer help after all ...”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A bone-chilling wind blew across the open field on the outskirts of the small northern English town of Briarcliff. The wind was an almost daily occurrence, and though it wasn’t quite as cold during the summer months, it was never what could be called warm.

  The town once boasted a small mill that had supplied the surrounding areas with freshly milled whole wheat flour. But that had been long ago – so long only a few of the handful of residents still living in the town even remembered it. These days, Briarcliff’s one industry was something nobody wanted to talk about, although it was the only reason the town still existed.

  Even the name, Briarcliff Sanatorium, was misleading. The facility didn’t treat people who were recovering from an illness or an addiction. It wasn’t even a hospice. Briarcliff was a mental hospital – an asylum, in the old parlance. Most of its patients were considered incurable; it was highly unlikely any of them would ever be well enough to be rejoining normal society.

  The sanatorium itself was made up of a series of ugly brown buildings surrounded by tall, heavily secured walls. There was a small cluster of houses huddled nearby, where most of the staff from Briarcliff lived; otherwise what was left of the town was over a mile away.

  Like any going business, Briarcliff required supplies. Some of those were brought from the few small shops still called a town. Anyone visiting a relative or friend at Briarcliff hospital – something that rarely happened – couldn’t even stay nearby. The local pub had closed for lack of business years ago; visitors and locals alike had to drive ten miles to find any kind of lodging – or a pint of Guinness Ale, for that matter.

  The main gates to Briarcliff were nine feet high and forged from tempered steel, belying the fact that was this was some kind of regular hospital. The windows were barred and the large main security door was four-inch-thick steel. Special keys were needed for both entry and exit.

  The interior of “the facility,” as workers there called it – when they weren’t calling it names like the “Funny Ha Ha Farm,” or “Looney Toonyville” – was every bit as dreary as the outside. Block A through E weren’t all that bad, though nothing any sane man would call ‘cheery.’

  Block F was an entirely different story. That was the home of the inmates who were so far gone even the British National Health doctors rarely bothered to visit them. A short conversation with one of the orderlies in Block F was all they needed: same as always, they would say. If the record didn’t include a report of some miraculous change in a particular patient – which hadn’t happened for years – the doctors submitted the same updates, over and over: no change, they would say. My bill to the government for services rend
ered attached.

  Section F was drab; it was, in fact, the epitome, the height of drab. The painted grey walls were peeling in leprous patches that hadn’t been touched-up for months, even though they were regularly reported. The fluorescent lighting overhead was also in dire need of service; the tubes consequently flickered and buzzed. And the smell that permeated Briarcliff – some might call it stench – immediately assaulted the olfactory perception of anyone entering Section F. It was a potpourri of acrid medications and stale food, blended with the souring sweat of unwashed bodies, and it was a permanent fixture.

  Then there was the noise: the constant, indistinct murmur of voices – whispering, giggling, long and often complex one-sided conversations – continued day and night, twenty-four hours a day. Section F at Briarcliff was every horror author’s image of what an insane asylum should be like. But this wasn’t any book. It was both a sad statement on the health care system in the United Kingdom and a pitiful way to treat any members of humanity, even those who had lost hold on what most of society called normal.

  At the end of the corridor, by the securely locked front entrance, was the duty desk; the only piece of furniture in sight. Slumped behind it sat Atkins, his feet up on the desk, his oversized body spilling over the armrests of a large chair. He was a big man with exceedingly bulbous jowls and a perpetual sneer; he had let his entire body run to fat and obviously simply didn’t care. His badly fitting white uniform had obviously been allocated to him when he was a good deal thinner. This was clearly exemplified by the fact that his bloated paunch strained three of the buttons on his shirt to the breaking point. The fact that they hadn’t already popped off was amazing. He was deeply engrossed, reading a copy of a Buster: Son of Andy Capp comic book. Every few seconds he would chuckle to himself; for some reason finding this children’s comic hilarious. This fact alone spoke reams about his mental acuity.

  A scream, like a human siren, shattered the customary babbling backdrop of Section F. Atkins had learn to ignore the constant, muttering background during his two years working at Briarcliff, but the whimpers and murmuring were no match for the ear-splitting intensity of this particular wail. It echoed down the hall and slammed at Atkins like an approaching freight train.