The Amityville Horror (11 page)

As the night wore on, Father Mancuso's hands had been acting up again. Now the blisters were worse, breaking out on the backs of his hands. He couldn't put up with the thought of spending the entire night in pain and fright. When his doctor looked in on him, he suddenly shoved his palms out and said, "Look!"

Gently the physician examined the blisters. "Frank, I'm not a dermatologist," he said. "This could be anything from an allergy to an attack of anxiety. Has something been bothering you that badly?"

Father Mancuso turned sadly away from the doctor, his eyes staring out the window at the snow. "I think so. Something..." The priest brought his gaze back to the doctor "... or somebody."

The doctor assured the priest that he'd have some relief by the morning. Then he left for a New Year's Eve party.

On television, Guy Lombardo saluted the New Year from the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The Lutzes watched the ball fall from the Allied Chemical Building in Times Square, but did not share the countdown with announcer

Don Grauer while he tolled off the last ten seconds of 1975.

Danny and Chris had -one up to their room about a half hour earlier, their eyes red from too much television and the smoke from George's fire. Kathy had put Missy into her bed and then come back downstairs to her chair across from George.

It was now exactly one minute after twelve. She stared into the fireplace, hypnotized by the dancing flames. Something was materializing in those flames-a white outline against the blackened bricks-becoming clearer, more distinct.

Kathy tried to open her mouth to say something to her husband. She couldn't. She couldn't even tear her eyes away from the demon with horns and a white peaked hood on its head. It was getting larger, looming toward her. She saw that half of its face was blown away, as if hit with a shotgun blast at close range. Kathy screamed.

George looked up. "What's the matter?" he said.

All Kathy could do was to point into the fireplace. George followed her gaze and he saw it too-a white figure that had burned itself into the soot against the rear bricks of the fireplace.

13 January 1, 1976 - George and Kathy finally went to bed at one in the morning. They had been sleeping for what later seemed to them no more than five minutes when they were awakened by a howling wind roaring through their bedroom.

The blankets on the bed had been virtually torn from their bodies, leaving George and Kathy shivering. All the windows in the room were wide open, and the bedroom door, caught by the drafts, was swinging back and forth.

George leaped from the bed and ran to close the windows. Kathy gathered the blankets off the floor and threw them back onto the bed. Both were breathless from their sudden awakening, and even though the door to their room had slammed shut, they could still hear the wind blowing out in the second floor hallway.

George wrenched open the door and was hit by another cold blast. Flipping on the light switch in the ball, he was startled to see the doors to the sewing room and dressing room wide open, the gale rushing freely through the open windows. Only the door to Missy's bedroom remained shut.

He ran into the dressing room first, fighting against the gale that bit him, and managed to force the windows down. Then he went to the sewing room and, with the cold now bringing tears to his eyes, closed one window. But George could not budge the open window that faced the Amityville River. He banged furiously on its frame with his fists. Finally it gave and slid to a close.

He stood there, trying to catch his breath, shaking in his pajamas. The wind was no longer blowing through the house, but he could hear it, gusting violently outside. The chill remained. George took one more look around the room before he remembered Kathy. "Honey?" he called out. "You all right?"

When Kathy followed her husband out into the hallway, she too had seen the open doors, and that Missy's door remained shut. Her heart thumping, Kathy had run to her daughter's room and burst through the doorway. She turned on the light.

The room was warm, almost hot. The windows were shut and locked, and the little girl was fast asleep in her bed. There was something moving in the room. Then she saw it was Missy's chair, beside the window, slowly rocking back and forth. Then she head George's voice. "Honey? You all right?"

George came into the bedroom. The heat struck him; it was like stepping in front of a fire. George took it all in at once--the little girl safely asleep, his wife standing at the side of Missy's bed, the incredulous look of fright on Kathy's face, and the small chair teetering back and forth.

He took one step toward the rocking chair and it immediately ceased its movements. George stopped in his tracks, stood absolutely still, and motioned to Kathy. "Take her downstairs! Hurry!"

Kathy didn't question George. She lifted the little girl off the bed, blankets and all, and hurried from the room. George came out right behind them and slammed the door, not even bothering to turn off the light. Kathy went carefully down the steps toward the first floor. It was ice cold in the hallway. George ran up the staircase to the top floor where Danny and Chris were sleeping.

When he came back down from the third floor a few minutes later, he saw Kathy sitting in the dark livingroom. She held Missy in her arms, the little girl still fast asleep on her lap. He turned on the light in the room, the chandelier casting shadows into the corners.

Kathy turned from the fireplace to look up at George questioningly. "They're all right," he nodded. "They're both sleeping. It's cold up there, but they're okay." Kathy let out her breath. He saw its vapor hang in the cold air.

George hurriedly started a fire. His fingers were numb and he suddenly realized that he was barefoot and hadn't thrown anything on over his pajamas. George finally got a small blaze going with newspaper, then fanned the flame with his hand until some of the old kindling caught fire. Crouched in front of the fireplace, he could hear the winds howling outside. Then he turned and looked at Kathy over his shoulder. "What time is it?"

That was the only thing he could think of to say, George Lutz recalls. He remembers the look on Kathy's face when he asked the question. She stared at him for a moment, then replied, "I think it's about ..." But before Kathy could finish, she burst into tears, her whole body shaking uncontrollably. She rocked Missy back and forth in her arms, sobbing. "Oh, George, I'm frightened to death!"

George stood up and walked over to his wife and daughter. He crouched down in front of the chair and put his arms around both. "Don't cry, honey," he whispered, "I'm here. Nobody's going to hurt you or the baby."

The three remained in that position for some time. Slowly the fire burned brighter and the room began to warm up. It seemed to George that the winds were diminishing outside. Then he heard the oil burner click on in the basement and he knew it was exactly six o'clock in the morning on New Year's Day.

By nine A.M., the temperature in 112 Ocean Avenue had risen to the thermostat-control led 75 degrees. The icy chill in the house had dissipated. George had made an inspection tour of each window, from the first floor to the third. There was no visible evidence that anyone had tampered with the locks on the windows of the second floor, and George remained completely baffled as to how such a bizarre event could have taken place.

Looking back at the episode, he claims that at that time, he and Kathy couldn't think of any reason for the windows behaving the way they did except for a freak of nature-that the hurricane-strength winds had somehow forced the windows up. But he can't answer why it happened only to the second floor windows and not to any others in the house. Suddenly George felt an urge to go to his office. It was a holiday, no one would be in, but he felt compelled to check on his company's operations.

William H. Parry, Inc., had four crews of engineers and surveyors in the field. The company had created the plans and blueprints for the largest building complex to date in New York City, and for the Glen Oaks Towers in Glen Oaks, Long Island, and was also responsible for planning a forty-block urban renewal project in Jamaica, Queens. In addition, there were several small surveys for title companies. The coordination for setting up each day's work was quite intricate, and for the past few weeks, George had been leaving that assignment to one of the draftsmen-an experienced employee who had worked for his father and grandfather.

Over the past year, after he had taken full control of the company from his mother, George's main concern had been with collecting from the city and construction companies that used his services. The company's payroll and expenses were much larger than they had been when George's father was alive. There was also the matter of paying off six cars and new field equipment. George realized he had been slacking off; it was time to resume his share of the responsibilities.

At ten in the morning, Father Mancuso was also awake. He hadn't slept much and had gotten up several times during the night to soak his blistered hands in Burow's Solution as the doctor had recommended. The priest had been out of bed since seven, even though he was enervated by flu and did feel better when he was lying down.

The medication had relieved some of the discomfort and itching in his palms, but the prescription for his flu had no effect on his high fever. In an effort to concentrate on other things besides his mysterious affliction, Father Mancuso tried reading some of his subscription magazines, searching for articles to divert his attention from his problem. In the succeeding three hours he read through over a dozen new and old periodicals. Then he noticed a slight discoloration on the last magazine he had held.

The priest turned over his hands. The palms were smearing. The blisters looked as if they were about to burst.

By noontime George was in Syosset, working with his adding machine. He had discovered that the money that was coming in didn't balance with what was going out. The accounts payable column was becoming too one sided lately, and he knew he would have to cut back on his field crews and office personnel.

George hated the idea of depriving men of their livelihood, particularly when he knew they'd have a hard time finding other jobs in the suffering construction industry. But it had to be done, and he wondered where to begin. George didn't dwell too long on the subject, however, because lie had other pressing problems. Before the banking week was up the next day-Friday-he would again have to transfer funds from one company bank account to another to cover checks that had been issued to suppliers. Deeply involved in these manipulations, George didn't notice the passing time. For the first moments since December 18, George Lutz was not thinking about himself or 112 Ocean Avenue.

But his wife was thinking-thinking very bard about the house. Kathy hadn't told George in so many words, but she was becoming convinced that some of the events in the past two weeks had been the work of outside forces. She was sure he would think her conclusions silly, and she had been too embarrassed to tell George of her encounter with the ceramic lion.

She now feels that she had become aware that the little bits and pieces were adding up even before George had. She was frightened and wanted to talk to someone. She thought of her mother, but quickly dismissed the idea. Joan Conners was very religious and would insist that Kathy immediately talk to her old parish priest.

Kathy wasn't quite ready to enter into a world of ghosts and demons; she wanted the discussion to remain on a more general level at first. In her heart, however, she knew perfectly well where the subject would eventually lead.

She went into the kitchen and dialed the phone number of the one person who would understand what she was looking for-Father Mancuso.

She heard the connection go through and the first ring on the other end. As Kathy waited for the second ring, she suddenly became aware that the kitchen was pervaded by a sweet odor of perfume. Her flesh crawled as she waited for the familiar touch on her body.

Father Mancuso's number rang again, but Kathy never heard it. She had hung up the telephone and run from the room.

In the Rectory, Father Mancuso had been bathing his hands in the solution and found that the bleeding in his palms had stopped. The priest had a towel in his hands when the telephone rang in his livingroom. He picked up his telephone after the second ring.

When he said, "Hello?" the line was disconnected. He looked at the instrument. "Well! What was that all about?" Then Father Mancuso thought of George Lutz and shook his head. "Oh, no! I'm not going through that business again!" He put down the receiver and went back into the bathroom.

The priest looked at his blisters. Disgusting, he thought. Then he looked up at his face in the mirror. "When will this end?" he said to his reflection. His illness certainly showed. The circles under his eyes were darker and there was an unhealthy pallor to his skin. Father Mancuso gingerly felt his beard. It needed a trimming, but the hand would never be steady enough to hold a pair of scissors.

Father Mancuso says that staring at his reflection in the mirror suddenly made him think of the subject of demonology. The priest was aware of the scope of the field and the various occult phenomena its study embraces. He had never liked the subject, not even when he was taking the course in his student days at the seminary, and he had never tried to become too knowledgeable.

Father Mancuso knows of other priests who have concentrated on demonology, but he's never met an exorcist. Every priest is empowered to perform the Rites of Exorcism, but the Catholic Church prefers that this dangerous ceremony be restricted to those clerics who have become specialists in dealing with obsession and possession.

Father Mancuso had kept looking into his own eyes in the bathroom mirror, but found no answers to his dilemma. He felt it was time he confided in his friend, the Pastor of the Long Island rectory.

The morning snowfall had made traveling on the roads hazardous. As the day wore on, it got colder, and cars began to get caught in drifts and skid on icy spots all over Long Island. But the snow had stopped falling while George was driving back to Amityville from his office, and he made it home all right.