The Amityville Horror (8 page)

George called down to Kathy that her aunt had come to visit. She said she'd be right up, and told George to show Aunt Theresa around her new home. The children greeted their great-aunt silently. Theresa's grim face forestalled their natural inclination toward friendliness. Danny asked to go outside with Chris. "Okay," George agreed, "but you have to promise to stay within range of the house." Missy ran down the stairs to the basement. George noted how sad Theresa looked when the children didn't respond to her.

As he conducted Theresa around the first floor, pointing out the formal dining room and the huge livingroom, George became aware of a chill in the house-a clamminess he hadn't noticed until Aunt Theresa came. She agreed that it had seemed rather cold when she entered the house. George looked at the thermostat. It read 75 degrees, but George knew he'd have to kindle the fire again.

They went up to the second floor. Theresa glanced disapprovingly at, the smoked mirrors behind George and Kathy's bed. He could read her thoughts-she believed that such a blatant display smacked of vulgarity-and wanted to tell her that the DeFeos had left the mirrors. But he decided to let the subject pass. The woman was still a nun at heart!

Theresa followed George to the other rooms. She admired all the new space they had, but when she and George stood outside the sewing room, Aunt Theresa hesitated. George opened the door for her. She backed up a few feet, her face turning pale.

"I won't go in there," she said, turning her back to him.

Had Theresa seen anything through the open door? George looked into the room. There were no flies, thank God, or Kathy's reputation for housecleaning would have suffered an irreparable blow! But George could feel the room was ice cold. He looked at Theresa. She was still standing implacably, her back to the room. He shut the door and suggested they try the top floor.

When it came time to examine the playroom, the former nun balked again.

"No," she said, "that's another bad place. I don't like it." Just as George and her Aunt came down, Kathy came up from the basement with Missy. The two women hugged each other, and Kathy, guiding her aunt toward the kitchen, said, "George, I'll finish up downstairs later. I want to transfer some of the canned goods into a closet I found down there. We can use it as a pantry." George went to the livingroom to build up his fire again.

Theresa hadn't been in the house for more than a half hour when she decided it was time to go. Having expected that her aunt would stay for supper, Kathy was disappointed. "George can drive you back," Kathy offered. But the older woman refused. "There's something bad in here, Kathy," she said, looking about. "I must go now."

"But Aunt Theresa, it's so very cold out." The woman shook her head. She stood up, pulled her heavy coat about her and was heading for the front door when Danny and Chris came in with another young boy.

The three children watched Theresa nod to George and kiss Kathy lightly on the cheek. As she strode out the door, Kathy and George looked at each other, at a loss for words at the woman's strange behavior. Finally Kathy noticed her sons and their playmate.

"This is Bobby, Mama," Chris said. "We just met him. He lives up the street."

"Hello, Bobby," Kathy smiled. The little dark-haired boy looked about Danny's age. Hesitantly, Bobby stuck out his right hand. Kathy shook it and introduced George. "This is Mr. Lutz."

George grinned at the boy, shaking his small hand. "Why don't you three all go upstairs and play?"

Bobby paused, his eyes darting about the foyer. "No. That's all right," he said. "I'd rather play down here."

"Here?" asked Kathy. "In the foyer?"

"Yes, m'am."

Kathy looked at George. Her eyes carried the unspoken question: What's wrong with this house that makes everybody so uncomfortable?

For the next half-hour, the three boys played on the foyer floor, with Danny's and Chris' Christmas toys. Bobby never took off his winter jacket. Kathy went back to the basement to finish making the closet into a pantry, and George returned to the livingroom fireplace. Then Bobby stood up and told Danny and Chris that be wanted to go home. That was the first and last time that the boy from up the street ever set foot in 112 Ocean Avenue.

The basement of the Lutzes' house was 43 by 28 feet. When George first looked it over, he came down the stairs and saw off to the right batten doors that led to the oil burner, hot water heater, and the freezer, washers, and dryers left from the DeFeo estate.

To his left, through another set of doors, was a playroom, 11 by 28 feet, beautifully finished in walnut paneling, with recessed fluorescent lights in a dropped ceiling. Directly in front of him was the area he planned to use as his office.

A small closet opened into the space beneath the stairs, and between the staircase and the right-hand wall, plywood panels formed an additional closet, extending out about seven feet, with shelving that ran from the ceiling to the floor. This walk-in area, George thought, made good use of what would otherwise be wasted, space, and its proximity to the kitchen stairs made it a most convenient pantry.

Kathy was working in these closets. When she stacked some large, heavy canned goods against the closet's wall, one of the shelves cracked. One side of the plywood paneling on the rear wall seemed to give a little. She moved the cans aside and pushed against the panel. It moved farther away from the shelving.

The closet was lit by a single bulb, hanging from the ceiling. The bulb's reflection shone through a small slit opening just enough to give Kathy the impression that there was an empty space behind the closet, under the tallest section of the stairs. She went out to the basement and called George to come down.

He looked at the opening and pushed against the paneling. The wall continued to give a little more. "There isn't supposed to be anything back there," he said to Kathy.

George removed the four wooden shelves, then shoved hard against the plywood. It swung all the way open. It was a secret door!

The room was small, about four by five feet. Kathy gasped. From the ceiling to floor, it was painted solid red. "What is it, George?"

"I don't know," he answered, feeling the three solid concrete block walls. "It seems to be an extra room, maybe a bomb shelter. Everyone was building them back in the late fifties, but it sure doesn't show up in the house plans the broker gave us."

"Do you think the DeFeos built it?" Kathy asked, holding nervously onto George's arm.

"I don't know that either. I guess so," he said, steering Kathy out of the secret room. "I wonder what it was used for." He pulled the panel closed.

"Do you think there are any more rooms like that behind the closets?" Kathy asked.

"I don't know, Kathy," George answered. "I'll have to check out each wall." "Did you notice the funny smell in there?"

"Yeah, I smelled it," George said. "That's how blood smells."

She took a deep breath. "George, I'm worried about this house. A lot's happening that I don't understand." George saw Kathy put her fingers in her mouth, a sign she was scared. Little Missy always did the same thing when she was frightened. George patted his wife on the head.

"Don't worry, baby. I'll find out what the hell that room is all about. But we can use it as an extra pantry!" He turned out the light in the closet, shutting out the sight of the rear wall panel, but not obscuring the fleeting vision of a face he glimpsed against the plywood. In a few days, George would realize it was the bearded visage of Ronnie DeFeo!

10 December 28-On Sunday, Father Frank Mancuso returned to the Long Island rectory after celebrating Mass in the church. It was only several yards from one building to the other, but the priest felt his recent weakness as he walked in the cold air.

In the Rectory's reception room there was a visitor waiting for him-Sergeant Gionfriddo of the Suffolk County Police Department. The two men shook hands, and Father Mancuso led Gionfriddo to his quarters on the second floor. "I'm glad you called me," the priest said, "and I appreciate that you came."

"That's all right, Father. It's my day off this week." The big detective looked over the priest's apartment. The livingroom was filled with books that overflowed the bookcases onto tables and chairs. He took a stack off the couch and sat down.

Father Mancuso wanted to warm up and he had no liquor in his rooms to offer the policeman, so instead he made some tea. While it brewed, he got right to the point of his request for Gionfriddo's visit.

"As you know," he began, "I'm concerned about the Lutzes. That's why I asked Charlie Guarino to contact somebody in Amityville to check if they were all right." The priest walked into his kitchenette to get some cups and saucers. "Charlie reminded me that they're living in the house where that unfortunate DeFeo family was slain. I'd heard about the case from some friends of mine, but I don't really know how it happened."

"I was on that case, Father," the detective interrupted.

"So Charlie told me when he called back the other night." Father Mancuso brought the tea and sat down across from Gionfriddo. "Anyway, I had a hard time falling asleep last night. I don't know why, but I kept thinking about the DeFeos."

He looked up at Gionfriddo, trying to read the expression on his face. It was difficult, even though Father Mancuso had years of experience in probing people for facts, fancied or real; from his clients in family counseling who came before him. He didn't know whether to reveal what had happened to him on the first day in 112 Ocean Avenue or on the telephone to George.

Gionfriddo quickly read the priest's thoughts and solved the problem. "You think there's something funny going on in that house, Father?"

"I don't know. That's what I wanted to ask you."

The detective put down his cup of tea. "What is it you're looking for? A haunted house? You want me to tell you there's something spooky about the place?"

The priest shook his head. "No, but it'll help me if you can tell me what happened the night of the murders. I understand the boy said he heard voices."

Gionfriddo looked into a pair of piercing eyes and saw the priest was troubled. He cleared his throat and put on his official voice. "Well, basically, the story is that Ronald DeFeo drugged his family at dinner on November 13, 1974, and then shot them all with a high powered rifle while they were out cold. At his trial, he did claim a voice told him to do it."

Father Mancuso waited for more details, but Gionfriddo had finished his report. "That's it?" the priest asked.

Gionfriddo nodded. "Like I said, that's it, basically."

"It must have awakened the whole neighborhood?" Father Mancuso continued.

"No. Nobody heard the shots. We found out about it later when Ronnie went into The Witches' Brew and told the bartender. The Witches' Brew is a bar near Ocean Avenue. The kid was stoned out of his head."

Father Mancuso was confused. "You mean he used a high-powered rifle to kill six people, and no one heard all that noise?"

Gionfriddo thinks it was just about then that he began to feel nauseous in the priest's apartment. He felt he had to leave. "That's right. People in houses on both sides of the DeFeos said they never heard a thing that night." Gionfriddo stood up.

"Isn't that rather peculiar?"

"Yeah, I thought so myself," the detective said, slipping on his overcoat. "But you got to remember, Father, it was the middle of winter. A lot of people sleep with their windows shut tight. At 3:15 in the morning, they're dead to the world."

Sergeant Al Gionfriddo knew the priest had more questions, but he didn't care. He had to get out of there. No sooner was he outside the Rectory than he threw up.

By the time he returned to Amityville, Gionfriddo felt the uneasiness passing. At first he thought of driving past 112 Ocean Avenue, but changed his mind. Instead he headed home, rolling up Amityville Road. He drove past The Witches' Brew on his right.

The Witches' Brew was a hangout for a lot of the kids in town, especially during the season when Amityville was filled with summer-house renters. But now, on a December Sunday afternoon, Amityville Road, the main shopping street in town, was empty. The pro-football playoffs were on television and the regulars were at home, glued to their sets.

As he rode by, Gionfriddo didn't really notice the figure going into The Witches' Brew. The detective was a good fifty feet beyond before he swerved his police car and braked to a stop. He looked back, but the man was gone. The shape of the body, the beard, and the swaggering walk were the same as Ronnie DeFeo's!

Gionfriddo continued to stare at the doorway to the club. "Agh! I'm getting jumpy," he muttered. "Who needs that priest?" The detective turned around, jerked the gear shift into drive and pulled away from the curb, burning rubber like a hotrodder.

Inside The Witches' Brew, George Lutz ordered his first beer. He wondered why the bartender stared at him when he sat down at the bar. The man opened a bottle of Miller's and was pouring it when he stopped. He looked as though he was about to say something to George, but then went ahead pouring the beer.

George looked around him. The Witches' Brew could have been any one of a number of bars George had seen in his travels as a Marine corporal and as a surveyor working the small towns and villages of Long Island: dimly lit, the usual garish juke box, the smell of stale beer and smoke. There was just one other customer in the place, down at the very end of the long mahogany bar, absorbed by watching a television set above the bar mirror as an announcer described the first-half action of the football game.

George sniffed, took a gulp of his beer and looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. He'd had to get out of the house for a while, be by himself. He couldn't get a handle on what was happening to his family. The little bits and pieces that he would recognize later on were still too isolated for him.

George couldn't understand what was wrong with the children since they moved into the new house. In his eyes, they were wild, unmannered. That had never been the case before, not when they lived in Deer Park.