Shadow Travels: A House In Amityville

     I won’t lie; the place used to give me nightmares.

     I watched the original movie portrayal of the Lutz family’s experience here on a dark night in the 1990s, and I was lucky to have my older sisters and a few friends present. Upon further research I often found myself getting unfriendly dread and sensations that I was not alone.

     The idea of being helpless in bed while someone of your immediate loved ones decided to stand over you and end your life was a haunting proposition in its own right. The possibility that otherworldly evils forced you into it added to the freaky factor.

     The Lutz encounters are probably the most debated case of fraud in paranormal history, but that does not change the fact that only one member of the family that dwelled there previously is still alive- and he is serving life in prison for the six members who are not.

     Mass murder of bizarre circumstances took place in the walls of the beautiful Dutch colonial by the river, and that itself can create a storm of energy that is unable to rest in death.

     Layers of fascination built over the years as I discovered the famous “ghost boy photo” that was captured during an investigation that followed the Lutz family’s hasty abandonment of the house. This was done by the Channel 5 news crew with Ed and Lorraine Warren in attendance. It is possibly the only source of credible evidence that supernatural things dwelled in the house. Others claim that the photo has been debunked.

     This does not erase the fact that George and Kathy both passed lie detector tests, and they went to their graves saying that the accounts were true. Their sons have come forth corroborating the stories.

But no reports of further paranormal occurrences plague proceeding residents. And why would they want to stir the fire since the town seems disturbed by an overwhelming amount of visitors and gawking tourists like myself? These are people with much less respect- people who have taken pieces of the house, the grass, the personal space of private owners. Some have even been known to ring the doorbell. Can’t say I wasn’t tempted.

     The quiet town does not associate itself with the terrible things that happened on Ocean Avenue. You will find no stores with ghostly memorabilia, but you will find a fence around the horror house yard and plenty of ‘No Trespassing’ signs to keep you going on your way.

     I was drawn there after years of reoccurring dreams that saw me going up the stairs and into a different room each time. The rooms were always dark as I was pulled into the blackest section where something awaited me. Growing older, the dreams changed. I was no longer pulled or forced into these places, rather I would charge forward on my own accord to face off with whatever hostile beings dwelled in the black corners.

     I suppose being an adult has its advantages sometimes.

     On that note, I made it a point to not have to dream anymore. It was the day after Halloween, and I was determined to make it a reality.

     After heathens of New York traffic, I cruised into Long Island late in the day. Charming signs welcomed me into Amityville, and I was relieved to have a while to breathe on less busy roads. The buildings and houses gave the homey feeling of a quiet area. It was not long before I took a right turn onto Ocean Avenue. One STOP sign later, I beheld the place that consumed my mind for so long.

     Formerly addressed as number 112, it is in an upscale neighborhood with people going for walks and groups of kids riding bikes. ... Little bastards who would not take my picture in front of the house.

     The home looks unique from all the others and is by no means isolated. The black-cloak decoration of a witch stretched across the house face under famous windows that have been remodeled from when they looked like the eyes. I found it ironic that Ronald DeFeo Jr. claimed a black-hooded figure handed him the gun that he used to slaughter his family.

     The sign that used to be in front of the house is long gone from the place, much like the idea that the sign used to convey when it read High Hopes.

     I turned around, parked my rental in the business center on the corner, ordered a pizza, and went for my walk. Leaves of all colors made rattles on the street.

     My heart pumped as loudly in my chest as the leaves that made scraping noises along the street. It was not long until I stood before it, smelled the New England air, and hoped to get no hassle from neighbors. I took a long stare at the place and wondered, like most people do, why each member of the DeFeo family was found face-down in bed, why none of them were awakened by the sounds of gun blasts, and why zero neighbors heard anything out of the ordinary aside from the dog barking.

     I internally criticized how it would not be a surprise for neighbors to notice me and cause trouble, even though they were unable to notice more than five rounds of high powered rifle blasts in the middle of the night. But then I fell back into wonder at other claims about the house.

     George Lutz claimed that the night he and his family fled, it sounded like a storm inside the house. And I believe it was Hans Holtzer who mentioned that some entities are able to encapsulate sound like a force field trying to keep secrets.

     I certainly know of hauntings where noises of chaos, destruction, and broken dishware turn up no mess at all. It is a phenomenon all its own, and I always wonder what type of entities are able to manipulate sound so intensely. How is it possible to convince our ears that we hear something? It must be equally possible to convince unwanted ears that they hear nothing.

     To top off the strangeness, Lutz often said he was drawn to the fireplace repeatedly at the infamous 3AM hour- the same hour said to be when the DeFeo family were executed.

     From the other side of the river, I took a picture of the house with a red sunset in the background. Another surreal moment of accomplishment. ... And, yes, it was fantastic pizza.

     The house on Ocean Avenue in Amityville, Long Island is on the market as of the moment this is written. If you happen to score the purchase, please let me in for a sleepover. I assure you a night of utmost respect and quietness. Nothing paranormal happens there anymore, anyway.

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Something About A Cemetery....

     They dot the landscapes in a variety of displays. Some colorful, many elaborate, often hidden in unexpected places like tree-covered hillsides or forgotten plots in the desert.

     Death is big business because it seems to be one of a few things that have been prominent throughout history. With so many people here and gone, a variety of afterlife displays have come about. But one special version of this ritual comes in the form of a good old cemetery.

You may come across a wild character from history, such as the outlaw poet called Black Bart in Marysville.







Or the worn epitaph on the headstone of strange fiction writer H.P. Lovecraft in Swan Point.

     The feeling of walking into- or stumbling upon- these places usually has a different feel to it, depending on the atmosphere. One may feel a sense of peace in the presence of simple stones, the scent of cut grass, and bright flowers fluttering in the breeze. That feeling might be opposite when surrounded by broken memorials on weeded hillsides and looming tree branches that have not seen a caretaker in years.
     I have seen many varieties of these memorial grounds.

   




Every monument in the Père Lachaise Cemetery has its own uniqueness that seems to be built by an artistic sculptor.









The creeping moss and brooding tombs in Highgate Cemetery breed good reason for the rumors of a vampire lurking around.










Union Cemetery, made famous by the Warrens claiming it to be one of the most haunted in the USA, has tilting stones and dates from centuries ago.







In New Haven, Connecticut there is a cemetery known as the Crypt On the Green. It resides in the basement under a beautiful church.











And the simple headstones from the Winter Quarters coalmine disaster rest on the hill overlooking Scofield, Utah.

Honorable mention goes to the Montmartre Cemetery, much of which resides under a bridge busy with foot and auto traffic. It is full of wild, wandering cats who move about the crypts.

   



     Many of these places seem quiet enough to meditate, but we often hear about the restless side of these places. Virginia City, Nevada has tales of glowing light with no natural source. Boothill Cemetery bares ghostly tales of those who did not survive Tombstone, Arizona. And Bodie, California is known for its deadly curse on anyone who takes even the smallest item from the area. Let us not forget the photos captured of strange figures in Bachelor's Grove, said to be a dumping ground for the mob.

   
     It always baffles me when people would find enjoyment vandalizing these places. How bored can people be? It is one thing to sneak into a moonlit burial ground for the thrill of makeout sessions and fast romps among the tombstones, but it is entirely another demon when monuments that cost lots of money from families who wanted to memorialize loved ones have been toppled over or sprayed with paint for a night of “fun”.

     These people lack any ambition or creative powers to occupy their time creating something, so they occupy their time in sabotage and destruction.

     In other ways, the dead have been disrespected by ghouls and seekers of easy money- like macabre entrepreneurs who sold bodies to medical schools. This practice may have actually lead to more knowledge of the human body that we have today. Double-edge sword indeed.

Then there are those who have dug into crypts for fortune. As was the case with the body of President Abraham Lincoln when his corpse was stolen for ransom. A more depraved reality comes from those who put their muscles to work and dig through the six feet of dirt to do mind-blowing deeds, example being that of one lonely farm owner out of Plainfield, Wisconsin. Another example being the unidentified Ghoul of Whitmire Cemetery.

     It is not uncommon when Mother Nature herself takes entitlement to vandalizing, such as the heavy downpours of rain that have uncovered some burial grounds and the floating coffins of Hurricane Katrina. A more supernatural event of unexplained destruction comes from Barbados, where the Chase Family vault has become a legend for the repeated ransacking of caskets by an unseen force.

     But it is not uncommon for more selfish reasons of defacing these monuments to the dead. People who simply want memorabilia have ruined it for the rest of us. Hence why there is no longer a statue the likeness of the Lizard King on Jim Morrison's grave in Paris, France and why the headstone of Billy the Kid has been caged in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

 
















     For those of us who have learned to respect the memory of those who have passed on, sometimes centuries before our first breath, these grounds are important places. It is no wonder why the Native Americans guarded their own places of tribute to fallen relatives as the influx of people who marked the graves with stone monuments and crosses may have intruded on their original cemeteries.

It is important to remember to give the utmost respect in these grounds. They are dedicated to the lives of many people who still have stories to tell.

     These are stories from different generations across the spectrum of time. Lives of tragic repeats and unsung heroes who heavily believed in the generations of people to be born long after their final breath.

     And, whether you believe it or not, your lack of appreciation for their final resting place could very well lead to them following you home.

We speak lightly here where families shed a tear.

Our naked eye unknowing that souls are near.

It's easy to find fate and future if you search hard.

It's easiest if you walk down to the churchyard.

- JEB