“Why is there an empty lot here when there are all those houses on the land round about?” Franklin Adams asked his companion, Reggie Brewen, as they strolled together down Ocean Avenue.
Reggie worked at the Amityville library on Saturdays when school was not in session and the library needed some extra help. Franklin Adams, who was several years older than Reggie, had just opened his own law offices down the road. Born in New Jersey, he had only recently come to Amityville, and he knew little about the town. He was keen to take advantage of Reggie’s own fascination with local lore and history to find out more about the past of the town where he now made his home.
“That’s the place where That House used to stand,” Reggie replied, almost too quietly, “only it burned down, of course … you know … when the last guy in it got killed.”
Now Franklin Adams understood, for one of his own relatives had once lived in that house, years ago, when the horror of the DeFeo murders was still fresh in everyone’s minds.
“But isn’t somebody going to build on it again? After all, it is a valuable piece of land, on an attractive residential street in the best part of town.”
Reggie shook his head. “Nobody in their right mind would touch it,” he replied, “and I can’t say that I blame them. I would not touch it either.”
Franklin Adams’ practical approach to life rebelled against such a superstitious notion. After all, there are lots of houses where murders have taken place, and accidents have happened, even fatal ones, and yet other people move in and live there happily ever after. Clearly, he thought, someone must be profiting from keeping this valuable piece of land off the market. It was gaping at them like a toothless mouth, somehow menacing, reaching all the way back to the water as if ready to swallow up anyone who might dare to venture on to it.
Reggie laughed at this notion when Franklin voiced it. Then he explained that the land was in the care of the town of Amityville now, having been taken over in lieu of taxes when the last owner had abandoned it… and Amityville.
“Well, now,” Franklin said impatiently, “I’m not going to stand here and let a dirty piece of acreage make a fool of me. Come on!” With that, he lightly scaled the rotting barbed wire fence that now only symbolically protected the land from trespassers. He stood inside the enclosure, waiting for the younger man to follow him, but Reggie shook his head.
“No thanks, Mr. Adams,” he said, “but I’d rather not. And if I were you, I’d come back out right away.”
“Rubbish!” a defiant Franklin replied. “I’m not about to give in to a silly superstition. I’m sure lots of curious people have walked all over this place just to say they’ve been here. Come on!”
But Reggie remained firm. “If you want to go in there, I suppose I can’t stop you. But I’ve got to get back to do some homework. I’m sorry.” He started to turn as Franklin walked out onto the most notorious piece of land in all of Long Island.
He found the ground uneven and at times slippery, but otherwise devoid of any unusual features, and not even remotely chilling. Here and there therewere bits of debris, perhaps final remnants of the big fire of some years ago. When he reached the center of the lot, he turned and saw Reggie still standing at the barbed wire fence. Reggie, perhaps more out of curiosity than concern, had changed his mind about going home right away.
“See? Nothing to worry about!” Adams shouted back at him, waving his arm. Reggie acknowledged the greeting. He began to feel silly about his own reluctance to join Franklin out on the lot. While he began to wonder if perhaps he ought just to jump the fence and go to where the man stood, he noticed that the weather had begun to change. There seemed to be some moisture in the air now, and as he watched Franklin poke his foot at some piece of debris in the center of the land, a patch of fog drifted down from nowhere and rapidly engulfed his friend.
A moment later the wind had blown the fog away again, and the view was as clear as before. But where was Franklin? At first Reggie thought the lawyer must have gone on down to the edge of the land where it met the ocean. But the land is flat and you cannot possibly miss seeing a man on it, unless he is lying on the ground.
Reggie was suddenly filled with nameless fear. A part of him wanted to jump over the fence and look for Franklin, but another part, warned by an inner voice, wanted to turn and run.
And then he heard a faint voice coming from the center of the land, crying for help. It was the unmistakable voice of Franklin Adams, the bravura gone, and stark fear in its tone.
“Reggie! Help me … get me out of this hole …” Then the voice trailed off and a terrible silence fell all around.
Reggie no longer had control over his actions. He turned and ran down Ocean Avenue, as fast as his feet could carry him.
Franklin Adams was never seen again, neither in Amityville nor anywhere else, and his offices were eventually closed down. Nobody came to look for his body, least of all in the center of that accursed piece of land, because no one knew of his visit there. Reggie had decided to keep quiet. Who would believe him, anyway?