The following day, bright and early, the telephone rang in Sybil’s bedroom. She had taken to sleeping in one of the rooms on the second floor, the one which to her held the least obnoxious vibrations. Naturally, she knew that the rooms had been tainted with murder during the DeFeo tragedy; but, having gone from room to room, she had finally decided to bed down for the rest of her stay in this particular room, which had belonged to one of the children. She had moved the telephone there.
She picked up the phone. A cheerful male voice announced that he was Johnny Woodruff, calling at the suggestion of Mrs. Mason.
“Oh, yes, I was expecting your call,” Sybil said, still a little sleepy. Last night’s session had left a deep impression on her; it wasn’t easy to shake off.
“Mrs. Mason told me you had a very special problem,” the voice at the other end said. “She thought that perhaps I might be able to help you.”
“Yes,” Sybil replied with a tone of hopefulness in her voice. “Do you think you can?”
“I will try,” Johnny Woodruff said. “When can I see you?”
“Anytime,” Sybil replied. “Just come on out.”
“All right. How about this evening?”
“Fine. What time would you like to make it?”
“I’ll be there at eight. I have some business in the city but I will be there by eight o’clock. All right?”
“Absolutely, and thank you so much.” There was a click as Woodruff ended the conversation. For a little while longer Sybil went back to sleep. She had a weird dream. In this dream she saw herself walking through the house, slowly going from room to room. As she peered into each and every room of the house, she saw the victim of the DeFeo slayings on their beds, all of them dead, with the blood dripping from their wounds. But in the dream this did not bother her.
Then she came to the living room downstairs. She walked up to the fireplace and stood in front of it for a long time, or for what appeared to her in the dream as a long time. When one dreams one can never tell how much time is passing. There was no fire in the fireplace at that moment, but as she looked into it, suddenly there sprang up a flame and the fire seemed to light itself. She stood there, fascinated, unable to budge from the spot. Suddenly she felt a pair of arms around her, the arms of a man. She turned around to see who it was, but she could not see anyone; yet she felt the pressure of a pair of male arms embracing her, not in a threatening, but in a loving fashion.
“Who are you?” she demanded. At that moment she woke with a jolt. The dream was still very vivid in her mind. She was puzzled by what she had dreamt, wondering whether it had perhaps some significance in terms of what was yet to come—or more likely, she reasoned, the confused sum total of what she had experienced before. The matter of those unseen arms had never been settled in her mind, and this dream brought it freshly to her attention.
It struck her as odd that Mrs. Mason had not come up with evidence concerning some other spirit. But the fact that she hadn’t, and knowing that a good trance medium would certainly pick up any such entity in the house, made her wonder what all this was: was it a projection into the future, or was it simply her own mind playing tricks? More puzzled than ever, she decided to get up and clean the house, and prepare herself for her meeting with Johnny Woodruff that evening.
Then a thought occurred to her. If she were to meet this young writer, should she not know a little more about him than the few words of introduction Mrs. Mason had given her? Getting dressed quickly, she drove down to the Public Library. There she approached the assistant librarian, who was busy going through index card files behind a glass partition.
“Do you by any chance happen to have any books by somebody named Johnny Woodruff?” Sybil began uncertainly.
The librarian said, “Johnny Woodruff. Isn’t he a writer on the occult and stuff like that, the paranormal?”
Sybil nodded.
“Let me have a look.” The librarian got up from behind her desk and went to a filing cabinet. There she went through a long row of index cards. After a few minutes she nodded.
“Yep, we have a couple of his books. Do you want to take them out or read them here?”
“Well, could I just have a look at one of them?”
“Well, which one? We’ve got The World of Magic and we’ve also got Ghost Houses in America. “
Sybil thought for a moment. “Let me have both of them, if you don’t mind.”
The librarian nodded and went about finding the books. A few minutes later she handed Sybil two small volumes, and told her to sit down in the library where there were comfortable chairs beside the long tables. She could stay there until five p.m. but if she cared to take the books out on a card she would have to fill out an application form. Sybil thanked her and said she would see; she thought she might be able to finish her reading at the library.
The librarian returned to her desk and Sybil was left alone with the two books.
She opened The World of Magic and started to read. After a page or two she realized that it was a history of magical incantations, having mainly to do with the past. This was not what she wanted, but she kept leafing through the book until a passage caught her eye. This was something, she felt, she ought to read and understand. The passage dealt with the meaning of incantations:
“The word incantation conjures up visions of witchcraft, but to incant merely means to implore in a rhythmical, orderly pattern. The superficial difference between prayer and incantation is that prayer may be uttered in any fashion, rhythmical or disorganized, since the meaning of the words and presumably the feeling behind them is paramount. The incantation, on the other hand, requires a specific way of speaking the words. Incantations are the prayers of pagans and magic. Always directed toward a superior power, they are requests for action on the part of a deity. They may or may not include ‘counteroffers’ on the part of the supplicant, such as promises, or sacrifices or animals or grain, as with some primitive religions. They consist of frequent repetition of words or phrases in monotonous tones or in sharply accented rhythms, coupled with definite physical movements. Some incantations are set to music and are sung. A typical Wicca (or Witchcraft) incantation addresses itself to the Mother Goddess or to Diana, describing her beauty and wisdom, and then asking her to help the supplicant in such and such a way.
It is possible to utter an incantation quietly in the privacy of one’s room. Incantations are based on the assumption that the deity understands the significance of the words used. There already exists an agreement between man and deity that this particular formula will be acceptable to the deity in order to perform certain services for the supplicant. Man, to be sure, has no guarantee that this is so. He takes the word of his priest or of tradition perhaps only of his own heart for it. But his firm belief that the invocation used is the right one is a major factor in making it work. The supplicant has done something positive about the situation.
What exactly works in an incantation? I have personally witnessed incantations both by groups and by individuals and at the very least, a sense of elevation and purification of mind and body follows the ritual performance of the incantation. Doubt and negative thinking are replaced by confidence. Moreover, partial or even total identification with the deity may occur. In such a state of near-ecstasy, the supplicant imagines himself possessed by divine powers and goes about solving his problems accordingly. How can we say with certainty that some divine element does not indeed enter the body and mind of the supplicant at that point? If we accept the philosophy that God is within us at all times, it may well be that incantations awaken such dormant sparks of divinity within and make them work for us, together with our own human impetus. At any rate, properly performed and ritualistically staged incantations, when spoken or sung at the height of the emotional wave which accompanies such rituals, are frequently effective.
Do spells and curses really work? Scientifically speaking they are nothing more than highly concentrated energy patterns impressed with certain thoughts and directed towards another person or persons. Many curses have found their mark despite the fact that those affected did not believe in them. In a recent work dealing with the Habsburg family I discussed the effect of a family curse in great detail and showed that it had worked. I know of a noble Austrian family which was wiped out as a result of a seventeenth century curse which finally found its mark even though the original culprit was only remotely related to the later descendants.
Whenever energy passes from one place to another, it causes reactions. If we consider curses, blessings, and spells energy patterns, then these energy patterns may cause effects. Knowledge of an existing curse or blessing also influences those involved, whether or not they are willing to admit it. A person may accept the blessing or curse or wonder whether it will work; even if he doubts it, there is uncertainty involved, which is nearly the same as belief.
All rituals work to the degree they are able to penetrate to the emotional center of the worshiper.”
Sybil put the book down and thought about what she had just read. It had taught her a good deal about rituals and incantations and curses and spells, but what about Indian rituals? Nothing in the passage in Mr. Woodruff’s book dealt with Indians. Was he cognizant of the fact that this was an Indian matter, probably different from anything he had encountered before? Immediately Sybil rejected this notion: after all, Mrs. Mason would not have selected Johnny Woodruff if she had not felt he was capable of dealing with the matter at hand. Speculation at this point was idle: Sybil had seen and read enough. She felt there was no need to read the other book. She returned the books to the librarian, thanked her and left for the house.
By now it was nearly six o’clock and she prepared a simple meal for herself. This evening, to be sure, she might know a great deal more about how to deal with her problems, and she eagerly looked forward to meeting the mysterious Mr. Woodruff.
Promptly at eight p.m. the doorbell rang. She rushed, perhaps a little too eagerly, to open the door and found herself facing an attractive young man who seemed to be about her own age. He nodded politely to her and stepped in as she retreated. She noticed that his sharp blue eyes seemed to question everything he looked at and his movements were quick and deliberate as he walked down the corridor into the living room. He carried a small briefcase which he now put down on the couch next to himself.
“Can I get you something?” she asked.
“What do you have?” he replied.
She laughed. “How about a cup of coffee or drink or some juice?”
“No drink, thank you, but a cup of coffee will do—milk and sugar. Thank you.”
She went to the kitchen where she had earlier made some coffee for herself. There was just enough left in the pot. She took a cup from the pantry and poured his coffee. While she was doing this, she thought to herself that her visitor really was rather good-looking. Immediately she dismissed such a notion. This was not a social call. This was grim business. She returned to the living room and offered him the coffee.
After a moment he looked straight at her and said, “Now then, I understand you have an Indian spirit here who would like to get rid of you.
“That’s an understatement, Mr. Woodruff!” she replied. “He is trying to kill me, or anyone else who lives here. Furthermore, he would like to have this land for use as a sacred Indian burial ground, presumably with the house removed, and he doesn’t want me to keep the opal.”
“Ah yes, the opal. Mrs. Mason wasn’t able to tell me much about it. May I see it?”
“Yes, of course,” Sybil replied and rose. She had been meaning to put the opal in her deposit box but had not yet done so. Thus, it rested carefully wrapped in tissue paper in a little box safe in the back of the linen closet with the box and handed it to the young man. A few moments later she came back. He opened it and took out the opal. The light hit it in a peculiar way so that reflections from it touched the opposite wall. Both noticed something strange about the reflection: it seemed to be fluctuating and growing, as if the opal itself were moving when, in fact, it lay still in Mr. Woodruff’s palm. As they watched in fascination the play of lights on the wall, Woodruff said, “It is very strange—I mean psychometrically speaking, I get some very strange vibrations from it. I almost feel holy. I feel religious, as if this were a religious object.”
“That’s entirely possible,” Sybil replied. “I understand that it is of Tibetan origin. Paul, my late fiancé, found some reference to an opal having been stolen from a Tibetan statue in the eighteenth century and it is probably this one. It is supposed to be the ‘Queen Anne opal,’ and is supposed to be unlucky to all those who possess it.”
“Really?” Woodruff said. Perhaps more hastily than necessary, he put the opal back in the box and handed it to Sybil.
“You’re not afraid of it, are you?” Sybil said. She had not failed to notice the haste with which he had gotten rid of the opal.
He smiled. “In my business one is not afraid of anything, or one shouldn’t be in it, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course, but you seem to be in great haste to get the opal off your hands.”
Again Mr. Woodruff laughed. “That was sheer prudence. I did not want to be included among those whom the original owner or owners wanted eliminated for possessing the
Stone.”
“What do we do now?” Sybil demanded.
The young man leaned back, closed his eyes for a moment thoughtfully and then replied. “As I see it, you have two problems to contend with. On the one hand, you have the Indian chief who wants his land back. On the other hand, you have the stone which he wants returned to its place of origin.”
“How on earth am I going to do that?” Sybil asked. “If the story is true, and it comes from some Tibetan temple, does he expect me to go to Tibet and look for it?”
Again the young man smiled. “To an Indian chief in the spirit world, such matters are of little concern. Only results count. And when it comes to promises and hopes, especially between blood brothers, as this appears to be, nothing can stand in the way of fulfillment. I am afraid your modern sense of practicality will have absolutely no influence on his feelings in the matter.”
“But how-how am I going to satisfy this spirit?”
“That is why I am here, is it not?” the young man replied and looked straight at her. He held her gaze for perhaps a minute or two. At that moment something very strange happened: an energy of some sort passed between them and it seemed to Sybil that she hooked into his particular vibration. At the same time she found herself strangely attracted to this young man, A sense of relief and a positive feeling pervaded her being for a long, long moment. Yes, she thought, this man will help me.
“Then how do you propose to proceed, so far as the opal is concerned?” she asked tremulously.
“Here is what I suggest. In New Jersey there is a little-known but very important monastery founded by Tibetan lamas. It has one of the great temples in the Western world. Would it not be appropriate to ask for the help of the priests of that lamasary and perhaps give the opal to them, either to enshrine it in their own temple or to get it back to Tibet by their own means?”
“A splendid idea,” Sybil replied. She tried to forget the fact that the opal was probably worth a great deal of money, and that it was the most beautiful ring she had ever possessed.
As if he had read her thoughts, the young man shook his head. “No matter how much this stone is worth on the commercial market, and no matter how beautiful it is, you must get rid of it.”
“I understand,” Sybil accepted that she must make the sacrifice. “And I am ready to do what you ask. Your excellent advice shall be followed at once. How do we find this monastery in New Jersey?”
“It is a good thing that I happen to be very rested in Tibetan magick,” Johnny said. He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, consulted it and then turned back to Sybil.
“The lamasary is called the Labsum Shedrub Ling Lamasary. It was founded a long time ago by Tibetan monks who were refugees from their homeland. It is perhaps two and a half to three hours away from the city.”
“But we can’t just drive up there and say, ‘Hey, fellows, do you want our opal,’” Sybil objected.
“No, of course not,” Johnny said. “I will call the abbot and start the ball rolling, so to speak. Of course it will take some explaining, but I think these people will understand. They are all trained in high magick and there should be no difficulty in getting them to accept and properly enshrine the opal in their temple. Whether or not they are willing to take it back to Tibet or have it sent there doesn’t matter, especially since, as you know, Tibet is occupied by the Red Chinese. They may object, quite legitimately, to having this precious, sacred stone fall into the wrong hands. But it seems to me that if the stone were placed in a similar setting to the one it originally came from, our Indian chief might just be satisfied on behalf of his friend, who owned the opal. The stone would no longer be in the wrong hands, meaning yours and mine, but in a sacred environment. I might be able to persuade the angry Indian chief that this is in fact the best solution for the safety of the sacred jewel.”
Sybil had listened to him with an expression of amazement. This young man was certainly capable of suggesting the most unusual plans, she thought. What a blessing that he had come into her life!
“When do you propose to undertake this journey?” she inquired.
Johnny thought this over for a moment. “1 should think it will take me a day or two to make the necessary arrangements. Besides, I feel we must deal with the land first because your tenancy here is limited, I understand.”
Sybil nodded. She had almost forgotten that another week and a half was left and no more. During that time the matter had to be settled.
By now it was past ten o’clock and she knew she had to get up early to go to work the following morning. Again Johnny seemed to read her thoughts, or sense them, for he rose and said, “I think it is time I went back to New York City now, but we must do what we have to do here as soon as possible. Now that I know where the problem lies, I think I can safely say that it will be taken care of. I will come back with all the necessary paraphernalia and we will have a go at the Indian chief’s anger. Hopefully we can release you and anyone else who might live on this piece of land forever.”
“How soon do you think you can do this?” Sybil asked as she led Johnny to the door.
“I realize that you only have a week and a left here, but I have to check my astrological charts to make sure we do this on a propitious day. Everything counts when you are undertaking such a difficult operation as this.”
“Operation? I don’t understand,” Sybil said, puzzled by the term.
He laughed. “A magickal operation, that is the term used. But don’t worry about it. I will call you tomorrow morning and I will be out here within two or three days at the latest-perhaps tomorrow. I have to make sure we are doing it right. We don’t want to fail, do we?”
“No, we don’t,” Sybil said.
For a moment he hesitated at the door and looked at her again in the way he had done before, when she had felt “hooked” into his gaze. Once again, a strong jolt of electricity, or whatever it was, passed between them. She didn’t move.
“Well, thanks for everything,” she said. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him. He looked amazed and pleasantly surprised, but didn’t say anything. He merely smiled and walked out, leaving her standing there wondering what had made her do it.
Long after the door had closed after Johnny, she realized why she had kissed him. The knowledge completely overshadowed who was left of her grief for Paul. In fact, it seemed to her now that Paul had just been Someone who had paved the way for the main event: Johnny was the man she needed to fully realize herself. But how could she be so sure of this when she barely knew him? she wondered. An overriding desire to be with this man blotted out all rationality. For the first time since she had become involved in the strange world of Amityville and its compelling atmosphere, Sybil felt light and free again. This stranger was the bearer of good news, she felt, and if the tragedies of the recent past had paved the way for his coming, then they were something she could live with. This realization, coupled with the hopeful news and her expectancy of early action, made her feel really good for the first time in many weeks. That night she went to bed without the slightest worry or hesitation; she fell into a healthful, deep sleep and awoke just in time to get ready to go to the city. She didn’t recall any dreams, upsetting or otherwise.
She had provided Johnny with her number at work and, sure enough, at eleven o’clock he rang her. His cheerful voice was just what she needed.
“I’ve figured it out,” he said. “We are going to do it tomorrow night. Is that all right with you?”
“Is it all right!” she replied, perhaps a little louder than necessary, for her co-workers turned around. “Is it all right? What time, the day after tomorrow?”
“Not the day after tomorrow,” Johnny corrected. “Tomorrow, tomorrow at eight. I will be there.”
Why had she thought it was to be the day after tomorrow, she immediately wondered? Was her unconscious mind playing tricks on her by postponing for still another day the confrontation with the forces in the house? But deep down Sybil was relieved at the thought that it would be tomorrow after all. “Is there anything you will need? Anything I should get?”
“No, just get a lot of rest tonight and, oh, one thing. I hesitate to bring this up,” he paused. She began to wonder what he wanted, what he meant.
“What is it? Is there anything wrong?”
“No, no, it’s just rather a personal question to do with the ritual we are going to perform. You see, a lot of energy will be raised and both of us have to be in perfect shape.”
“Of course I can understand that. I am fine, there is nothing wrong with me.”
“You are not on any kind of medication?”
“No, nothing at all.”
“One more thing, and please forgive the question. You don’t have your period, do you? Because if you do, we must postpone it; otherwise you would be in danger.”
She had not counted on that kind of question. “No, it isn’t that time of the month. Anything else I should or should not be doing?” There was a tone of annoyance in her voice, for which she hated herself.
He sensed it. “Please forgive me for asking such a personal question, but if it were-- that time of the month, your energies would be depleted and the additional strain could be a danger to your health. That is why I asked.”
“Of course, you are forgiven. You are just doing your job.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I am doing my job and then some. I like my work. Have a good day.”
Before she could say anything further, he hung up. Eight o’clock tomorrow night. What would happen, she had no idea. She knew, in any case, that she was in good hands.