The Devil I Know: My Haunting Journey with Ronnie DeFeo and the True Story ofthe Amityville Murders Read Online Free
Author: Jackie Barrett
case online. I had regained some of my strength following my bout with pneumonia, but the aftereffects weren’t quite gone, and I was still pretty run-down. I was about to switch off the computer and turn in for the night when something stopped me cold. I was looking at one of the mug shots snapped of Ronnie DeFeo on the night of the murders. I suddenly realized, with the force of a punch, that it was the same face that had floated into my bedroom more than forty years ago.
It was 1966, and I was four. My older brother Billy had been told to look after me that day, as was often the case. When you’re the youngest sibling of six, you’re always the one being taken care of. I didn’t yet know that I was the strongest of any of us.
My father was at the steel factory, my mother at a client’s. Billy was in his room with a girl. A thirteen-year-old boy, even a smart one like Billy, has only one thing on his mind. My mom had a rule: no girls in the house when he was taking care of me. But the minute she drove off, it seemed a girl would appear instantly, like she’d merely been hiding in the closet. Maybe she had, for all I knew.
Billy was showing this girl an Elvis album and trying to warm her up for a kiss. I knew this because I was spying on them from the edge of my bedroom, down the hall. They were sitting on his bed. She had braces andshoulder-length blonde hair. When I got too curious for my own good and crossed the hall to get a better vantage point, Billy spotted me and told me to go back to my room—he’d come get me when it was time for lunch. But he said it with affection, not annoyance. Billy had a big heart. He would save his comics for me, teach me how to put a worm on a hook. He taught me how to write my name,
Jackie
.
I went back to my room and picked up a doll. I had started having a conversation with the doll when the feeling of being watched made my nerves jump. I looked up and saw an enormous face materialize on the white wall of my bedroom. Along with the face came a torso and two arms whose hands were held outward, as though the wrists were bound together. As the figure lifted off my wall and began floating toward me, I sat paralyzed by fear. It drifted slowly toward me and hovered a moment, looking directly at me, expressing nothing. My voice felt choked at first, in the way one can never seem to produce a sound during a terrifying dream, but then my silence broke and I shrieked.
Yelling my name, Billy burst through the doorway of my bedroom, the girl trailing him. My brother was big for his age, built solidly, like our father. As I reached for Billy, I saw a portal open on my wall, a swirling field of gray. Billy must have seen it, too, because he paused halfway across the room to look back at the wall. The floating figure, which had reached my bedside, suddenly darted its arms out, reaching for me. I felt its touch, shadowy but horrifyingly real. Billy’s girlfriend was immobile, herhand over her mouth, tears streaming down her fine cheekbones.
Billy grabbed my hand, tugged me hard, and we ran—out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door. Then we kept going, all the way to the edge of the lake a quarter of a mile away.
As we caught our breath, Billy looked at the girl and told her never to tell anyone else about what had happened. Together we walked her home. I never saw her again in our home or with Billy.
Though Billy had told the girl to stay mum, with our own family, we hid nothing. My parents had taught us not to keep secrets from one another. That night, when we told them what had happened, my mother sat silent. In Creole, my grandmother, sitting in the next chair, whispered, “The devil finds his way.”
There was something else my parents taught: don’t show fear. If we had a bad dream, we weren’t allowed to go to their bed seeking a reassuring cuddle. We were supposed to stay in our own beds and deal with the fear. If we felt anxious in the dark, no one went out
It was 1966, and I was four. My older brother Billy had been told to look after me that day, as was often the case. When you’re the youngest sibling of six, you’re always the one being taken care of. I didn’t yet know that I was the strongest of any of us.
My father was at the steel factory, my mother at a client’s. Billy was in his room with a girl. A thirteen-year-old boy, even a smart one like Billy, has only one thing on his mind. My mom had a rule: no girls in the house when he was taking care of me. But the minute she drove off, it seemed a girl would appear instantly, like she’d merely been hiding in the closet. Maybe she had, for all I knew.
Billy was showing this girl an Elvis album and trying to warm her up for a kiss. I knew this because I was spying on them from the edge of my bedroom, down the hall. They were sitting on his bed. She had braces andshoulder-length blonde hair. When I got too curious for my own good and crossed the hall to get a better vantage point, Billy spotted me and told me to go back to my room—he’d come get me when it was time for lunch. But he said it with affection, not annoyance. Billy had a big heart. He would save his comics for me, teach me how to put a worm on a hook. He taught me how to write my name,
Jackie
.
I went back to my room and picked up a doll. I had started having a conversation with the doll when the feeling of being watched made my nerves jump. I looked up and saw an enormous face materialize on the white wall of my bedroom. Along with the face came a torso and two arms whose hands were held outward, as though the wrists were bound together. As the figure lifted off my wall and began floating toward me, I sat paralyzed by fear. It drifted slowly toward me and hovered a moment, looking directly at me, expressing nothing. My voice felt choked at first, in the way one can never seem to produce a sound during a terrifying dream, but then my silence broke and I shrieked.
Yelling my name, Billy burst through the doorway of my bedroom, the girl trailing him. My brother was big for his age, built solidly, like our father. As I reached for Billy, I saw a portal open on my wall, a swirling field of gray. Billy must have seen it, too, because he paused halfway across the room to look back at the wall. The floating figure, which had reached my bedside, suddenly darted its arms out, reaching for me. I felt its touch, shadowy but horrifyingly real. Billy’s girlfriend was immobile, herhand over her mouth, tears streaming down her fine cheekbones.
Billy grabbed my hand, tugged me hard, and we ran—out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door. Then we kept going, all the way to the edge of the lake a quarter of a mile away.
As we caught our breath, Billy looked at the girl and told her never to tell anyone else about what had happened. Together we walked her home. I never saw her again in our home or with Billy.
Though Billy had told the girl to stay mum, with our own family, we hid nothing. My parents had taught us not to keep secrets from one another. That night, when we told them what had happened, my mother sat silent. In Creole, my grandmother, sitting in the next chair, whispered, “The devil finds his way.”
There was something else my parents taught: don’t show fear. If we had a bad dream, we weren’t allowed to go to their bed seeking a reassuring cuddle. We were supposed to stay in our own beds and deal with the fear. If we felt anxious in the dark, no one went out
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