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FACT:

On December 18, 1975, George and Kathy Lutz, and their three children, Daniel, Christopher, and Missy, moved into 112 Ocean Avenue, Amityville, Long Island, a 2 ½ story frame wood-shingle dwelling.

FACT:

On January 15, 1976, the Lutzes fled 112 Ocean Avenue, leaving all of their personal belongings behind in fear of "demonic disturbances" terrorizing their family.

FACT:

The story following is the truth, nothing but the truth, so help me God. How do I know? My name is Ronald Masseo, and I lived at 113 Ocean Avenue, a similar style domicile direct across from what is now known as "America's most infamous haunted house."

FACT:

This is not for the faint of heart. I suggest that if you spook very easy, stop now. However, if you have any balls (or, if you are a woman, any ovaries), then follow my beckoning finger. Let the ride begin.

DECEMBER 18, 1975

9:11 P.M.

A sharp crack woke me from my slumber. My head tilted upwards and to my left, turning towards the sliver opening of my own quarter-eye window on the bedroom of 113 Ocean Avenue. My job as a first shift warehouse worker meant I could sleep normal hours like everyone else, 9-5. So, I had just fallen asleep.

Earlier, before I had gone to work, I remember seeing a white van pulling up with a very large U-Haul behind it in front of the side of 112 Ocean Avenue, a large white Dutch Colonial with a beautiful boathouse and in-ground swimming pool. The family seemed normal enough; the father, some kind of a large, gray wolf, with a sharp, jutting jaw, and very nice, combed hair parted to the left, with a flannel work shirt and faded white jeans with pale leather huarache shoes, was leading the parade of carrying boxes through the wide front door, while the mother, dressed in a rather flashy way, with bright pinks, purples, and violets, large hoop earrings and flashy gold rings drooping from her auburn-fox fur around her delicate head fur and fingers, was impossible to miss. The three children, well, all of them were just adorable, kits any mother and father (well, step-father, I suppose), would be very proud to have. The two boys were dressed identical in polyester shirts with those wild "airplane"-style collars and heavy, bell-bottom jeans, while the little girl was prancing around, singing to herself some silly lullaby, following the family in and out, out and in of the old house, but new to this apparent fine family.

I had to wonder to myself, though, if these people knew about the DeFeo murders almost a year before, in that house. Goddamn, I thought. What aftermath.

Of course no one had heard anything from 112 Ocean Avenue the evening of the murders. Like I said, there was something then, and there is something there now. Even though it is 2013, and all the naysayers and sign-wavers have said their shit about everything not being true and even Danny Lutz (the little boy) stated to be full of shit even after his new movie, well, I'm still living across the street, and I know. Oh, yes, I know.

November 13, 1974, will go down in history as the night in which Ronald DeFeo made Amityville famous in the modern age for the taste of blood and spookings. According to the local authorities, the night after the murders were purported to have occurred, Ronald DeFeo was arrested at the front of 112 Ocean Avenue for the slayings of all six of his family members during what he called a "furious, unconscious rampage" at the hands of something "beyond his control".

Ronald DeFeo was well known in town as a "nice jackrabbit guy". Twenty-four years of age, he did enjoy carousing with his friends and drinking down at the Witches' Brew. Not susceptible to paranoia or emotional disturbances from the viewpoint of any of his close family or friends, he was respected on a very high level and the DeFeos were well-liked all over Amityville.

On the night of November 13, 1974, everything changed. William Weber, who was the attorney for Ronald DeFeo, had this to share on behalf of "Ronnie", who had a very difficult time describing in detail the events of that early morning:

"I remember feeling very haunted all evening. That's right, haunted. Haunted. Like, voices were swirling in my mind, in my throat, in just my entire body. My lopped ears were twitching crazy with voices and nothing I could do to stop them from screeching and screaming. Then, I knew I heard it, a clear voice, like a church bell: "Do it. Kill them. Do it. Kill them." Over and over again, I just heard it. And, in its absurdness, in a very strange way, I felt the one way to give myself peace was to kill them.

"I knew where my father kept the rifle. I went to the small pantry above the basement and retrieved it, and placed six exact rounds in her. I knew that was all I would need . . . just six. I would not miss.

"I turned around, and headed down the hall, turned left and made up the first flight of stairs, and then . . . well, I remember playing Henze, Sinfonien no. 2 3. Adagio on the record player real low downstairs and I just (sic) I (sic) I just started, I started slaughtering them. I couldn't believe how easy it was and how happy it made me to kill my brothers, sisters, mother and father like that. I didn't only fire one round into each of them from a foot away into each of their brains. I (breaking down, laughing at the same time), I ate their brains. I ATE THEIR BRAINS! I ate their brains . . . and smiled while I did it."

Had the Lutzes known that fact on December 18, 1975 when they moved in, as I watched the children giggling and the parents looking somewhat content at this new stage in their life? I would have to think not, but then, who knows? In this day and age, people are people, but, my God . . . I will never forget that night, after the murders, when they carried those body bags out to the police cars, and even from my house, I could smell the dead stench, rotting corpses, like flies, maggots, things in the earth.

So, my eyes jerked open at 9:11, the same day that the Lutzes had moved into 112 Ocean Avenue, also where the DeFeo story is now still in my mind a fresh and bleeding present history. A dog barked. A dog? I arose out of my twin bed, and pulled the curtain from my partial eye window. From my viewpoint, I could see the opposite side of 112 Ocean Avenue, the side now that is so infamous in many pictures across America. You know, with the "eyes". The boathouse lay to the right. The boathouse was a decent sized structure, a normal-sized boathouse, with an almost steeple-topped roof.

There was one light on in the house, on the first floor, facing my house. My house was similar to 112 Ocean Avenue, but a smaller version, half the size, 25 square feet by 118 square feet and 2 floors, sans boathouse and in-ground swimming pool. A bare driveway and fric-a-frac garage are my delicacies. Now, my 2011 BMW stands guard in the garage, but back then, my old VW Bug was my glory.

The front door to 112 Ocean Avenue creaked open, and the stepfather walked out, with something in his mammoth paws. This man was mammoth. He must have been at least 6'7" or 6'8", and weighed about 270. Next to his wife, who looked to be about 5'5" or so and 150, I wonder how they did between the sheets. The wolf brought the object down to the entrance of the boathouse and dropped it down by my right corner. A dog started out from beneath an elm tree. What appeared to be a black Labrador jumped up on his wolf master, and wagged his or her tail. "That a boy, Harry!" Harry, so the dog was a boy. Yes, my window was closed, but my hearing was, and still is, super-sensitive. "Here's some water. Be a good boy." The wolf bent down and gave Harry a tight hug while the dog kissed his rough face with eagerness and danced around, sniffing still the new scents of his new surroundings.

The large wolf made his way back inside, and shut the door. The large sharp sound had just been the front door. Just the door? _Sounded like a goddamned bullet. _

I remained standing for a while longer, watching the dog crouching around, sniffing the boathouse area around like a security guard, looking for evidence. The water stayed untouched, which seemed odd, but I thought, Oh well, Harry's not thirsty. Soon, I went back to sleep.

DECEMBER 19, 1975

3:16 A.M.

"Hey, Harry, get 'em! GET 'EM, HARRY!"

The loud sound of the voice caused me to jump large out of my leopard fur and my eyes, for the second time that evening, pounced huge out of their sockets. Again, I arose out of my bed, but this time, I leapt a little more than crept. Pushing aside my gray window curtains, I saw Harry barking very furious at what first appeared to be nothing. Then . . .

Then, I really thought the moonlight, not influenced by any clouds for it was a clear night, was playing queer tricks on me through witch spells. That was dismissed when a large and tar-black, very tall shadow-type image moved through Harry and through and over the boathouse. I swear to God on the very throne that the whole movement lasted at least eight seconds. I drink Pabst Blue Ribbon down at the Witches' Brew almost every night, but I have never touched that marijuana or LSD, so I know I was not having any hallucinations. Right away, I received a very sick and weak feeling deep in my stomach, as if I had been punched in the lower part of my stomach with a very blunt dagger. Or an axe.

I allowed myself to fall towards the bed, so that when I fell, my upper leopard body was hanging off the bed and my midsection and legs were dangling over and on the floor. Gasping and very terrified, I gave myself several moments to breathe deep before I moved, trying to rationalize just what the fuck I had seen . . . or thought I had seen. No, I had seen it, I convinced myself. I had. There is something still wrong in that house, I reminded myself. Back when the Shinnecock Indians used the grounds where the house now lay for their lunatic ceremonies was very evil and wrong, that house is still a piece for the damned, and a haven for the wretched.

In order to get back to sleep from such a living nightmare, I knew desperate measures would have to be taken. First, I ripped off my tight white tee-shirt (I was, and still am, well-toned), and my blue-square pajama bottoms, and started to jerk off my large, ten-inch leopard cock, spotted rather generous with tan and black spots and a well-adorned crimson head. From all the fear, and the intense energy with which I had been fed from my own experience with the shadow, my powerful orgasm reached rapid fruit. Steaming rivers of vanilla cream splatted my little pink nose, plush chest and stomach, balls, tight soccer-style legs and feet. At the age of twenty-two, I had a lot of muscle and stamina, and could fucking last forever.

Then, without bothering to wash myself off (I love being covered), I went back under the bed covers, still shivering with great fear, but at least with some pleasure running through my system now. I should be able to sleep now, I thought. It was fortunate that during my masturbating, the dog had stopped its furious barking at whatever had been out there

(whatever)

but then, a sudden and violent clap of thunder, followed by the inevitable flash of lightning, invaded into my bedroom, and I realized that the nightmare had maybe just begun. Rain slammed hard against my window and howls of shaking wind shook my walls before I could obtain REM again.