Nonfiction
When Danielle Winslow accepted Louis Hackett's proposal of marriage, she assumed she would be embarking upon a life of wealth and leisure. After all, Louis owned his own business and could well afford to support her and her three children in a style to which she longed to become accustomed. Throughout her first marriage to her high school sweetheart, she had to scrimp and save, clip coupons, budget her spending, and often do without many of the things she wanted out of life. When that marriage, based on love and physical attraction, ended so disastrously, Danielle made a solemn vow that if she ever chose to marry again, it would be her head and not her heart that made the decision.
During their brief courtship, Louis, a forty-year-old bachelor who had all but given up hope of ever finding a woman to settle down with, had been generous, often sending her flowers and frequently giving her tokens of his affection. Once the unsuspecting groom placed the gold band on his bride's finger, however, he exchanged his years of loneliness for rising debts and the threat of bankruptcy, for there was no end to his wife's demands for clothes, jewelry, vacation trips and even a new car.
Louis, who truly adored his beautiful young wife, tried to turn a blind eye to the growing mountain of bills. Unfortunately, the marriage not only caused a steady drain on his income but also limited the amount of time he could devote to attending to business matters and seeking out new customers. Consequently, the previously successful Hackett Construction, suffering from the effects of a sagging economy as well as its owner's dwindling attempts to bring in new business, began to lose money.
Such was the state of the Hacketts' financial affairs when Louis and Danielle were invited to attend a wedding held in the exclusive community of Shellgate Beach, New York. As Louis drove his wife's new Mercedes down Long Island's scenic Bayview Drive, Danielle gazed out her window at the rambling, stately homes with professionally landscaped lawns. These were the houses she had always dreamed of owning, not the little bi-level in the overcrowded New Jersey suburb in which she and Louis lived.
Daydreaming, Danielle ignored Louis as he droned on about his long-standing friendship with the father of the bride. Suddenly, she was jolted out of her reverie by the sight of a small, unpretentious wooden sign on the lawn of a three-story Dutch colonial. Two words, printed in red capital letters, made her heart race: FOR SALE. She did not point out the house to Louis at that time, preferring to wait for a more auspicious occasion in which to bring up the subject. The next day, though, she made an appointment with the realtor to view the house.
Throughout the tour, Danielle maintained a cool, detached air, trying to camouflage her interest. She merely grunted or nodded in response to the agent's glowing descriptions of the house, the grounds and the surrounding neighborhood.
"The schools are among the best in the state," the realtor declared, reciting her well-rehearsed sales pitch.
"I'm sure they are," Danielle said, "but my husband would prefer something closer to the city. I know he wouldn't want to make that long drive every day."
"I understand, Mrs. Hackett. Of course, there is the train; the station is less than a mile from here."
"I suppose he might consider commuting, but ...."
"May I speak plainly? This house is an incredible bargain. You'll never find another one in this area for so low a price."
"What is the seller asking?" Danielle inquired, dreading the inevitable discussion of the price tag.
The agent's reply took her by surprise, so much so that she could not conceal her astonishment at what was an exceptionally low cost for such an exquisite house.
* * *
Louis made a valiant attempt to explain the foolishness of making a major investment, given their depleted cash reserves, but Danielle's tears and sulking eventually wore him down. Although he had to use the money in his retirement account as a down payment and carry an exorbitant mortgage, he had to admit that the place was a steal. The owners could have gotten at least a hundred thousand more than what the Hacketts paid for the house. It never occurred to Louis to question the reason for such a low price; he was too delighted by his wife's joy over her latest material acquisition.
Barely a month after the Hacketts moved into their new home, Louis's business took an unexpected hit. The owner of a proposed outlet mall, who had hired Hackett Construction to build the eighty-seven stores in the massive shopping center, was killed in a car crash. After his death, the project was scrapped. With the loss of that job, Louis could no longer grit his teeth, pay his bills and quietly sink deeper into debt; he was at rock bottom.
"We're broke," he announced forlornly. "I can't make next month's electric bill much less the mortgage payment."
"Then you'll just have to go to the bank and take out a loan," his wife suggested.
"They'll never give me one. I have no collateral. The business is losing money, and we have virtually no equity in this place," he argued, waving his arms about the huge formal living room.
"We have to do something," Danielle cried. "I couldn't bear to lose this house!"
Louis racked his brain but could think of no way out of their dire financial straits. Meanwhile, the bills continued to pile up. When they went unpaid, collection agencies began to call. The worried builder did not know how long he could hold out.
Then one evening when he arrived home from work, tired and discouraged from a day of battling with creditors and scavenging for business, Louis noticed his sister-in-law's car parked in the circular drive. Had Danielle told him about this visit? If she did, he must have forgotten.
"Oh, Louis, darling, I'm so glad you're home," his wife said, bubbling with excitement as she met him at the door with two champagne glasses in her hands.
"What's the occasion?" he asked, knowing full well his wife had never harbored any great affection for her younger sister.
"I think I've found the solution to our little problem," she whispered, as she led him into the living room.
Danielle's sister, Mary Anne—who, for the past year or so, answered only to the name of Ophelia—sat cross-legged on the floor, dressed in a long funereal black dress. The artificial paleness of her face and her dark eye shadow made her look like an extra from The Night of the Living Dead.
"Hello, Mary, uh, Ophelia. Nice to see you."
Her full lips, generously coated with dark purple lipstick, almost formed a smile, a habit she had given up when she decided to go Gothic.
"I can't believe neither you nor my sister knew the history of this place when you bought it."
"This house has a history? Don't tell me George Washington slept here," Louis laughed.
"How droll! Do you think I'd travel two hours to see a house for something so mundane?"
"Heaven forbid!"
"Did you ever hear of a young man named Antonio Martinelli?"
"Sounds vaguely familiar. What is he, a rock star? A baseball player?"
The Morticia Adams wannabe rolled her eyes in contempt of her brother-in-law's ignorance.
"The Martinelli family owned this house. Three years ago, the oldest son, Antonio, came home from the local bar at 3:00 a.m., walked into the den, got his father's shotgun from the cabinet, and then went upstairs and killed his entire family: parents, brothers and sisters. Six people were murdered right under this very roof."
This time, the young woman could not suppress the ghoulish smile that spread across her macabre-looking face.
* * *
When they were alone in the master bedroom later that night, Danielle asked her husband triumphantly, "Didn't I tell you I'd found a way to solve our problem?"
"What happened here was a great tragedy, and it does explain why the house sold for the low price it did; but I fail to see how these murders affect us—except maybe to cause nightmares."
"Ophelia told me quite a bit about the Martinelli boy. He claimed there was a demon in this house, one that possessed him during the time he murdered his family."
"He was probably trying to lay the groundwork for an insanity plea."
"I don't know if his story is true or not, and frankly I don't care. What's important is that he laid the groundwork for our book."
Louis stared at his wife, dumbfounded.
"What book?"
"The one we're going to write about the terrifying experiences we've had to endure while living in this house."
"But, darling, we've experienced nothing out of the ordinary."
"So? No one knows that. Who's to prove us wrong?"
"No. I refuse to even consider such an outlandish idea. Even if we're not accused of fraud, do you think anyone in his right mind will ever believe us? We'll join the ranks of the kooks and crackpots who claim to have seen Big Foot or to have been abducted by aliens in UFOs."
"You listen to me, Louis Hackett," she spat out, using his full name with furious emphasis. "I don't give a damn if the Men in Black show up on our doorstep with a pair of his and hers designer straitjackets. I'll do anything to keep from losing this house. Anything!"
* * *
Danielle, who believed such a book would be a huge commercial success, was faced with the problem of finding an immediate source of cash to tide them over until it could be written and published. First, she convinced Louis to cash in his life insurance policy and sell the Mercedes. Next, she hocked the jewelry, furs and expensive handbags that he had given her. Finally, the family temporarily moved to a cheap, furnished apartment with neither telephone nor cable television.
The pampered young woman was able to bear living under those drastically reduced circumstances by devoting her time to researching all the available information on the murders, the details of Antonio Martinelli's trial, and the early history and legends of Shellgate Beach. She also read several books on demonology, possession, hauntings and supernatural phenomena, taking copious notes that she used to compile a personal journal describing a sequence of bizarre and inexplicable events that were supposed to have taken place over the four months the Hacketts had lived in the house.
Only when her entirely fictional journal was near completion did Danielle finally realize how difficult, if not downright impossible, it was for an unknown writer to get published. In this nearly unattainable quest, she was to find a surprising ally: Ruben Goodman, Antonio Martinelli's defense attorney. She had contacted his office requesting routine information about his client's sentence and appeal; afterward, the self-serving lawyer invited her to his office.
"So, Mrs. Hackett, I understand you are currently writing a book on the Martinelli murders," he said, getting right to the point.
"Not exactly. I'm writing a book on the house in Shellgate Beach."
"The house? I don't follow you."
"My husband and I purchased the former Martinelli home and lived there for four months. It was the most frightening experience we've ever had. We eventually had to flee in the middle of the night in fear for our very lives."
Danielle had been rehearsing this little speech for weeks, trying to make it sound as convincing as possible.
The lawyer eyed her skeptically, and laughingly asked, "Was that before or after you heard about my client's demon possession story?"
Danielle returned Goodman's steely gaze.
After sizing the attorney up, she replied, "If it can help your client during his appeal, does it really matter?"
Ruben smiled in recognition and appreciation of a fellow hustler.
"Off the record, Mrs. Hackett, I'm not interested in my client's chances for a new trial. He killed six members of his own family, and as far as I'm concerned he got what he deserved. Now, I'm willing to contribute important information to your book, but only for a percentage of the royalties."
"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Goodman," Danielle announced, unwilling to cut him in on any profits, "but I don't see how you can help me. The book is an account of my family's personal experiences in the house, not the murder of the Martinelli family."
"I suppose your literary agent already found a publisher."
His eyebrows lifted inquiringly.
"I don't have an agent," she admitted sheepishly. "I've been trying to find a publisher on my own, but I haven't had much luck."
"Ah, perhaps I can be of help then. I represented a fairly successful writer on a plagiarism charge a few years back. Would you like me to call him and see what he suggests, Mrs. Hackett?"
"If we're going to be partners in this venture, why don't you call me Danielle?"
* * *
The Shellgate Beach Horror was published the following spring. It was authored by Ruben Goodman's former client, Milo Ingersoll, who rewrote Danielle's journal so that it read more like a thriller than a diary. When The National Tattler reprinted select excerpts from the book, the Martinellis, the Hacketts and the house at Shellgate Beach became nationally known. Book sales soared. The Shellgate Beach Horror spent more than sixteen months on the bestseller list, competing with the latest novels by Stephen King, Tom Clancy and Dan Brown. A Hollywood producer bought the rights to the book, and The Shellgate Beach Horror became one of the top-grossing films of the year.
Nearly overnight Louis and Danielle found themselves swimming in cash rather than sinking into debt. The only problem was that, with the public interest in their story so high, the couple became tabloid press celebrities and were hounded by the paparazzi. Under the circumstances, they could hardly move back into their house after claiming they had fled from it in terror.
"Oh, well," Danielle laughed, "now that we're rich, why go back to Shellgate Beach? In fact, I was just thinking the other day how nice it would be to live on the West Coast, maybe Beverly Hills."
Louis beamed at his wife with pride and affection. It was just like her to keep reaching. He wondered, with mild amusement, if she would ever be satisfied.
* * *
Two days after moving into their Bel Air mansion, Louis and Danielle Hackett were awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of the bedroom door slamming.
"What was that?" Danielle whispered.
Before Louis could reply, the light on the dresser suddenly went on, soon followed by the plasma TV on the wall.
"Louis, what the hell is going on?"
"There must be some problem with the electrical wiring or ...."
He stopped speaking mid-sentence when the volume of the television was turned up high. The bedroom door slammed shut, then opened, then slammed shut, then opened again.
Danielle screamed and grabbed her husband's arm.
"I'm scared, Lou," she cried.
The lights and television went off, the temperature dropped drastically and a cold, misty cloud formed in the center of the room. As the Hacketts watched in horror, the strange cloud grew in size and then separated into six indistinct forms. Before long, the forms took the shape of a man, a woman and four children. The clouds increased in density, and the spectral visitors became recognizable as the ghosts of the father, mother and siblings who had been murdered by Antonio Martinelli in the three-story Dutch colonial in Shellgate Beach, New York. After several terrifying minutes, the ghosts vanished, and the house returned to normal—at least for the remainder of that night.
"I'm getting out of here," Danielle cried as she reached for her robe.
"And go where?" her husband asked. "Surely those ghosts will follow us to the next place, just like they must have followed us here from Shellgate Beach."
"But we never saw any ghosts in New York! Why would they appear to us here? Now?"
"Don't you get it? By writing that book and drawing worldwide attention to the murders, you disrupted their eternal rest. Morbidly curious weirdoes like that sister of yours make gruesome pilgrimages to Shellgate Beach to gawk at the house and the graves of the Martinellis."
"But when I wrote that journal I never dreamed there were such things as ghosts. I certainly had no idea that Antonio Martinelli's victims would rise up to haunt me. Tell me, Lou, what can we do about it?"
"I don't know. I guess we'll just have to get used to it."
Danielle let out a pitiful sob and crumpled on the bed like a discarded rag doll.
* * *
In the years that followed, the ghosts of the murdered Martinelli family members came back to haunt the Hacketts time and time again despite their hiring mediums, paranormal investigators and even a Catholic priest to rid them of their ghostly tormentors. There were periods when their eerie visits ceased for months at a time when Danielle optimistically thought the ordeal had finally come to an end, but then a new televised documentary or movie sequel concerning the Shellgate Beach Horror would call attention to the Martinelli tragedy, and the haunting would resume.
The success of the original movie spawned several sequels and a remake of the first film. Although the Hacketts received a percentage of the sale of every paperback, theater ticket, videocassette and DVD sold, the increased wealth did not bring them any happiness. In time, they resigned themselves to the sad fact that as long as there was money to be made, Hollywood would see to it that the tragedy that had occurred in Shellgate Beach would remain in the public eye. And with their names kept alive in print and on film, the souls of the slain Martinellis could find no peace. Faced with relentless unrest and spiritual turmoil, the murder victims repeatedly returned to the mansion in Bel Air to terrorize the woman who had unwittingly roused them from their graves.
Although inspired by the events surrounding the Amityville Horror, all characters and incidents are fictional. The image in the upper left corner is of the Amityville Horror house.
I should write a book about the horror that nearly drove me from my house. Can you guess what that is?
