The Amityville Rental

If you've ever watched the Amityville Horror (featured in a book and two movies), you know the familiar story of the Lutz family, who finds this beautiful Dutch colonial house on Long Island for a great price, only to discover something evil lurks within. Such is real estate. You just never know what you’re going to get until you move in.

“There's nothing like it on the market. Not at this price.”—Mrs. Townsend, Amityville Horror, 1979

My younger daughter, Chelsea, recently signed a lease on a beautiful apartment in the attic of someone’s home in Dover. It was remodeled with a brand new kitchen and lovely tiled bathroom. The floors were hardwood and it is, quite frankly, a very attractive apartment. The rent was reasonable, considering how crazy rents in Northern New Jersey can be. And she is basically happy there.

Dover has a train station. [Robert Sciarrino/The Star-Ledger]

Before she rented it, the landlord’s father took us on a tour of the place. The family she rents from is quite nice, the typical first-generation-American, working-class family that occupies these parts. I was pleased with the apartment and the people who lived in the main house. One thing that struck me as odd, but only in passing, was a clause in the lease. It read that if Chelsea took legal action against the landlord, she would be liable for his legal costs. Maybe that is standard in leases these days, but I had never seen it before.

I think the first inkling that there might be organ music playing in a minor key, was when she called me up in a panic at 12:30 one night to say that there was running and scratching noises in the ceiling. I tried to calm her down. It was probably mice or squirrels. That's fairly common in suburbia. Since the landlord lived beneath her, surely he would have some stake in taking care of the problem.

“Your house frightens me, Mrs. Lutz.”—Father Callaway, Amityville Horror, 2005

A day or two later, the next phone call I got, she found out that the thermostat didn’t work. That meant if she turned on the air conditioning, it would not stop at a particular temperature. Instead it would keep chugging out cold air until it was frigid enough to store a side of beef. The problem with this is that she has to pay for her own electric. If the thermostat never turns off, then it should be heart-stopping to see her first electric bill.

Shortly thereafter, she found out that there was not enough hot water to take a shower. Normally, a tenant would have her own hot water tank, so this seemed a bit strange. Finally, this past week, when she decided to do some baking, she found out that the oven doesn’t work. The burners heat up, but the oven does not. Mind you, she just moved in a few weeks ago, so there are 11 more months on her lease to discover whatever other horrors might await in her new residence.

The landlord has been to her apartment to look into the pests in the attic and the thermostat, but so far nothing has been fixed. Fortunately, Chelsea is patient and philosophical. She understands the landlord has a full-time job and this is something he does on the side. She understands that what is wrong with the apartment may not be an easy fix. She also knows, due to the clause in the lease, she cannot afford any legal action should these problems persist.

“[sobs] Why is it all going wrong? We have to do something.”—Kathy Lutz, Amityville Horror, 1979

Looking on the bright side: Unlike the residence of horror fame, no one has been murdered in her apartment, no ghosts are terrorizing her and the walls do not bleed. There is also no demonic pig creature named Jodie with red glowing eyes. Hopefully, the landlord will be as honest as he appears and will take care of the problems in the next few weeks. If not, she will endure the next year unwashed, braving extreme temperatures, bereft of oven, with the unwanted companionship of several unseen, noisy wall pets.

The Tingler and Other Tales of Horror

My husband recently dropped a small box of art pads at work and when he bent to retrieve it, he felt a twinge in his back. Little did he know, this hardly noticeable spasm would eventually become a personal re-enactment of the cheesy science fiction movie, The Tingler. You may recall, that was the movie where creepy centipedes were crawling inside of everyone, created by fear. (Vincent Price discovers they can only be killed by loud screaming.)

Where are maniacal doctors
when you need them?

My testosteroned other half finished his 10-hour work day without event. When he got home that evening, the pain had increased, but was still not that bad. At this point in the movie, discordant music was playing in the background, signaling impending doom. Darkness descended. We went to bed. Then it happened. At 5:30 in the morning, I awoke to hear his blood-curdling screams. Was he trying to kill a Tingler or had he thrown out his back?

His horror soon became mine. Just after his back viciously attacked him, we were hit with another snow storm and I was suddenly left with the lone task of shoveling the walkway and driveway. At 7:30 a.m., I bundled up and stoically trudged out into the blinding white to re-enact my own version of The Thing. That flick took place in Alaska where a DWI alien spacecraft crash landed. Unfortunately, the only way this invader-with-a-bad-haircut could survive was by drinking blood. (Kenneth Toby discovers it can only be killed through electrocution.)

One of my neighbors.

As I laboriously scooped up the thick covering of snow with my aluminum snow shovel, two men—one across the street and another in the yard next to mine—plowed away effortlessly with loud, smelly gasoline snow blowers. Something was wrong with this picture. Neither neighbor felt compelled to help a woman who was fecklessly flinging chunks of snow into tiny replicas of Mt. Everest. Perhaps they were really unfeeling aliens, touching down to tidy up my neighbors' yards. Then the blood-sucking would begin. Time to get the Tazer^®.

As I ran around doing everything inside and outside of the house, my Beloved found solace in painting a model of a World War II Spitfire MK-II fighter plane, surfing the net and shooting off emails to his coworkers and friends. Unable to get up from his chair, he had surrendered to a peaceful existence within the confines of our kitchen. His injury forced him to sit and adopt a remarkably zen convalescence, despite the wriggling creature that was occupying his back.

Meanwhile, I sat bravely staring at the cable weather report, thinking about the blood-sucking aliens that must be lurking outside...waiting. The onslaught of snow was not over. It would return, again and again, plaguing our neighborhood all winter, like meteorological bedbugs.

NOTE: Special thanks to my husband, cheesy movie consultant and faithful, cranky companion.