Transcript
McLeod Andrews (0:00)
Hey, Kristen, how's it tracking with Carvana Value Tracker? What else? Oh, it's tracking, in fact. Value surge alert. Trucks up 2.5%, vans down 1.7, just as predicted. Mm.
Brian Sigley (0:15)
So we gonna.
McLeod Andrews (0:16)
I don't know.
Brian Sigley (0:17)
Could sell.
McLeod Andrews (0:17)
Could hold the power to always know our car's worth. Exhilarating, isn't it? Tracking Always know your car's worth with Carvana Value Tracker.
Brian Sigley (0:32)
At New Balance, we believe if you run, you're a runner, however you choose to do it. Because when you're not worried about doing.
McLeod Andrews (0:42)
Things the right way, you're free to discover your way.
Brian Sigley (0:52)
And that's what running's all about. Run your way@newbalance.com Running hey, everyone, it's Bryan. And since you're a fan of Sightings, I know you love great creepy stories, so I want to recommend True Scary Story, a podcast that brings you real horror stories told directly by the people who lived them. Get ready for ghostly encounters, paranormal activity, and terrifying moments that'll haunt you. So if you love true horror, you need to check out True Scary Story. You can find it on Spotify, Apple podcasts, and everywhere you listen.
McLeod Andrews (1:37)
Every house has its secrets. Whispers of the varied lives lived between its walls. But what happens when those whispers turn to screams? Turning a dream home into an absolute nightmare? Because if houses have memories, what happens when they hold a grudge? Welcome to Sightings, the series that takes you inside the world's most mysterious supernatural events. Each episode, we bring you a thrilling story that puts you at the center of the action, followed by a discussion that dives into the accounts that inspired this story and our takes on them. I'm McLeod.
Brian Sigley (2:15)
And I'm Brian. And today we are tackling one of the most infamous ghost stories ever. The Amityville Haunting.
McLeod Andrews (2:22)
When one family moves into their dream home, they quickly realize that something else lurks within its walls. But is this the most terrifying haunting of all time? Or the most notorious hoax? Find out on this episode of Sight. My name is George Lutz. I'm 32 years old, father of three, and until tonight, the owner of 112 Ocean Avenue in Amityville. I suppose that legally, technically, I still own the place. But I'm never going back there. Not for my furniture, my clothes, none of it. Because that house, it's evil. Pure, unfiltered evil. You'd never know from the looks of it, of course. A beautiful Dutch colonial sitting right on the water. Complete with a boathouse and swimming pool. Three stories, six bedrooms, three and a half baths, and a finished basement. The kind of place most families can only dream about. I remember the moment Kathy and I first stepped inside. We'd been married only a couple months and been house hunting nearly as long since Kathy had three kids from her previous marriage. We were desperate to find something big enough for our blended family and this place. Well, right there in the foyer, I saw Kathy's face light up and I could tell she was mentally arranging furniture, planning where the Christmas tree would go, imagining our life here. This was it. This was home. Of course, the price seemed too good to be true. $80,000 for a house that should have cost at least 125,000. And since I've always been a bit more than practical, I'd learned long ago that when something's being sold below market value, there's usually a reason. So I asked, and that's when our realtor told us. I noticed then that she'd been uncomfortable the whole time she'd been in the house, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting with her keys, clearing her throat. But after I asked her about the price, she took a deep breath, forced a brave smile, and explained that 13 months earlier, a young man named Ronald DeFeo Jr. Had shot and killed his entire family in this house while they slept. Six people, his parents and four younger siblings, all murdered in their beds right in that very house. And I suppose that's not what anyone wants to hear about the home of their dreams. So Kathy and I took a long walk alone around the property. And as we talked it all through, I noticed the distinctive quarter moon windows on the third floor. To me, they looked like eyes watching over the property, and I found that incredibly unnerving. But at the same time, that made me realize how silly I felt. It was just a house, after all. Besides, a tragedy from the past had nothing to do with us. So we bought 112 Ocean Avenue right then and there. We could handle a house with a dark history. But it turns out we were wrong about that. So, so wrong. The day of our move, a friend suggested having the house blessed, and it seemed like a good precaution given the history. So I called a priest. I knew Father Ralph, and he set out to do his thing, but when he came back outside, he was shaken and said we shouldn't use one of the upstairs rooms as a bedroom, but wouldn't say why. I at least pressed him for which room it was, and he said it was the smallest one. And I honestly breathed a sigh of relief because we didn't plan on using that as a bedroom at all but a sewing room for Kathy. Superstitious crisis averted, we settled in. The kids were all thrilled to have their own room and I was ready to settle into this next chapter of my life. I fell asleep before my head even hit the pillow. But at 3:15am Exactly, I bolted up in bed. There was no nightmare or noise that I could recall. I just felt this nagging need to check the house. So I got up, careful not to wake Kathy, and walked through each room checking on the kids, making sure all the doors and windows were locked. And wouldn't you know it, everything was absolutely fine. But the next night the same thing happened. Wide awake at 3:15 on the dot, I got up again and this time noticed the side door to the boathouse was open, which was strange because I distinctly remembered locking it before bed. I secured it again and went back to sleep, though not easily. By the end of our first week in the house, I'd woken up at exactly 3:15 every single night. And there were other odd things too. Things we tried to write off as new house jitters and nothing more. But our dog Harry, normally the most even tempered Labrador you'd ever meet, refused to enter certain parts of the house and would stand at the foot of the stairs barking at nothing. We'd find random cold spots throughout the house, areas where the temperature would drop 20 degrees for no apparent reason, even with the heating running full blast. And then there were the flies. Even in the dead of winter, swarms of black flies would appear in the sewing room, seemingly out of nowhere. I'd kill dozens of them, only to find more when I came back a few hours later. Kathy started leading me in transcendental meditation to deal with the stress and lack of sleep. But one night while we were meditating in the living room, she suddenly gasped, said she felt someone touch her hand. Not being threatening, she said, but definitely there. Definitely real. As if that's not enough, our youngest, five year old Missy, soon developed an imaginary friend she called Jody. She said sometimes Jody was a little boy and sometimes Jody was a pig. A very large pig with glowing red eyes. Of course, kids have imaginary friends all the time, so we didn't think much of it. At least until I glanced up at her window one night and saw an adult sized figure moving around in her room. I rushed inside to check on her, but found her alone and sound asleep. I told Kathy what I'd seen and she tried to brush it all off as the stress of moving into a new home and trying to blend our Family. Perhaps I was gaining a protective fatherly instinct. Besides, we didn't have time to indulge in ghost stories. But the incidents kept piling up. Kathy would feel invisible hands touching her when she was alone in the kitchen. Black stains would appear in the toilets overnight. Stains that no amount of cleaning could remove. We'd catch footsteps overhead even when everyone was downstairs and heard doors slam when no one was nearby. And those flies. God, the flies kept up all right. And let me tell you, flies don't swarm like that in December. And they don't reappear after being killed. But these did. I tried to keep my head down, telling myself I was being hyperbolic, hysterical even. But the thought that something odd was happening here kept nagging at me. And I kept thinking about those Defeo murders. Surely they couldn't be linked to this. So I went to the library and pulled small newspaper articles. And I don't think I'll ever quite be able to shake what I found. The Defeo family, it seemed, had been killed in the middle of the night. All shot while sleeping in their beds. And all of the newspaper stories said it happened at 3:15 in the morning. The same time I'd been waking up every single night. And sitting there in the library, I had a terrifying thought. That the house itself seemed to remember the trauma of those murders. And now it wanted us to remember, too. But that was ridiculous. Hyperbole. Hysteria. It was a quirky old house. Everything was explainable. Tricks of the eyes, odd creaks in the night. So I decided not to bother telling Kathy what I'd found. Instead, I went home, cooked a nice dinner and sat down to enjoy evening coffee with Kathy once the kids went to bed. The hearth was my favorite place in the house. This majestic fireplace in the living room that cut the winter cold. And just as the logs were crackling, I settled into my chair and thought about how good we actually had it there. But as I lifted my cup to take a sip, I noticed Kathy had gone completely still, her eyes fixed on the hearth. So I followed her gaze toward the flames and smoke. And there it was. A figure. Not just shadow patterns, but an actual figure. A hooded head with demonic horns rising towards the chimney. And as the embers swirled around it, I could swear the faceless thing was staring right at me. Then Kathy screamed, snapping me from my gaze, and I grabbed her hand and we ran from the room. And it was right then, standing in the dark cold, that I knew this wasn't hysteria. We weren't just jumpy new homeowners scared of shadows and creeks. Something real was in this house with us. And it turns out it was just getting started. The missing child is Lucia Blix, 9 years old.