That's not all...

Earlier I confessed to my audience that I am in the process of writing. I didn't say I was writing very well or very fast. I do realize that I never finished the story of the Amityville house that I blogged about almost three years ago. Thanks to a new reader, I stumbled across my old post and decided to tie up some loose ends.

To refresh everyone's memory, we were introduced to Wilton after his deliberate attempt to lock me out of the house.

The next morning at church, I stopped on the steps to ask our neighbor (a distant relative of Ms. Lucille and Wilton) if he knew of anyone else who may have lived in our house. "Mr. H., do you know if Ms. Lucille had a brother or if anyone else lived in the house with her?"

Stopping long enough to take his pipe from his mouth, he looked at his wife and said, "Well, Mary, they've met Wilton."

Keep in mind we had no idea who Wilton was, we didn't know who he was talking about, but found it odd that Mr. H. would be so nonchalant about the whole thing.
Mr. H. told us the bare minimum, saving the best for his next visit to our house. There, he showed us the exact spot where Wilton chose to end his life. The evidence still lodged in the ceiling, and the fact that since our arrival, no one had entered the room since September 22, 1966. The exact day of his death, when his sister Lucille arrived home from school and found her brother in the den of their home with a gun by his side. She closed the doors to the den and his bedroom that day and never opened them again...until January of 2003, when we moved in and opened the door.

The story seemed to make sense. We started to remember all sorts of oddities we encountered since we moved in that we both shrugged off.
The night we moved in, we hung a painting over the mantle. Later that evening, while talking in the kitchen with family, we heard a loud crash in the den and found our framed painting broken and lying on the floor. Thinking we were to blame for not hanging it properly, we checked the anchor bolt which was still fastened to the wall. Now we know Wilton was trying to get our attention. It's just that we didn't know anything about him at that time.

Wilton found new confidence and suddenly became more bold. During our stay at this house, we endured countless nights of insomnia and found ourselves fighting constantly. We took on different personalities and scared each other with our somber attitudes. Depression, anger, rage, envy, conspiracy, deceit...we watched our marriage begin to fall apart. The things that happened in that house are long buried along with Wilton, for our own present sanity.
He enjoyed creating our madness. He controlled our thermostat, doors, our lights, knocking on our door at all times of the day and night, our phone, and our minds.

When we finally moved out, Heith and I knew the house was to blame for a lot of our disappointments. The house lives and breathes evil. I've always been the ghost hunter and a believer in folklore and superstitions, but only in good fun. I never thought I'd ever encounter anything like this first hand.

The house now holds a new family, who may be oblivious to its past. I wonder sometimes if they ever experience some of the same misfortune we did.