Read The Devil I Know: My Haunting Journey with Ronnie DeFeo and the True Story ofthe Amityville Murders for Free Online

deeply. “What do you want me to do?”
    “Help me make it stop,” came the response, spoken in a reedy, childlike voice. Then the voice immediately changed to a huskier one, and this voice said, “I’ve been waiting for you, Jackie. All grown up now.” Then a third intonation, sharper and more cutting: “Oh, before I forget, poor Mommy says hello.” A nasty chuckle followed, then humming. The humming turned to singing. I recognized the tune—“I Remember You,” a song my mother used to sing around the house. The man on the other end of the line asked if I remembered him. He told me I was the only one who could handle what was inside. A darker voice told me I couldn’t save him.
    And then he mentioned the Surf Hotel.
    Most children are taught to read and write, ride a bike, throw a ball, do fractions. Not me. My parents’ interests for me lay outside most children’s scope of the normal.
    Mary recognized my abilities as early as I did. She would watch me paying close attention to the stream of socialites and entertainers who flocked to our back door hoping to be assured of fame and fortune. By the time I was five, she saw my gift, and she would have me participate in her séances, eventually assigning me the role of medium. But the responsibility came with stern warnings. This was not child’s play; it was serious business. There is no God without the devil, she would tell me. You can’t be on both sides.
    It wasn’t long before she and I both realized that my powers surpassed even hers. I was able to do something other mediums couldn’t: I could absorb and pass along the spirit of the dead into the person yearning for connection. I was able, for a period, to become the person whom the other had lost. My mother made me her partner before I knew how to tie my shoes. I was able to witness her grimmest rites and the severity with which she warned people not to treat the spirits lightly.
    One day, when I was ten, I heard a solemn hymn begin to flow through the house. I knew a ritual had begun. Mary, dressed completely in black, left through the back door and drove down the road.
    Half an hour later, she returned, her face thoroughly bandaged, barely visible through the black veil. She woresmall black gloves and carried a straw suitcase. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
    My grandmother opened the back door. “Joanie,” she called to my mother. “Please come in.” I didn’t understand why she’d called her by a different name. She made tea and sat at the table, trying to offer words of comfort to the woman who, I now saw, my mother had become. It’s going to be okay, my grandmother said. I sat there, quietly, and observed. A few days before, Mary had traveled to meet with a woman, Joanie, looking to escape an abusive marriage. And now she had turned into her.
    My mother looked up at me, though it wasn’t her face. Out of her mouth, in an uncharacteristically soft tone, came the words, “Who is this sweet child?” Then she began to remove the bandages, and I sat horrified. Her face was a map of black and blue, and her nose looked like it had decided to follow a different direction halfway down.
    I knew what it meant. Mary had absorbed the woman utterly, in order to try to free her. She had taken on her pain with as much fullness as she could handle. The tears continued to roll, my grandmother continued to soothe, and I continued to watch, saying nothing.
    Four days later, a headline on the front page of the newspaper reported a terrible car accident. The woman’s husband was the victim. My mother, again returned to herself, read the story over her morning coffee with my grandmother. “Silly man,” she said, shaking her head.“Too bad nothing was left of the body. We could have done his wake, too.” They shared a laugh.
    On November 12, 1974, a séance was held in my house in Nola, and I, at the appointment of my mother, was the medium. She had been preparing for several days—placing candles on