In November 1974, a quiet suburban street in Amityville, Long Island, woke to horror. Ronald DeFeo Jr., twenty three years old, grabbed a .35 caliber rifle and crept through the family home at 112 Ocean Avenue. One by one, he executed his parents and four younger siblings as they slept. Ronald Sr. and Louise took bullets to the back, blood exploding across their pillows in thick crimson sprays, soaking the sheets until they dripped onto the carpet. The children, Dawn, Allison, Marc, and John, died face down in their beds, skulls shattered, brain matter splattered against headboards in gray pink clumps.

Police found all six victims lying on their stomachs, as if positioned after death. Ronald claimed voices in the house told him to do it. He was convicted and locked away for life.

Thirteen months later, in December 1975, George and Kathy Lutz moved in with their three children and their Labrador, Harry. The Dutch colonial house was beautiful, spacious, and suspiciously cheap. A priest blessed it on move in day.

As he sprinkled holy water in the upstairs bedroom once occupied by Marc and John, a deep, guttural voice roared from nowhere.

“Get out.”

The priest felt an invisible slap across his face, hard enough to leave welts. He fled, later warning the Lutzes never to sleep in that room. That night, blisters rose on his hands, oozing clear fluid that smelled of rot.

The family ignored him at first.

Then the infestation began.

On their second night, George woke to every door in the house slamming open and shut in perfect unison, the bangs echoing like gunshots. He raced downstairs to find the front door ripped from its hinges, wood splintered, metal twisted as if torn by giant hands.

Cold seeped in, unnatural and biting, dropping the temperature to freezing even with the heat blasting. Kathy found black stains spreading across bathroom walls, thick slime that reeked of sewage and decay. It dripped from the ceilings in heavy globs, splattering onto floors where it hissed and smoked.

Swarms of flies appeared next. Hundreds of them in winter. They clustered on windows and buzzed around lights. They crawled into mouths and ears while the family slept. George crushed them with his bare hands, black guts bursting between his fingers, only for more to pour from cracks in the plaster.

The dog refused to enter the house, whining and clawing at the door until his paws bled raw.

George changed fast.

He stopped shaving or bathing, his skin turning sallow and greasy. He sat by the fireplace day and night, feeding logs obsessively, yet never felt warm. His eyes sank into dark sockets. He heard constant whispers telling him to kill, describing how to slit throats and watch blood arc across walls.

Kathy woke with bruises shaped like fingers around her neck, skin purple and swollen, as if strangled in her sleep. One night, levitation struck her. She rose from the bed, body rigid, hovering three feet above the mattress while her face contorted in agony. The children watched, screaming, as she crashed back down, ribs cracking on impact.

Red eyed pigs haunted the property.

Kathy’s youngest daughter, Missy, spoke to an imaginary friend named Jodie, a demonic pig with glowing crimson eyes and jagged teeth. One night, Kathy looked out the window to see a massive boar staring back, hooves leaving cloven prints in snow that steamed like acid. Its eyes burned into hers.

When George fired a shotgun, the blast shredded its side, spraying chunks of rotting flesh and maggots. Yet it vanished without a trace, leaving only the stench of sulfur.

The house itself attacked.

Stairs oozed green gelatinous slime that burned skin on contact, blistering flesh down to raw red meat. Crucifixes flipped upside down and spun violently. A hidden red room in the basement, walled off and painted blood red, pulsed with heat.

At 3:15 a.m., the family heard marching bands in the halls. Drums. Horns. Footsteps. They found only empty air.

Cloven hoofprints appeared burned into floors.

One morning, Kathy stared into the mirror and screamed. Her face had transformed. Skin sagged into that of an old hag. Eyes became black pits. Her mouth stretched into a lipless scream.

The children suffered worst.

Missy was thrown against walls by unseen hands, her body slamming with dull thuds that left her bruised and vomiting black bile. The boys saw shadowy figures wearing hoods standing over their beds, cold hands pressing down on their chests until they could not breathe.

One night, Danny’s bed levitated and shook violently. The headboard smashed into the wall until wood splintered and blood ran from his split scalp.

After twenty eight days, on January 14, 1976, the Lutz family fled in terror, leaving everything behind. They never returned.

Paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren arrived later with psychics and reporters. Infrared photographs captured ghostly children in the upstairs hallway, faces pale and distorted. EVP recordings caught demonic growls and Latin chants threatening murder.

A priest who attempted an exorcism vomited blood and collapsed, his chest burning as if branded.

The house still stands today.

New owners report minor disturbances. Doors closing. Footsteps. Cold spots.

None stay long.

The evil that slaughtered the DeFeos and drove the Lutzes out lingers in the walls, in the red room, in the soil itself. Some say the land is cursed, built over ancient Shinnecock burial grounds or a site of madness. Others claim DeFeo’s massacre opened a door that never closed.

Drive past 112 Ocean Avenue at night and you might see lights flicker in empty rooms. Hear faint marching music on the wind. Or glimpse red eyes watching from an upstairs window.

Because whatever infested that house did not leave with the Lutzes.

It waits.

Patient.

Hungry for the next family to cross its threshold.

And when they do, the twenty eight days begin again.