Way, way back in the day, on my first trip up to Long Island to meet my now-ex-husband’s family, we drove from the airport and decided to swing by Amityville – OK, OK, I pestered the ex, who was driving, to swing by Amityville.
And he did.
So we’re driving around, like “Do you know where it is?” “No, do YOU know where it is?” “HOW WOULD I KNOW WHERE IT IS?” “You LIVED here!” “Not HERE-here!” – anyway, like that, back and forth but funny.
Anyhoo. So, he’s driving in this neighborhood, and turning left and turning right, and then he stops at a stop sign – and I see the sign “Ocean Avenue.”
“TURN LEFT!” I screech. “This is it!”
“Are you sure?” He looks doubtful.
Wait … am I sure? I’m doubtful. How do I know Ocean Avenue??
“Yes,” I say. “I am sure.”
AND THEN I SAY “112 Ocean Avenue.”
Where did that come from?!
From the deepest recesses of my memory, having read that book once at the age of TWELVE, people. (I was 32 at the time.)
Because it was, in fact, 112 Ocean Avenue. And we saw it. But it didn’t look like the house in the movie at all, so we drove off, both of us thinking I must have gotten it wrong.
But then I made him stop at a library in Stony Brook so I could pull the book out and check. And show him, of course, that I was right.
And now the house at 112 Ocean Avenue can be yours for the low, low price of $850,000. But if you buy it, you must promise to invite me up for a long stay so we can do stupid shit like hold a seance in the basement and paint glow-in-the-dark pig eyes on all the windows.