Third Time's a Charm...

It was pretty common in the 1960’s, for many people to leave New York City, for a better quality of life in the suburbs. Grassy backyards replaced sidewalks and streets, providing a better place for kids to play without dodging cars in the big city. In addition to providing a better environment for one’s family, it allowed people to own their own homes for the first time—something that eluded past generations. Thanks to the G.I. Bill, many who could never afford a house could now achieve the American dream of home ownership.

People who left the city either headed to established communities like Westchester or Putnam counties. On Eastern Long Island, however, housing developments sprouted everywhere, making purchasing a home more affordable.

My parents purchased their home in Brentwood about fifty miles from New York City. Although the town was established in the early 1800’s, its northern part was mainly untouched pine barrens. That was probably the reason why they decided to build the world’s largest psychiatric facility, Pilgrim State Hospital, right there in the middle of nowhere, far from the city.

The houses in my neighborhood were all the same: cookie-cutter houses, either small ones, called low-ranches, or larger ones, called high-ranches. Only the best for my dad and what the G.I. Bill afforded, he opted for the pricier high ranch with the two-car garage. Across the street and built later than our house, a low ranch was rumored to be built on an old burial ground. Seemingly, when they were clearing the land, some markers and bones were unearthed but ignored. All the parties involved would not allow anything to halt the development of these houses; after all, time was money.

Upon completion of construction, most families, including mine, moved in together and introduced themselves. The house diagonally across from mine was where I met my lifelong friend, Audrey. A few months later, her cousins moved into the house directly across the street from me.

Audrey’s relatives, The Bynes’ were a second-generation Irish family. The father’s name was Eugene, a New York City Detective, and the mom was Peggy. We played with their six children, attended church with them, and enjoyed at least a million sleepovers. Mr. Bynes loved kids, and when he came home from work, his kids always ran up to him, tackling him on the front lawn. He was even the Boy Scouts’ troop leader with Audrey’s dad. After barbecuing, he would let us toast marshmallows on what was left of the glowing charcoal.

Mrs. Bynes was quiet but friendly; now that I think back, I believe that, at times, she was a little overwhelmed by all her kids. Still, she was quick to offer some Rice Crispy squares or fresh cookies that she had just baked.

They had lived in that house for about four years when we were awoken by several police cars, sirens blaring, and lights beaming into my bedroom window, followed by a lot of screaming. People gathered on their lawns, including my parents. When I asked my dad what happened, I was told, “Nevermind, go back to bed.”

Audrey’s cousins moved away after that night, and I found out later that Mr. Byrnes had suffered a mental breakdown, pulled out his revolver, and shot up the place, trying to kill his entire

family. Thankfully, they escaped, but he didn’t. He turned the gun on himself and blew his brains out in his bedroom. It was so shocking; he was such a nice man. I would hear my mother talking to other women in the neighborhood, speculating that there was another woman, his wife caught him and threatened to leave. Fearing the loss of his family, he couldn’t bear to go on without them, so he went nuts and tried to kill them.

The house remained vacant for years. One day, a bunch of kids broke into it, and we all walked around inside, looking at the bullet holes in the walls and cabinets. None of us dared to go into the bedroom where the grisly suicide took place. The talk of blood and brains splattering all over the walls was enough to give us nightmares for a long time.

After quite a few years had passed, a new family moved in from Pennsylvania. Although considered part of the tri-state area, Pennsylvania seemed like a land so far away. They even had weird accents and said peculiar things. At least, that was our perception. Still, I made friends with one of their daughters, Sally. She had two older brothers and a sister; Sally was the baby of the family. Her siblings were all much older than we were, at least they seemed to be at the time.

Mr. Tucker, her dad, worked for Pan American Airlines. He was a quiet guy who brought us cool things from work, like PanAm caps, wing pins, and a bag that looked like a miniature bowling ball bag. We never knew what he did for the airline, but he had a cool uniform and was away often. Mrs. Tucker was a nurse at Pilgrim State Hospital and a self-designated ambulance chaser. Whenever we heard a siren nearby, she would pile her kids in the car to investigate the incident. As much as I was curious, my parents never let me go. I would have to hear the embellished gory details of the accident secondhand.

One quiet night after we had all gone to bed and were sound asleep, we were awakened by the sound of police cars lined up across the street. I looked out of my window and saw my friend Sally crying hysterically in her mom’s arms. I thought maybe someone was sick because an ambulance showed up and the medics ran into the house. My dad caught me looking out my window and told me to go back to bed. So, I lay there staring at the blue and red lights reflecting on my ceiling until I fell back to sleep.

I couldn’t wait to walk to school with Sally the following day to find out what happened. When I walked out my front door, I noticed no one was home at Sally’s. The front door was closed, and the two cars were gone. I walked to school alone that day, wondering what had happened.

I found out through neighborhood gossip, that Mr. Tucker had tried to kill his whole family but only succeeded in killing himself. He slit his throat as his family fled for their lives and bled out on the living room carpet. The same carpet that we were never allowed to walk on with our shoes. I never saw my friend Sally again. I just assumed they moved back to Pennsylvania.

Once again, the house remained vacant for many years and was dubbed “The Murder House.” There was always much speculation on what made Mr. Tucker flip his lid and attempt to kill his whole family—as the father had done before him. Unfortunately, no one will ever know, with exception to the authorities and his family.

Eventually, after years had passed, a new family purchased the house. I was now a teenager, and they were a young couple with a baby. We would occasionally go over to say hello to the wife and to see the cute baby. Other than that, I really didn’t know much about them. We were hoping that there would be someone more our age to hang around with, so we more or less had no interest in them. They seemed nice enough, and always said, “Hi!” All I know is that they ended up having two more kids and she didn’t work outside the home as most mothers were beginning to do. There were always whispers about “The Murder House,” but no one had the nerve to tell them about the house’s history.

One night, I was awakened by sirens from across the street. My first thought before looking out the window was, “Oh no, not again.” This time it was different —the house was fully ablaze. My friend, Audrey’s dad, was outside with the garden hose, saturating everything with water as embers flew toward their house. The fire department arrived just in time for the walls to collapse. Once again, neighbors were gathered, in the cold on their front lawn, clad in slippers and robes, wondering what was going on at The Murder House.

The next day, on the front cover of Newsday, there was a picture of the charred house and a story about what had happened. The fire had been apparently set— due to an accelerant found at the scene. The entire family was found bludgeoned to death with a pipe and burned beyond recognition. It appears that the father disappeared and was never found. Some of the neighbors made the sick comment, “Third times a charm… He succeeded in what the other’s failed to do.”

My family soon moved away, and on occasion, I visited my friends in the old neighborhood. I’d always stare at what was left of the burned house that remained standing for years after the last incident. I wondered why? Was the house possessed or was it just a bad combination of people?

Eventually, developers knocked it down and built a new house. Most of my friends had moved away by then, and I had lost contact with them. It was a new neighborhood, with new people. Hopefully, the curse or whatever it was, is now broken.