Michael looked down the scope of his M82A1 sniper rifle, laying in silence as he watched the location of a suspected terrorist arms trade. He sighed heavily, his eyes beginning to strain as he looked at a bleak desert landscape.
"Miles..."
Michael opened his right eye, looking at his partner, William "Locke" Lockheart staring into the spotting scope.
"Do you have visual? All I see is sand", Michael said quietly.
Michael could see Locke's head shake as he continued to look through his scope.
"No visual. No enemy combatants ... no vehicles, not even a fuckin' womp rat."
Michael forced himself to ignore his natural instinct to laugh, but let out an almost inaudible chuckle. It is not very wise, being deep behind enemy lines on a reconnaissance mission, to laugh boisterously at your partner's joke.
"You know Locke", said Michael as quietly as he could, "I do get the sense that we're on Tatooine hunting the Imperials."
Locke was unresponsive; Michael glanced at him again and could easily notice how tense Locke became.
"...have you ever wondered..." Locke said softly, so softly that Michael had to strain to hear Locke's soft voice; "...have you ever wondered if maybe we are the Imperials here?"
Michael was speechless; he had run into Marines that felt similar to Locke and never knew what to say to them. On one hand they were right, but on the other hand ... they were completely wrong.
"You know as well as I do that this supposed weapons shipment will be used against us and noncombatants!” Michael said, with an almost passion in his voice.
"Miles, don't you get tired of all the kill-"
Locke slumped over his spotting scope lifelessly, a split second later a gunshot. Michael's time perception began to slow down, a single second taking an hour. Michael had been here before, in this very instance; there was something surreal about the situation. Michael closed his eyes tightly and reopened them, hoping that the situation changed. Time moved even slower, his heart beat acting as an eerie soundtrack to the carnage in front of him. He moved a gloved hand towards Locke, turning him around to check his vital signs. As he turned Locke over a pool of blood oozed out of his chest, his jaw split open from falling on the spotting scope. It was a grisly scene. Michael's first instinct was to grab Locke's dog tag. As his fingers clasped the now bloodied tag, Locke grabbed his hand with a surprising amount of force.
"Why did you let this happen to me, Miles? What did I die for? What meaning does this life have for me?"
Locke forced his hands onto Michael's throat. His grasp slowly tightening as Michael grasped for breath. He looked into the lifeless eyes of Locke, sweat beginning to collect on his brow.
"Remember this feeling, Miles.” Locke said through gritted teeth. Michael felt something heavy on his chest, as if someone punched him in the heart.
Michael sat up with a shock, inhaling as much air as he could. He was in his bed, soaked with sweat. His vision began adjusting to the darkness, a feeling of disorientation soon followed. His heart began to race, and he noticed his cat looking angrily up at him from the edge of his bed. He looked next to him, remembering that Elizabeth Brisby was "sleeping" next to him. He knew that she was awake, but she would never allow herself to show him emotion, or give him the satisfaction to ask him what his dream was about.
"I had that "An American Werewolf in London" dream again." Elizabeth remained emotionless, ignoring the statement. Michael looked at her bare shoulders under the bed sheet, looking at the tone of her muscles and the pattern that her black hair created on his pillow. He always admired her, but at times wanted to beat her senselessly. She forced herself to be cold and heartless, even though he knew that deep down that she cared about everything she said she didn't. He could feel that she wanted to comfort him, or ask him more details ... but whatever "organization" she was working for trained her well enough to ignore her feelings; at least that's what he assumed. He knew better than to ask about her actual occupation, and she knew not to tell. As he lay looking at her, he knew she felt his eyes burning into her and he got a sick pleasure from knowing he was making her uncomfortable; memories of the first time they met began to flow into his mind. Of course, because of his Marine Corps training, he remembered every single detail of their brutal first meet.
His mind quickly went back to his dream, which he had almost nightly now. He felt his pulse steadily slow, but his adrenaline refused to let him go back to sleep. In the past he would call Richard and talk about his nightmares; but that all stopped after Richard's "heart attack". He reminded himself what Richard would tell him: “we all have nightmares; those nightmares mean you’re human.” These nightmares were getting ridiculous, and they seemed to happen much more frequently since Richard died. Michael turned to his side, getting tired of looking at the empty ceiling. Memories began to pour in from his past. From the time when he was in high school and was beat half to death by a local Miami gang. He grimaced at the memory, his jaw suddenly feeling the phantom pain from where the wires once were. He then remembered the tours of duty he did in Iraq and Afghanistan, the times he and Locke had to spend weeks at a time in the field stalking their various marks. He closed his eyes, seeing the faces of those he lost and those he killed. He needed to get up and do something, he was thinking too much. His cat meowed softly as he got off of the bed, the cat quickly taking over the empty space.
"Hopefully you'll sleep better than I did", Michael said to his cat with a smile on his face. He glanced at his watch, it was 2300. He had plenty of time to get ready before he started his day. After a quick shower, and putting on his blue jeans and a random T-Shirt he picked up off the floor, he picked up his sidearm that he always carried with him. He put the clip in his pocket and before he holstered his gun he made sure that his weapon was unloaded. He grabbed his keys and quickly left his house, which was conveniently located on the paintball field he partially owned. His house, which was shared with Elizabeth, was small compared to most other houses in Brunswick, Maine. It suited their needs though. It was remote and if needed, well defended. Ever sense Elizabeth started to live with him; he had a feeling that they would get attacked in the middle of the night. At least he knew Elizabeth was good in a firefight, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she was dangerous to be around. Michael started his car and left for the Getty Estate.
Days before, before the apparent suicide of Estelle, Michael was asked to keep an eye out on her nephew. Because of the mysterious deaths plaguing their family, Michael took it upon himself to remain vigilant; half expecting a masked man to try and break into the estate. His eyes adjusted completely to the low light coming from the street lights that sporadically littered the street. He would kill for a pair of night vision goggles, he made a mental note to try and pick some up from the Portland Police Department. As he approached the estate, he noticed a few lights were still on; no doubt various servants were getting ready to retire to bed. He was glad that stalking Jacob had been uneventful and dreadfully boring. He had noticed a few quirks, and made a mental note of them. Throughout his stalking he had also noticed a young woman that seemed to live in a separate part of the house. She looked like a typical college student, and she did not appear to be a threat to Jacob or the estate, so he quickly dismissed her presence whenever he saw her. After a few hours of patrolling the grounds and stalking, he assessed that it was not likely that there was a threat to Jacob and made his way home. He was amazed at how little he actually saw Jacob, and it seemed like he would only leave the house when he went to work at a local bar. He knew, many times over, that Jacob had seen him watching him ... and Michael began to wonder what was going through Jacob's head.
Michael began to walk back to his car, noticing almost every detail as he did so. He counted every cigarette butt, every piece of litter and every leaf that had made its way to the gutter. His eyes darted about the road, trying to spot any changes to the scenery in the past few hours he was gone. His mind soaked up every detail, and as usual nothing changed. Everything was seemingly normal to the point that it was eerie. Michael sighed peacefully, happy in the fact that everything was safe and sound. His walk became a bit lazy, and he tried to view the scenery around him at face value; he tried his hardest to shut off his military training. He glanced toward the horizon, the sun just beginning to rise. It was quite a site to behold. Peaceful, serene and it seemed to calm Michael's mind. While he was enjoying the scenery, he noticed a slight shimmering in a tree a few yards away. He squint his eyes, and saw the barely visible shadowy outline of a person halfway up the tree. He quickly ducked behind his car, and heard a couple of popping sounds as something hit the roof of his car and the pavement behind him; three rapid shots, in quick succession. He glanced behind him, seeing a bright green paint smear inches away from him.
"Elizabeth", he said quietly. He stood up from behind his car, his hands raised in the air in surrender. He really was in no mood to play her cat and mouse games, which she enjoyed a little too much.
"Alright, Cato...” Michael yelled toward the tree, wondering if Elizabeth would even get the reference. For someone that is as old as he appeared to be, she really was sheltered. He often wondered how she never really seemed to pick up on any pop culture references he made; but he never asked ... because he knew it was probably something she would refuse to answer.
He could feel Elizabeth smirking, watching him through the sniper scope on her paintball gun. He smiled, helplessly, waiting for her to jump out of the tree. His smile was returned with a paintball round to the chest. The force from the round made him step back a couple of steps, the paint cold against his chest. He could already feel the welt starting to form. He grasped his chest, the paint smearing on his hand. Luckily she was nice enough not to crank the velocity high enough to knock the wind out of him, and for that he was grateful. He knelt down, breathing heavily, watching the paint drip down his shirt. Moments later he heard the light footsteps of Elizabeth. She stood next to him, her paintball gun resting on her shoulder as she carried it effortlessly, "I win", Elizabeth said in a sing-songy voice. Michael looked up at her; she was wearing baggy camo pants and a black tank-top; her face was painted carefully to help blend in with her surroundings. She looked happy, a huge smile on her face, "You know, Miles ... this kind of reminds me of our first date".
Michael looked at her and cocked his head, she rarely talked with so much emotion; and he was quite surprised and pleased that she started to open up around him.
"Do you remember that day? You ... me ... the desert, a glorious battle that seemed to last for days...” Elizabeth sighed happily, lost in her own memories.
"I remember you trying to kill me, is that what you were talking about?" Michael said with a bit of a grimace on his face.
Elizabeth frowned, and kicked him playfully in the side. "I was trying to be romantic, asshole; God damn. And I told you a thousand times that I'm sorry for trying to kill you! I thought you were an Iraqi arms dealer!"
"What do you mean that you thought I was an Iraqi arms dealer?! Why would an Iraqi arms dealer wear a GI uniform? I had a patch of the flag on my arm!” Michael scolded.
"You're just mad because I spotted you", Elizabeth teased.
Michael grew a little agitated, wondering if Elizabeth really felt romance as she recalled the details of their first meeting in her head. "If I remember correctly," Michael said calmly, "I won that match".
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed, her lips pursing in anger. Michael smirked a little bit, knowing that she always conveniently forgot what happened at the end of their little engagement. As Michael, still squatting in front of Elizabeth, began to stand up he saw Elizabeth quickly aim the paintball gun at his chest. Not having nearly enough time to move out of the way, Michael felt another paintball strike his chest. Because of the close range, he felt himself completely lose his balance and fall backwards. He gasped deeply, forcing air into his lungs. This time, she did cause the air to get knocked out of him. Michael tried to get up, but his efforts were met with a foot to his chest. He looked up, seeing Elizabeth towering over him. Her fake rifle pointed at his face.
“You know, Miles, usually our little dates are more fun. This was by far the least exciting one that I can recall. Well, aside from that time you took me to that Italian restaurant.” Elizabeth smiled wryly, and removed her foot from his chest and offered him her hand. He accepted her help, and stood on his own two feet. His chest still felt as if it were on fire from the round to the chest.
“You owe me a new shirt” Michael said with a teasing smile on his face.
Basic Information about Sgt. Michael “Miles” Hicks:
For anyone that has a contact in the Marines, they would know that:
Michael enlisted in the Marine’s at the age of 17 and served as a Scout/Sniper in the US Marine Corps. According to his professional record, it is unclear whether or not he is actually retired, due to ambiguous text in his records. A lot of the information on his record is classified, available only to some of the top brass. There are a few things that can be uncovered, however. Michael was wounded by shrapnel, in combat, and has a scar on the right side of his face. He tries to cover this up by leaving slight stubble on his face; this of course does nothing to hide the scar. Michael’s military career is quite impressive; he received many accommodations and merits for classified missions (and other actions that were censored), and was known to be one of the USMC best snipers. Michael has shown above average skill in strategy and tactics.
He operates a paintball field called “The Field of Dreams”, in a wooded area in Brunswick. It is popular with the college students, and is frequently busy during the spring, summer and early fall months. The field shuts down from October 1 – March 1 during the cooler months. His home is located on the edge of the paintball field property. He only has one other employee, Elizabeth, who also lives with him at his modest home.
Michael also works part-time with the Portland Police Department as a sniper specialist on the SWAT team. Because Portland is relatively safe, the SWAT teams are rarely called. Michael often visits the station to practice his shooting and work out at the police officer gym. Many of the people that work with Michael like him and find him amusing. There are rumors, however, that he still works for the Marine’s for various assignments. This has never been confirmed though, because none of the officers have the courage to actually ask Michael about his stint in the USMC.
Michael is known to give free defensive lessons to some of the local kids, and has stopped his fair share of bar fights. He has a sort of “superhero complex” and tries to help anyone that he can, if he is able.
Michael prefers that people call him Miles, which was his nickname in the Marine Corps.
He frequents the local movie theater a lot. He loves movies, especially comedies, and frequently makes reference to them throughout the day. He rarely quotes actual movie lines, though … he always finds it to be a bit tacky and gets a little annoyed when others do it. After every movie he sees, he goes to a random bar for a drink.
Anything that happened in Michael’s life before he joined the Marine’s is unknown.
Michael is known to have very good intuition and can read people very well. When asked how he is able to judge a person immediately, he always states: “when you watch people through a scope a mile away with absolutely no audio … you begin to realize a lot about human interaction and their true intent.”
Michael walks very quietly and can move quickly when necessary. When not on an assignment, he usually walks very lazily. At first appearance he does not have the demeanor of a Marine, however when he is on assignment his professionalism takes over his demeanor.
Physical Appearance:
Age: 28
Height: 6’ 3”
Weight: 193 (lean muscle)
Eyes: Dark Brown
Hair: Brown
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Welcome to America, Ana Zdychava!
Ana looked up at the young man approaching, her tired bored expression replaced by a dimpled smile. Her shoulders slumped again as he passed her by, choosing to ignore her in the vast cavern of the aircraft hangar. The triangular airline symbol on the back of his uniform shirt seemed to mock her unsuccessful attempts to gather information from the unhelpful staff.
She glanced down at her watch. It was morning in Kyiv, though still the middle of the night here. Ana sighed and scanned the nearly bare walls of the building for a clock that showed the local time, finding nothing but gray boring paint and a few temporary banners over the various areas of the makeshift terminal. She tried to calculate in her head the time difference between Maine, USA, and Kyiv, Ukraine, but gave up after a few seconds. Shrugging her slim shoulders, her once nicely curled dark brown hair now hanging limp down her back, she settled back into the hard plastic folding chair and continued to wait.
Ana had overheard other passengers talking about the airport on the flight in. Though she did not understand all of the conversation between the two men, apparently it had been a military base until very recently. It was just opened as a civilian airport and still had a martial air to it, the drab walls, the painted concrete floor, the lack of comfortable seating... She grimaced as she shifted position once again on the unyielding surface, her tailbone protesting it's ill treatment.
The man who bypassed her earlier returned to awaken her from her dozing, curled up on two adjoining chairs. She'd taken two years of English back at University, but she still had difficulty understanding him. He seemed a bit exasperated at having to repeat himself but finally made her understand that the airport was shutting down. She gave him a bleak stare, preparing to protest, but he turned away and moved toward the other airline workers, who were removing materials from the folding tables where they'd been conducting business.
She checked her cell phone but there was still no signal. Ana had purchased it in Kyiv from the brother of a friend, who'd sworn it would work in the United States. Now she regretted the additional cost; it had not been cheap and the seller's promise an empty one. Her chin dropped nearly to her chest, her hair curtaining her face. Her her eyes fluttered closed, and tears born of frustration and fatigue began to form.
She shook herself visibly, her hair shifting with the movement, then raised her head and straightened her shoulders, her mouth set in a resolute line. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers, rose from her chair, and approached the nearest airline counter. She stood patiently until one of the workers finally acknowledged her presence, "Miss, you need to leave, we are closing the airport for the night."
"But...my phone, it doesn't work here." He just looked at her so she continued, her voice controlled, "May I use phone on your desk, I have number, just short call...okay?"
He stood with his arms folded for a few seconds. She was afraid he was going to turn her away, then he shrugged and moved aside, gesturing at the phone. "Dial 9 for an outside line but no long distance." She cocked her head, a confused look on her face, not understanding the terminology. He sighed and took the paper she had retrieved from her purse with the number, glancing at it. "So, you're a student at Bowdoin? Figured they'd teach you better English there."
She nodded, a polite smile plastered on her face, while he dialed the number and handed her the receiver. "Spasybo ...thank you," she held the phone to her ear as it rang six times, then clicked over to the message she'd heard before. "You have reached the Dean of Students office for Bowdoin College after regular business hours. If you would like to leave a message for the receptionist, please wait for the tone. Otherwise, please call back between the hours of 8:30 am and 5 pm Monday through Friday. Thank you." Ana had already left a message when she called immediately after landing from another passenger's cell phone and did not leave another.
She laid the phone back in its cradle, her normally bright green eyes dulled by weariness. Her connecting flight from Detroit, the final leg of a journey that began in Kyiv more than 36 hours before, had been delayed for several hours through a series of unfortunate events. She was not even on the original flight destined for the newly designated Brunswick Metropolitan Airport. That flight was canceled due to maintenance, and she'd been shuffled to a later connection, a created stopover on the way to Halifax, somewhere in Canada.
She cast about for a friendly face but all the other passengers had long ago departed and the airport staff appeared to be engrossed in shutting down the facility for the night. At any rate they were ignoring her. She shrugged and began dragging her luggage toward the exit, thankful at least that her main suitcase had wheels.
An hour later Ana stood outside a run-down restaurant, soaking in the pouring rain. She looked up into the storm at the battered sign proclaiming "Joe & Celia's" and below it "Open 24 hours" pulsating in green neon. Sighing, the slightly built girl tugged open the door of the tiny diner, the wooden frame creaking in protest, and manhandled her bags through the opening. For her efforts she received a disgusted look from the man behind the counter as she dripped on the cracked linoleum.
The only occupants of the dingy establishment were the man and a red-haired waitress sitting in front of the counter, smoking a cigarette. It was apparent she had interrupted a conversation between them but the waitress smiled and made an open gesture toward a dilapidated booth near the door. "Jest leave them bags at the door, honey, and have a seat. Be right with you." She looked to be in her mid 30s, a little overweight, but still pretty in her own way. Ana returned a wan smile and moved to the indicated seat, glancing back to be sure her belongings weren't blocking the doorway.
She slid into the booth and removed a cigarette from her purse, her first since the evening before in Amsterdam, when she heard a rapping noise from the area of the counter. She looked up to see the man pointing at a sign behind him on the wall. NO SMOKING. Her gaze shifted from him to the waitress, who shrugged, then dropped her lit cigarette into a partially filled water glass. Ana sighed and returned the cigarette to her purse.
The woman sauntered over to her table, pulling a pad from her apron as she approached. The booth she occupied didn't look like much, but it was actually very comfortable, with an overstuffed bench seat covered in fake leather, the material cracked but still well padded. Alice, whose name was embroidered on her left lapel, smiled down at the girl, "Sorry, sweetie, old Mel is a stickler about the rules when it suits him. Mebbe when the rain lets up we can step outside and burn one." Ana nodded, understanding little of the slang, her weariness showing in her eyes and the dark rings surrounding them. Alice took her order for coffee and handed her a menu, moving back to the counter.
Ana awoke at one point, hearing a distant buzz of angry voices, but was too exhausted to care, and fell back asleep, curled on the cracked surface of the bench. At another juncture, she was vaguely aware of someone standing over her and she felt the warmth of a blanket. She smiled and returned to her dreamless sleep, awaking finally as Alice shook her. "Darlin', you need to get movin'. The day shift is gonna be here, and 'twon't do us no good to have them know you spent the night in that booth."
Ana stepped out into the dawning day, approaching the taxi Alice had arranged to take her to Bowdoin. Welcome to America.
She glanced down at her watch. It was morning in Kyiv, though still the middle of the night here. Ana sighed and scanned the nearly bare walls of the building for a clock that showed the local time, finding nothing but gray boring paint and a few temporary banners over the various areas of the makeshift terminal. She tried to calculate in her head the time difference between Maine, USA, and Kyiv, Ukraine, but gave up after a few seconds. Shrugging her slim shoulders, her once nicely curled dark brown hair now hanging limp down her back, she settled back into the hard plastic folding chair and continued to wait.
Ana had overheard other passengers talking about the airport on the flight in. Though she did not understand all of the conversation between the two men, apparently it had been a military base until very recently. It was just opened as a civilian airport and still had a martial air to it, the drab walls, the painted concrete floor, the lack of comfortable seating... She grimaced as she shifted position once again on the unyielding surface, her tailbone protesting it's ill treatment.
The man who bypassed her earlier returned to awaken her from her dozing, curled up on two adjoining chairs. She'd taken two years of English back at University, but she still had difficulty understanding him. He seemed a bit exasperated at having to repeat himself but finally made her understand that the airport was shutting down. She gave him a bleak stare, preparing to protest, but he turned away and moved toward the other airline workers, who were removing materials from the folding tables where they'd been conducting business.
She checked her cell phone but there was still no signal. Ana had purchased it in Kyiv from the brother of a friend, who'd sworn it would work in the United States. Now she regretted the additional cost; it had not been cheap and the seller's promise an empty one. Her chin dropped nearly to her chest, her hair curtaining her face. Her her eyes fluttered closed, and tears born of frustration and fatigue began to form.
She shook herself visibly, her hair shifting with the movement, then raised her head and straightened her shoulders, her mouth set in a resolute line. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers, rose from her chair, and approached the nearest airline counter. She stood patiently until one of the workers finally acknowledged her presence, "Miss, you need to leave, we are closing the airport for the night."
"But...my phone, it doesn't work here." He just looked at her so she continued, her voice controlled, "May I use phone on your desk, I have number, just short call...okay?"
He stood with his arms folded for a few seconds. She was afraid he was going to turn her away, then he shrugged and moved aside, gesturing at the phone. "Dial 9 for an outside line but no long distance." She cocked her head, a confused look on her face, not understanding the terminology. He sighed and took the paper she had retrieved from her purse with the number, glancing at it. "So, you're a student at Bowdoin? Figured they'd teach you better English there."
She nodded, a polite smile plastered on her face, while he dialed the number and handed her the receiver. "Spasybo ...thank you," she held the phone to her ear as it rang six times, then clicked over to the message she'd heard before. "You have reached the Dean of Students office for Bowdoin College after regular business hours. If you would like to leave a message for the receptionist, please wait for the tone. Otherwise, please call back between the hours of 8:30 am and 5 pm Monday through Friday. Thank you." Ana had already left a message when she called immediately after landing from another passenger's cell phone and did not leave another.
She laid the phone back in its cradle, her normally bright green eyes dulled by weariness. Her connecting flight from Detroit, the final leg of a journey that began in Kyiv more than 36 hours before, had been delayed for several hours through a series of unfortunate events. She was not even on the original flight destined for the newly designated Brunswick Metropolitan Airport. That flight was canceled due to maintenance, and she'd been shuffled to a later connection, a created stopover on the way to Halifax, somewhere in Canada.
She cast about for a friendly face but all the other passengers had long ago departed and the airport staff appeared to be engrossed in shutting down the facility for the night. At any rate they were ignoring her. She shrugged and began dragging her luggage toward the exit, thankful at least that her main suitcase had wheels.
An hour later Ana stood outside a run-down restaurant, soaking in the pouring rain. She looked up into the storm at the battered sign proclaiming "Joe & Celia's" and below it "Open 24 hours" pulsating in green neon. Sighing, the slightly built girl tugged open the door of the tiny diner, the wooden frame creaking in protest, and manhandled her bags through the opening. For her efforts she received a disgusted look from the man behind the counter as she dripped on the cracked linoleum.
The only occupants of the dingy establishment were the man and a red-haired waitress sitting in front of the counter, smoking a cigarette. It was apparent she had interrupted a conversation between them but the waitress smiled and made an open gesture toward a dilapidated booth near the door. "Jest leave them bags at the door, honey, and have a seat. Be right with you." She looked to be in her mid 30s, a little overweight, but still pretty in her own way. Ana returned a wan smile and moved to the indicated seat, glancing back to be sure her belongings weren't blocking the doorway.
She slid into the booth and removed a cigarette from her purse, her first since the evening before in Amsterdam, when she heard a rapping noise from the area of the counter. She looked up to see the man pointing at a sign behind him on the wall. NO SMOKING. Her gaze shifted from him to the waitress, who shrugged, then dropped her lit cigarette into a partially filled water glass. Ana sighed and returned the cigarette to her purse.
The woman sauntered over to her table, pulling a pad from her apron as she approached. The booth she occupied didn't look like much, but it was actually very comfortable, with an overstuffed bench seat covered in fake leather, the material cracked but still well padded. Alice, whose name was embroidered on her left lapel, smiled down at the girl, "Sorry, sweetie, old Mel is a stickler about the rules when it suits him. Mebbe when the rain lets up we can step outside and burn one." Ana nodded, understanding little of the slang, her weariness showing in her eyes and the dark rings surrounding them. Alice took her order for coffee and handed her a menu, moving back to the counter.
Ana awoke at one point, hearing a distant buzz of angry voices, but was too exhausted to care, and fell back asleep, curled on the cracked surface of the bench. At another juncture, she was vaguely aware of someone standing over her and she felt the warmth of a blanket. She smiled and returned to her dreamless sleep, awaking finally as Alice shook her. "Darlin', you need to get movin'. The day shift is gonna be here, and 'twon't do us no good to have them know you spent the night in that booth."
Ana stepped out into the dawning day, approaching the taxi Alice had arranged to take her to Bowdoin. Welcome to America.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Ana Zdychava
Ana Zdychava was born and raised in Kyiv, Ukraine, the only daughter of a low-level bureaucrat in the Ukrainian government. Her mother died when she was relatively young. After secondary school, she became a model and photographer, saving up to attend university.
After amassing as much money as she could, she applied to and was accepted by the University of Kyiv, where she began a study in Psychology in 2008. In early 2010, she was accepted (with help from her father's contacts in the Ukrainian state department) into Bowdoin College in Brunswick, ME, with a grant from the University of Kiev to help defray the costs. She plans to finish her Psychology degree and to obtain a degree in Neuroscience as well, returning to teach in Ukraine after she matriculates.
Even with the grant from Ukraine, she is strapped for cash, she doesn't know if she'll have enough for two years at Bowdoin, though she does not have a work permit for the US at this point. She continued to model while attending University in Kyiv, but that does not appear to be an option in Maine, so far.
Age: 26
Birthdate: 14 Dec 1983
Height: 162 cm (5'4")
Weight: 50 kg (110 lbs)
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Green
After amassing as much money as she could, she applied to and was accepted by the University of Kyiv, where she began a study in Psychology in 2008. In early 2010, she was accepted (with help from her father's contacts in the Ukrainian state department) into Bowdoin College in Brunswick, ME, with a grant from the University of Kiev to help defray the costs. She plans to finish her Psychology degree and to obtain a degree in Neuroscience as well, returning to teach in Ukraine after she matriculates.
Even with the grant from Ukraine, she is strapped for cash, she doesn't know if she'll have enough for two years at Bowdoin, though she does not have a work permit for the US at this point. She continued to model while attending University in Kyiv, but that does not appear to be an option in Maine, so far.
Age: 26
Birthdate: 14 Dec 1983
Height: 162 cm (5'4")
Weight: 50 kg (110 lbs)
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Green
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Jacob Black
Augusta Mental Health Institute Interview - November 4, 2004:
Why do you keep asking me about my childhood? I’ve told you over and over again, I barely remember anything, I wasn’t awake for most of it. Look, you need to go back to the house and look! Its there, the card was there, I’m telling you! Please, please, I’m not crazy, I’m not fucking losing it goddamn it. Fine, fine… if I do this, you send someone, right?
Fuck… When--when I try to think back on things, on my childhood, its hard, hazy like piecing together the fragments of a puzzle that was chewed on and played with by small children; bits missing and torn or looking like they’re from another box. Sometimes I wonder if its all… fantasizes or nightmares or something. Just, don’t write that last bit down, the nightmares, don’t tell anyone that. You said this was private, between you and I, right? Just… don’t. But… so many things are… difficult, fading and hazy. There was the woman who came to our house and gave my father these shimmering playing cards, the pictures on them moving and talking, or trying to, but silent, mouths pressed—No, I don’t want to talk about the cards, not yet.. And… men, with tattoos on their faces, and they had knives in their hands or their belts, and they were always whispering, deep in the basement, down the dark stairs. I could hear them sometimes, even from upstairs, I could hear their whispers. And there were weird smells, things I can’t even describe that made me choke that appeared in my father's study and forced me to run away or… or… I don’t know. I don’t remember… That’s weird. I-I believed, no, I convinced myself, they were just nightmares from being a kid, or from the coma, but I saw them, the tattooed men, and there was the card, that card with my father’s face on it, and when his lips stretched, the card surface buckling, rippling with the movement, I could hear him, hear the faistest hint of a whisper…
But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I was born to Jebediah and Angela Black on June 9, 1979 in New Brunswick, Maine. They were professors, and I think they met each other at the University of Maine in Farmington. My mother, Angela, was an academic doctor, or however you call the doctors who don’t practice. She was the head of the neuroscience department for a few years there when my father joined the Religious Studies department there. He wasn’t popular or people didn’t like him or something. I remember hearing him talking to someone once on the phone or in his study or… or something that doesn’t matter, but he was complaining, screaming about people with closed minds, how they didn’t have the courage to explore new ideas, to look beneath the surface of things. I think that’s why they ended up moving to Massachusetts. This was back in 1972 or 1973, both of my parents taking positions at Amherst, though we lived in an old house in Belchertown not that far away. My mother spent a good deal of time working with some of the patients at the Belchertown State School. Yeah, the one that was in the news for mistreating the mentally disabled, the first one sued in Massachusetts. My dad, he kept doing his religious studies things. He didn’t publish much, again, that closed minded thing I mentioned hearing him say, but from what I gather, he stopped trying around 1975. That’s when I remember mom said something changed. She was arguing with my father at the time, something about it all changing when the school was sued again, not too long before… well, things.
I remember things were odd. Some of my first memories were of my mother being distant, she wouldn’t even put a Band-Aid on me when I fell and skinned my knee or hand. Not until my baby brother was conceived. Maybe it was the pregnancy, but my mother started to read to me, she’d let me curl up with her and press my ear against her belly as it swelled up. She smiled more when she saw me. But then after… He, Caleb, died a few days after being born. This was in ’84. Actually, he had the same birthday as me, June 9th. It was the only time I could think of that my great aunt Estelle came to visit us. She visited in the hospital, I remember seeing her, shoulders back, she smiled at me as she went past me into the hospital room. I wasn’t allowed in as they spoke, in fact mom didn’t want to see me at all for a week, and I stayed with my Aunt Estelle, but not at the house, at a hotel nearby. She waited outside the house while I went in for my stuff, but she wouldn’t step onto the porch. When I asked her why we couldn’t stay at home, she just stared at me a moment before asking me about something else, and I forgot to ask why again.
After Caleb died, things went back to how they had been before he was conceived. I never saw them much when I was growing up, beyond dinner or something. They were always busy, though it wasn’t like I wasn’t loved I guess. I mean, they could be… distant. They’d ask me questions all the time, odd things, how I was feeling, if I heard something in particular, though I don’t remember what now, or why. It made me nervous though, so I always told them no, especially after the girl. I told them one day that I had seen a girl in the nursery upstairs, the one that was going to be Caleb’s room. She had been wearing a pink dress and a bonnet. They told me to never go into the room anymore and not to talk to her, and even locked the room so I couldn’t get in anymore. They were so upset, and it scared me so bad the way they started shouting at me, that I didn’t tell them I saw her a second time the previous night, that she had come into my room one night and whispered in my ear while I was in bed, my ear getting colder and colder, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. When she kept coming back, I tried to ignore her, but she’d just get mad and throw things. When my parents came in one night after the mirror fell off the wall, they blamed me for it because she wasn’t there anymore.
Looking back on things, I guess my parents were kind of demanding. Maybe. They kept making me learn Latin or Arabic, or told me to watch the stars at night, though that stopped early on, both of them telling me I couldn’t go out at night anymore alone. They also made me learn the piano, though I hated it, my fingers always ached afterwards and Mr. Hennessy, the piano teacher, smelled like burnt cigarettes all the time. Though if I said he smelled like that, he would say he didn't smoke, which… that’s weird, right? Why lie about that? My parents smoked, my father mostly, and they didn’t care as far as I could tell as other people smoked in the house, and there was always incense burning in the corner rooms, though he never smoked in the house as far as I knew. I don't know, and it doesn't matter right now.
By time the first grade came around though, they sort of backed off and I had more free time. I don't know if they just relaxed or if it was work, because they were away more often now. I spent most of my time with friends, but at home, I had one after another nannies. They never lasted long. They’d smile at first but as time went on, they’d get jumpy, startling all the time, spilling things. One of them ran down the stairs while I was in the front room and out the door and she never came back.
I did OK at school. I don’t think it was any different from other people’s experiences, just the typical school stuff. Some mean kids, some cool friends, though I don’t think any of my friendships lasted for more than a year or so. We just always drifted apart and stuff; one day we're close as can be, the next, I don’t know, we just weren't. I never could figure it out. When I was eleven, I got tired of it, when Cathy Long just up and ditched me, literally between second and third period she stopped talking to me, she wouldn’t even look at me or listen or anything. Don’t laugh, but I cried. I was eleven and I was tired and I couldn’t sleep enough that October, and I was realling hoping she’d be the first girl I kissed, you now? I just wanted to know why. Why did she stop talking to me, why she wouldn’t even look at me or anything, what’d I do? So I caught up with her after school one day and she said I was weird. I didn’t know what to say. I stared at her and when she started to shut her front door I blurt out, “How was I weird?” I don’t know what I expected her to say, but she gave me a list. She said I wasn't cool, which hurt then, but now, who cares, I think its safe to say I’m never going to be cool or anything. Then she said my house was haunted or something, that I spoke in my sleep about things, things I shouldn't know. Then she slammed the door in my face. I didn’t know what to say or do, how to even talk about that. My house is haunted? I talk in my sleep?
I don’t know, but the thing is she may have been right. No, she was right. Back then I thought she was making things up, but after awhile I started thinking about things. I mean the house is odd. It’s always dark in there and the plants always seemed to die or have this odd yellow color. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it, why I needed to go into a coma before I realized it. Maybe this is stupid, but I liked eating at other houses more. The food tasted, I don't know, more flavorful, more filling. I’m not trying to be mean about my mom’s cooking, or the cook’s cooking since mom never opened anything but a bottle of wine. But there were other things, like the constant feeling like the place was breathing and the odd sounds at night. Not that sort of creaking stuff, but like sighs, deep, vibrating in your chest or felt along your bones more than heard. And there were other sounds… things I don't think I ever want to hear again. What – what the fuck, why am I remembering, why didn’t I remember this? What the fuck is going on? There were whispers and gasps, whimpering and other things that I can’t even name… I’m telling you it’s in there, there, right now and its waiting for me, I can feel it like its looking over my shoulder, hovering near my ear waiting for you to turn away and whisper to me. You need to stay here, you can’t leave me here alone again, you’ve got to fucking stay here with me, please, please, I’m fucking begging you, don’t leave me in here again… It’ll find me? What? I don’t know what the fuck it is, stop fucking asking me that, stop fucking patronizing me you fucking shit, I don’t know what it is, I don’t fucking know, but it’s coming and it’ll find me know. I remember it and it knows and it can find me now! It’ll smell me, and follow me and they’ll fucking come when you leave and its dark!
Fuck, why… why do you keep asking me more. Yes, yes, there were visitors. They'd come at all hours of the night, usually midnight, but sometimes people would show up during dinner, and my parents would tell me to go to my room and lock the door and stay in there until they came for me. They tried to look calm, but I could see the look in my mother’s eyes, she was fucking terrified. I never saw the visitor’s that night, but they’d stiffen up suddenly, before the knock at the door, before the bell even fucking rung, and they’d tell me to run upstairs right that fucking minute. I don't know who they were or what they wanted or anything. I just remember thinking it was odd, but I lived with it the whole time I was a kid, so I didn't know if it was odd or not, not really. I, not then. I mean, after awhile I sort of stopped thinking about it, but not at first. I'd ask my parents who they were, but they'd never answer my questions, usually ignoring the questions or telling me to go to my room. I remember once, when I was eight I think maybe nine, it's hard to remember exactly, like the memory was trying to escape, but my mother got angry, out of the blue, and slapped me. It scared me to death, and I ran to my room and cried myself to sleep with the door locked.
The more I try to think about the people who came, who they were or what they were like, the harder it becomes. I remember staring out of my window once, it wasn’t too long after Caleb died, and I pushed the window open and looked out with the light in my room off. I saw men, strange, tattooed men in weird robes in the shadows at the rear of the house. None of the lights were on, and it was hard to see, but I could just make the movement out in the faint wisps of moonlight coming through the trees. Our yard was thick with them, wild, angry trees that scratched at the house when the wind blew… sometimes when it didn’t. They were moving large boxes from a plain truck to the house. One of the men was standing on the walkway, his back to the house, and he suddenly turned and looked straight up at the window, straight into my eyes. He wasn't searching or checking the place out, he just turned and looked at me in one smooth motion like he knew I was watching. Deep, black eyes that made me fee like I was sinking, like I needed to claw and flail like I was drowning in something thick and viscous. And there was the screaming, loud and painful, tearing at my ears and making me want to cry and hide, to close my eyes and never look outside again. When I woke up, I was curled in the back of my closet, tufts of hair in my hands and my throat hoarse from screaming and the taste of blood in my mouth from biting my lips and tongue. I must have smeared some of it on the door when I closed myself in, I could see the blood squiggled on the door frame, dried bits on my fingertips… I never looked outside again when the strangers showed up.
There was something else, that Cathy had said, about the knowing things, talking in my sleep. I remembered that, when I was ten, I knew her mother had cancer and was dying. I don't know how, but I knew. I remember her brother, Murray, walking me up one night, slapping me, telling me to shut up. I think this was a couple of weeks before Cathy stopped being my friend. He was staying the night and I just remember waking up from being asleep. He told me what I said and said I was a liar. A couple of weeks later, Cathy's mom told her and Murray she was dying. I think she died a few months later. I don't know how I knew I don't even remember saying anything in my sleep.
I, um, I remember whispers though. Not all of the time, just sometimes. Soft, lingering whispers. I'd hear it sometimes around people. They never lasted long, but, I heard them. The first time I was home alone and it scared me, so I stayed in my room under the bed with the door locked. The whispers stopped and I was happier. I think I was seven when they first started, actually, just before I turned seven. I remember knowing what my parents bought me for my birthday before I opened it. It was in the whisper. After awhile I stopped being afraid of them, but I never had any real control over them.
When I was nine, I remember a beautiful woman coming to the house during dinner. She wore all black and red, a long, flowing dress that just called out to me, wanting me to touch it, to play with the shining stars that moved under it, but my Mom made me go to my room. I had only caught sight of the woman for a couple of seconds as I was going to the stairs, but she turned to look at me and smiled. I was fine until she smiled. It was cold, wicked, like the boogeyman or a wild animal. Those bright, red lips curling up, the ice blue eyes boring through me. I swear I thought she smiled, showing rows upon rows of sharp, jagged teeth. I'd swear she whispered that she'd find me. That she'd wait under the bed or in the closet and I just had to say her name and she'd come for me. Fuck, look at the hairs on my arms, fuck, it scared me. It still fucking scares me. For a week I stopped using my closet unless my Mom or the nanny was in the room. I eve begged my parents to let me put my bed on the floor. They wouldn't, so I never let any part of me hang off the bed and I always keep the covers on, no matter how hot it is. I’m fucking telling you I’m not nuts. I can fucking still hear things under the bed. In the hospital, I thought I saw shadows shifting under the bed beside mine…
Anyways, the smiling woman, she had a deck of cards in her long, thin fingered hands, the blood red nails tapping them as she gave me that look before I went away. I only saw the cards twice more, sorta. I remember going into my father's bedroom, I was looking for something I guess, I don't remember. Normally the room was locked, but this day it wasn’t. I don’t even know why I tried the door knob, but I did, and when the ice cold knob turned under my hand, I walked in. On my Dad's nightstand was the deck of cards. It'd been a couple of months since I saw them that one night, so I was curious. I remember reaching out and picking one up. The cards were larger than normal cards, like some tarot decks, though I didn't know that then. The cards were thick and stiff. And warm. A pulsating warmth that left a clammy feeling to your fingers afterwards, like you picked up a dead animal, freshly killed. The surface shimmered, and I turned the card over. It was a picture of a dark street or alley, and a group of small children in rags held hands, looking terrified at a dark, brooding figure that filled half the card. It was sort of spooky, but I couldn't put the card down, not even when I saw the figures and images moving. And I could hear them. They were crying. Not the sort of skinned knee or frustrated sort of crying, but gut wrenching fear, the sort of sound that comes from something profoundly wrong. The hairs on my neck and arms were standing on end, like they are right now, see, and I wanted to run, to scream or hide or something, but I couldn’t, like I was stuck in glue, paralyzed and unable to move, at the same time not wanting to move in case something, It, saw me… The kids were all staring at the dark figure on the card, before the dark figure moved, a pouncing movement, followed by a flutter of something shiny. The first kid, a boy, maybe my age, fell over, his neck torn open, blood and organs spilling out. I could smell it, the iron-copper scent, the garbage in the alley, and worse, there was blood on me, a splattering as if it sprayed onto me if I was standing near them. The other kids started to scream and I think I started to scream too, but I couldn't put the card down or run or even turn away. The rest is mostly a blur, but I remember my father coming and slapping the card away, screaming at the top of his lungs after the last kid was twitching on the ground and the dark figure had turned to look at me over his shoulder. I don’t know what it looked like, really, that was the only thing that stood out, the smile. And my Dad being so angry, he was shaking, his face a deep red hue. He slapped me, hard enough to knock me to the ground. Then my mom showed up and she started to cry as she saw me on the floor and the cards. She sent me to my room, her voice tight, but she hugged me first. I think it was the first time she’d hugged me in awhile. I don’t remember how long, but a long time. I want to say since before Caleb died, but… that can’t be right. She had to hug me sometime in all that time, right?
My parents started to argue more after that. This was in ’92, a couple of months before Sunny Acres. They tried to hide it, but I saw things… Heard whispers, those same ones from before. I’d feel tight sensations in my chest, or smell things, unpleasant things, and move from one room to another to try and get away from it. It chase me around, and when it stopped, when I lost it, I’d hear them in another room or through the vents. I don’t remember what they said or did, but I remember it was uncomfortable, I felt dizzy sometimes, uneasy… I need water… Thanks. I think I remember Caleb’s name for some reason, or them saying something about the second son, not the first… I don’t know, I don’t fucking know. Just, stop… I’m not feeling good.
When I was thirteen, my parents woke me up in the middle of the night and said we had to go somewhere, a retirement home. I asked why, who we were going to see, but my dad left the room without answering me and my mom, she just shook her head. She wouldn’t look at me, she just said it was nobody I knew but that they'd be gone all night and I had to go with them. That sort of thing didn't happen often. Sometimes, but it'd been a year or two since the last time. This was the first time it was a retirement home. From what I was told later, after I woke up, it was an old converted asylum, the old Whalen Sanitarium in Adams, Massachusetts. The whole East Wing had been closed after a fire in the 30s, but they had renovated the West Wing back in the 40’s and opened it up, not that far from the woods around Mount Greylock. I don't remember what happened. I’ve told everyone that since I woke up, I don’t fucking remember a goddamn thing. I’ve tried, I’ve fucking tried my ass off but I don’t remember a thing. No, I’m not fucking agitated, I’m… just, no, no, no more pills. Don’t call them again. I feel so fucking trapped in cotton… I feel numb… and cold. Believe me, I tried, I’ve tried for the past three months. You have no idea how much I've tried, but I never could remember anything. I'm not bullshitting you, it's the truth. I remember being in the car, wrapped up in my pajamas, a coat and a blanket, and that's it. The next thing I know I'm twenty-six and I've apparently been catatonic since I was found. Thirteen years, half of my fucking life lost asleep in bed. I heard someone say there was footage, of what they found, but it was just one of those recreations they do on those Fox specials about the occult and aliens and stuff, but I guess it's based off the reports and accounts of what the fire fighters found.
I was the only one left when they arrived. The whole retirement home was empty. The furniture was broken, doors blown out and the East wing was on fire again. I was found hugging myself, sitting in a closet, as far back in as I could get. All the others were gone; 212 retirees, staff and my parents, they had just vanished without a trace. I just sat there, rocking back and forth humming a nursery rhyme, staring at the floor, blood in my mouth from having bitten my tongue and lips, dried on my finger tips from… I don’t know, I guess from when I wiped my mouth, I don’t fucking remember…
I wasn’t even in the same state. Aunt Estelle, she had brought me over to a place near Summerhaven here in Maine. I stayed for several months, physical therapy and all. I still have this fucking limp, but they finally let me out a couple of months ago. People kept bothering me while I was there after I woke up, police included, trying to get me to tell them what happened, but I just don't know. Aunt Estelle eventually tossed some money and lawyers at people, dropped words like harassment and negligence, and they finally backed the fuck off me and left me to my therapy. Eventually they said I could go home.
Estelle wanted m to come live with her in New Brunswick, and I did for a few weeks, but I just got tired of it all. She hovered a lot, watching me and all. Susan too, my cousin. It was embarrassing, she’s younger than me and she kept trying to help me… I got tired of it all, and finally convinced my aunt to let me go back home. The old home was still in my name, now that I was awake once the lawyers switched it from my aunt to me since she had it while I was in the coma. I moved to Belchertown again, with a lived in maid and a second woman for my physical therapy. Things were ok the first couple of days, but then things started up. Smells, odd sounds. Things never seemed to be in the place it was left, chilly drafts, all that sort of stuff. It only got worse as things turned towards fall. I didn’t go too many places in the house, I mean, I was still walking with a cane and a limp and the place was huge with stairs everywhere. One time I did go down to the basement, the long stairwell looming below me, my chest tightening in the cold air. It seemed colder and the air thicker as I took each step down, the sensation of cobwebs against my face, though I couldn’t feel any when I brushed at them with my fingers to try and pull them away. I don’t know what happened or why, but I panicked, my heart beating like a rabbit and I had the sudden urge to run. I screamed and slipped, losing my footing and falling down the stairs. I screamed for half an hour shivering on the floor, crying, my throat hoarse, before anyoe finally came downstairs to get me. They’d been upstairs the whole time, the place silent, but they couldn’t hear me screaming, even with the maid being in the kitchen near the top of the stairwell, as if the stairwell had been insulated, closed off and silent the whole time. If she hadn’t come down for the mop after dropping something, I don’t know if she’d have ever found me.
I thought I saw the little girl in the pink dress. It was a Thursday night, and she was at the end of the hall near the old nursery, Caleb’s old room. She stared at me, and when I gasped, she shook her head and pointed behind me. I turned to look, eyeing the stairs and the front door at the end of them, but when I turned back she was gone.
The door to the old nursery would frequently be locked, even after I unlocked it, propped it open. The therapist said it wasn’t her and the maid protested that she hated the room and wouldn’t go in it, but someone had to… or it was the girl. None of the other two saw her, and stared at me oddly when I mentioned it.
I still didn’t feel comfortable sleeping in my parents room, but it was my house now. One night, a couple of weeks after moving in, I woke up and looked outside the bedroom window. It looked like things were hanging from the branches, swaying in the breeze. Rags, animals… torn flesh, wet in the faint moonlight. I touched the wall, steadying myself and it felt damp. I stared at my hand and saw it covered in blood. I screamed, stumbling backwards and falling to the ground. When the therapist showed up, my hand was clean, the walls like they normally were. She didn’t see anything outside. I moved out of the room the night I woke up and feeling an unbearable urge to stare outside in the dark, saw a tattooed man, staring fixedly at the window. I stayed in my old bedroom after that.
After a few more weeks, the therapist quit. She refused to stare they anymore, no mater how much Estelle offered her. She wouldn’t say why, but she looked uneasy, her nervousness getting worse and worse with each day before she had enough. The maid seemed to get worse after that. She just left one evening while I was asleep and wouldn’t return my calls. She didn’t even want the stuff she left behind. Estelle arranged for a therapist and cook to visit twice a day when I refused to leave. She tried to convince me to leave, but I wouldn’t budge. I was going to live a fucking normal life, as much of one as I could under the circumstances.
A week ago, I got something in the mail. I don't know why, but everything seemed hushed as I held it, like the world stopped breathing. Which I think was a clue I should stop what I was doing, but I'm not always big on clues. I opened the envelope, which had no return address and I looked in. I'd like to say I was scared when I saw the large, shimmering card in the envelope, but in reality I think I almost shit myself, so scared might be an understatement. It was like a rush of all those memories of being a kid, or at least some, the stuff I told you for example. Stuff I thought was dreams or nightmares were all real. It was hard to deal with. Picking up the card to turn it over, feeling that warm, clinginess and then see my dead father's living face in the card, that was worse. He whispered something, I'm not sure what really. I'm not as cool as I wish I was. I tried to scream, but I couldn't, instead making one of those silent, scared to death sort of faces from nightmares, too terrified to make a sound. The next thing I know I'm waking up here, wrapped up in the jacket, my face like these. They say I did these to myself, but… I don’t know… I don’t know…
Augusta Mental Health Institute Interview - August 30, 2010:
I, uhm, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I had time, and, just time. I mean, I suppose you know and, well, it-it doesn’t matter, I mean, people know; the hospital. The old Augusta Mental Health Institute. They were closing it, but my aunt knew someone and, well, they did us a favor. It was close, but not too close, to her in New Brunswick. I mean, my aunt, great aunt actually, Estelle, she knew people. They were good, they helped me when… There were… things. Stuff, yeah. They say its good to talk about it, but, sometimes… I try though. Sometimes. Not always.
I’m feeling lot better now. I’m calmer now, thanks. You have helped me a lot. I know I had some problems. It must have been the suddenness of having woken up in the hospital after all those years. Obviously I was delusional, hearing things, seeing things that weren’t there. I realize that now. Living alone so soon was also a very bad idea, especially in my old home away from family. It was a bad choice. I was obviously hiding and that should have been a sign I needed help, that I was running away.
I think I’ve made great progress. I’ve gotten my GED now, thanks to a lot of people here and the nurses who must have been reading to me while I was in a coma, because I knew so much already, it all seemed to easy to pick up. The people have been very helpful, and I think, like Doctor Madison, that its time I try and acclimate and adjust with life. I have my book here, so I can write things down, the good thoughts and the bad ones, the ones I know are all make believe. Aunt Estelle has been very kind and has offered to let me stay with her. It’s a good thing, as I can help her get over the loss of Susan, and she can help me adjust, and not be alone. I think I’m better now. I’m not perfect, but I’m working on it, and I think I need to get on with my life…
Known about Jacob Black:
For those who know the Vandenburg connection obviously are aware of their prominence in the New Brunswick area.
For those with any interested in religious studies or occult circles may know about a few publications by Jeb Black relating to the occult. Even in those circles he was considered a part of the fringe, postulating a great deal in relation to things varying from extreme math and obscure architectural design which could be used to access higher planes or dimensions as well as ritual magic and even other beings existing at the edge of reality waiting to cross over and harm mankind, or worse.
Angela Black had multiple publications, mostly theoretical regarding neurological procedures. Many postulate the use of extreme methods for adjustments for curing various psychological disorders, many of which have been designated as interesting but impossible techniques to pursue due to ethical concerns and lack of concrete results that would support the basis for beginning clinical trials.
The events of the Sunny Acres Retirement Home was rather prominent in 1992. Within a few months, Fox hosted a few specials on it, mostly in larger series relating to the occult complete with corny reenactments. A second wave of these came out following news on Jacob’s awakening in 2004. The “documentaries” have frequently been repeated late at night or during Halloween. A handful of books on the occult mention it with a number of theories, but they are not widely read.
For those who have spoken to Jacob at length, for someone who never went to school after the age of 13, was in a coma for 13 years and a mental hospital for 6 years, he seems to be alot better read and aware of things than one might think.
Jacob occasionally seems to be distracted, like he's listening to something.
Birthday June 9, 1979.
Age: 31
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 132 lbs (yep, think beanpole)
Eyes: (Right) Green (Left) Grey (Suffers from Heterochromia iridium)
Hair: Black
Notable characteristics: Walks with a limp, frequently uses a cane. Always seen with a small notebook in hand or a pocket.
Why do you keep asking me about my childhood? I’ve told you over and over again, I barely remember anything, I wasn’t awake for most of it. Look, you need to go back to the house and look! Its there, the card was there, I’m telling you! Please, please, I’m not crazy, I’m not fucking losing it goddamn it. Fine, fine… if I do this, you send someone, right?
Fuck… When--when I try to think back on things, on my childhood, its hard, hazy like piecing together the fragments of a puzzle that was chewed on and played with by small children; bits missing and torn or looking like they’re from another box. Sometimes I wonder if its all… fantasizes or nightmares or something. Just, don’t write that last bit down, the nightmares, don’t tell anyone that. You said this was private, between you and I, right? Just… don’t. But… so many things are… difficult, fading and hazy. There was the woman who came to our house and gave my father these shimmering playing cards, the pictures on them moving and talking, or trying to, but silent, mouths pressed—No, I don’t want to talk about the cards, not yet.. And… men, with tattoos on their faces, and they had knives in their hands or their belts, and they were always whispering, deep in the basement, down the dark stairs. I could hear them sometimes, even from upstairs, I could hear their whispers. And there were weird smells, things I can’t even describe that made me choke that appeared in my father's study and forced me to run away or… or… I don’t know. I don’t remember… That’s weird. I-I believed, no, I convinced myself, they were just nightmares from being a kid, or from the coma, but I saw them, the tattooed men, and there was the card, that card with my father’s face on it, and when his lips stretched, the card surface buckling, rippling with the movement, I could hear him, hear the faistest hint of a whisper…
But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I was born to Jebediah and Angela Black on June 9, 1979 in New Brunswick, Maine. They were professors, and I think they met each other at the University of Maine in Farmington. My mother, Angela, was an academic doctor, or however you call the doctors who don’t practice. She was the head of the neuroscience department for a few years there when my father joined the Religious Studies department there. He wasn’t popular or people didn’t like him or something. I remember hearing him talking to someone once on the phone or in his study or… or something that doesn’t matter, but he was complaining, screaming about people with closed minds, how they didn’t have the courage to explore new ideas, to look beneath the surface of things. I think that’s why they ended up moving to Massachusetts. This was back in 1972 or 1973, both of my parents taking positions at Amherst, though we lived in an old house in Belchertown not that far away. My mother spent a good deal of time working with some of the patients at the Belchertown State School. Yeah, the one that was in the news for mistreating the mentally disabled, the first one sued in Massachusetts. My dad, he kept doing his religious studies things. He didn’t publish much, again, that closed minded thing I mentioned hearing him say, but from what I gather, he stopped trying around 1975. That’s when I remember mom said something changed. She was arguing with my father at the time, something about it all changing when the school was sued again, not too long before… well, things.
I remember things were odd. Some of my first memories were of my mother being distant, she wouldn’t even put a Band-Aid on me when I fell and skinned my knee or hand. Not until my baby brother was conceived. Maybe it was the pregnancy, but my mother started to read to me, she’d let me curl up with her and press my ear against her belly as it swelled up. She smiled more when she saw me. But then after… He, Caleb, died a few days after being born. This was in ’84. Actually, he had the same birthday as me, June 9th. It was the only time I could think of that my great aunt Estelle came to visit us. She visited in the hospital, I remember seeing her, shoulders back, she smiled at me as she went past me into the hospital room. I wasn’t allowed in as they spoke, in fact mom didn’t want to see me at all for a week, and I stayed with my Aunt Estelle, but not at the house, at a hotel nearby. She waited outside the house while I went in for my stuff, but she wouldn’t step onto the porch. When I asked her why we couldn’t stay at home, she just stared at me a moment before asking me about something else, and I forgot to ask why again.
After Caleb died, things went back to how they had been before he was conceived. I never saw them much when I was growing up, beyond dinner or something. They were always busy, though it wasn’t like I wasn’t loved I guess. I mean, they could be… distant. They’d ask me questions all the time, odd things, how I was feeling, if I heard something in particular, though I don’t remember what now, or why. It made me nervous though, so I always told them no, especially after the girl. I told them one day that I had seen a girl in the nursery upstairs, the one that was going to be Caleb’s room. She had been wearing a pink dress and a bonnet. They told me to never go into the room anymore and not to talk to her, and even locked the room so I couldn’t get in anymore. They were so upset, and it scared me so bad the way they started shouting at me, that I didn’t tell them I saw her a second time the previous night, that she had come into my room one night and whispered in my ear while I was in bed, my ear getting colder and colder, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. When she kept coming back, I tried to ignore her, but she’d just get mad and throw things. When my parents came in one night after the mirror fell off the wall, they blamed me for it because she wasn’t there anymore.
Looking back on things, I guess my parents were kind of demanding. Maybe. They kept making me learn Latin or Arabic, or told me to watch the stars at night, though that stopped early on, both of them telling me I couldn’t go out at night anymore alone. They also made me learn the piano, though I hated it, my fingers always ached afterwards and Mr. Hennessy, the piano teacher, smelled like burnt cigarettes all the time. Though if I said he smelled like that, he would say he didn't smoke, which… that’s weird, right? Why lie about that? My parents smoked, my father mostly, and they didn’t care as far as I could tell as other people smoked in the house, and there was always incense burning in the corner rooms, though he never smoked in the house as far as I knew. I don't know, and it doesn't matter right now.
By time the first grade came around though, they sort of backed off and I had more free time. I don't know if they just relaxed or if it was work, because they were away more often now. I spent most of my time with friends, but at home, I had one after another nannies. They never lasted long. They’d smile at first but as time went on, they’d get jumpy, startling all the time, spilling things. One of them ran down the stairs while I was in the front room and out the door and she never came back.
I did OK at school. I don’t think it was any different from other people’s experiences, just the typical school stuff. Some mean kids, some cool friends, though I don’t think any of my friendships lasted for more than a year or so. We just always drifted apart and stuff; one day we're close as can be, the next, I don’t know, we just weren't. I never could figure it out. When I was eleven, I got tired of it, when Cathy Long just up and ditched me, literally between second and third period she stopped talking to me, she wouldn’t even look at me or listen or anything. Don’t laugh, but I cried. I was eleven and I was tired and I couldn’t sleep enough that October, and I was realling hoping she’d be the first girl I kissed, you now? I just wanted to know why. Why did she stop talking to me, why she wouldn’t even look at me or anything, what’d I do? So I caught up with her after school one day and she said I was weird. I didn’t know what to say. I stared at her and when she started to shut her front door I blurt out, “How was I weird?” I don’t know what I expected her to say, but she gave me a list. She said I wasn't cool, which hurt then, but now, who cares, I think its safe to say I’m never going to be cool or anything. Then she said my house was haunted or something, that I spoke in my sleep about things, things I shouldn't know. Then she slammed the door in my face. I didn’t know what to say or do, how to even talk about that. My house is haunted? I talk in my sleep?
I don’t know, but the thing is she may have been right. No, she was right. Back then I thought she was making things up, but after awhile I started thinking about things. I mean the house is odd. It’s always dark in there and the plants always seemed to die or have this odd yellow color. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it, why I needed to go into a coma before I realized it. Maybe this is stupid, but I liked eating at other houses more. The food tasted, I don't know, more flavorful, more filling. I’m not trying to be mean about my mom’s cooking, or the cook’s cooking since mom never opened anything but a bottle of wine. But there were other things, like the constant feeling like the place was breathing and the odd sounds at night. Not that sort of creaking stuff, but like sighs, deep, vibrating in your chest or felt along your bones more than heard. And there were other sounds… things I don't think I ever want to hear again. What – what the fuck, why am I remembering, why didn’t I remember this? What the fuck is going on? There were whispers and gasps, whimpering and other things that I can’t even name… I’m telling you it’s in there, there, right now and its waiting for me, I can feel it like its looking over my shoulder, hovering near my ear waiting for you to turn away and whisper to me. You need to stay here, you can’t leave me here alone again, you’ve got to fucking stay here with me, please, please, I’m fucking begging you, don’t leave me in here again… It’ll find me? What? I don’t know what the fuck it is, stop fucking asking me that, stop fucking patronizing me you fucking shit, I don’t know what it is, I don’t fucking know, but it’s coming and it’ll find me know. I remember it and it knows and it can find me now! It’ll smell me, and follow me and they’ll fucking come when you leave and its dark!
Fuck, why… why do you keep asking me more. Yes, yes, there were visitors. They'd come at all hours of the night, usually midnight, but sometimes people would show up during dinner, and my parents would tell me to go to my room and lock the door and stay in there until they came for me. They tried to look calm, but I could see the look in my mother’s eyes, she was fucking terrified. I never saw the visitor’s that night, but they’d stiffen up suddenly, before the knock at the door, before the bell even fucking rung, and they’d tell me to run upstairs right that fucking minute. I don't know who they were or what they wanted or anything. I just remember thinking it was odd, but I lived with it the whole time I was a kid, so I didn't know if it was odd or not, not really. I, not then. I mean, after awhile I sort of stopped thinking about it, but not at first. I'd ask my parents who they were, but they'd never answer my questions, usually ignoring the questions or telling me to go to my room. I remember once, when I was eight I think maybe nine, it's hard to remember exactly, like the memory was trying to escape, but my mother got angry, out of the blue, and slapped me. It scared me to death, and I ran to my room and cried myself to sleep with the door locked.
The more I try to think about the people who came, who they were or what they were like, the harder it becomes. I remember staring out of my window once, it wasn’t too long after Caleb died, and I pushed the window open and looked out with the light in my room off. I saw men, strange, tattooed men in weird robes in the shadows at the rear of the house. None of the lights were on, and it was hard to see, but I could just make the movement out in the faint wisps of moonlight coming through the trees. Our yard was thick with them, wild, angry trees that scratched at the house when the wind blew… sometimes when it didn’t. They were moving large boxes from a plain truck to the house. One of the men was standing on the walkway, his back to the house, and he suddenly turned and looked straight up at the window, straight into my eyes. He wasn't searching or checking the place out, he just turned and looked at me in one smooth motion like he knew I was watching. Deep, black eyes that made me fee like I was sinking, like I needed to claw and flail like I was drowning in something thick and viscous. And there was the screaming, loud and painful, tearing at my ears and making me want to cry and hide, to close my eyes and never look outside again. When I woke up, I was curled in the back of my closet, tufts of hair in my hands and my throat hoarse from screaming and the taste of blood in my mouth from biting my lips and tongue. I must have smeared some of it on the door when I closed myself in, I could see the blood squiggled on the door frame, dried bits on my fingertips… I never looked outside again when the strangers showed up.
There was something else, that Cathy had said, about the knowing things, talking in my sleep. I remembered that, when I was ten, I knew her mother had cancer and was dying. I don't know how, but I knew. I remember her brother, Murray, walking me up one night, slapping me, telling me to shut up. I think this was a couple of weeks before Cathy stopped being my friend. He was staying the night and I just remember waking up from being asleep. He told me what I said and said I was a liar. A couple of weeks later, Cathy's mom told her and Murray she was dying. I think she died a few months later. I don't know how I knew I don't even remember saying anything in my sleep.
I, um, I remember whispers though. Not all of the time, just sometimes. Soft, lingering whispers. I'd hear it sometimes around people. They never lasted long, but, I heard them. The first time I was home alone and it scared me, so I stayed in my room under the bed with the door locked. The whispers stopped and I was happier. I think I was seven when they first started, actually, just before I turned seven. I remember knowing what my parents bought me for my birthday before I opened it. It was in the whisper. After awhile I stopped being afraid of them, but I never had any real control over them.
When I was nine, I remember a beautiful woman coming to the house during dinner. She wore all black and red, a long, flowing dress that just called out to me, wanting me to touch it, to play with the shining stars that moved under it, but my Mom made me go to my room. I had only caught sight of the woman for a couple of seconds as I was going to the stairs, but she turned to look at me and smiled. I was fine until she smiled. It was cold, wicked, like the boogeyman or a wild animal. Those bright, red lips curling up, the ice blue eyes boring through me. I swear I thought she smiled, showing rows upon rows of sharp, jagged teeth. I'd swear she whispered that she'd find me. That she'd wait under the bed or in the closet and I just had to say her name and she'd come for me. Fuck, look at the hairs on my arms, fuck, it scared me. It still fucking scares me. For a week I stopped using my closet unless my Mom or the nanny was in the room. I eve begged my parents to let me put my bed on the floor. They wouldn't, so I never let any part of me hang off the bed and I always keep the covers on, no matter how hot it is. I’m fucking telling you I’m not nuts. I can fucking still hear things under the bed. In the hospital, I thought I saw shadows shifting under the bed beside mine…
Anyways, the smiling woman, she had a deck of cards in her long, thin fingered hands, the blood red nails tapping them as she gave me that look before I went away. I only saw the cards twice more, sorta. I remember going into my father's bedroom, I was looking for something I guess, I don't remember. Normally the room was locked, but this day it wasn’t. I don’t even know why I tried the door knob, but I did, and when the ice cold knob turned under my hand, I walked in. On my Dad's nightstand was the deck of cards. It'd been a couple of months since I saw them that one night, so I was curious. I remember reaching out and picking one up. The cards were larger than normal cards, like some tarot decks, though I didn't know that then. The cards were thick and stiff. And warm. A pulsating warmth that left a clammy feeling to your fingers afterwards, like you picked up a dead animal, freshly killed. The surface shimmered, and I turned the card over. It was a picture of a dark street or alley, and a group of small children in rags held hands, looking terrified at a dark, brooding figure that filled half the card. It was sort of spooky, but I couldn't put the card down, not even when I saw the figures and images moving. And I could hear them. They were crying. Not the sort of skinned knee or frustrated sort of crying, but gut wrenching fear, the sort of sound that comes from something profoundly wrong. The hairs on my neck and arms were standing on end, like they are right now, see, and I wanted to run, to scream or hide or something, but I couldn’t, like I was stuck in glue, paralyzed and unable to move, at the same time not wanting to move in case something, It, saw me… The kids were all staring at the dark figure on the card, before the dark figure moved, a pouncing movement, followed by a flutter of something shiny. The first kid, a boy, maybe my age, fell over, his neck torn open, blood and organs spilling out. I could smell it, the iron-copper scent, the garbage in the alley, and worse, there was blood on me, a splattering as if it sprayed onto me if I was standing near them. The other kids started to scream and I think I started to scream too, but I couldn't put the card down or run or even turn away. The rest is mostly a blur, but I remember my father coming and slapping the card away, screaming at the top of his lungs after the last kid was twitching on the ground and the dark figure had turned to look at me over his shoulder. I don’t know what it looked like, really, that was the only thing that stood out, the smile. And my Dad being so angry, he was shaking, his face a deep red hue. He slapped me, hard enough to knock me to the ground. Then my mom showed up and she started to cry as she saw me on the floor and the cards. She sent me to my room, her voice tight, but she hugged me first. I think it was the first time she’d hugged me in awhile. I don’t remember how long, but a long time. I want to say since before Caleb died, but… that can’t be right. She had to hug me sometime in all that time, right?
My parents started to argue more after that. This was in ’92, a couple of months before Sunny Acres. They tried to hide it, but I saw things… Heard whispers, those same ones from before. I’d feel tight sensations in my chest, or smell things, unpleasant things, and move from one room to another to try and get away from it. It chase me around, and when it stopped, when I lost it, I’d hear them in another room or through the vents. I don’t remember what they said or did, but I remember it was uncomfortable, I felt dizzy sometimes, uneasy… I need water… Thanks. I think I remember Caleb’s name for some reason, or them saying something about the second son, not the first… I don’t know, I don’t fucking know. Just, stop… I’m not feeling good.
When I was thirteen, my parents woke me up in the middle of the night and said we had to go somewhere, a retirement home. I asked why, who we were going to see, but my dad left the room without answering me and my mom, she just shook her head. She wouldn’t look at me, she just said it was nobody I knew but that they'd be gone all night and I had to go with them. That sort of thing didn't happen often. Sometimes, but it'd been a year or two since the last time. This was the first time it was a retirement home. From what I was told later, after I woke up, it was an old converted asylum, the old Whalen Sanitarium in Adams, Massachusetts. The whole East Wing had been closed after a fire in the 30s, but they had renovated the West Wing back in the 40’s and opened it up, not that far from the woods around Mount Greylock. I don't remember what happened. I’ve told everyone that since I woke up, I don’t fucking remember a goddamn thing. I’ve tried, I’ve fucking tried my ass off but I don’t remember a thing. No, I’m not fucking agitated, I’m… just, no, no, no more pills. Don’t call them again. I feel so fucking trapped in cotton… I feel numb… and cold. Believe me, I tried, I’ve tried for the past three months. You have no idea how much I've tried, but I never could remember anything. I'm not bullshitting you, it's the truth. I remember being in the car, wrapped up in my pajamas, a coat and a blanket, and that's it. The next thing I know I'm twenty-six and I've apparently been catatonic since I was found. Thirteen years, half of my fucking life lost asleep in bed. I heard someone say there was footage, of what they found, but it was just one of those recreations they do on those Fox specials about the occult and aliens and stuff, but I guess it's based off the reports and accounts of what the fire fighters found.
I was the only one left when they arrived. The whole retirement home was empty. The furniture was broken, doors blown out and the East wing was on fire again. I was found hugging myself, sitting in a closet, as far back in as I could get. All the others were gone; 212 retirees, staff and my parents, they had just vanished without a trace. I just sat there, rocking back and forth humming a nursery rhyme, staring at the floor, blood in my mouth from having bitten my tongue and lips, dried on my finger tips from… I don’t know, I guess from when I wiped my mouth, I don’t fucking remember…
I wasn’t even in the same state. Aunt Estelle, she had brought me over to a place near Summerhaven here in Maine. I stayed for several months, physical therapy and all. I still have this fucking limp, but they finally let me out a couple of months ago. People kept bothering me while I was there after I woke up, police included, trying to get me to tell them what happened, but I just don't know. Aunt Estelle eventually tossed some money and lawyers at people, dropped words like harassment and negligence, and they finally backed the fuck off me and left me to my therapy. Eventually they said I could go home.
Estelle wanted m to come live with her in New Brunswick, and I did for a few weeks, but I just got tired of it all. She hovered a lot, watching me and all. Susan too, my cousin. It was embarrassing, she’s younger than me and she kept trying to help me… I got tired of it all, and finally convinced my aunt to let me go back home. The old home was still in my name, now that I was awake once the lawyers switched it from my aunt to me since she had it while I was in the coma. I moved to Belchertown again, with a lived in maid and a second woman for my physical therapy. Things were ok the first couple of days, but then things started up. Smells, odd sounds. Things never seemed to be in the place it was left, chilly drafts, all that sort of stuff. It only got worse as things turned towards fall. I didn’t go too many places in the house, I mean, I was still walking with a cane and a limp and the place was huge with stairs everywhere. One time I did go down to the basement, the long stairwell looming below me, my chest tightening in the cold air. It seemed colder and the air thicker as I took each step down, the sensation of cobwebs against my face, though I couldn’t feel any when I brushed at them with my fingers to try and pull them away. I don’t know what happened or why, but I panicked, my heart beating like a rabbit and I had the sudden urge to run. I screamed and slipped, losing my footing and falling down the stairs. I screamed for half an hour shivering on the floor, crying, my throat hoarse, before anyoe finally came downstairs to get me. They’d been upstairs the whole time, the place silent, but they couldn’t hear me screaming, even with the maid being in the kitchen near the top of the stairwell, as if the stairwell had been insulated, closed off and silent the whole time. If she hadn’t come down for the mop after dropping something, I don’t know if she’d have ever found me.
I thought I saw the little girl in the pink dress. It was a Thursday night, and she was at the end of the hall near the old nursery, Caleb’s old room. She stared at me, and when I gasped, she shook her head and pointed behind me. I turned to look, eyeing the stairs and the front door at the end of them, but when I turned back she was gone.
The door to the old nursery would frequently be locked, even after I unlocked it, propped it open. The therapist said it wasn’t her and the maid protested that she hated the room and wouldn’t go in it, but someone had to… or it was the girl. None of the other two saw her, and stared at me oddly when I mentioned it.
I still didn’t feel comfortable sleeping in my parents room, but it was my house now. One night, a couple of weeks after moving in, I woke up and looked outside the bedroom window. It looked like things were hanging from the branches, swaying in the breeze. Rags, animals… torn flesh, wet in the faint moonlight. I touched the wall, steadying myself and it felt damp. I stared at my hand and saw it covered in blood. I screamed, stumbling backwards and falling to the ground. When the therapist showed up, my hand was clean, the walls like they normally were. She didn’t see anything outside. I moved out of the room the night I woke up and feeling an unbearable urge to stare outside in the dark, saw a tattooed man, staring fixedly at the window. I stayed in my old bedroom after that.
After a few more weeks, the therapist quit. She refused to stare they anymore, no mater how much Estelle offered her. She wouldn’t say why, but she looked uneasy, her nervousness getting worse and worse with each day before she had enough. The maid seemed to get worse after that. She just left one evening while I was asleep and wouldn’t return my calls. She didn’t even want the stuff she left behind. Estelle arranged for a therapist and cook to visit twice a day when I refused to leave. She tried to convince me to leave, but I wouldn’t budge. I was going to live a fucking normal life, as much of one as I could under the circumstances.
A week ago, I got something in the mail. I don't know why, but everything seemed hushed as I held it, like the world stopped breathing. Which I think was a clue I should stop what I was doing, but I'm not always big on clues. I opened the envelope, which had no return address and I looked in. I'd like to say I was scared when I saw the large, shimmering card in the envelope, but in reality I think I almost shit myself, so scared might be an understatement. It was like a rush of all those memories of being a kid, or at least some, the stuff I told you for example. Stuff I thought was dreams or nightmares were all real. It was hard to deal with. Picking up the card to turn it over, feeling that warm, clinginess and then see my dead father's living face in the card, that was worse. He whispered something, I'm not sure what really. I'm not as cool as I wish I was. I tried to scream, but I couldn't, instead making one of those silent, scared to death sort of faces from nightmares, too terrified to make a sound. The next thing I know I'm waking up here, wrapped up in the jacket, my face like these. They say I did these to myself, but… I don’t know… I don’t know…
Augusta Mental Health Institute Interview - August 30, 2010:
I, uhm, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I had time, and, just time. I mean, I suppose you know and, well, it-it doesn’t matter, I mean, people know; the hospital. The old Augusta Mental Health Institute. They were closing it, but my aunt knew someone and, well, they did us a favor. It was close, but not too close, to her in New Brunswick. I mean, my aunt, great aunt actually, Estelle, she knew people. They were good, they helped me when… There were… things. Stuff, yeah. They say its good to talk about it, but, sometimes… I try though. Sometimes. Not always.
I’m feeling lot better now. I’m calmer now, thanks. You have helped me a lot. I know I had some problems. It must have been the suddenness of having woken up in the hospital after all those years. Obviously I was delusional, hearing things, seeing things that weren’t there. I realize that now. Living alone so soon was also a very bad idea, especially in my old home away from family. It was a bad choice. I was obviously hiding and that should have been a sign I needed help, that I was running away.
I think I’ve made great progress. I’ve gotten my GED now, thanks to a lot of people here and the nurses who must have been reading to me while I was in a coma, because I knew so much already, it all seemed to easy to pick up. The people have been very helpful, and I think, like Doctor Madison, that its time I try and acclimate and adjust with life. I have my book here, so I can write things down, the good thoughts and the bad ones, the ones I know are all make believe. Aunt Estelle has been very kind and has offered to let me stay with her. It’s a good thing, as I can help her get over the loss of Susan, and she can help me adjust, and not be alone. I think I’m better now. I’m not perfect, but I’m working on it, and I think I need to get on with my life…
Known about Jacob Black:
For those who know the Vandenburg connection obviously are aware of their prominence in the New Brunswick area.
For those with any interested in religious studies or occult circles may know about a few publications by Jeb Black relating to the occult. Even in those circles he was considered a part of the fringe, postulating a great deal in relation to things varying from extreme math and obscure architectural design which could be used to access higher planes or dimensions as well as ritual magic and even other beings existing at the edge of reality waiting to cross over and harm mankind, or worse.
Angela Black had multiple publications, mostly theoretical regarding neurological procedures. Many postulate the use of extreme methods for adjustments for curing various psychological disorders, many of which have been designated as interesting but impossible techniques to pursue due to ethical concerns and lack of concrete results that would support the basis for beginning clinical trials.
The events of the Sunny Acres Retirement Home was rather prominent in 1992. Within a few months, Fox hosted a few specials on it, mostly in larger series relating to the occult complete with corny reenactments. A second wave of these came out following news on Jacob’s awakening in 2004. The “documentaries” have frequently been repeated late at night or during Halloween. A handful of books on the occult mention it with a number of theories, but they are not widely read.
For those who have spoken to Jacob at length, for someone who never went to school after the age of 13, was in a coma for 13 years and a mental hospital for 6 years, he seems to be alot better read and aware of things than one might think.
Jacob occasionally seems to be distracted, like he's listening to something.
Birthday June 9, 1979.
Age: 31
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 132 lbs (yep, think beanpole)
Eyes: (Right) Green (Left) Grey (Suffers from Heterochromia iridium)
Hair: Black
Notable characteristics: Walks with a limp, frequently uses a cane. Always seen with a small notebook in hand or a pocket.
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