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.