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Journal written by:
Jacob V. Davis
Found and transcribed by:
Peter J. Wacks
Case study by:
Dr. Hans Scheffler
The Chicago PD (dist. 41) has given its full release for the
information contained within this document and its
relevance to the case of the serial killer Jacob Davis.
Victim names have been omitted to protect the innocent
and their families.
You stumble through life in a daze, with delusions that your reality is so fucking cool and pristine perfect, not seeing the festering hell hole that actually is. You think that the world you live in is so damn special, but in reality you're just walking around in a nightmare trying not to notice the monsters lurking through the shadows at the edges of your vision. We try to blind ourselves from the horror of it all with fleeting visions of sex, power, money, and dozens of other false ideals. All the while labeling the "other" people monsters because they fantasize about different depravities and only ours are the right ones. Look past the visions and dreams and you'll find out that you ARE the monster. But no, you say, I'm special! Just because you're unique doesn't make you different. Once, I used to be the same way.
But no longer. Not since He arrived, to teach me that the nightmare starts when your eyes open, not when you close them. Since Him the world has been about blood, survival, and walking the edge of insanity without really knowing which side I'm striding. I remember having a job, friends, and a social life, all the things in living considered normal. Now that shit is the stuff of nightmares and wet dreams. But that is something I can never have back, not in a thousand lifetimes. It has been stolen from me; I have woken from the dream only to find that the nightmare is the absolute truth. Even though I still fight with every fiber of my being, I feel my soul twist and blacken a little more every time he comes. I often wonder if I even have a soul left, or whether it has simply rotted away like so much compost.
Soon you will see for yourself. I can feel it when he wants; the bloodlust and rage I can almost physically taste. His desire to be here is like a hundred heated pins piercing the flesh along the length of my spine, searing my body and soul with white-hot pain. But have no fear, you are on the other side of the page. And if you are reading this, I have been killed or he has been caught, so have no fear of him coming for you. Go ahead and sit back, enjoy my pain, for I feel him coming like a monsoon, powerful, and unstoppably flooding my body with his corrupting presence. I haven't much time left now...
Ah, there he is, his approach is about as subtle as a sledgehammer hitting your gut. It starts; an immense pressure at the back of my skull, spreading slowly throughout my cranium, and then it snaps forward to the front of my face like someone is kicking my fucking teeth in. Fuck me. The pain twists through my guts, tying my intestines in knots and trying to rip them apart with a brillo pad. It hits my stomach, throwing the acid around and scraping away the lining, layer at a time. I'm gonna p..puke this time. Shit. There it goes, chunky and red, spraying tiny pieces of my internal tissues and acidic bile over my floor. The taste of acid burns my mouth. I curl into a ball and tense all my muscles, focusing my will into control over my body, sometimes that helps rid me of some of the pain. Now my heart is pumping gelatinous napalm instead of blood and the thick flow is a fire, which sears its way through every vein, muscle, and pore. All racing towards my brain, destroying everything in its path. My mouth is foaming like a rabid dog. Fuck. The tears won't stop.
"GO THE FUCK AWAY" I shout. But it comes out a whimper, barely audible. And then the entirety of the sensations hit me, smashing me like a wave hitting a cliff. I am suspended from my body, floating, and watching it writhe on the ground, numbed to the point of nothingness and void but still feeling all the pain at the edge. Then my vision snaps, someone just drove a thousand white hot nails into my brain, and my sight explodes like a mirror hit by a fifty caliber slug, shattering your petty world and exposing the sweet offer of oblivion beyond... an offer that at all costs I cannot accept and must fight.
HE IS HERE.
I "awaken" to find Him searching the apartment for a weapon. He senses I have regained my consciousness and chuckles. Little does he know that I recently threw out all the knives in the kitchen, as well as everything else conceivably a weapon. I may not be quite so cunning as Him, but I've got the raw intelligence he lacks. Finally he realizes what I have done and roars bestially in rage. Yeah, fuck you too asshole, anger is a weapon only to your opponent. Then he smiles and scratches deep gouges down my arm. He doesn't mind the pain, but he knows I will once he leaves. Then, in a low pitched growl, using my mouth, he speaks.
"You've been very bad Jacob, but I'll forgive you this time because I understand your hopeless urge to fight. Next time, the punishment will be severe." My throat, his fucking voice. He stalks the apartment, seeking something usable as a weapon, until finally he stops before the broom closet. I feel my lips curl back into a feral smile as he opens the closet door. He reaches out, snatching the broom, and then lovingly strokes the wooden handle. Shit, he fucking beat me again! No matter what I try, that cunning bastard always wins out in the end. Raising the broom into the air above my knee, and then jerking it down, He breaks two pieces off the handle. Each piece is about a foot long and jagged on the edges. Keenly observing the two stakes He judges them acceptable and then promptly conceals them under my trench coat.
"Time to go hunting, Jacob. Let’s see what prey we'll find today." Fuck you bastard!
He can't hear me but he senses the meaning behind my emotional outbursts and snarls. He can dish it out, but he has trouble taking it. Damn bully. I think it angers him that after ten years of raping my mind and soul I can still fight him, even if it is only with resentment. It’s a petty victory, for all the good it does. He petulantly stalks to the door, like an annoyed child storming to their room and pretending that's where they wanted to go anyway. Then he flings open the portal that is the barrier between my miserable reality and the rest of the illusion that composes your world.
It is riding the fine line between day and twilight, shadows playfully dancing around the edges of vision with the sunset casting its red and golden rays across the sky- the setting sun a dying king sitting high on his throne and reaching out, seizing every niche of his domain before he is ripped from this mortal coil. An appropriate time for him to hunt, as the world watches the death of another day. The light plays across the shiny skyscrapers of town, which reflect a dull crimson glow settling over the city in a red haze. The world itself seems to bleed. Most would see this as beautiful, but to him it is the color he always sees. Blood is the color of his thought.
He prowls the streets, a hungry panther stalking from block to block; drifting invisibly through the crowds. The noises of the streets settle around him like so much background static, never actually heard simply there. Just as the people do not exist once he decides they are not worthy of being the prey. He sees her.
She is in her late twenties with flowing red hair and a shapely body standing about five foot eight. Looking at her body she is quite sexy, her face and eyes naturally hold an expression of contentedness and joy, two things he hates. I see his reason in choosing her. She wears tight jeans and a flannel, a backpack lazily slung across one shoulder. She's probably a student at the university. He likes taking beauty and knowledge out of the world.
A hunter stalking a well loved prey, he bides his time and follows, learning the nuances of her movements and enjoying the adrenaline of hunting. He doesn't let his anxiousness or desire for blood interfere with what little rationality he has. If he waits long enough, a good opportunity will arise. After about half an hour, at roughly the same time the night finally manages to conquer the sun, she notices me. The quarry takes flight, his interest is now locked. Her only hope would have been Him losing interest and spotting someone he liked better. But no chance of that now. She quickens her pace, attempting to loose him in the crowd, but for him the entire world consists of the two of them. They dance the streets as her fear grows and she wonders why none notice. From his view there is no crowd, just setting and terrain, and she tries in vain, for what he chooses to not notice- will never notice him.
I am hoping that she will lose him, but I know she's not good enough. He is far more patient and experienced in the hunt, whereas this is her first time. Finally she makes her mistake. While he appears to be looking away she slips into an alley, vanishing. I was looking across the street, watching her in the reflection of a window. She's clever, but he's cunning. We stride to the alley and step in. It is suddenly a different world, no longer bright with the neon prophecies of electric signs, just shadow and darkness. No more crowds to fill in the world, no more glaring streetlights making the world cozy, just him and an empty alley. I laugh, for the first time in six years. The laughter cleans some of the tarnish from my soul. Fuck you! She's smarter than you!
My lip begins to curl into a snarl, but he fights with that iron will of his, holding his temper. He slowly smiles as his eyes play across the alley.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are." He walks to the dumpster. It sits flush with the wall, lid closed. He grins triumphantly, I pray. "Come on pretty lady, I wanna’ play doctor with you. Won't you show me how beautiful you are on the inside?" He innocently sidles up to the dumpster. Quietly he checks the alley one more time. This must be it. He snaps the lid of the dumpster back and peers in, his hands ready to grab her. It's empty. Yes! I mentally weep in joy, loud as I can to rub it in. "Fuck!"
He stands still and listens intently, lost deep in thought. I know this stance. He feels her presence, and is trying to mentally locate her. A slight noise, barely perceptible, gives her away. Above and behind. Like a flash of lightning He spins, but not in time. She sails off balcony, flying towards us- one foot stretched out, the other tucked under her leg. Her kick connects with my nose, flattening it in a spray of blood. The jarring impact whips my head back and we crash into the side of the dumpster. But his reflexes are good. Almost before we hit the ground He is already back up onto his feet and ready. She hasn't even landed yet.
She alights on the ground and turns to sprint, but she has grossly misjudged his pain tolerance, reflexes, and skill. The blow she dealt should have dropped anybody not on PCP, but he has almost supernatural strength. He reaches under the trench coat, pulls out a stake, jerking his hand back and throwing. The poor girl doesn't even make it three feet. She falls, a stake tearing through thigh muscle and ligament.
The girl screams, but he is already there, his hand clamping around her mouth. The other stake smashes into her breast, crushing ribs and puncturing a lung. She almost passes out from the pain. I try to close my eyes but the other controls them and I can't. I have to watch, unable to act, as he rips out the side of her throat with his teeth. And the rest, as he rips off her limbs; sawing at them with blunt stakes and biting out gouges of flesh. Her blood spills across the alley like so much water dumped into a sink. I can't describe the rest. Fuck I hate him.
I wake in a park. I'm covered in blood, sweat, and grime. That's his usual tactic. While the blood is still wet he throws dirt over my body, so I just look mud encrusted, instead of soaked with dried blood. I go home, walking through empty Chicago streets. It’s three forty five A.M. and neon signs angrily flash, sputtering obscenities at me. On the way something catches my eye. A seedy store, set back from the rest of the street. An all-night S&M shop. Perfect. I laugh aloud, merriment hitting for the second time tonight, once again lending my soul strength in its healing. But not enough to overcome him. If you can't beat them, might as well join them. I walk in. The shop is as soulless as streets. Everything comes across in shades of gray, like those fifties movies they show all night on cable access.
The man behind the counter stands five seven, wearing leather pants and a leather vest which shows the sparse hair and bad complexion on his chest. He has one of those thin Freddy Mercury mustaches and is holding a cigarette with a limp left wrist. He looks me up and down through the hazy smoke that fills the air, supposedly adding to the store's ambiance.
"Well sexy, you been mud wrestling with gay Swedes? What can I do you for?" His voice is high pitched, thin and reedy with a slight lisp.
I describe everything I need. He smiles and comments that I must be going to have fun tonight. Ten minutes later I leave the store with a shopping bag and the cashier's number, which I can only use once I've showered. I grin ruefully.
Once I get home I make the rage hit, coaxing it out like a shy child, and I throw everything in my living room against one wall, breaking most of it. Anger also has a healing power. You get hot enough that your vision goes white and it sears everything else away. I dare not even think of my plan. I must keep emotions at the forefront of my mind or I am lost. Every time I have tried subverting him he instantly takes control. It’s to the point that if I even consider suicide or turning myself in he'll be there with the pain. And he will punish me. He will kill, and he will mutilate me so I will remember once he leaves. So I find the bag, tossing it to the cleared side of the room as I cry.
Then I do what I need most. Shower. I turn the handle for hot, not bothering with cold. I need to burn this away. Once the room is filled with steam I strip down and let the hot moisture wrap its arms around me like a lover. As I sweat the chill that locked into my bones slowly dissipates. Then, bracing myself, I step into the shower. Gods it burns. Every drop a pinprick, scalding my flesh. It washes away the blood and grime, and some of the sorrow. It burns until my skin is red and I'm raw. It burns away my vision, my mind, my soul. It burns away the pain.
Once I finish my entire body is hypersensitive. The air sweeps over me, so cold at eighty degrees I grow dizzy. Just putting on pants almost makes me faint. I go shirtless. The pain makes my head feel fuzzy, like I'm drunk. Which helps me in a small way to not think about my plan. It is a righteous pain, pain of a martyr, and it feels good, in a masochistic way. I walk to the living room, slowly leaning against the radiator. The change in height almost makes me pass out again.
I sit there numb, my mind a void, gently letting my foot rest against the bag from the bondage shop. Then I stare at my skin, clearing my mind and verging on sleep. Tears run down my cheek, but I know not what thoughts cause them.
Just before I fall from the edge of sleep into it, in that fraction of an instant it takes an idea to form, my body leaps into motion, thoughtless, acting on its own. I reach into the bag, grab a pair of cuffs slapping one end to my left wrist, the other to the radiator. While this happens my foot kicks the bag across the room, where all of my possessions lie in a heap, discarded and broken. Fuck you, asshole. I've finally won.
And he is back. No pain, vomiting, or struggle. He simply takes control. The pain when we switch is only a way to weaken me, which he hasn't time for right now. He is surprised. And he is pissed. He rages against the cuffs, slamming his arm out, trying to rip the radiator from its wall casing. You lose, asshole. It won't give. Not even his ungodly strength is enough to make that radiator budge. He'll rip off my wrist first. He almost does. All the skin on my wrist is torn, blood flowing freely, coating my hand and the cuffs. Finally he stops, panting. Blood is dripping onto my pants now. He looks around, trying to reach anything. Everything is too far, lying across the room; a broken heap. I scream in triumph, he in rage. His futile actions deepening his rage. But finally he burns out his anger.
He becomes silent, all feral thought and cunning without emotion, staring at the cuffs. He waits and contemplates with more patience than I have ever seen him use. I sleep. I finally awaken, hours later, and he is still lost in thought. After two hours pass he uncurls and smiles that arrogant grin of his. His victory grin, the one he uses when he knows he's beaten me. Shit.
He looks down to my pants, at the pool of blood soaked into the crotch and then He grabs the nib of the zipper. Shit. He twists until there is a pop and it comes free. Then he brings it up to mouth level, and bites down on it, clamping my front teeth to it. He patiently plies at it, managing to crack one of my teeth before it finally breaks in half lengthwise. He now has a lockpick, which he works until the handcuffs open.
He beat me.
Again.
I cry while he gets dressed.
Now it is time to kill, for he must punish me as well as sate his hunger. He stops, watching the walls for a while, letting me get a good look at the bloody handprints smeared across them, leftover art from some of his earlier forays. He's taking it slowly this time, rubbing in his victory and giving me time to think over my mistakes. Fucking bastard, he must have something big planned this time, and he wants me miserable. My pain is just another food for him to consume. Taking his time, perusing what I bought at the store He decides on two knives and the twelve-foot whip. I berate myself buying them, but he would have become suspicious had I only bought the cuffs. I had to make him think I was buying him toys. Which is exactly what I ended up doing.
At last prepared, we leave. He has a different method this time. No victim off of the street, randomly chosen for looks. This one is planned. No aimless meandering. He heads into the police station parking garage, a grin flitting across his face as he waves hi to the attendant. We search until he finds a green truck with a synth-leather covering over the bed. It's held down by snaps. We climb in, leaving only one snap undone, and then we wait.
Like a cat awaiting pouncing he relaxes his muscles and lies stock-still. Mentally he is active though. I feel waves of smugness coming from him. Then there is noise. The sound of a door opening, then closing. The truck's engine roars into life, and we begin our slow journey to an unknown destination. The faint sounds of soft rock drift from the cab, muted and thin. I try to keep a mental map, following the turns in my head, but I have no way to estimate the distances. I lie here in darkness, lost and confused, with another in control of my body awaiting a bloody murder. Sweat drips into my eye and he blinks, diffusing the salty sting. He is sweating... I feel his tension, his... fear? He is afraid?
Many times I have questioned my sanity... but for the first time I know, to the bone, that I AM sane. And my mind stops slipping away from me. It's like a tsunami crashing into my soul, filling me with strength and purpose. Also clarity. I know he is stronger than me, although not by much. I have to wait, bide my time and choose the moment carefully, for I now understand how much an animal he truly is. He is feral and has only bestial cunning, instinct, at his command. I am smarter than him. I radiate despair... confusing him so that I can blind-side him later. He is fooled, his conviction that I am beaten becomes my strongest weapon. I feel like crying out in joy, but maintain my mask of futility.
After an eternity the truck finally pulls to a stop, the engine grumbling into silence. Again the sound of a door opening and closing, then the crunch of footsteps on gravel. He waits for another ten minutes, tightening and loosening my muscles to bring life back into them, and then we carefully sneak out of the truck. The house we are at is moderately expense. It is two stories and hedged in, creating illusions of privacy.
He walks to the window and peers in, looking at the dining room. Three people are seated around the table for dinner. A family. Father, mother , and son. The boy is maybe twelve years old. As His eyes alight on the boy he smiles. So this was his plan. Never before has he taken a child. I rage against his mind weakly, biding my time. He grunts, pulling off the trench and wrapping it around my left arm. His right hand grabs the whip. Through the window, eh? Sure enough he takes a couple of steps back and then runs at the window, leaping at the last instant.
I know him now. I will win. He tucks my head behind my left arm and we sail through the window. The glass bows inwards, shattering before us, a thousand sharp messengers of the family's fate. And we land, slipping on the shards of glass but staying upright. My body is uncut. The three before us did not fare so well. All are cut, bleeding from small wounds, but none have major injuries.
Like a snake my right hand uncoils and flicks the wrist, snapping the whip. The cop reaches for his gun, but not fast enough. The whip wraps around his wrist, jerking him forward off of his feet. The cop tries to roll over and go for his gun but we are faster. Again I realize something. He doesn't posses speed or strength beyond mine, just the focus to use it. I grimly smile inside my skull. The whip is discarded and he spins a knife out of our pocket and slams it into the cops throat. One down.
He stands, taking stock of the situation. The child is curled into a sobbing ball, bleeding from small lacerations inflicted by the window. Then his eyes alight on the wife. She's caught in his gaze like a deer before headlights. Her jaw tenses and she breaks his spell, ripping her eyes away from his.
She scrambles for the phone and screams to the child. "Peter! Run!" Again he is quicker, and a knife slams into her right shoulder. He reaches around her neck and grabs her throat. Gripping as hard as possible, he squeezes, then pulls. Half of her throat rips out of her neck in his hand. Her attempted screams come out as a pitiful gurgling. Blood sprays across the floor and the child. Carefully he licks blood from her wound, savoring the taste as he rolls it around his mouth. Then, leaning down, he gently kisses her mouth and passes it back through her dying lips.
Now to the child. The Other stands above him, flexing his fists. He is sweating, fantasizing about what he will do to the child with his bare hands, sending me glimpses.
Now is my time. Bundling all of my strength, every once of love, caring, and compassion I hold in my soul, I hurl it. He staggers. I gauged his weakness well. While he fights my gift, I scream with all of my mind. "NO!"
He falls to his knees and the world goes black.
I stand in a field. It is all that exists. Across form me stands my twin, soaked in blood. Around us a cold mist swirls and shrouds the ground, obscuring where we stand.
Our eyes lock. Now we play a game to see who has the stronger will. I will lose, so must think fast.
"You appear here in my image... but you're not me." My starting gambit.
He growls, his voice is not mine. His oozes with slime like a thousand maggots waiting to burst inside. "It is your mind, so I appear in this weak form. You see me as yourself."
I smile. "I've just seen your weakness... after all these years you still don't know me. I have watched you. I have learned. I KNOW YOU!!" The last comes out a shout.
He looks shaken, but responds. "You can't know me. There is no human concept for what I am. You see me only as I apply to you. To weakness in you. I have no weakness. I am strong while you are just self contempt and pity." He tenses for combat.
I tense as well. "Your Achilles heel is two fold. You have no compassion or love, which means that..." I'm stalling for time "you will never be able to understand me. And I am in my own mind." There, I have it in place now.
He snarls and leaps, expecting the same from me, but I have aligned my spirit and mind. Behind me, hidden by the mist, lies the path back to my body. I turn and run.
Behind me I feel him stop, confused, but then comprehension dawns as to what I have just done. I hear him howl, and then give chase.
He's about two seconds behind me...
And I'm back in control. Without thought I reach over and rip the knife out of the cop's throat, plunging it into my heart. No time to make amends....
I hear him screaming inside my skull, then his howls fade to nothing. Finally, I am at peace. Whoever hears this tape after my death, know this... I die happy, knowing I had the strength to face my worst nightmares and triumph. The boy is standing over me now, gazing down...
He bends down, gently laying his finger across my lips. I feel his small finger, although I cannot see it. My vision is swimming and fading towards blackness. I hear his voice ... it's very old for twelve years. He is saying...
Gods no! He said...
"You lose Jacob."
Transcriber's Note:
That is what I heard when I listened to that tape, after prying it from that man's dead fingers ten years ago. The night that my parents were murdered before my eyes. I have no recollection of saying anything, but it is there on the tape.
I have come through a lot of therapy, and learned to control all of the emotions and fears caused by that night. I have transcribed this document so everyone can hear the story of what happened and because my therapist, Dr. Scheffler, recommended it. He says it will allow me release from all the hatred bundled inside me and if I don't release it , it will fester like any other wound. So, difficult as it has been, here is the finished product. I hope everyone enjoys, and learns from it. As for me, well, I still cannot explain my young voice on that tape, or how I knew that man's name.
Even now, twenty-two years old and ten years later, I still have the occasional nightmares of a beast lurking within my soul... But I will get by.