The spring of 2013 would open a whole new world for me. It would launch me into a world I wouldn’t believe existed. And it would take years to figure out just what the hell was going on.
It began a months earlier, around the turn of the year into 2013, with the people who lived in the apartment above mine. Little things. Footsteps following mine. One thing I knew about the apartment above, since it’d been shown to me in the past to illustrate the damage done by the kids of the previous tenants who destroyed it, is that its layout was the same as mine. The only thing different was a second story loft bedroom and nothing more. But when the couple who lived above me in 2013 moved in a year prior, I was thankful. No more running and jumping and screaming kids. Quiet. Once and for all - quiet. Thank God.
Until six months prior to March 2013 I noticed oddities. If I happened to be watching TV in the living room and got up to take a whiz, the people above followed me. I could hear them. Each apartment in that complex at 5531 Kester Ave in Sherman Oaks came with Spanish tile and I could hear every step. If I got up and walked to my bedroom, footsteps shadowed mine all the way. Weird. I blew it off. And was still thankful that, at least, it wasn’t a legion of demon children jumping up and down all day and all through the night. The people above - the Coetzees - were quiet. I never heard their TV. Never heard their radio. But I did hear their footsteps. No big deal. Or so I thought.
One morning I stepped into my bedroom’s closet and the carpet inside was soaked, making making squishy sounds as I walked inside. I called the manager and he had a guy turn up with a Wet Vac to clean it up. A week later, same problem. And a couple more times. I stopped going in the closet and after a month or so’s time, I opened the door to a carpet teaming with giant yellow mushrooms.
Then began sounds - voices to be exact. But only appeared during the presence of noise. If I ran the shower, the voice of a woman appeared. From what I recall she sounded angry though I couldn’t understand the torrent of words that rode the hissing noise of the showerhead. But shut the water off and her voice evaporated to silence. I could hear this noise if I ran water in the kitchen or if the air conditioner came on. I placed a webcam on a pole and stood it up in the corner of my living room and left for work where I stayed the night. The next day I checked the audio captured and tried to get rid of what noise it appeared with. I would later play what sounded like a man who angrily chattered away with nonsense-speak, endlessly, and seemingly without real breaks between words for the manager of the apartment complex. He asked me, “What do you think it is?” I could only say, “I have no idea.” Noise-induced vocalizations would be something I had a bit of experience with in the past, I just hadn’t recalled it at that point. It would certainly play a huge part of my future. Telling people you know you’re hearing voices makes a person sound crazy no matter how you spin it. It would take years to divine how these things were achieved and just as long to denoise hundreds of hours of captured audio. When I described it to a friend who was familiar with radio and audio he said, “You’re talking about beat frequency.” I said, “Thanks, you might’ve said that two years ago when I described it over and over to you then and played you samples. What this phenomenon is called in sciency corners amongst smart people is Destructive Wave Interference. But since it took years from March 2013 to get to this knowledge, let’s agree to come back to it in a later article. Suffice it to say this tool is multifunctional. It can serve to begin painting someone as a sad soul who is heading into some kind of madness. But if your subject turns out to have cochlear implants along with a neural array these sounds can indeed be used as a testbed. Audio into the cochlear implants, and brain activity out through the neural array. All that’s needed it an RF transceiver.
March 2013 - The Coetzee’s Crank Up Their Magnetic Field Generator
I had fallen asleep on the couch in my living room. I awoke, feeling a queer upwelling in my side. A quivering of flesh just below my rib cage I’d never experienced. Odd. Hard to describe. I woke up immediately. Hearing the sound of creaking floorboards directly above me, I tried to act asleep. Tried didn’t last long. The vibrating flesh in my side grew stronger and began heating up. I leapt off the couch and headed to the bathroom - as if that would be some kind of hiding place. It was not. Footsteps stomped upon the floor above me, following me to the bathroom. The same quivering of flesh I felt in my side on the couch now grew in the lower right side of my neck. I moved to the bedroom. Once again - followed. And whatever system they were using for monitoring my movements room to room, they were always on top of me. Electrifying, to say the least. It didn’t take long to realize that I was being driven out of my own apartment. The power the people in the apartment above me now held on whether or not I would be allowed to stay in my home or not, at its heart, focuses on their control and my loss of it.
That night I fled the apartment and went to work where I slept on a couch in a conference room. Once the heat of anger dissipated I knew, after the vocalizations, the shadowing and now this, as others have termed it, “electronic harassment” (that would be putting it mildly) this encounter was the beginning of what would continue. And so it did. And every time I returned to my apartment, the time I was allowed to remain dwindled. I can’t recall ever telling anyone I knew this part of what was going on in my home as I already realized I would be painted a madman. I also couldn’t divine any real motive behind the Coetzee’s electric fence line erected in my home. But I’m incredibly stubborn. I surmised the owner’s of the property wanted to drive me out for whatever financial advantage they might gain. I mean, fuck, I was late on rent now and then but you ask a guy to leave, you don’t spend a million dollars on an electronic warfare fucking device. I’ll pay the fucking late fee. In the end, it would be about driving me out of the apartment so I might be corralled toward the next stage of whatever they were involved in. I’ll elucidate on this in a bit. At this time in the story I’m very pissed. I can’t tell anyone about this. And I had no real plan - my normal mode of operation.
I knew the equipment being used to drive me out wasn’t some exotic future weapon I had read about on ‘gang stalking’ websites. Whatever they used had to travel through their floor and my ceiling in order to make it to me and it was energy based. I felt whatever they were using must have a power system outside the apartment building’s normal, code-legal, power grid. I went into the apartment armed with an AC power detector and went straight for the fuse box where I shut down all power to the apartment. I either had the best AC detector on the market (incredible for $5 at Harbor Freight Tools) or the Coetzee Gun’s power system was detectable not only at the fuse box (where this tool is usually used) but all the way out to the middle of the living room. I didn’t understand at the time the 60Hz sine wave that exists in the US power grid and this is what the AC detector actually detects but I did know, I assured Michael Ball, the manager of the apartment building, that my detector shouldn’t be beeping everywhere in the apartment. This meant the entire apartment was flooded with power. I would later realize I was wrong. The entire apartment was flooded with a powerful magnetic field and when great power sources create powerful magnetic fields via AC power, the 60Hz sine wave isn’t destroyed but stays with the magnetic field.
Another journey into the apartment had me armed with a webcam taped to a long pole. I cut a hole inside the ceiling just inside a kitchen cabinet and after treating the rod and webcam like a javelin, aimed for an opening I saw above my ceiling. At the time I thought I had flung the camera into a space that existed between our apartments. I would later learn that I had just tossed the camera into the Coetzee’s kitchen cabinets. As I struggled to angle the webcam for better views I watched the monitor the webcam was connected to at a distance. I saw a tube and electrical lines and the attacks began. I saw something on the laptop’s monitor that looked like some kind of liquid had been sprayed on it. I heard a woman yelling (that didn’t require noise or running water - I’m sure it was Melissa Coetzee) something to her partner. Something along the lines, I’m sure, that I was fucking crazy. As I said, I didn’t know at the time I had actually intruded into their apartment. It would take me days to even see the little symbol of their unhappiness they dangled in front of my camera.
The video still above shows a noose the Coetzee’s fashioned from a little string as a message. Did it scare me? No, because I hadn’t seen it when recording the video. Also, I was more interested in the massive water pipe that’s surrounded by an array of high voltage power lines. Most people just keep silverware and cloth napkins they never use in their kitchen cabinets. Their message was, “Get the fuck out of our apartment!” Maybe that’s what she was yelling. The video shows that I pushed the webcam further in to look at the water supply and electrical system. A link is just below to view it. The video ends with the Coetzee’s spraying something onto the lens of the webcam. This, I did see while videoing and this was, besides the electronic assault, enough reason for me to disconnect the webcam, leaving it in their cabinet, grab my laptop and depart immediately. I never said I was without fear when dealing with these people.
The Cabinets Of A Real Power Couple Video
I reviewed the footage at work and knew I had found what I felt was the power supply for the electronic weapon. Later I would feel the haphazard water pipe was the cooling system for their magnetic field generator. But I had a plan. Buy a fire axe. I never said it was a good plan.
Axes are sharper than you might think. I don’t know if you’ve ever wielded one but after the first slice through cheap particle board cabinets you realize just how sharp a brand new one actually is and you don’t want to plant it in your foot. I entered my apartment with a red fire axe and took down all the kitchen cabinets in about two minutes. “That was faster than I thought it’d be…” I got closer to the two 600 Volt power lines that, if you look at the image just above, are stapled onto the side of the Coetzee’s cabinet, one atop the other. I pulled them from their staple mounts and down into my apartment. I had left the power off at my fuse box and thought that I had a pretty good chance no power coursed through those lines. I was very wrong. I took a bread knife and quickly wrapped its handle in a thick glove of electrical tape and stood up on the kitchen counter so I could lean into the power lines. I cut them both at the same time. BOOM! A brilliant explosion of sparks cascaded from the knife, which I don’t remember throwing. I also had no idea how I ended up on my dining room table, standing up on the other side of the kitchen. What I did know was that I almost had just killed myself. And I would later realize that the power lines were, without a doubt, the power supply to the Coetzee Gun. I don’t remember ever being attacked again by their electric whizmadoodle.
You know, this part of the story reminds me of something I once read about someone who, I guessed, was being attacked much in the same way I had been. Except the person being attacked in that situation fired a handgun through his ceiling and through the upstairs neighbor’s apartment. And Aaron Alexis was thrown out of his apartment for his potentially lethal outburst. I was, on the other hand, given five thousand dollars to leave. I had described the shredded cabinetry to my manager as a low-budget remodel I had been working on. He laughed. And no one ever mentioned any power lines being cut or severed or some tenant losing power because I also chose to perform some rewiring of my own without a high power electrician’s license. And nobody found that odd. In fact, nobody brought it up. Usually when you destroy an apartment and it looks like the bridge of the Enterprise when the ship’s under attack and explosions cause all the cabling to fall out of the ceiling, the owner of the property takes you to court. At the very least, presents you with a bill because he fears you may show up with a bread knife at his home ready to provide him some free electrical work.
But the $5000 offer to leave didn’t come directly from the owner of the property. It came from the most unpredictable of corners. The day after these events I went to work and SDI’s CFO called me into a meeting with my boss, Mary Adams. They didn’t say what they knew about the happenings at the apartment but the mushroom story was something they focused on as their reason to “worry” about me remaining in the apartment. My boss informed me that the property owners and SDI had produced a legal document for me to sign. This document would see me leaving the apartment immediately where upon I would be paid five grand. I had grown close to Mary Adams over the years and trusted her. I feel this is why she was the one to appeal to me to abandon the apartment, something that wasn’t, by the way working by way of magnetic wave weaponry or mushrooms in the closet carpet. Because if SDI hadn’t approached me I wasn’t going to go anywhere. But the emotional tool she brought to that meeting worked and I signed. If I had known I could get five grand for cutting two power lines I would found another two for a sweet 10K. But later, when the emotional plea’s impact subsided it dawned on me just how quickly the property owners and SDI had their lawyers work on a legal document together and present it to me to sign just after I’d wreaked havoc on their property. Wirelessly tazing him wasn’t working. Voices in the shower was just turning him on. He’s sending webcams into the Coetzee’s apartment. We’re going to have to pay him to leave.
If I had it to do all over again and I had known I was in their apartment I would’ve bought an electric wench, secured it around the pipes and wires in the Coetzee’s cabinet and pulled it all down into my own for a better look. A secret system used to electrically ‘motivate’ someone to flee their apartment probably wouldn’t be something they’d want the police coming to look at and document. Had I known I could do all I did and nobody would phone the police, I definitely would have raised the stakes in whatever game it was they had me playing.
But Mary Adams’ emotional plea to leave worked. The five grand didn’t hurt her case. What I didn’t know to be happening was that the Human Resources manager at SDI had taken two office workers into the conference room and closed the door for a sales job of her own. Once I was out of my apartment, I began receiving calls and emails from distressed family members from Arkansas and Michigan. Debbie Baum, the HR Manager who seemed to miss the HIPAA components of her training, had two SDI employees phoning up relatives of mine. Where’d she find their information? Our Facebook friendship allowed her all this. Here’s a sample call: “Hello, Mr. Cochran? You’re Matt Sutherland’s stepfather, is that right? Hi, I’m Debbie Baum from SDI and we’re deeply worried about Matt’s mental state. It seems his apartment was chock full of black mold and he most likely has been poisoned by it. There’s a good chance he’s losing his mind and might even die.” Debbie Baum or her minions would then ask that relative for phone numbers or email addresses for other relatives. My stepfather would later tell me Baum continually called him asking if he’d yet gotten my biological father’s number so she could phone him as well. I’m not sure HIPAA even applies here because there was no black mold to poison me to begin with. If my mental state had gone off the rails that in and of itself would be a medical condition she wouldn’t be allowed to share with anyone. It seemed, however, she was setting the stage for my family to believe I’d lost my mind and was also preparing them for the possibility of my untimely demise. She did all this in two days while I was out looking for a place to move all my things. By the time I got back to work I found out that she did all this in her final two days at SDI. Where’d she go? Well, as luck would have it, she had been offered a new career in the healthcare industry - an industry in which she’d never worked. You’ll often find that people who play roles in these schemes often gravitate right into the healthcare industry. This reminds me of Myron May’s girlfriend becoming a physician not long after his demise. All she had to do was run to any camera or newsperson in her vicinity and make sure the story of his descent into madness was cemented into history. So, in Baum’s final two days at SDI she repeatedly breaks the law by running a phone call marathon with two workaday employees who didn’t know any better where she could sell the idea of my becoming a madman to those closest to me. I would complain about this to my boss, Mary Adams who said, “She was just trying to help you because she cares…” I retorted, “Thank God she doesn’t hate me!”
I spent over a month moving into various cheap hotels across the San Fernando Valley. I found that every now and then I would receive shocks to the skin. An altogether different, I would find, kind of electronic attack. Like a popping rubber band on skin. To the head. To the face. And so on. I quickly learned to avoid multi-story hotels because if someone with a magnetron gun gets into a space above you and can surveil you, you’re gonna get really, really upset. And this sounds fantastic. “Magnetron Gun? Are you from the future?” “No sir, I just looked it up on YouTube and watched idiotic kids fire them at one another for kicks.” A magnetron is the power source, an RF emitter, found in all microwave ovens. The LA County jail downtown purchased a microwave weapon that’s quite menacing in how it looks. It fires through concrete walls and was installed to put down riots or uprisings inside the jail.
Eventually I would pull the magnetron out of a microwave a friend was throwing out and, with the aid of a friend who shall go unnamed, shocked myself with it at a distance and even through a wooden wall and realized I had found the weapon used against me in the hotels. Not Star Trek or some exotic weapon. Just an RF emitter from a microwave and a waveguide horn to focus its energy. Simple.
Tragedy strikes in August 2013. Just as I’m getting ready to flee California back to Arkansas we lose someone special.
Sean was so young and so energetic. Gone too soon. Or right on time. He’d been attending classes at University of Colorado Denver as an audio forensics specialist. Remotely, I would surmise. Melissa asked UC Denver to raise money in his name.
I’m not sure if they reached their goal and if not, who kept the money. I’m fairly certain raising money for someone who never really died is legal, however.
Melissa moved on to greater horizons. She moved back to Las Vegas, Nevada, where she’s originally from and gets a job in the realm of medicine. How good for her since it’s a field she’d never worked in before.
She’s since taken her profile off of LinkedIn. Luckily I saved a copy for us all to share wonder over.
Melissa briefly began speaking about the horrors of what took Sean. I would’ve guessed British Airways but no, she toiled relentlessly getting the word out about colorectal cancer. She raised more money in Sean’s name. For herself, no doubt. She attended events, such as one with some amount of prestige put on by the county Las Vegas sits in. Melissa posted this achievement on Facebook. I grabbed it all so we could fawn over the act of one good woman.
You may be thinking I’m somewhat of a dick for taking a piss out of her for this. I think getting the word out about any ailment is noble as long as you do it for the right reasons and as long as you’re using your actual name.
Clark County produced that YouTube video. The excuse they accidentally used the wrong name might make sense if the narrator hadn’t also called her by the name Casillas: A name she’d never used before and never would again. My guess is she gave the wrong name in the hopes I wouldn’t find the video via any kind of web search using her actual name. I was led to the video via her own Facebook post where she, incidentally, goes by the name Coetzee, as she should. We can all feel good she’s out there bringing her story about Sean’s fictional demise due to a very real threat to the masses. Melissa found the fortitude and courage to move on to earn a master’s degree at University of Nevada Las Vegas. The name of the campaign Melissa was a part of there in Vegas was “Light It Up Blue”. I know one thing, the woman knew how to light my ass up with electrons, which probably had something to do with her suddenly being able to afford a masters degree.
Later, I would find Sean Coetzee’s half-brother on LinkedIn. A very successful marketing professional. I felt it might be worth a shot, asking him if his brother was truly dead. He entered a discussion with me to the point I felt I could share what had happened on my side. Back in those days I was grouping people I knew involved in the scheme I was in into ‘cellls’ as intelligence agencies might group terrorists. I guessed, most likely rightly so, that persons in each cell had been recruited for specific roles and the lot of them most likely didn’t know, and didn’t care, what the overall scheme was really about. This would protect the facilitators of the scheme to from anyone in a specific cell from giving away too much should they be interviewed by law enforcement. But when you have stalwart sellouts such as OIG federal agent Kris Raper on the job, you never have to worry about anyone being interviewed about anything to begin with. We’ll get back to him later.
Now, Michael Coetzee, in London, seemed to be interested in my shocking tale of… Well… Shocking. I explained to him about ‘cells’ and he asked never answered my question regarding Sean’s death. He did, however, ask a question quite bizarre:
The Sherlock Holmes in me feels the question about experiences with Sean and Melissa being better or worse than with others in these groups is something of a comments card. “Did the magnetic field weapon make your arse feel A: Lightly Tased, B: Burningly Tased or C: Crazy Tazied?” Always the marketing pro, I imagine. We spoke some more and the conversation fizzled out. It’s his one question, above, that is so very striking.
I told Michael Coetzee that the weapon his brother and Melissa used on me was unique and I had never before or after experienced anything like it. I had experienced people firing blunt weapons like magnetron RF emitting guns at me, which also had the result of pissing me off. But the weapon used by the Coetzee’s was notably different. I have surmised that I had Medtronic neural stimulation implants placed into my body at the VA in 1999. The weapon the Coetzee’s used was a magnetic field generator that would, by induction, overcharge those stimulators to the point of generating pain and heat. The difference between the magnetic field generator and the magnetron gun was one created internal muscle spasms and eventually pain by heat and the other simply popped like a rubber band as it hit flesh. One internet the other external. Medtronic implants, especially their stimulator line, all come with warnings to avoid powerful magnetic fields at all costs. Because their stimulator leads can induct with them causing the implant to burn out and cause whatever the leads are plugged into to burn as well. They’ve recently come out with new “MRI Safe” stimulators but according to their record, they keep recalling them when the chips on their control boards, mounted on the spinal column, explode.
When I first saw the video of inside the Coetzee’s kitchen cabinet I made note of the pair of high power electrical lines that ran down its right side. Stills from the video:
It dawned on me later when I began researching high power magnetic field generators that are used in medical and other scientific research that these power lines may not have been the Coetzee’s generators power supply but the magnetic field antenna itself. Two high power cables comprise the field antenna for devices such as this:
My guess now is that the two high power cables in the Coetzee’s cabinet encircled each room of my apartment so that the entire place could be flooded with a powerful magnetic field. Though they did chase after me and each time I stopped it would take some time for the effects of their weapon to begin again. The above image might have been more like what they used to focus and train their magnetic field directly upon me and the power lines in their cabinet led to a frame such as the one in the photo above. I only know that sawing through lines like those while the system is powered up must’ve provided the Coetzee’s a dazzling light show.
Sean Coetzee also has another half-brother, Michael’s full brother, named Nathan. It should be noted that Nathan had been dating a woman during my investigation who just so happened to be pursuing a career as a scientist. In the field of medicine, as luck would have it.
Not to cast aspersions upon the innocent, but I would surmise that she is the reason Sean Coetzee was recruited for the role he played in the conspiracy I find myself in. If you want your kids to get a full ride scholarship to USC, sign up as a conspirator now while positions are still open!
In 2013, a veil was lifted when it was decided I needed to be moved out of my apartment. But to what end? To where? Why, to my best friend for over a decade whose wife just happened to be a professor at USC. And a physician. But it would take me emptying out the Beverly Center Mall in March 2013 before the two of them offered a safe place for me to move to - their home in a gated neighborhood in Silverlake. What could possibly go wrong?
Find out in the next article!