Most of you don’t know one fundamental thing about my stalking situation. And it’s this.
I have been a victim of stalking since I was 5 years old. Back then, my family lived in Latham, Alabama. It was the sixties and there was no such thing as Black Lives Matter in the Deep South.
I know, for a fact, that my mother – Bessie Lee Norman Ankum – complained and complained about the harassment she received at the hands of this same family who pulled an incredible hoax on the citizens and Police of Maywood, Illinois to the point that they refused to believe anything I told them.
But the facts are the facts. This same family stalked us from Latham, Alabama to Chicago, Illinois in 1967. And when I grew tired of their personal attacks on me, I flew to Westwego, Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans, Louisan in 1981 and members of that family followed me there. And after they got me fired from my job with Exxon Company, U.S.A, the stalked me back to Maywood, Illinois in 1991.
Now, I say that’s a case of predatory stalking. No talk with a psychiatrist or anyone else walking around on the face of this planet is going to convince me otherwise. I stated that to Exxon psychiatrist back in 1989 and I still feel the same way today.
Below, is my recollection of the incident that forced by family to leave Latham, Alabama. By the way, my mother didn’t know the real identity of these people either. She always referred to them as, “them folks or those things.”
Excerpt from STALKED! By Voices:
SOMETHING OUT OF THE ordinary happened one Monday while my mother and I were doing laundry. Something that changed everything!
We were well into our routine while my younger sisters, Kathy and Debra, who were not of school age, played nearby. Kathy was about two years old and Debra, the haunted baby, was almost a year by now.
Suddenly, my mother who was bent over her washtub scrubbing away stopped what she was doing and stood straight up. She had this look of sheer terror on her face. I’ll never forget it. I stopped rinsing the clothes in my tub and just stared at her. I wanted to scream, “What” What is it?” At this point, both our backs were to the boiling kettle. And for no reason at all, she started screaming my sister Kathy’s name. Now I was really scared.
When she turned, I turned. And I saw the Shadow Creature, smiling — white teeth in the middle of all that darkness — push my little sister Kathy into the fire that surrounded the clothes kettle.
Before the scream left my mouth, my mother was there, pulling Kathy out of the flames. This time, she didn’t yell, “Sis, bring me water!” She began beating out the flames with her bare hands.
Kathy’s right thigh, from her hip to her knee, was badly burned. I can still remember the red breaks on her brown skin and her screams. Not Kathy’s. My mother’s.
My mother was screaming, “Why? Why did you do that? She’s just a baby!”
My mother was raging at someone. Had she seen the Shadow Creature, too? I was stunned motionless, but my mother snapped me into action – screaming at me to “run and go get Ms. Liza.”
Ms. Liza drove my mother and Kathy into Bay Minette for treatment of Kathy’s burns. She was in the hospital for weeks.
The hospital bill was more than my parents could ever have hoped to pay on my father’s take home salary of forty dollars a week from Stuckey’s Lumber Mill. We had to leave.
Writer’s Note: Interestingly, the only sibling that I personally witnessed The Shadow Creature attack, and who still carried the marks of that attack on her body, died shortly after my return to Chicago.
My sister Kathy died on June 18, 1993. And, incredibly, the offspring of that horrible shadow creature that had pushed her into the fire when she was just a child was the one who had driven her to the hospital the day she died.
A few months after my sister’s death, I moved into my first apartment since arriving back in Maywood. It was a basement apartment.
Every evening just before I fell asleep ‘The Voices/Stalkers’ would scream from what seemed every corner of that apartment,
“How can you stay down there, in the ground? The same ground that Kathy’s in. She’s dead! She’s in the grave – in the ground, in the same ground where you live. She can’t breathe. Can you breathe? How can you stay down there?”
I ask you, how sick and twisted is that?
I once told a psychiatrist that I knew I wasn’t imaging all of this and that I wasn’t schizophrenic, because my mind didn’t, and still doesn’t think like that.
Eliza D. Ankum
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