I’ve been through a lot in these two years of being “mobbed” by criminal real estate developers trying to hoax, hack and heckle me out of my legal rental home. But this is the first time I’ve ended up with a cold, likely the product of experiencing spring weather both in California this last week as I spent time onsite working a new position, and then driving 14 hours to return home to Seattle and the mobbers. But it’s about time I finally got sick. There’s not a lot that hasn’t happened to me these last two years and “bad neighbors” can’t even begin to characterize the experience of having criminal real estate speculators move in around you, intent on pushing your buttons until they give you the old heave-ho out of your legal home.
Within 12 hours of my arrival home in Seattle, the captain of the neighborhood watch across the street and her husband vanished. The owner of the mobbing house to the south is also nowhere to be found and his familiar tattooed friend with the red SUV, a mid-thirties to early forties Asian guy who seems more like a “minder” to me seems to be parked in the driveway most nights. Interestingly, in my absence last week, the owner of the mobbing house to the north provided what I would call an “enhancement” to the old fence that separates his property from the lot on which I reside. He seems to have somehow affixed a series of planks to his own side of the existing fence, effectively lengthening the fence so that it stands at about the six foot height that I believe local codes allow. I might wonder about whether he is damaging the original fence or what he might be up to.
Just the same, if one fence is good, I reckon two are even better.
Perhaps I’ll be spared his next hot tub party.
On the up-and-up, my new job is going pretty well. It’s also satisfying to find that as a woman forced to work out of state because of some criminal house flippers, I’m making significantly more than I did for Microsoft before I lost my last gig there after telling my manager I had reason to believe that my neighbors had put an Internet “bot” on my laptop.
The mobbing harassment continued throughout my trip down to California, and despite the lack of television, it continued through my second AirBnB stay. The last time I was in California, though I still haven’t devoted an entry to any round-up of events—too busy, tired, and apparently working myself up to the coughing fits of today—the mobbing harassment continued, albeit with more caution, through the airport and onto the plane. However, this time, I spent much of the flight talking to the woman sitting next to me, another commuter on this morning flight who lives in Seattle and holds a position in California. Between my proximity to another human being—something that always makes the mobbers more circumspect and sometimes silences them—and the noise of the wind coursing over the wing, the mobbers couldn’t compete. In the last weeks, as I’ve written increasingly openly here and taken additional measures to “advertise” my plight, I’ve had increased periods of diminished harassment.
At the AirBnBs I’ve been staying at, locations where I obviously cannot layer the windows with sound board, I am subject to increased harassment based on a few factors. The first is my location within the house. If there are other occupied bedrooms around mine, it’s quieter. For example, in the first house, a one-level house with three bedrooms and then a living room futon, the harassment diminished greatly after a guest began sleeping in the living room so that rooms on every one of the four walls of the home were occupied.
Another great factor in how harassment plays in the California homes I’ve stayed at appears to be access to heating and ventilation systems. Every house I’ve stayed at seems to have an attic heater or duct work running through a ceiling crawl space. This is another reason why drones make sense as a way to mob victims who travel, regardless of whether they travel on bike or to locales in other states. In the same way that a drone outfitted with a compact parametric speaker like the SoundLazer could use GPS coordinates to aim a beam of sound at a person, a directional speaker could project sound into a central heating or venting system. At least, a drone would be far easier than having someone physically following me and might be more plausible than some of the other options I’ve considered. The use of building systems and ventilation harassment is another likely marker of construction-related harassment by those with understanding of the physical science that underlies public utility systems and services as well as residential dwellings. I sure wish that the FAA would hurry up and open up the registry of drone owners for public inspection.
Back at the ranch, although the co-captain of my very dysfunctional neighborhood watch seems to have taken off with her husband, and the owner of the south mobbing house is nowhere to be seen, the mobbing harassment at home has something of a bitterness about it as male harassers increasingly come to the fore, repeating the same insults again and again that the mobbers seem to believe should cut me to the quick. “Old!” says the voice of the girlfriend of the owner of the south mobbing house, the one who in court said they wouldn’t be able to have children if I lived next door. The noble profession owner of the north house, or at least his voice, continues in his attempt to force a square peg into a round hole: “Move on!”
I get up and get another kleenex. “Snot-puppies to you,” I mutter into the tissue, hoping my younger roommate who is home today doesn’t hear.
It’s one thing to know that my housemate doesn’t believe what’s happening to me because he doesn’t hear it; it’s quite another for him to know that I actually converse with some hobgoblins I call “mobbers” in the houses around us when, owing to the phenomenon of “sound beams” formed by directional and parabolic speakers in combination with surface harassment applied by tenant clearers who’ve adopted techniques of surveillance, his experience of living here is strikingly different than my own. This is what makes possible the mobbers’ gambit that they can convince the victim to give up, either because he begins to fear for his own sanity, or because mobbing puts the victim into a catch-22 situation of facing great difficulty in proving what is being done to you while those around you refuse to consider the possibility that it is true and instead get that look in their eyes like you’ve started to describe a colonoscopy whenever you talk about “mobbing.” Reports that people have been criminally stalking you in some elaborate scheme to forcibly evict you from your home and take the property are not something that the Seattle Police Department (SPD) rushes over to investigate. Nope. When I tried to report that the neighbors were looking into my windows at the beginning of the mobbing, before I put up window film, the officer who came defended their right to do that “to a point.” When I reported overhearing a woman who had parked in the driveway of the south mobbing house asking if they could get her “on [my] router,” the police dismissed my claim after exchanging a few words with the owner of the house who conveniently sat in his parked car in his driveway when they arrived; and when I reported that I believed listening devices had been planted in my home in the early days of the mobbing—before I realized that with parabolic and laser mics they didn’t need to “plant” anything—the officer said I would have to find at least one device to get probable cause.
This is what the mobbers and their brat-pack snarky attorney bank on. When you report a crazy crime, you sound… well, crazy. Well, I do. But if I manage to last through this until I get an investigation, which I do hope is soon, you won’t sound so crazy when the same thing happens to you. “What?” SPD will say. “You hear things others don’t? Dagnabbit, them criminals must be using directional speakers! Sounds like mobbers to me! Hang tight. We’ll talk to the prosecutor about convening a grand jury and indicting them for racketeering.”
See how easy that was?
And this is all I have time to write tonight. I have to get to bed. The night is young and by the time morning comes, my mobbing will continue over the sound of my own hacking and amid wads of soggy Kleenex. Thank goodness the mobbers somehow seem to have medical knowledge. I often feel I’m being attended by a doctor, and sometimes even a dentist. Mobbing wouldn’t be the “white glove” approach to forced eviction without control of the very real risks involved in moving in around the victim home and subjecting the victim to continuous harassment until they give in and, in the mobbers’ words, “get out.”