I Can Hear a Serial Killer's Voice in My Head

I stand in the middle of my grandmother's living room, surrounded by a lifetime of memories. The weight of the task ahead feels overwhelming, but I know it's necessary. Not just for the case, but for my own healing.

"One step at a time," I mutter to myself, echoing my grandmother's favorite saying.

I start with the kitchen, methodically sorting through drawers and cupboards. Each object tells a story - the chipped teacup she refused to throw away because it was a gift from a dear friend, the collection of recipe cards written in her neat handwriting, the jar of kimchi she had prepared just weeks ago.

As I work, memories flood back. The smell of her cooking, the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her hugs. Tears threaten to spill, but I push them back. There will be time for grieving later. Now, I need to focus.

Moving to the bedroom, I begin organizing her clothes. The task is bittersweet, each familiar item a reminder of her absence. I fold each piece carefully, as if handling precious artifacts.

Throughout the process, I keep an eye out for anything related to my parents. But as I go through drawer after drawer, shelf after shelf, I find almost nothing. No photos, no letters, no mementos. The absence is striking, and a pang of disappointment hits me.

"Did she really keep nothing?" I wonder aloud, feeling a renewed sense of loss.

Pushing the feeling aside, I continue my work. The living room is next, filled with knick-knacks and old books. I dust each item, reorganize shelves, and carefully pack away things that need to be stored.

Finally, I reach her small home office. This is where she kept all her business records for the restaurant. I start sorting through piles of papers, most of them related to suppliers, finances, and daily operations.

As I'm leafing through a stack of worn notebooks filled with daily sales figures, a loose piece of paper flutters to the floor. I bend to pick it up, expecting another receipt or inventory list.

But as I unfold the paper, my heart skips a beat. It's not a business record. It's a handwritten note, the paper yellowed with age. The handwriting is unfamiliar - not my grandmother's neat script, but a more hurried, masculine hand.

My eyes scan the first few lines, and suddenly, I can't breathe. This note... it's from my father.

With trembling hands, I sit down heavily in my grandmother's old office chair.

I settle into my grandmother's old armchair, the weight of my father's diary heavy in my hands. The leather cover is worn, the pages yellowed with age. As I open it, the musty scent of old paper fills the air.

The first entries are mundane, typical of a man in his early twenties. Work struggles, relationship woes, dreams for the future. But as I delve deeper, the tone begins to change.

My heart races as I reach the first mention of the voices. It's subtle at first - a note about strange thoughts, feelings of being watched. But as the entries progress, the descriptions become more vivid, more terrifying.

"They're back again," one entry reads. "The voices. They're not human. They can't be. The things they say, the things they want me to do... God help me, I think they're demons."

My hands tremble as I turn the pages. This is nothing like what I experience with Bundy. These voices my father describes are malevolent, cruel. They taunt him, torment him, urge him towards destruction.

"They want me to hurt people," he writes. "To give in to my darkest impulses. I won't. I can't. But God, it's getting harder to resist."

I read account after account of my father's struggles. Hospital visits where doctors dismissed him as stressed or paranoid. Medications that dulled his senses but didn't silence the voices. Counseling sessions where he couldn't bring himself to reveal the full truth.

"Went to church today," one entry says. "Prayed for hours. The voices laughed. Said no god could save me from them."

My father's desperation is palpable in every word. He sought help from shamans, tried exotic remedies, even considered exorcism. Nothing worked. The voices remained, a constant, tormenting presence.

Yet through it all, one thing stands out - my father's resilience. Despite the relentless assault on his psyche, he never gave in. He fought, day after day, year after year.

"I won't let them win," he writes in one particularly poignant entry. "I have a family now. A son. I'll die before I let these demons hurt them."

As I continue to read through my father's diary, my heart nearly stops when I come across an entry about his first meeting with Choi. The date corresponds with what the old nun had told me – it was at the church, just as she'd said.

"Met someone today," the entry begins. "A man named Choi. He approached me after the service, said he'd noticed how troubled I looked during prayer."

I lean in closer, my eyes devouring every word.

"We talked for hours. I've never opened up to anyone like this before, but there's something about Choi. He understands. He says he's been through the same thing – the voices, the torment, all of it."

My father's handwriting becomes more urgent, filled with a desperate hope.

"Choi says he can help me. He claims to know a way to make the voices go away for good. I know I should be skeptical, but after years of suffering, of trying everything and failing... I want to believe him. I need to believe him."

The next few entries detail their growing friendship. Choi and my father spent more and more time together, often meeting in secret. My father writes about feeling a sense of relief, of finally having someone who truly understands his struggle.

"Choi is like the brother I never had," one entry reads. "He listens without judgment, offers support without pity. For the first time in years, I feel hope."

I turn the page, my fingers trembling slightly as I come across an entry that catches my eye. The date is about a month after my father first met Choi. The handwriting is rushed, almost frantic.

"Choi's method is... unconventional," the entry begins. "I couldn't believe what he was suggesting at first. It goes against everything I've tried, everything I've been told."

I lean in closer, my heart racing as I read on.

"He wants me to engage with the voices. Not just acknowledge them, but actually talk to them. Make them think I'm on their side. It sounds insane, dangerous even. But Choi insists it's the only way."

My father's words become more detailed, recounting Choi's explanation:

"Choi says the voices are like parasites. They feed on our fear, our resistance. But if we can make them believe we're allies, if we can bore them... he claims they'll eventually move on to someone else. I asked him how he could be sure. That's when he told me - this is how he got rid of his own voices."

"Everything in me screams that this is wrong. These voices, these demons - they've tormented me for years. The thought of engaging with them, of pretending to be on their side... it terrifies me. But what if Choi is right? What if this is my chance to finally be free?"

I hold my breath as I read the next lines:

"Today, I did it. I opened up to the voice I've been trying so hard to ignore. I didn't fight it. I didn't try to shut it out. I listened. I responded.

I tried to make it believe I was interested in what it had to say."

My father's description of the experience is vivid and unsettling:

"It was like opening a door I've kept locked for years. The voice seemed surprised at first, then eager. It started sharing things - dark things, terrible things. I had to force myself to stay calm, to not recoil in horror. I kept reminding myself: this is just a act. I'm not really on its side."

The entry ends with a mix of hope and trepidation:

"I don't know if this will work. Part of me is terrified that I'm playing with fire, that I'm inviting these demons deeper into my psyche. But for the first time in years, I feel like I'm doing something proactive. If there's even a chance this could free me from these voices, I have to try. God help me, I have to try."

The next entry is dated several months after my father began Choi's "treatment." The handwriting is erratic, barely legible in places, a stark contrast to my father's usually neat script.

"I can't go on like this," the entry begins. "The voices... they're consuming me. Choi said it would get worse before it got better, but this... this is unbearable."

I read on, my throat tightening with each word:

"I see things now. Shadows moving when there's nothing there. Faces in the dark. The line between reality and nightmare is blurring. My body feels like it's falling apart. I can barely eat, barely sleep."

The next paragraph makes my blood run cold:

"I can't talk to my wife anymore. I can't look at my son. How can I face them when these... these things are screaming in my head? They want me to hurt them. God help me, sometimes I want to."

I pause, taking a shaky breath. The thought of my father suffering like this, of him being afraid to be around his own family... it's almost too much to bear.

The entry continues, detailing my father's desperation:

"I need help. I need to talk to Choi. But I can't. I'm undercover now, playing the role of a factory worker. If I contact Choi, I'll blow my cover. The entire operation will be compromised."

My father's internal struggle is palpable in his words:

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"But I can't keep this up. The voices are getting stronger. I'm losing myself. I'm afraid... I'm afraid I'm turning into something monstrous. I have to see Choi.

Even if it means risking everything."

The final part of the entry recounts my father's impulsive decision:

"I went to Choi's office today. No warning, no appointment. I know it's against protocol, but I was desperate. Choi wasn't there. His secretary tried to turn me away, but I insisted on waiting."

My heart races as I read the last lines:

"That's when I heard it. A strange noise coming from Choi's private bathroom. It sounded like... chanting? Or multiple voices speaking at once? I don't know what came over me, but I had to know.

I walked to the bathroom door, my hand on the knob. I hesitated for a moment, then opened it."

The entry ends there, abruptly. The next page is blank.