A Docu-Story conceived and written by Horror D’Elite
Based on true events, about Richard Trenton Chase, fictionalized.
The article published in Asylum Magazine
1. The Darkness. (The Victim, The Vampire)
This housewife life isn’t so bad, a house to take care of, a husband to prepare dinner for, stability, security…and now a child…will I be able to handle this too? To raise him as God commands? To make him a good man? I’ll definitely give it my all…this nausea is killing me; will all nine months be like this until I hold him in my arms? It’s tough!!
Okay. The table is cleared, tomorrow’s lunch is ready, the shopping list and waxing are done, what am I forgetting?
The trash, right.
My husband grumbles at me when he comes home tired from work and has to take care of it himself; I better start gathering it…
These bags weigh a ton; didn’t the doc say not to lift heavy weights? Well, I’ll drag them little by little, without straining.
And now, what the hell was that noise?
Oh my God. There’s a man in my kitchen, what should I do?
“Who are you? Get out of my house or I’ll call the cops.”
Anxiety tightens my throat; he has empty, glassy eyes, and the malice he emanates is tangible…
What will happen to me? What will happen to you, little innocent angel?
“Are you home alone?”
Before I can even think, I feel an excruciating pain; I don’t have the strength to scream, just to feel defenseless, at the mercy of this stranger’s madness who does whatever he wants with me…
He shot me.
This damned soulless being shot me.
The fact that I’m expecting a child didn’t even touch him remotely.
He’s dead inside.
The bullet has passed through the palm of my hand; will it stop? What the hell can I do? Why is there never anyone to help me?
“Let me do it…F***!
And here it is, another shot, my stomach, my poor baby, is this the end?
“PLEASE, I’M PREGNANT, STOP!!”
My words echo in the room; he doesn’t seem to hear them at all.
“Would you like to f*** the Devil himself?”
And he shoots again.
The pain is getting stronger, blood in my throat, my vision is blurring, I feel completely numb and lose my strength, along with the hope of getting to know my child, who will die with me today…
What will happen to my husband?
2. The Hunt (The Cop, The Journalist).
My boss hates me. He knows I don’t like crime reporting, yet he keeps assigning me pieces on gruesome murders. And now there’s a vampire involved. We’re in America here, not Transylvania. People don’t go around showing off sharp fangs and sucking blood. I don’t like this story. Chills.
Gray bricks. Smells of smoke and mustiness. I climb a flight of stairs and open the door. Cops, cops everywhere, in uniform. Anxiety rises. I want the detective. He knows, he can help me with my piece.
“Tell me about that case, what do you call it? The Sacramento Vampire. Talk to me about him, about what happened.”
You have a clean face, kid, too clean for someone who has seen all kinds of things in his career.
It was January 23, 1978, when I was called to investigate a murder case. At that time, I had just become a detective and had been assigned to a unit dealing with minor cases, but I never imagined what I was about to witness.
“I imagine. Nothing can prepare you for this kind of thing. Who was the victim?”
Her name was Theresa Wallin, and when I arrived at her house, I immediately discovered something reminiscent of a sinister omen: a .22 caliber bullet inside the mailbox, and suddenly I remembered a murder that had occurred just a month prior involving the same caliber, that of a man named Ambrose Griffin, who had been shot in his yard while helping his wife carry the groceries inside.
“I remember. A seemingly inexplicable murder.”
A sudden incident, apparently without any motive.
Some colleagues gathered testimonies related to a mysterious white individual, thin and scruffy, who had been seen lurking around the neighborhood. There were reports of breaking and entering, of someone, probably the same individual, who had urinated and defecated inside one of those houses.
“It seems like an act of contempt, something done for pure enjoyment, without any planning.”
In fact, that investigation was at a standstill. Since I wasn’t directly involved, I didn’t know much more. Here, things were different. When I entered the house, I found myself among scattered garbage, a nauseating odor of damp mixed with the metallic scent of blood. I followed a reddish trail on the floor that led to her bedroom.
That’s where I saw her.
They had shot her three times, one of which was fatal to the temple. A .22 caliber, again. Her dress was raised up to her chest, her legs spread apart, no underwear.
It seemed she had been raped.
“A massacre. This time, a small child was involved too.”
They had shot the woman and mutilated her in the same way Theresa Wallin had been killed. Once again, I was shocked, disturbed.
I clenched my fists in a surge of anger and frustration, so much that I didn’t notice that the horrors were not over: it was right there beside me, but I hadn’t noticed the crib.
It was smeared with blood, and only later did we learn that a 2-year-old child lived in that house. But where was the body? Perhaps there were 4 victims, not 3 as had been erroneously reported.
Enough; something had to be done, a first profile had to be drawn.
The similarities between the murders were evident: same weapon, same disorder, same tortures and mutilations inflicted upon poor women. I made a decision and took a risk: bolstered by additional neighborhood testimonies, I drafted a written profile and had a sketch made. I counted the minutes and then the hours; we needed to find that child.
The press was breathing down our necks, and my journalist friend obtained the sketch while not hiding his tension and, at the same time, his anxiety to discover more about the monster, maybe even interview him—who knows? I just wanted to stop him for good.
From the first day after the triple murder, the hours seemed endless. I was exhausted and terribly anxious for that little angel, then something happened: a girl contacted me at headquarters.
She was still frightened when she confided that on December 27 of the previous year, while shopping at the supermarket, she was stopped by a boy who she described as matching my sketch: “scruffy, thin as a corpse, dirty. There was more; she knew him because he had been a classmate of hers in high school.”
I couldn’t believe it; we had a name: RICHARD TRENTON CHASE. Strange life: sometimes you think you’re going to fall and never get up again, that you’ll get lost in a tunnel without light and without exit, and then there it is, life, reminding you how everything comes back, how everything can change in an instant. I realized this even more when, after reviewing some FBI reports, I discovered that this guy had already been arrested twice: in 1965 for drug possession and last summer in August on a Nevada beach, completely naked and covered in blood.
There was nothing left to do but go get him at his home before he could kill again. “Now I know who you are, I know where you live, I’m coming to get you, you bastard.”
The tension was high, and as I headed to his address, I told myself that if I found the child there, I would kill that filthy bastard!
I know that a policeman shouldn’t say or do certain things, but I felt there was something even more disturbing and wrong about that man.
There were three of us, and when we arrived at the housing complex where he lived and knocked on his door, there was no answer.
I noticed that the neighboring apartment was vacant and suggested to a colleague to go in there and listen through the wall: there were noises, as if someone was looking for something: “it was him.”
I had no warrant, just a strong desire to kick down the door and jump on him.
I thought for a moment and decided to step back a few meters and wait, hidden behind a car, while my other colleagues spread out around the house.
About half an hour later, he came out, probably convinced that we were no longer searching for him.
As soon as he saw me, he ran, and I lunged at him like a cat at a mouse.
I caught up with him almost immediately and took him down with a blow to the head.
When I saw that he was armed too, I pointed my gun at his forehead: I was about to do it, I was about to kill him.
Then suddenly, I thought of the child and remembered that I was a police officer. He was a cold-blooded killer; I was not.
You made a mistake, cop.
You should have pulled that trigger.
Too many scruples, too much conscience.
But who am I to judge? I’m the one who bothers to hold a pen in hand.
Nothing more.
Once handcuffed, I entered the house with hope in my heart of finding the child, but I found only blood, blood everywhere, along with what appeared to be organic remains of people or animals, inside containers.
Disorder, filth, horror upon horror, a story of abuse from childhood and disorders like enuresis, pyromania, and zoosadism—this was the subsequent picture that emerged from further investigations and interrogations.
Everything, except the admission of the murders and telling us where the child was, until a few months later when the custodian of a church found his poor mutilated body inside a box near the same church: he was headless.
Since then, I have tried to forget this terrible story, but in vain.
To this day, I can only say this: in hindsight, I thought that Chase must have suffered as a child and that he was a victim himself, but I was not a doctor, a psychiatrist, a priest, or anyone who could have been close to help him.
I was a police officer, and in him, I saw only a monster to stop by any means. I wanted to kill him, but I spared him by handing him over to justice, and who knows, maybe someone else or something else won’t be as merciful to him as I was. It was January 23, 1978, when I was called to investigate a murder case.
I will never forget it.
3. The Abyss (The Journalist, the Vampire).
I didn’t want to write this piece. I didn’t want to come to this place, the mouth of Hell, damn it. They forced me; they tricked me. I hate maniacs, cursed bloodthirsty freaks. They make me nauseous, that’s for sure.
A square labyrinth in front of me.
I cautiously advance in the footsteps of a guard who seems oblivious to my presence. Ugly bastard, where will you be when he jumps me? Faded walls, washed out on both sides and above.
The smell of chloroform.
It makes me nauseous. It must be the thought of meeting this son of a bitch. Why do I have to talk to him? Why do I have to see him? I hate serial killers, fucking bastards, psychological misfits.
Sense of nausea, oppression. I need to get out of this place, damn it! Calm down, gather your thoughts, be professional as always, don’t give up.
My steps fill the void.
My heart is stuck between my tonsils.
Electric shocks on my forearms.
Disheveled hair, dirty, unkempt beard, sunken, lifeless eyes, pale complexion.
Good morning, Mr. Chase.
“Mr. Chase, tell me about your family.”
I remember my parents as any child of that time would remember theirs.
A typical American family with typical problems.
“What problems are you talking about? Did your parents mistreat you?”
Yes, I was beaten, but that was how it worked back then: strong measures were used to teach you discipline.
Belt and Bible are the backbone of America.
I was the one who was different.
I liked cats; I liked them for my games.
“What do you mean by games?”
I would take them, and they became my toys to disassemble.
“So you killed them. And what did you feel in those moments?”
I liked that feeling of control that I had over them from the moment I caught them. The power to decide their fate. Life or death, kids! Going through the pain.
Delusions of omnipotence. Son of a bitch, you are and will never be anyone.
Even in high school, you wouldn’t have called me a “weirdo.” You could have seen my smiling face in the school yearbook and thought, “Look at that good boy’s face, that well-groomed student with a tie!”
Cleaned up and dressed. Exactly like every filthy son of a bitch. Because that’s what you are!
No one would have said I was heavy into marijuana and LSD, even though it was common practice at the time.
“So you were using drugs, Mr. Chase…”
And I liked pussy! Oh, yes, I did!
But it was my dick that didn’t want to “take flight”! I would have ripped it off!
Killer and limp dick. What a lovely picture unfolds before me.
“Mr. Chase, spare me certain details. And don’t use those terms with me! Moderate yourself, for God’s sake!”
My blood was the problem; there wasn’t enough of it to get it up.
“Your blood? Your problem? Are you rambling?”
And so I thought: I need more blood inside me; I need to take it from other useless beings.
I felt sick constantly. Some fucking bones were growing behind my neck, and they felt like blades in my flesh.
“From your medical records, there are no serious ongoing illnesses, nor any past illnesses. What symptoms did you have?”
Then the stomach: I was born with my stomach upside down, the opposite. Bloating and cramps every time I ate.
Now you listen to me, you fucking bastard. Here, it’s just my stomach that’s upside down. I have to hold it together; I have to resist and get through it. Professional and detached… don’t give in,
Even my breath was torture, as if I had dried sponges instead of lungs.
Someone or something must have stolen something from me inside when I was still in diapers.
“No one did anything to you, Mr. Chase, neither when you were in diapers nor afterward.”
Again, he doesn’t listen to me. He hardly perceives my presence, psychological bastard.
Everyone always told me that this suffering was in my head, but I never needed clinical exams to make the rot inside me and the pain it caused me feel real.
Blood was the cure, the only simple cure.
Cats, birds, and mice were the source that nature provided to relieve my torment.
I wouldn’t be surprised if you had even pissed yourself and set your house on fire.
I just had to reach out and draw from it.
The problem, however, was that people didn’t understand my pain, let alone the system I had found to relieve myself.
Before long, they locked me up at “Beverly Manor,” the psychiatric hospital. There, everyone, including the patients, called me “Dracula,” and instead of annoying me, it invigorated me.
I was almost proud of that nickname.
“What feelings did you have when you heard others call you that?”
I liked how everyone looked at me with awe, suspicion. Appearing in their eyes as a monster made me feel, for the first time in my life, like a special being! A wolf among sheep!
It didn’t last long. A few pills, a pat on the shoulder, and they sent me back home to my parents, who had since separated.
I was left alone… just me and my mother.
“Interesting, tell me about her. What was your relationship like?”
To the doctors in the hospital, I had told them that I no longer felt pain and, consequently, the need to “play” with the critters. They bought it.
One afternoon, my mother came home early and caught me sitting on the floor of my room with the crushed head of a cat between my legs while I was rubbing its blood on my face, my personal healing ointment.
From then on, she never looked at me the same way again. The hostility she had always shown toward me gave way to fear. She began to look at me with the same eyes as the attendants and doctors at “Beverly Manor.”
I couldn’t stand it anymore and moved out on my own to a hole of an apartment that belonged to her.
Fuck you, mom! You never understood how much I suffered! If only you had reported me! At least you would have made a gesture of love for me; you would have done it for my own good! Instead, you just sat there most of the time, staring at me in secret… with disgust!
You thought I wouldn’t notice… huh, “Mom”?
Ranting. She sees me, perhaps, but doesn’t perceive me.
In what world, in what dimension are you?
Maybe even you couldn’t have stopped me, mom.
Just like the Indian Affairs agents couldn’t cage me when they arrested me at “Pyramid Lake,” the Indian reservation.
They saw my pickup stuck in the sand.
They opened it and found blood everywhere, rifles, and a bucket with a liver inside.
They saw me through binoculars.
I was naked, perched on a rock, covered in blood from head to toe.
They thought I had killed someone, while I, high as a kite, kept repeating that the blood was mine. They analyzed it and found out it was from a damned cow.
I can’t stand the conversation anymore.
This unbearable conversation.
I want to flee far away. I can’t. My legs are frozen.
“And then what happened with the agents?”
They released me without charges, pure as a cherub.
I deserved a gift since I had gotten off scot-free. So I bought myself a .22 caliber.
I decided that the day had come for my true “blood baptism.”
I took my rifle, my van, and went to roam the suburbs, east side of Sacramento.
I still hadn’t decided who would be first. It didn’t matter; anyone would do just fine.
I struck randomly, without a plan, without a scheme. You’re a strange “animal,” Chase; I would dare say unique.
Then I slowly passed by a nice little house.
A middle-aged guy was unloading groceries from the trunk of his car parked in the driveway.
He was heading toward the front door with the bags, turned his back to me, and… BAM!
He crumpled to the ground like an empty sack.
Fuck, what a sensation!
“Describe it to me, Mr. Chase.
What were you feeling at that moment? What were your sensations at that moment?”
His useless existence, his whole life ended right there, and it was I at that precise moment who had decided it should conclude there.
I had become a God! The power of death in my hands.
And I could move, sneak into their tidy, fragrant little houses, and do as I pleased.
I was disgusted by that dollhouse appearance, that meticulousness in folding the little boy’s clothes in the drawers.
That crib smelling of lavender, with not a wrinkle on the pristine sheets, smoothed out like a bowling lane.
You know what I did?
“I know perfectly well! I read the reports, I don’t…”
I pissed in that drawer, on the soft little clothes.
And on that “Winnie-the-Pooh” bed, I shit on it… a majestic, stinking mountain of human shit!
Now that I could enter where they lived and do whatever came to mind, it was time to have some real fun.
“Jesus Christ, Mr. Chase…”
I waited just a few days.
Then, during one of my outings, I took my rifle with me.
I caught her throwing out the trash. A nice little sheep. She was home alone, perfect!
She was a future mother, you bastard, whose dreams you snuffed out.
We entered the living room together, and there I shot her. This chick died with some serious fucking fear! She made a lot of noise. So, I dragged her into the bedroom, to be undisturbed, and I began to have fun with her.
Fear. I feel it, I breathe it. A desire to escape mixed with survival instinct.
Anger.
Murderous impulses.
I wanted to slit her throat.
Calm down.
Breathe.
Professional, as always.
I lifted her skirt up to her chest and took off her panties. Then I grabbed a knife and opened her stomach crosswise.
She was my guinea pig. My frog to dissect.
Inside her was a whole unexplored universe, and I had so much “hunger for knowledge.”
Putting my hands inside those warm guts, pulling out those soft, blood-soaked organs! And that smell! Damn, I was getting turned on!
“Mr. Chase, I repeat that I don’t need any more details. I’ve read the police reports.”
But I needed a little “help.”
So, I took the first thing I found that could serve as a cup, an empty yogurt container in the kitchen, and I used it like a sacrificial chalice.
A slimy sensation in my mouth. Salivation off the charts. Metallic taste. Idea of blood. I felt awful.
I fucked her from behind. It took me a while to get it in, but in the end, I really enjoyed myself! A shattering orgasm, so much so that I struggled to get back on my feet afterward.
A few days later, I felt like visiting one of those smiling families living in one of those nice houses on “Merrywood Drive.”
I still remember the lawnmower outside the garage, a porch covered in ivy… but I couldn’t recall which house it was.
I simply turned the doorknob and walked in.
A guy was standing at the entrance, and by the way he froze, I guess I surprised him.
He was turned with his head toward me and his torso facing the other three who were there with him.
For a few seconds, he continued to look at me without saying anything.
I ended his surprise with a nice shot in the middle of his forehead.
You can understand that an exploding skull makes a lot of noise all around, like a geyser of blood and brains for meters all around. The two “little monsters” ran upstairs as fast as rabbits.
I followed them into the bedroom.
The bigger kid was on the bed making a hell of a racket, so I had to silence him with the rifle. BAM! BAM! Two shots one after the other, up close.
The smaller one was in the line of fire, and one of the shots split his skull open.
In the bathroom attached to the room, naked in the tub, there was a big-haired blonde screaming like she wanted to rip her lungs out of her throat. I reached her and finished her off… with a shot to the head.
Then I dragged her onto the bed to get comfortable and celebrate her ass.
With the knife, I made cuts on the back of her neck, and from there I could suck directly from the source the nectar that kept me hard.
I had a long time of fun. But I didn’t want the fun to end there.
Damn, I had a woman in my hands, and I could do whatever I wanted.
I stabbed her everywhere: in the abdomen, on the back, even in the anus, just to release all the energy that that full of blood had given me. Then I opened her belly and started playing with her guts.
I almost emptied her.
I wanted to take away her substance, consume her entirely, drain her of the vital essence that just a few minutes before had allowed her to lead her useless existence, and maybe make her think that hers was more worthy than mine.
Ugly bitch!
I’ll show you what this internment-worthy madman, this flaccid fucking lunatic, does! Now “Dracula” eats the brain of your fucking little kid! So, I went over to that little frog lying on the floor, his head split open from my shot, and I did it.
Then someone knocked on the door, or so it seemed to me, so I picked up that bundle and snuck out the back door.
I drank until the last drop of her blood, and with her liver, I even made a smoothie.
When her remains became useless, I dumped them near a church, as a sign of “Christian pity.”
The end of the games coincided with meeting an old high school classmate at the mall.
I still had bloodstains on me.
I only realized it later.
When I approached, she didn’t recognize me.
So, I asked her if she remembered one of our classmates who died in an accident back in school.
She looked at me sternly and said: “Who are you?”
And I said: “Rick Chase”
I distinctly feel a strong sense of nausea.
An acid wave rises from my stomach to my nostrils.
Anger, so much, unrestrained anger.
Frustration.
The bars of the cell seem to converge.
A tight knot around my throat.
There’s no air in this place.
I smell the stench of blood.
Yet there are no open wounds here, there are no corpses.
Cold sweat down my back.
Everything is wrapped in a strange fog.
I can’t see anymore.
A desperate need for light, again.
So much light.
And life.
Of Susie Bannion as the victim and Cesare Giannoni as the detective.
In collaboration with Andrea Frosinini and Matteo Marinelli
Subscribe to our YouTube channel
