Project CHERIBUM the Psychic Child Program Hidden behind STARGATE and Open Letter to Eric Hecker by Kevin Wikse

In the 1980s, hidden within the long shadow cast by the sun-drenched school systems of Southern California lurked a unique and peculiar monster: a strange Non-Governmental Organization, or NGO, with strong ties to some of the Pentagon's most sinister black projects, primarily research and development. A handful of us woke up one day to discover we had been unwillingly inducted into a covert psychic program under the name Project CHERIBUM. This was no Charles Xavier program for the gifted. This was Psychic Warfare—and we were all child soldiers.

After decades of occult training and a particularly exhaustive study of Western Ceremonial and Enochian magic, I arrived at the understanding that Project CHERIBUM echoed the preferences of John Dee, the Crown's occult intelligence operative, the original 007. Dee preferred employing children as "seers" for his scrying operations and experiments—child psychic spies peering into this world and beyond at his behest. Why children? Their worldview was still plastic, still pliable. They had not yet been wholly claimed by the material, still fresh from the world of spirits. They did not second-guess visions or experiences. They saw—and they reported.

My own initiation into the world of the hidden came early—structured, disciplined, and bruising, under the boot of my spiritual godfather, a true adept. Not a YouTube magus or Google ritualist, but a man who beat the occult science into me with real-world force. He had government connections and friends in rich and famous circles. He was on speed dial for nearly every Masonic Lodge in Southern California when they had questions about Solomonic-based rituals and ceremonies. Because of that, I know the bones modern institutions are built on. Those bones are occultic—and almost always weaponized against the people they pretend to serve.

Strange Strangers: Focusing on the "human" kind for now

I remember being an abductee before I even had words for it. Five, maybe six years old. I preferred isolation—until I finally got it. It was in solitude that they came. Elderly men and women, or sometimes other children who were never quite right. They'd knock on the door when I was home alone. Ask if I want to play. Sit inside and watch cartoons with me, but slip in questions no kid should know how to ask—or worse yet, answer. They were kind at first. However, they could quickly become condescending, even cruel and dangerous. They would lead me to one of the far corners of the five-acre property I lived on, show me dead animals, and laugh about killing them. How they suffered.

They liked to play games with harsh consequences. For example, they would play hide-and-seek or tag, but to be found meant being punished by being bitten or kicked very hard. "Blood or bruises depends on who chooses, and that depends on who loses" is a stand-out phrase one spoke to me—and it still makes me uneasy.

Most of those children who visited me were female. Tall and pretty. They seemed older than me by a few years, maybe early teens. I suspect this might have been a way to disarm my otherwise defiant nature. I am more apt to open up to a female emotionally than a male—even then. I also have a powerful aversion to physically harming females. Exploitable and manipulatable vulnerabilities they used against me. It was the females who played the games. They knew they could get me to do it, and I wouldn't fight them when they kicked me, bit me, or stabbed me with sharp things. The females almost always showed me the dead animals and would laugh at me when I cried at seeing what they said they did.

The male children appeared to be closer to my own age. I always felt like I knew them, but I could never place where I knew them from. Whereas the females liked to stay close to my house, the males wanted me to go places with them—often to commit crimes like vandalism, arson, and theft. They also did not seem particularly smart. I always felt bad for them. I would try to reason with them, to convince them to do good rather than evil. I remember using a lot of empathic "how would you feel if someone did that to you" statements. They often tried to get me to return to their house with them. Intuitively, I knew this to be a bad idea, as I probably wouldn't ever be coming back. I hypothesized that they were children who made the mistake of following other children home—and now they belonged to someone or something else.

I can still picture the female children's facial features and expressions clearly. The male children did not make any significant impact on me. I do not remember much about their appearance besides being dirty and unkempt. A little feral. Almost all of them, male and female, were Caucasian. The few fights I did get into with the male children—I won easily. I have always been stronger and more capable as a fighter than the vast preponderance of the population, even as a child. I have YouTube videos of feats no one else has ever duplicated as proof of one side of that claim. Eventually, in 2029, when my NDAs expire, I can go fully public with the names of people and "peoples"—specific organizations that paid me to be a living weapon against.

As a kid, I watched a lot of what then was WWF and AWA. I spent a lot of time figuring out how the catch-as-catch-can wrestling/pro-wrestling holds worked. I applied those holds on the male children and made them cry. A certain empathic sense told me they were already in a lot of pain, and someone else was routinely putting a hurt on them. I never beat on them. I always let go of the holds after they cried, "Uncle." I inflicted pain but not injury. I always felt sorrow in the pit of my stomach for causing them pain in the first place.

Like the children, my elderly visitors were primarily women. They were initially grandmother types—sweet and kind—but that could and would quickly change. I am not ready to disclose further details about my experiences with elderly women; they were, by far, the most disturbing of my experiences in this respect.

The elderly men are a close second regarding the most disturbing experiences. They never pretended to be nice or friendly. They weren't always mean, but the subjects of conversation were not pleasant. In fact, most of the time, they spoke, and I just listened. They would tell me stories about their childhoods in places I'd never heard of. None of them had good childhoods—and none of their children, as they told it, did either. Most of what they informed me about involved fighting in wars or civil conflicts that lasted years or had not yet ended. A lot of stories about famine and the fatalistic desperation born of bare subsistence living. Cannibalism was a prominent topic. They informed me they had developed a taste for human flesh. Much of their struggle for survival was avoiding being eaten in their youth—and learning the best ways to protect their children while successfully hunting the children of others.

There were other things the elderly men said and did, but I am not ready to disclose them.

I do not recall a time when more than one child came over. If two elderly people showed up, it was a man and a woman. The man seemed more involved or active in engaging with me than the woman. The elderly never physically hurt me or even touched me, unlike the female children, but they did and said, by far, the most frightening things. The elderly women—the worst of all.

They all had an uncanny knack for disappearing before my parents returned home. I didn't always see or remember them leaving. And always, by some powerful compulsion, the need to tell my mom or dad about them would quickly dissipate—and I would almost forget, but never completely, what happened. Until I was alone again. That's when the anxiety, uncertainty, and fear settled in on me once more. And more often than not, I would hear a knock on the front door...

Truth be told, I don't think they were human. Or if they were, they came from another dimension—or were human once, but not anymore. I've often considered them "underground people," though I am unsure why. As I got older, I wondered if they could be—or be related to—something like the Men in Black. Maybe Children in Black. Or Elderly in Black. It sounds absurd, I know; however, I suspect—based on interactions with them—that the other children in Project CHERIBUM were having the same encounters.

Project CHERIBUM: School Days

I was diagnosed with ADHD and Oppositional Defiant Disorder early on. That gave my school the excuse to put me in a “special” class a few times a week. I would leave my regular class and walk to a portable classroom. While there, the teacher and I talked about my feelings, worked on math problems, and if I behaved, I got a handful of gummy bears on my way out.

But other times—I’d reach for the doorknob and suddenly feel drowsy. Drugged. The lights dimmer. That was CHERIBUM.

The room felt smaller than usual. My best guess is that there were ten to twelve children, including myself, one man, and maybe two female assistants. We were seated on the floor in a circle around them.

We were shown photos, given a target, and told, "Let your eyes fly." It was a rhythmic suggestion, hypnotic. Even today, that phrase rattles my nervous system. I would find myself shooting down an astral tunnel, like the tubes and chambers described in L.W. de Laurence’s Oriental and Hindu Magic. Geometric shapes. Constructs of light. Then: the target.

Often, we were to deliver a phrase like: “Report in.” “Abort.” “Meet in two days.” Later, I was given darker phrases: “Heart attack.” “Jump off a building.” “Terminate.” Some of these had the unmistakable tone of code words or activation phrases.

Years ago, I met a man who served in MACV-SOG in Vietnam. He acted as a mentor to me in the lesser-known branches of military science and their unconventional applications. He confirmed that the Phoenix Project was real, that he had overseen some aspects of it, and that Col. Michael Aquino was a principal figure. He told me about the Hand of Death cult and Murder Inc.—both outgrowths of trauma-based programming.

Nearly every recruit, he said, was hardwired or encoded through severe trauma, with trigger words or phrases capable of initiating a variety of “self-destruct” protocols. These were dependent on strategic and tactical advantage—but generally boiled down to “kill yourself” or “kill yourself and take as many as you can with you.”

He was confident that the phrases I was told to deliver were meant to activate those very protocols.

When the job was done, they'd say, “Time to land,” in that same persistent rhythm. I would fall back through the tunnel and return to my body.

There was a man I called—or who called himself—the Pilot. I have a memory of his face and a strong suspicion that I spoke to him again, outside of Project CHERIBUM, once in my late teens and again in my early twenties. There is something deeply implanted in my memory of who he is and what his face looks like. Maybe I’ve blocked it. Maybe it wasn’t human.

I’ve tried to remote view him. Every time, something monstrous stares back.

He threatened us constantly. He knew details about our families. He described how he could make my father snap. How my siblings could be kidnapped. How they’d be put in “naked movies.” I understood what that meant. One of the female “children” who used to visit me often talked about pornography—said she loved it. Said she made a lot of “naked movies.”

It’s clear to me now that the visitors and the Pilot were in communication. How? I still don’t know.

One of the worst experiences came when we were told to “let our eyes fly” to an off-planet ocean. We were shown a picture of a planet that wasn’t Earth and instructed to explore its waters.

What I saw still disturbs me. Enormous, eyeless creatures—a cross between a giant squid and a sea serpent—devouring another massive organism. Torrents of blue-black blood. Horrifying screams. Mangled flesh floating in violent water.

When my consciousness returned, I could hear open sobbing from the other children. I don’t know if they saw the same thing as I did—or worse. The Pilot screamed at us to shut the fuck up or he’d drop us into that ocean.

That threat lived inside me for years.

I suspect Project CHERIBUM did significant viewing of non-terrestrial, psychic, and hostile species. And that many of those entities saw us back. I believe, through firsthand experience, that many of us drew the ire and attention of off-world intelligences. That may be why I haven’t been able to locate other CHERIBUM participants.

We weren’t just observing—we were being observed.

This is not unlike the scrying work of John Dee, who used child seers to glimpse distant worlds and interact with interdimensional intelligences. We don’t know what became of those children either.

CHERIBUM and STARGATE

In 2023, I began openly and publicly searching for survivors. The name Project CHERIBUM is the only one I have been able to uncover thus far—and at a significant personal cost.

The Stanford Research Institute, or SRI in Menlo Park, which developed Remote Viewing programs for the Pentagon and CIA, wasn't far from Chino, California, where I lived during this time. I can't prove the connection, but I strongly suspect it. A prominent and well-known figure at SRI, now advanced in age, confirmed the existence of Project CHERIBUM-like programs in Southern California circa 1980. He apologized for what happened and told me these iterations of his research had nothing to do with SRI. I believe him, and I will maintain my vow to keep our complete discourse secret until he passes away—if I ever choose to release it at all.

There is a notable demarcation between Project CHERIBUM and STARGATE in tone, purpose, and effectiveness. CHERIBUM was a weaponized program driven by fear. Its participants were drugged, terrorized, and threatened. There were no ideograms to sketch, no attempts to “get a feel” for otherworldly influences, no soft protocol. CHERIBUM was direct: “See and report. This is your target. Now hunt them down.”

“Dog will hunt.”

There have been more than a few very sorry morons who have suffered life-altering effects from that phrase. There will likely be more. No apologies. Jeffrey Epstein is my most high-profile kill, and yes—documented and timestamped.

CHERIBUM looked non-human entities in the face and remotely influenced the thoughts, decisions, and behaviors of others. STARGATE ultimately could not produce such results, was shut down, “went dark,” and was eventually handed off—or better said, outsourced—to MK-Ultra architect, pedophile, child trafficker, and murderer (look up Johnny Gosch and the Franklin Files), Colonel Michael Aquino. It went to his paramilitarized black coven of witches and warlocks—the Order of the Black Flame, the Knights of the Black Trapezoid, the Temple of Set.

Project CHERIBUM existed in a time of real horror. The CIA’s Finders program. The McMartin Preschool scandal. The Franklin Scandal. Senator Ted Gunderson documented the Satanic abuse occurring across California. My training occurred during that same window.

Same time. Same place. Same smell of blood.

The Way Forward

In 2014, I called the pandemic—COVID-19, the weaponized vaccines, the lockdowns, Fauci’s involvement. All of it was predicted, documented, and timestamped. In 2017, I wrote open letters to Linda Moulton Howe warning about directed energy pulsing up from Antarctica—before anyone else even mentioned it.

I don’t say this for credit. I say it because I am real. This happened. And for some reason, I’m still here. I need to know what happened to the others.

Maybe it’s because CHERIBUM showed me what objective, mind-numbing terror and evil truly are, that I’ve dedicated so much of my life and energy to bringing about a second American revolution through occult means.

Most people know I joined the fight in 2009. I ran one of the first-ever YouTube channels to be removed for exposing the global pedophile network and the deeper machinations of the Illuminati.

Many also know about the extensive occult work I led, including a campaign to spiritually reestablish contact with the force of Nikola Tesla—to help him bridge his influence back into this world.

And lo and behold—Elon Musk (Tesla), and Donald Trump, nephew of John Trump (Tesla’s confidant and the man who secured Tesla’s most advanced work before the government could confiscate it), emerged as the new symbols of radical shift.

Look at the changes since Trump took office. Magic works. We can change the world. We did that.

PSYCHIC WARFARE IS REAL.

For all the damage and pain Project CHERIBUM caused, it trained me to be a Remote Viewer and Remote Influencer with a success rate above all others. I have the crumpled-up and blood-stained recipes to prove it. CHERIBUM trained me to fly—and fly, I will. On the astral winds, with avenging archangels, on wings of celestial cosmic fire.

Join me—and like Redbull, I’ll give you wings.

If you were between the ages of 7 and 14 in Chino, California, circa 1985, and you have any memories that could be tied to Project CHERIBUM—please, for fuck’s sake, contact me.

kdw1978@gmail.com

Open Letter to Eric Hecker

Dear Eric,

I hope this message finds you well.

My name is Kevin Wikse. After listening to your testimony and reviewing your background, I believe you and I may share more than a surface-level trajectory. I suspect we may have both been participants—possibly unknowingly at first—in overlapping psychic programs during childhood. Specifically, I’m reaching out to compare notes about a program I was involved in called Project CHERIBUM (also known in whispered circles as FLYING EYES).

CHERIBUM was not a “feel good” government experiment. It was cloaked in a shroud of darkness and ritualism more akin to Satanic Ritual Abuse and Black Magic than the sanitized stories put out under STARGATE. It operated in Southern California during the 1980s and involved deep trance states, threats of violence, and remote viewing/influencing exercises designed to control, manipulate, or terminate targets.

We were children. Isolated. Intuitive. Many of us were abductees or experiencers before we were ten. I was one of them. I suspect others—maybe yourself—were too.

This wasn’t hypothetical work. This was psychic warfare. I remember “missions” where we were told to view targets and deliver phrases such as “heart attack,” “terminate,” or “jump.” I remember a man known only as The Pilot, who issued threats against my family if I told anyone what was happening. I remember seeing things—off-world things—that I should never have been shown.

In 2014, I publicly predicted COVID-19, including vaccine weaponization, media cover-ups, and Fauci’s role. In 2017, I wrote open letters to Linda Moulton Howe about directed energy rising from Antarctic ice, years before others began echoing the same findings. All timestamped. All verifiable.

This is not an attempt to discredit you. Far from it. I’m reaching out because the similarities between your disclosures and my lived experiences are too close to ignore. I’ve been searching for other survivors for decades—and so far, I’ve found none who could speak with the same tone of memory, pain, and authority.

I would welcome the chance to compare notes—formally or privately. If you're willing, we may be able to triangulate and finally illuminate a part of the psychic warfare map that has remained hidden far too long.

You can reach me directly at: kdw1978@gmail.com

With respect,
Kevin Wikse

If you are reading this and you, too, were involved in Project CHERIBUM—or any similar program—I want to hear from you.

You are not alone. And we are not done.

-Kevin Wikse
Remote Viewer and Remote Influencer | Expert Occultist and Occult Investigator | Psychoenergetics Expert

Remote Viewing and Influencing