Devils Den: The Reckoning

Copyright © 2020 by Terry Lovelace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system
without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by
law.
For Sheila.
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Since publishing Incident at Devils Den, a true story … on March 10, 2018,
I have been touched by so many people who have become colleagues and
friends. Gratitude belongs first to those who read my book or listened to my
audiobook. I appreciate your candid reviews, comments, and criticisms.
2020 saw a year where UFO conferences nationwide were cancelled
due to the COVID-19 outbreak. I would prefer to share these stories with
you in person, rather than just in print. I miss the conversations,
handshakes, and hugs that are a part of every conference.
These friendships have been my greatest reward. If I have forgotten
someone, I sincerely apologize for my oversight but know you’re truly not
forgotten.
My sincere thanks and gratitude for becoming a part of my life and
sharing your own amazing stories.
Presented in no particular order:
George Verongos, my editor, mentor and friend. Special thanks to
Sheila for her patience and kind support. Thanks to my loyal cat Murray
who lovingly lay on my feet and purred throughout my many weeks of
writing.
Thanks to Greg Shepard, Robert Schwartz, Jr., Robert Hastings, Dr.
Bruce Solheim, Sharon Komorn, Comrade Mike Cleland, Dr. Jeff Kripal
and staff at Rice University, Joseph and Alice Boeringa, Les Velez and the
fine folks at OPUS including Garrett, Jason Bland and Jamie and the gang
at Paranormal Soup, Leslie Kean, Whitley Strieber, Kat from FATE Radio,
Nancy Tremaine, Sev Tok, Doug Auld, Aurora, Yvonne Smith, Albert
Wacha, Simeon Hein PhD, David Whitecrow, Lue Elizondo, James and
Martha Lough, Linda Moulton Howe, Jimmy Church, Grant Cameron, Kris
from VTSolution, Melinda, Maggie Dyer, Paranormal Zone TV with
Norene Balovich, Lorien Fenton, the UFO Congress 2018, Agnes in
Austria, Lorie Wagner, Lucinda Laughing Eagle, Deb Kauble and all of my
CERO brothers and sisters, Chief Dallas Eagle, Mark @ PAUK Radio,
Scotty at Artist First, Bruce Leininger, Alexander Boeringa, Lisa
Honeywell/Greg and Leslie, Dr. “J,” Alan B. Smith from Paranormal Now
and KGRA, Chip in Florida, Kevin Estralla, Earl Grey, Dean Alioto, Chris
Bledsoe, Kevin Day, Matthew Roberts, Scott at Parabnormal Radio, KMOX
FM in St. Louis, very special thanks to Scott and Forest from
ASTONISHING LEGENDS, Alexis Brooks, Dean Caporella, Steve, Mary
and Matt, Steve Bates and the Houston MUFON, Daniel Alan Jones,
Heather Wade, Kathleen Marden, Curry Stegan, Paul “Arizona” Barrett and
the band ONE WORLD GOVERNMENT, Night Dreams Radio with Gary
Anderson and James Chreachbaum, EERT RADIO, George Knapp, George
Noory, Todd from Reality Unhinged, The Travel Channel for my
appearance on “My Horror Story,” Sheila Gay and Kerby from Rogue Talk
Radio, Tim and Michelle from Midnight in the Dessert, Mike Vara, Lisa
O’Hara, Cookie, Constable Extraordinaire Chris DePerno, Christian Uncut
on UK Radio, Philip and Ronnie Kinsella, David Young, James Streble
from Universal Secrets, KCMO Radio in Kansas City, Dave Emmons, Dave
Scott, the guys from UFO Garage, Bob Brown at Paranormal UK (PAUK)
Radio, Allan Smith, Mark Watson and his show from London “Peer Beyond
the Veil,” Roswell UFO Festival 2018 and 2019, Barbara Jean Lindsey and
the Cosmic Oracle, Veritas Radio with Mel, Erin Montgomery, Lenny
Mandel, Miesha Starseed Awakening, Dion Mitchell, Robert Yocum and the
talented script writer Carol Chrest, Cameron Braur, Rozanne Barone, Kerry
Cassidy, Charles Rivers Productions, Mark Johnson PAUK Radio, Solaris
Blue Raven, Kit, The Kingdom of Nye, Rex with the Leak Project, Into the
Fire with Bear and Eric, Melisa Kennedy and the management and
members of “UFO HUNTERS OF AMERICA,” Ozark Publishing and
Janet and Brandy, my friend Stephan from San Antonio MUFON, Tom
Bowden and the nice folks at Oregon MUFON, Stargate to the Cosmos with
Janet Kira Lessin and Dr. Sasha Alex, Victoria and Crystal from Contact in
The Desert 2019 and 2021, Unknown Universe Radio with Wendy, John
Baptist with End Times Ministry, Martin Willis at KGRA, David Noble,
Kevin Randall, in memorial for Rick Bunch, and all of my dear friends
from social media.
Thank you for the hundreds of candid reviews left on Amazon. I
appreciate every single one.
Sincere thanks to the 1,341 kind folks who took time to email me
and candidly share your amazing encounters. I regret that I could only
include a handful of your stories, but collectively they are an impressive
representative sample.
All stories in this book have been deidentified and your anonymity
has been respected, unless otherwise requested. If you have a story you’d
like to share, or comments, I can be reached at:
lovelace.landpope@gmail.com.
Lastly, to those of you who have always wanted to write a book, I
encourage you to begin immediately. Remember, you’re only responsible
for the effort, not the outcome.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
WHATEVER BECAME OF TOBY?
MY FRIENDSHIP WITH TOBY
LET’S GO CAMPING
ALIEN ABDUCTION
CHANGES
POISON PILLS
AN AWKWARD GOODBYE
ATTEMPTS TO MAKE CONTACT
A VISIT FROM TOBY’S WIFE
FEDERAL AGENT
MONKEYMEN FACTS NEVER BEFORE DISCLOSED
FIRST CONTACT
PLAY DATES WITH SUE AND THE OTHER KIDS
SPIRITUAL PROTECTION
KING COULDN’T PROTECT ME
A LOADED HANDGUN
TARGET PRACTICE
PLAN B
A FLYING SAUCER
LIKE WALTER CRONKITE USED TO SAY, “AND THAT’S THE WAY
IT IS.”
“IF IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE IT’S NOT TRUE.”
IN AN APPEARANCE MOST BENIGN
SUE
TAKEN
COUSIN GERALD
 I KNOW WHERE MY DAD KEEPS HIS RIFLE
“NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN”
ANSWERS FROM BETTY & MISSING TIME
BETTY AND BARNEY
THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES
BETTY’S GIFT, A WAY TO SAY, “THANK YOU” FOR BEING THEIR
LAB RAT
THE AGREEMENT
DETAILS FROM THE MOON TRIP
REPTILIANS AND BROKEN PROMISES
OTHERS WHO REACHED OUT
Case #1 The Christmas Store
Case #2 Pig Roast Interrupted
Case #3 Unidentified Submerged Object
Case #4 Bring in the Clowns
Case #5 The Carnival Ride
Case #6 Through the Roof
Case #7 Alcohol and Fear of the Night
Case #8 Why Not Minot?
Case #9 UFO Over Pensacola
Case #10 Takuahe
Case #11 ETs: Angels or Demons?
Case #12 A Living Thing
Case #13 UFOs and the Near-Death Experience
Case #14 Fetal Abduction
Case #15 The Blue Light Special
Case #16 Old School 727
Case #17 ET Can Cure?
Case #18 Astounding Similarities
 Case #19 Strangers in the Pasture
Case #20 Donnel’s Blimp
Case #21 Someone’s in the House…
Case #22 Never Accept a Ride From a Stranger
Case #23 Hypnotta
Case #24 That’s My Boy . . . Ugh, Girl?
Case #25 Intelligence, A Hero’s Journey
Case #26 Another Veteran’s Story
Case #27 Mt. Diablo Abduction
Case #28 The Billy Hallmon Story
Case #29 Dirty Little Secret
Case #30 Rita and Richard’s Childhood Encounter
EPILOGUE
 PREFACE

The history of Toby and his decline deserves a deeper explanation. At

conferences and by email the number one question I am asked is,
“Whatever happened to your friend, Toby?”
It requires a look into the backstory of Incident at Devils Den, a true
story …. I apologize to some of you who have heard this story before. But it
deserves to be briefly revisited because it dovetails so nicely with the later
years, and the improbable events that kept Toby and I needlessly apart.
I’ve also included facts that were left out of Incident at Devils Den.
The sad story of my cousin Gerald and my friend Ernie deserve to be fully
told. A complete telling of my messages from Betty, that I previously
withheld due to their content, are likewise important and worthy of
inclusion.
Before Chapter #1, an update on two stories as promised in Incident
at Devils Den. In my first book I told the story of Rodney Letterman’s
bizarre disappearance from Devil’s Den State Park in August of 2017. I
published the book on Amazon on March 10, 2018, when Rodney was still
classified as “missing.” I promised to update you if things changed. They
have.
Let me briefly review the facts for you. Rodney Letterman was a 32-
year-old man from Bartlesville, Oklahoma. In August 2017, Rodney and a
friend were walking the Butterfield Trail in Devil’s Den State Park in NW
Arkansas. It is a pleasant walk and appropriate for inexperienced hikers and
others that might be less fit or have a disability.
 Rodney Letterman had a medical condition. I would not call it a
disability. He suffered from asthma according to a deputy sheriff from the
Russellville Arkansas Sheriff’s Department. His name is withheld under an
agreement to respect his anonymity.
He told me that about a mile into their hike, Rodney began
wheezing. He and his friend sat down on the side of the trail. Rodney
admitted to his friend he had foolishly left his inhaler in the truck. There
were other hikers about that day, so it was not like Rodney was abandoned
when his friend offered to run back to the truck and retrieve his inhaler. The
friend left and was back with Rodney’s medicine in less than a half hour.
When he returned there was no trace of Rodney Letterman, except
for his cell phone left on the ground where they had stopped. The friend
thought maybe Rodney took a few steps into the forest to relieve himself
and would return any minute. He called out for Rodney and waited. When
Rodney still hadn’t returned after fifteen minutes of calling his name, the
friend called the ranger station. They responded immediately.
What followed was the biggest rescue mission of 2017. Over 1,500
volunteers including police and rangers from the adjacent Ozark National
Forest. Police helicopters with forward-looking infrared radar or “FLIR”
crisscrossed 2,500 acres of dense forest looking for a heat signature. They
came up empty. So did the Russellville PD’s tracking dogs. According to
the deputy, they sniffed the phone and sat down. I asked, “What does that
mean?” He told me it meant the dogs could find no scent except for the
phone. I asked the deputy if that was unusual. “Oh yeah,” was his answer.
The official search was halted after a week. Rodney’s family
continued the search with friends and paid trackers until the funds and their
hopes ran out in October 2017. And nothing was ever found of Rodney
Letterman.
Until March of 2019 that is. A young couple strolling along the
Butterfield Trail on a cool March day spotted something conspicuously
sitting atop a log just off the trail. They thought at first it was an albino
turtle. It was not. It was the crown, the very top of Rodney’s skull, bleached
bright white by the sun. This was sitting in an open and obvious place not
far from where Rodney had vanished. It was an area that had been
exhaustively searched before.
The medical examiner from Bartlesville conclusively determined the
remains to be Rodney’s based on DNA evidence. No other remains were
ever found. Nor were any of Rodney’s shoes, clothing, or personal effects.
2017 was an unusual year for deaths in Devil’s Den State Park.
Maybe. Deaths and disappearances are difficult to verify as the State Park’s
Department in Little Rock claims to have no records. In David Paulides’
Missing 411 book series he reveals state and national parks claim to keep no
records of the missing or the dead. His Freedom of Information Act (FOIA)
request was not honored, claiming “no records were kept.” That is awfully
hard to believe.
The truth is thousands of people disappear under strange conditions
and end up deceased or never found. I encourage you to read Mr. Paulides’
books.
Earlier that summer, a 28-year-old women named Monica Murphy
fell over a hundred feet to her death from a limestone bluff in the park. The
park rangers had no comment. The death was ruled a suicide by the medical
examiner according to the Arkansas Gazette. The link will take you to
Northwest Arkansas On-Line News. Both Mr. Letterman and Ms. Murphy’s
death notices can be found here:
https://www.nwaonline.com/news/2017/oct/04/woman-who-died-at-
devil-s-den-state-par/
In early 2020, a young man claiming to be Monica Murphy’s son
contacted me by email. He could not have been much older than 12 if he
were really the son of Monica Murphy. It is possible the newspaper
incorrectly cited Ms. Murphy’s age and she was much older, but I have
nothing to lead me down that path. Several internet sources also stated her
age as 28 years at the time of her death.
He told the story of living near the park and his family camping
there often. He said he hated the place. He described it as “spooky as hell,”
a feeling he claims to have experienced there long before his mother took
her life. When I asked him to “describe spooky” he told me he had seen
“glowing orbs of light” and “weird lights in the night sky.”
I replied, “Yeah, I get that.” I truly do. The truth is, I have only been
camping once in my life. Incident at Devils Den is the story about my
camping trip to the same park back in 1977.
But Monica’s son declined my invitation to discuss the matter by
telephone. That and the age discrepancy left me in doubt that Monica
Murphy was his mother. But it is indisputable that a woman named Monica
Murphy died in Devil’s Den State Park from a fall off a limestone ledge in
2017.
It is true that anyone can create an online persona. In the case
studies created from emails I received; I did my best to validate the
individual sending me the story. The veracity of the story is outside my
ability to debunk or verify, but if I believe the person sending me their story
is a real person and not something sent through an alias, I am inclined to
think their story has some validity. Especially when the facts align.
Since 2018, I have spoken at a dozen or more UFO conferences.
The number one question people ask is “Whatever became of Toby?” That
is why I devote chapter #1 to the task. For those of you who have read
Incident at Devils Den, a true story … some of this will be repetitious, but
much of it is information that has never been released. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter #1
 WHATEVER BECAME OF TOBY?
In late August of 1977, Toby was transferred to an air base in Japan. They
processed his papers at light speed, and he was gone in a matter of weeks.
If you have read my first book, you will recall that after our trip to
Devil’s Den we returned to Whiteman Air Force Base, hurting and severely
burned. We suffered second-degree burns over every inch of our bodies. We
never blistered and our skin never peeled, but we were sick as dogs. Both of
us were acutely dehydrated and diagnosed with “flash burns” to our eyes. It
is an injury arc welders get if they don’t wear eye protection. Essentially, it
is a bad sunburn to the cornea. It is incredibly painful, like having sand
rubbed in your eyes. I was also photophobic. The light was intolerable and
made for a painful drive back home the following day in bright sunshine. It
took a week for my eyes to heal in a dark room with sunglasses.
After we arrived back on base and went to our respective homes that
day, we were both simultaneously taken to the Whiteman Air Force Base
Hospital by our wives and were admitted. Curiously, the USAF kept us
separated. According to researcher Grant Cameron, separating witnesses is
common in the military when two or more service members have a UFO
encounter. Especially one that involves abduction, injury, or proximity to
nuclear weapons.
As the doctor finished my 1977 examination, the base commander,
the hospital commander (who I knew well), and two guys I did not
recognize in casual civilian clothes came into the exam room. The base
commander asked the doctor to excuse himself. He shut the door on his way
out.
My boss, the hospital commander, was the only one who spoke to
me. He said, “Sergeant Lovelace, you’re to have no contact with Sergeant
Tobias. That means you will not speak with him by phone or in person, you
will not attempt to contact him in writing or through a third party. You are
to give him nothing and you will not accept anything he may try to give
you. If you run into one another anywhere by chance you are to walk away
immediately and without comment. That is an order Sergeant, if you violate
my order there will be severe consequences. Do you read me?”
I answered, “Yes sir! Loud and clear.”
But honestly, no. I did not understand. I was in so much pain and
still frightened from our encounter, I really did not care. Clearly, they did
not want us to communicate with one another. I am certain they knew what
we saw.
Toby and I agreed on the drive back to base we would not tell a soul
we were abducted and taken aboard a triangular spacecraft the size of a
Walmart. The result of that disclosure would likely have been a psych
evaluation followed by a discharge from the Air Force. Something neither
of us wanted.
We were off duty for 30 days to recover. When we were cleared to
return to duty, Toby continued to work at the hospital, but on the day shift. I
was temporarily transferred to a supply squadron where they had no work
for a trained EMT. I did busy work there for 90 days until Toby’s orders for
Japan came through.
 MY FRIENDSHIP WITH TOBY
Before I travel deeper into Toby’s story after our abduction, let me explain
our friendship prior to June 1977 and the event that changed our lives. We
worked together in the Whiteman Air Force Base emergency room. Toby
and I were both trained medics and certified EMTs. We worked as first
responders driving an ambulance on the midnight shift from 11:00 PM to
8:00 AM. If there was a plane crash, an auto accident, or a heart attack…
we were the guys in the ambulance.
We worked together for three years. We enjoyed working the
graveyard shift. There were very few officers around and there were many
nights we never received a single call. We were both taking college classes
towards undergraduate degrees. Working the night shift gave us plenty of
time to study, complete homework assignments, play cards or sit outside in
nice weather waiting for the crash phone to ring.
We enjoyed being first responders. Sure, we weren’t fighter pilots,
but driving an ambulance with a big eight-cylinder fuel-injected Detroit
engine was fun. Especially with siren wailing, lights blazing, and no speed
limit. It is pretty damn cool when you’re 22 years old. It beat being
assigned to a typewriter and a file cabinet.
But this was not a career for me. I was in the Air Force for the GI
Bill, period. It was never a career; it was my ticket to a college degree so I
could apply to law school.
My friend Toby had similar plans. Unlike me, Toby was a math
genius. He had taken and aced a calculus class and two physics classes at
Central Missouri State’s campus in Warrensburg, Missouri, a short drive
from the base. His ambition was to attend the University of Michigan to
complete an undergraduate degree in physics and then onto a PhD in
astronomy or cosmology.
Toby lived to watch the night sky. That was another reason for Toby
to work the night shift. On pleasant evenings we could sit outside on the
ambulance ramp in our lawn chairs, watch the stars and share a pot of
coffee. We were in a remote part of rural Missouri, so light pollution was
negligible. Toby could point out constellations and time when a satellite
would pass over the base. This was the 70s and there were very few
satellites in the sky compared to today. Our joke was to raise our hands and
waive to the Russian satellites as they flew over the base taking
photographs.
After everything that happened to us, I am left wondering where
Toby’s obsession with the night sky originated? It was an opportunity lost
that we never discussed it. But UFOs were a taboo topic in the Air Force. It
just was not discussed. I hope that has changed today with the formation of
the Space Force, SpaceX, and talk in the New York Times about “imminent
UFO disclosure.” I am writing this in 2020 and we are all still waiting.
The fallout from what we experienced was sad. We not only lost our
sweet job that we enjoyed; I also lost my best friend. It is difficult for me to
reconcile everything that happened to us, even today after 40 years it is still
tough to integrate. This ill-fated, ill-conceived camping trip we made to
Devil’s Den in June 1977 was Toby’s idea. I laughed when he approached
me with the plan one evening.
 LET’S GO CAMPING
In casual conversation at work one evening, Toby said, “Hey, I’ve got an
idea. On our next long weekend, let’s go camping. What do you think?
Sound like fun?”
With all the sarcasm I could muster, I said, “No, why not just spend
the night in your garage and eat bugs, that way we save the gas.”
Toby was annoyed. “Get serious, this is a good idea, and we could
have a blast.”
I told him, “We’re city kids Toby, what do either one of us know
about camping? I know I’ve never been camping in my life and I’m pretty
certain neither have you.”
Like always, Toby was prepared with a counter argument. He
explained, “Look, you enjoy photography, you have your little dark room
set up and a nice new camera you can’t use. We live in NCO housing on
base. A base with enough plutonium to take out all of Europe. If you stroll
around snapping pictures of the anything, they’ll lock you up.”
Toby was correct in that regard. I was stationed there from 1973
until 1979, when my enlistment ended. Back then, Whiteman was a
strategic air command base (SAC). There was a squadron of nuclear armed
B-52 bombers and their accompanying KC135 tankers, sometimes called
“flying gas stations.” The 135s were there to provide the B52s with the
inflight refueling necessary to make it to their targets and hopefully back
home. Assuming there was a home left to return to.
There was also a squadron of Minuteman II ICBMs (intercontinental
ballistic missiles). Each missile held five independently-targeted re-entry
vehicles and were referred to as MIRVs. In civilian speak, each missile
carried five nuclear warheads, each with a different city or military site
programed as the target. The missiles were spread out over hundreds of
acres of farmland, in hardened underground launch control facilities to
make them difficult targets.
Whiteman Air Force Base is still a nuclear base today, but the
missiles and B52s are long gone. It is now home of the nation’s new
generation of bombers, the B2. So, yes, photography was prohibited, and
Toby knew I wanted to photograph wildlife and scenery.
How do a couple of guys like Toby and I prepare for something we
have never done before? First know that we were known as the nerds in the
hospital squadron. The word “nerd” was not a part of the American
vocabulary yet. The closest thing at the time was “book worms” or just
“bookish.” We considered those nicknames as complimentary. Both of us
were certain our hard academic work would pay future dividends. It would
for one of us at least.
We prepared by doing some research, obviously. In the days before
the internet, our research sources were limited. We had the base library. It
was disappointingly inadequate. The closest thing we could find about
camping was a 1958 Boy Scout Manual. It offered little insight. It explained
how to snare and skin rabbits, taxidermy techniques, and tying various
nautical knots. Not helpful.
Next, we asked a couple of the “outdoorsy types” for some camping
tips. They looked at us like we were nuts. “It’s not rocket science” was the
standard answer. It became our mantra. Their suggestion was to, “Buy a
cheap tent, take some air mattresses, a cooler of food and beer, some
matches and you’re good to go.”
 We made lists of things to bring and thought we had covered all the
bases.
My interest was in photography, so I focused on buying some new
filters for my camera and assorted black and white film. I was stocked and
ready to take some great photographs. Toby’s interest in this misadventure
was the opportunity to do some sky watching in a light-pollution-free
environment on this high plateau. It did seem like Devil’s Den offered
something unique for both of us.
It is notable that Devil’s Den was a six-and-a-half-hour drive from
Whiteman AFB. We were an hour or less away from a half dozen beautiful
parks with camping facilities. Knob Noster State Park is just across from
the main gate of the base. But Toby was fixated, almost obsessed with
making the trip to Devil’s Den for some reason.
Toby claimed Devil’s Den State Park was perfect because of a
unique plateau feature he had heard about. He discovered it through a
mutual friend who had visited the park the previous summer. He gave Toby
a map of the park and told him all about this high ground and
approximately where we could find it. It was not on the map of the park
available from the kiosk in the park’s welcoming center.
From Toby’s perspective it was a natural planetarium, an ideal
platform for watching the night sky. By daylight, we would have a great
view of the forest below us and an opportunity for me to photograph eagles,
scenery and other wildlife.
There was just one tiny logistical problem. The plateau was in a part
of the park that was off limits. We had no idea at the time, but the spot Toby
chose for our campsite was not even inside Devil’s Den State Park. It was
on federal land and access was restricted as we discovered. But I thought,
What’s the worst that can happen? They can throw us out of the park.
I never made the connection to the warning sign. We were violating
federal law by trespassing onto land that was clearly posted, “No
Admittance, No Trespassing, No Camping, Hiking, Hunting, etc.” There
was a chain across the road connected to a post on either side. I was ready
to turn back when Toby spotted a lock on the chain. It had been looped
around and fastened with a padlock to form a noose that was draped over
the opposite post and hung on a nail. He hopped out, lifted the chain from
the post and it dropped to the ground. No campground for us.
On our trip down I suggested to Toby, “Why don’t we just spend the
night in the camping area for comfort and visit this spot in the daytime?”
Toby just looked at me and rolled his eyes. I forgot. I thought to
myself, “Oh yeah, his view of the night sky was kind of the point of this
exercise.”
We found that plateau around 3:00 PM back in June 1977. I admit it
was spectacular when we crested to top of the incline and the meadow
opened in front of us. We both looked at one another as if to say, “Yeah, this
is the place!”
Following are recent aerial photographs of the site where we
camped. The guys from Astonishing Legends podcast, went through the
trouble of looking for the high ground where we camped via Google Earth,
albeit 40 years after the trip. I had never bothered to locate it. I was certain
it would be covered with 40-year-old mature trees by now.
 Map coordinates to campsite. Property of Terry Lovelace.

View of the plateau where we made camp. Property of Terry Lovelace.

An aerial view shows a roughly triangular shape top of the plateau. An area that’s clear-cut so it
remains unforested.
 When we walked the summit’s perimeter in 1977, from our
perspective on the ground it seemed “horseshoe shaped,” as I describe in
my first book. But seeing the photographs from above today, I realize it is
triangular and just large enough to accommodate what we witnessed.
It was covered in knee high grass and late-blooming wildflowers in
‘77. The view of the forest below from atop the meadow was spectacular. It
was stunning. When I saw the aerial photographs, I could not believe my
eyes. Amazingly, it is still there as of 2020, and still a grassy meadow.
When you enlarge the image, you can see that someone cuts the
grass with a tractor on the top of this plateau in the middle of a federally
managed wildlife preserve. There is still a single dirt road for access and
thick forest all around. Why would the Bureau of Land Management, or
whoever, go through the trouble and expense of cutting the grass and
keeping it deforested? That is a lot of taxpayer dollars in gas over 40 years.
For what purpose?
Despite my initial reluctance I soon found myself obsessed with this
camping trip idea of Toby’s. Within 48 hours it was all I could think of. We
arranged our work schedule for a four-day weekend in June. Just enough for
a two-night camping trip to Devil’s Den.
We did not golf, participate in sports, or drink ourselves into
oblivion on our days off. Toby and I were both married. At the ages of 22
and 23, respectively, we embraced family life. Our idea of a party was for
the four of us to barbeque some chicken at one or the other’s home and play
cards afterward. Toby had two small children we were very fond of. Sheila
and I would not start our family for a couple years yet. Toby’s wife,
Tammy, and my wife, Sheila, were also the best of friends. Because we both
lived on base in NCO family housing units, we were only a few blocks
away from each other. The hospital was an easy walk or bicycle ride from
our homes.
A little more about Toby’s personality and some comparisons. Toby
was from a lower middle-class family from Flint, Michigan. I grew up in St.
Louis, Missouri in about the same socioeconomic bracket. Both are “rust
belt” communities today but enjoyed their share of prosperity in the decade
of the 1960s. Toby’s dad drove a bus; my dad drove a truck. Our mothers
were both housewives as was the custom for the era. We both married
young and to our high school girlfriends. We shared the same taste in
music, mostly. At least we could tolerate it. Our contraband portable eight
track player in the ambulance was equipped to play The Commodores and
Stevie Wonder for Toby. My taste ran more toward the Beatles and Rolling
Stones. We both enjoyed reading. Many nights in the emergency room we
would pass the time by reading and drinking coffee.
We were dissimilar in ways too. We both had clearly defined but
different career goals. Toby wanted to study astronomy and was a gifted
mathematician. My skill set was the written word. I loathed math and
planned to be a trial lawyer. Toby was meticulous about his appearance.
Me, not so much. Toby was in excellent physical condition. I struggled with
my weight. At a barbeque, I would enjoy a few beers with our meal and
card game. Toby was a near teetotaler, never drinking more than a single
can of beer, at worst, a can and a half. But other than those opposites, we
were like brothers and genuinely enjoyed working together and socializing.
I never expected that to change.
As the big day approached, I had some misgivings about our
preparation. Misgivings about the entire trip now and then. Toby must have
sensed my anxiety, he both admonished and reassured me. “Hey man, this is
spending two nights in the woods, it ain’t rocket science, remember?” He
was half right.
 Here is where the wheels started to fall off. We planned and
purchased everything on our lists. I borrowed a nice camping lantern, fuel,
and an axe from my neighbor. The food was stored at Toby’s place, since he
already had a large cooler. I bought a variety of 35mm black and white film
from the base exchange and carefully packed my camera bag.
When the day of our trip finally arrived, we were over the moon
with excitement. We were confident we had everything we needed, and we
knew how to do this. The first leg of the trip down was full of exuberance
and hilarity. We were having fun.
Until the half-way point in our road trip. Then a nagging thought
crossed my mind, Did I pack my camera bag? We pulled over and unpacked
the trunk and looked everywhere. There was no camera to be found. Of
course not, it was not there. The camera was on my kitchen counter, exactly
where I had left it. We were already invested in a three-hour drive. Turning
around was not an option.
Toby did his best to lighten my mood. He promised he had his
camera in his backpack. A 120 Kodak Instamatic camera better suited for
birthday parties than soaring eagles, but it was a kind gesture. I agreed this
would be a trip to reconnoiter. Like Toby said, “Those eagles will still be
there next time.” I tried to roll with it and not be a buzzkill.
When we finally arrived and unpacked the car, I discovered I had
left the lantern, fuel and hand axe in my garage. I laughed. But I was also
troubled. We restocked our ambulance after every shift. We know how to do
this. We made careful lists and followed them. But here we were, far less
prepared than we should have been. I was puzzled too; we were not this
inept.
As soon as we arrived, we enjoyed a nice hike, mostly. By the time
we returned to our campsite, we were losing daylight and had to scramble
to set up camp as twilight encroached. Toby assembled our 10-dollar tent
while I gathered firewood. A task that would have been much easier with a
lantern and an axe. Most of what I collected were twigs, damp tree bark,
and dead grass. It would make for a roaring yet short-lived bonfire. But it
was adequate for our needs.
With the aid of the car headlamps on high beam, we finished setting
up our camp and began preparing dinner. This is when we discovered Toby
had been equally inept. He forgot most of the beer, brining just five cans
instead of ten. Thankfully, our wives had packed some hot dogs and chips.
Toby forgot the can opener for the beans. He forgot the beans. Apples,
oranges, and candy bars also never made it into the cooler. I looked at him
like, “What the hell?” He returned my look.
Finally, we managed to burn four hot dogs and split a bag of chip. A
cold beer was icing on the cake. After dinner I told Toby, “Man, I can see
how people would think this is pretty cool. Stuff, even hot dogs, taste better
roasted over a campfire.” I remember thinking, this is pleasant. The heat of
the day was gone, and we had a nice mild breeze.
But the pleasantness would not last. Shortly after I made that remark
came a lull in our conversation. That is when I noticed the sounds of the
forest, the crickets and tree frogs, had fallen silent. I know this sounds
cliché, but it’s true. Many people have told me they experienced the same
thing just before things got “weird.” Even the gentle breeze we enjoyed
earlier had ceased. The forest sounds had been loud enough to interfere with
our conversation just minutes earlier. It unnerved me.
I asked Toby, like he would know, right? “Man, can you believe
how quiet it got?”
He shot back with, “Relax, we’ve been laughing and making noise,
the crickets will be back, just wait, they’ll be back. We spooked them with
our noise.”
I felt more spooked than the damn bugs. Toby was wrong. The
forest sounds and our cool breeze never returned.
Here is where things got very strange. Toby was looking to his left
at something. I was just about to ask, “Hey, what’re you looking at?”
 ALIEN ABDUCTION
He spoke first and asked me, “Hey Terry, were those lights there before?”
I asked, “What lights?” Toby’s torso blocked my view. Leaning back
and half standing I saw what he was talking about. On the horizon was a set
of three stars. Each about as bright as the North Star. They sat in a tight
little triangle formation.
I saw that they were sitting too far above the horizon to have been
lights from a train or a parking lot. Besides, we were miles from anything
like civilization. Toby suggested maybe it was an aircraft, but we couldn’t
imagine any aircraft with that kind of light configuration.
After a few minutes, Toby suggested, “If this thing is on a steady
course and headed directly toward us, it might give the illusion it’s
immobile until it changes course or gets closer so we can see movement.”
We just watched in silence.
About this time, I first noticed an inexplicable feeling of calm wash
over me. I would experience the same phenomena in 2017. It was a
discernible feeling of light sedation. Toby must have been affected similarly
because there was hardly a word spoken between us.
The thing finally moved after a few minutes. It rotated once as if on
an axis and oriented itself with the base of the triangle parallel to the
horizon. Still, our reactions were muted. We were subdued considering
what was playing out in front of our eyes.
Then it started climbing straight up at a slow but steady pace. It sped
up a little as it climbed. It was a beautiful clear evening with a trillion stars
visible; so many, the sky was dark blue. Not enough starlight to cast a
shadow, but the sky was ablaze with stars. We noticed, as it traveled across
the sky, that the stars would blink out for a moment and then pop back into
view once it moved past. This answered the question, “Are we seeing three
lights moving in perfect synchronization or is this a single solid object?” It
was obviously the latter.
While we watched, it climbed to what I call its “ceiling” before
beginning a steady descent. It was clear this thing was on a trajectory
straight for our campsite. It also got bigger. Much bigger. The points of
light spread apart but always remained equidistant to one another. It also
made a tumbling-like maneuver. We saw it summersault, head over heels. I
had the feeling this thing was not out of control, it was moving with
purpose. An odd thought.
We watched it grow larger as it got closer to us. The sedated feeling
washed over us in waves. I felt myself becoming sleepy. We should not
have been sleepy. Tired perhaps, but for two young guys accustomed to
working the nightshift it should have felt like mid-morning.
It would finally come to a halt directly over the meadow. It filled the
entire field. We were camped on the edge near the tree line, so thankfully it
was not directly over our heads. It was huge, a city block in length on each
leg of the triangle. It was as big as a Super Walmart or a large medical
building. It was brightly illuminated. It should have been clearly visible
from two counties away. We were in a secluded spot but considering its size
and brilliance it is hard to believe there was not a single report made. None,
at least that we could ever find.
It came to a complete stop at about 3,000 feet over the meadow. It
was awfully close to us considering its size. But neither one of us felt the
slightest bit of fear. Remarkably, I felt almost disinterested, just short of
apathetic. I felt more like an observer than a participant as events unfolded.
I do not have adequate words to describe my feelings, other than to say our
response was inappropriate.
We still said nothing. A few minutes after it stopped, we saw some
odd beams of light from underneath this thing dance all around our
campsite. First, there was a beam of visible white light that landed in our
campfire and stayed there for about a minute. Then a bluish-purple laser,
about the diameter of a lead pencil, danced around our campsite for several
minutes. Lasers were a new concept in 1977, I had only seen them on
television. I watched and thought to myself, this thing is scanning us. It’s
checking us out. I have no idea where that thought came from.
Shortly afterward, Toby broke the silence by exclaiming loudly,
“Show’s over!” He picked up his air mattress and shuffled over to the tent.
He tossed in his air mattress and fell on top of it. I followed suit. I tossed
my air mattress into the tent, fell on top and went right to sleep.
I did not bother to remove my boots or tee shirt. I was just so sleepy.
The last thing I remember was Toby already snoring softly and noting that
the sounds of the forest had not returned. Then I was out.
Some hours passed. I was awakened by flashing lights through our
canvas tent, illuminating the inside like a ballpark at night. I woke in a state
of confusion. I thought, Oh yeah, Toby and I are camping, but what are
these lights?
I did not have my wits about me yet. I reasoned they must be the
overhead flashing lights of a park ranger’s truck, there to kick us out. I also
heard a droning noise. It was a sound more powerful than loud, like
standing next to a large piece of industrial machinery or an idling diesel
train engine. It was a sound I felt in my chest.
 I next noticed my boots were unlaced. That was confusing because I
never bothered to unlace them. I pulled off a boot and saw my socks were
on sideways. That was baffling. One of the things they instill in you in the
military is to take care of your feet. If you can’t walk, you can’t do your job
and will likely require assistance. I knew I did not put my socks on that
way. I felt confused, but that still didn’t frighten me. I removed both boots
and socks and put them on my feet properly.
In one of the quick flashes of white light, I saw Toby to my left. He
was on his knees looking through a flap in the tent. I saw there were tear
tracks down the right side of his face. That shook me. I could not imagine
what could possibly bring this man to tears. All that disinterest and feeling
of sedation evaporated in an instant. I was suddenly terrified.
I struggled to my knees and realized I was in pain. Pulling back the
flap on my side of the tent a few inches, I saw two things, (1) the triangle
shaped craft that was 3,000 feet over our heads some hours ago had
descended. It was now just 30 feet over the meadow. This was our first
opportunity to see the thing up close. It was even bigger than we imagined,
and (2) below this triangle, walking around in the meadow were a dozen or
more of what I first took to be children. I commented to Toby, “What the
hell are these kids doing out here in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of
the night?”
Toby’s answer shook me to my core. “Terry, man, those ain’t no
little kids. Look at them Terry. They are not human beings. They took us
and they hurt us, don’t you remember?”
I did remember, just a little. Horrific images from being inside this
giant thing. The whole while I was under the control and at the mercy of
these nonhuman beings.
 While Toby began softly sobbing, I looked again. They were too far
away to see in detail, but I could see enough. They were all under three feet
in height and grey. I could not tell if they were wearing uniforms or if that
was their natural skin color. Their heads were disproportionately large for
their petite torsos and they walked with a distinctive gate. It was almost like
they had sore feet. They were not looking down and did not appear to be
looking for something. They were in groups of twos and threes and were
just strolling around the meadow like tourist.
If I was alarmed by Toby’s tears, I was petrified by what I saw in the
meadow. We were both afraid to make noise for fear of drawing their
attention. As we watched quietly, a beam of light descended from the center
of this thing. It was a cylinder-shaped column of visible white light about
30 feet in diameter. It was about as wide as it was tall. It was very much like
a high-powered search light cutting through dense fog. Except there was no
fog. These little beings walked into the light in pairs and threes and just
dissolved in a few seconds.
After the last two had disappeared, the light shut off. The droning
noise we had been hearing stopped. We had become accustomed to the
sound by now and the abrupt silence was disturbing. The flashing green,
yellow, and white lights on each point of the triangle shifted to all white.
We watched this thing take off. It did not take off like a rocket, it
just lifted off like a hot air balloon. It rotated slightly and picked up speed
on its ascent. We sat like scared little rabbits in the tent for a half hour.
Toby had been hyperventilating and he finally got control of his
breathing. Strange as it sounds, we felt safer in the tent. The idea of
sprinting to the car terrified me. Just that piece of canvas over our heads
gave us cover. The 15 yards to the car would mean being in the open and
vulnerable.
To this day I will not walk across an open field. I would rather walk
a mile out of my way by going around than take the straight path. I suffer
from other PTSD symptoms too.
Toby suggested I take my wallet and keys and he would take his
flashlight. We would dart to the car and get the hell off that plateau. On a
count of three we bolted from the tent and ran to the car.
We left everything behind. Our tent, air mattresses, Toby’s nice
cooler, everything. We did not care one bit. We were grateful to be alive,
even if we were both injured with burns and dehydration.
Toby had an unerring sense of direction. He helped me to navigate
out of there and back onto blacktop. We were both insane with thirst and in
a lot of pain. As bad as I was hurting, Toby was worse. There is no way he
could have driven a car. Whatever they did to me they must have given poor
Toby a double dose.
I suggested we pull over and he could crash in the back seat. He just
muttered “Ugh-uh, I’m okay,” and curled up in a fetal position on the big
bench seat of my old Chevy.
 CHANGES
At his point I must confess something. This does not make a lot of sense.
None of this does. To put this in proper perspective, we arrived a Devil’s
Den as children, still in our teenage mindset at the ages of 22 and 23. When
we left that meadow, we were adults. This event was such a big influence in
my life that I tend to measure my life in terms of pre- and post-1977. It was
an event equal to the birth of our children. Sorry kids.
Something else had changed. Here was my best friend, confidant,
and co-worker but I suddenly wanted nothing to do with him. It was
strange. When we finally found an open gas station, I bought a six-pack of
orange soda (or “pop” if you are a Michigander) and Toby bought a gallon
jug of grape drink. I polished off mine in no time. Toby drank better than
half of his and went back to sleep. I felt a strong compulsion to just take his
grape drink and polish it off. I thought he would never be the wiser. Then I
realized what I was thinking and how wrong it was, irrespective of my
thirst. Something had changed. I wanted nothing to do with this guy for
some reason and I will never understand it.
In some of the emails I’ve received from readers sharing their
stories, people have told me of witnessing an “event” like we did, and
afterwards, no one will talk about it. I received not just one or two, but
dozens of examples. Stories of a group of friends who witness something on
the level of our experience—not just seeing a saucer shoot across the sky,
but something more intimate like our abduction—told me how their group
just disbanded. No one wanted to hang out anymore, definitely no one
spoke about it. Often people moved away, and friendships dissolved.
If family members witness an event, no one will speak of it, ever. If
someone did bring it up over Thanksgiving dinner years later, everyone
became extremely uncomfortable, and it usually does not end well. I know
that when I wrote Incident at Devils Den in 2017, I felt guilty about
publishing it. I felt remorseful like I was betraying a family secret. That
statement may be truer than I even know.
There is a famous true story about a group called the Allagash Four.
Four young men, brothers Jack Weiner and Jim Weiner, and friends Charles
Foltz and Charlie Rak went fishing on a remote lake in Maine near the
Allagash River on August 20, 1976. You can find their story on YouTube or
better yet, read Raymond Fowler’s excellent book entitled The Allagash
Abduction. Their story is a perfect example.
In case you are unfamiliar with their story, I will give you the
capsule version. The four men were camped by the lakeside and intended to
night fish from a canoe. They built a roaring campfire with enough wood to
burn for hours while they fished. Their fire served as kind of a lighthouse to
find their way back to camp in the dark, since the shoreline all looked the
same in the dead of night.
In the middle of the lake, they saw an intense light and they can
remember being afraid. Their next memory is rowing toward their campsite
and their roaring campfire is now just embers.
Also strange is that when they docked their canoe and headed into
camp, all they wanted to do was go to sleep. No debriefing about what they
saw, no conversation about missing time or bright lights in the sky. Nothing.
Just “goodnight.”
Years later, one of the brothers contacted the other about the
terrifying nightmares he had been experiencing, and they were disrupting
his life. The other brother was shocked because he had been experiencing
the exact same nightmares. That is what opened the door to polygraph
exams, which they all passed by the way. Eventually, they agreed to
undergo hypnotic regression to recall what happened that night. Their
memories told the story of their abduction into the craft they first saw as a
mysterious light over the lake. Raymond Fowler’s book was published and
became a bestseller. Then came the inevitable press coverage and television
appearances.
I say all this because our ride home from Devil’s Den was atypical
of two people alone on the road for a near seven-hour drive, after
experiencing an abduction by aliens. Two people who experience an
incredibly traumatic event usually want to debrief afterward. Human nature
is to discuss the event, to ask, “Did you see …?” and “Man, are you hurt as
badly as I am?” and, of course, “What the hell were those things walking
around in the meadow?”
But no. We were still muted, still subdued.
Alien abduction is a shared experience unique to a small group of
human beings all over the world. But it may not be as unique as we may
think. I am just grateful to have some recall about what happened to us. I
can remember fragmented bits and pieces. It’s just enough to fuel my
nightmares and phobias. I have had my struggles, but because I could tie
them to a specific event, I knew I wasn’t losing my mind. My friend had
been there to witness everything. He saw what I saw, and we validated the
abduction of one another. My story bolstered his. This is the reason the
USAF did not want us to reconnect. Ever.
ET can erase our memories, wipe our minds clean like chalk from a
chalkboard or install screen memories to mask the whole affair. For those
who are unfortunate and can never remember, it is worse. The terror and
trauma of the event will eventually trickle-up from subconscious to waking
consciousness and the survivor is overwhelmed. The event is then free to
manifest in unhealthy ways like neurosis, alcoholism, madness, and even
suicide.
When we left that meadow, we were both in shock and pain. I doubt
we said 50 words to one another on our trip back to base. The only
conversation I can recall, other than complaining about pain and thirst, was
our agreement. We promised each other that irrespective of what may
happen when we return, we would never say that we saw a triangular UFO
the size of Walmart.
I have always had an aversion to lying. Our story was truthful. We
told the doctors we felt funny the evening before and woke up early, sick as
dogs. We would just leave out the part about the UFO and aliens.
As I said in the beginning, once we were back on base, we were
ordered to have no contact with each other. That was fine with me. But I did
have a strong compulsion to see the guy in person one more time, to tell
him goodbye and wish him well. That would be enough to bring this matter
closure and give me peace.
Of course, that would mean violating an order from a superior that
could lead to a dishonorable discharge and possibly time in the brig. That
would be foolish on my part. But that is what I would do.
 POISON PILLS
But before I get to our face-to-face meeting, let me explain something.
When I was discharged from the hospital and sent home to convalesce for
30 days, I was given a large bottle of pills with instructions to take three
pills with every meal until gone. I asked the doctor and nurses what they
were. “They’ll help you feel better” was always the answer. Vague at best,
but I was in no position to interrogate my superiors.
I began taking them immediately after I got home. That evening,
after dinner, there was a knock at our door. My wife opened it and a nurse
asked if she could come in. She wore no name tag, which was unusual. I
knew everyone in the hospital squadron, and she was not one of our RNs.
She also wore no insignia of rank. When I asked her name, she introduced
herself as “Janet.”
Janet was all business. She explained that she was at our home for
“our daily pill count.” Stoically, she counted every pill left in the bottle and
made a few notes. That was it! Then she was gone. No small talk. She never
asked how I was feeling or took my blood pressure, just a pill count and
“goodnight.” She would return 13 more nights in a row. The visit was
always the same drill.
My wife sat with me on the fourth night after Nurse Janet left. She
had noticed a change in my behavior and wanted to talk about it. She told
me I was not myself. She said, “I think those pills are making you stupid.”
She also claimed my eyes were dull and my facial affect in general was
“different.”
And she was right; I was not myself. I was sleeping 12 hours a
night, unable to keep track of my wallet or balance the checkbook. I also
abruptly stopped reading and began watching cartoons instead. Behavior
very much out of character for me.
I was dismissive at first, until she asked me to tell her how I spent
my day. I realized I could not, no matter how hard I tried. That scared me. I
asked her, “What should we do?”
She said, “After every meal, flush your pills down the toilet and if
she shows up early for a pill count, we’ll have the right amount.”
I reluctantly agreed and asked, “But what should I do if she insists
on seeing me take my pills?”
Sheila replied, “She’s never done that before, but if she does, hide it
between your cheek and gums and take a sip of water. You can spit it out
after she leaves.”
And so, we did.
Five days later I felt like myself again. The difference was dramatic.
Janet always came at 6:30 PM and was gone in 10 minutes. Never once did
she deviate from her routine, and neither did we. I always did my best to
appear dimwitted for Janet’s visit. When her pill count was complete, she’d
spend a few seconds to eyeball me up and down, scratch a few notes into
my chart and make her exit with a quick, “goodnight.”
Once I was feeling better, I took one of the capsules and pulled out
my 1975 edition of the Physician’s Desk Reference (PDR). Before the
internet, the PDR was published yearly with a color photograph of every
tablet and pill approved by the FDA for prescription. I searched diligently.
There was no match. That was curious. God, I wish I had saved just one of
those pills.
My inclination was to call Toby or Tammy and ask if they were
experiencing the same thing with these pills and Nurse Janet. But I couldn’t
call without risking big trouble. Besides, I really didn’t care to chat with
them.
Instead, I called Nurse Brenda, an RN I knew well at the hospital
and someone I trusted. I called her and asked, “Hey Brenda, these pills they
sent me home with, do you know what they are?”
She said casually, “I’m really busy, I don’t know anything about
that, but maybe I’ll stop by and see how you’re doing after my shift?
Okay?”
I understood loud and clear. She was not about to discuss the matter
by phone while I was under scrutiny by the OSI. Likely, my phone was less
than secure.
“Sure,” I said, “swing by and I’ll have a cold beer for you. But make
it after 7:00 PM, I have company at 6:30.”
About 8:00 PM she knocked on our door. She came in and gave us
both a hug. I handed her a cold can of Coors and we all sat down. She got to
the point after making sure my “company” was gone.
Sheila briefly explained her observations and our decision to
discontinue the pills.
After a moment or two of thought, Brenda began, “Terry, those pills
aren’t in our formulary. They were shipped here from Wright Patterson Air
Force Base. You and Toby got the same medication. I would tell you what
they are if I knew.”
Sheila’s observation that the pills made me stupid did not appear to
shock Brenda. We explained Nurse Janet and our routine to destroy the pills
instead of continuing to take them.
 Brenda nodded with approval. She also said she had never heard of
anyone in the medical squadron named “Janet,” she knew no one that
matched her physical description. We chatted for 30 minutes, she finished
her beer, but before leaving she suggested, “Let’s keep this just between
us.”
I am sure she would have been in big trouble if it ever became
known that she approved of me defying doctor’s orders. I assured her it was
just between us and thanked her. I also offered a beer for the road. She took
it.
 AN AWKWARD GOODBYE
All of this left me to wonder what condition Toby was in and if he had
taken all his medication. I would find out about three weeks later when I
dropped by their home to see Toby and tell him goodbye. I asked Sheila to
swing by Toby and Tammy’s house on our way home from the grocery
store. We were in her VW Karmann Ghia, so she was driving.
“Terry, please don’t screw with these OSI people, they scare me.
Please don’t violate your commanding officer’s order either. Haven’t we
had enough trouble…?”
I assured her, “I’ll be in there four minutes. You know how I feel
about these people now, but I have an obligation to wish them well. It is
common civility, and it may help me feel better about this mess. They’ll be
gone in a few weeks anyway.”
Sheila pulled the car over and parked. She remarked that she did not
understand my anger toward Toby and Tammy. I was annoyed by her
remark for some reason and exited the car before she could finish her
sentence. I walked up to Toby’s front door. The same threshold I had
crossed a hundred times. It was open. I walked in and announced myself
with, “Hello.”
Tammy walked past me with something in her hand, maybe a lamp.
I don’t remember exactly. I do remember she glared at me and said angrily,
“You’re not supposed to be here.” She was obviously uncomfortable.
Well, I wasn’t exactly feeling comfortable either. “I know that
Tammy, I’m just here to say goodbye and wish you guys well,” I said in a
soft tone. I was not there for a confrontation.
 She kept walking. Toby must have heard our exchange from the
bedroom. He walked around the corner and down the hallway. I was
shocked by his appearance. He was dirty and disheveled. I realized they
were moving, but I had never seen him unshaven and wearing dirty clothes.
He was barefoot and his hair was sideways. If we had passed each other on
the street, I doubt I would have recognized him.
I spoke first.
“Hey Tobe, I just want to wish you guys well. I hear you are going
to Japan. I ….”
I never finished my sentence. I did not know what to say. It felt
incredibly awkward. I felt it would be appropriate to embrace the guy, given
our friendship. But I didn’t. Things were different, we were different. I held
out my hand and we managed to connect with an inelegant handshake.
Toby was a short guy. I am six-foot tall, and Toby was three or four
inches shorter. He stepped closer and looked up at me. His eyes were
bloodshot, and I could smell liquor on his breath. I could tell he was hurting
emotionally.
This was not the same guy I worked with for three years. When we
locked eyes he asked softly, “It happened, didn’t it, Terry?”
I’m not sure if his question was rhetorical, I answered honestly,
“Yes, my brother, it really happened. All of it. You’re not losing your
mind.” I broke eye contact and looked at my shoes. I felt like my knees
would buckle.
Then he asked, “But why us, Terry? Why?”
Like I would know the answer? I said, “Man, I don’t have a f*****g
clue.”
 Without re-engaging him, I turned and ran back to the car. I was
trembling and felt like crying for some reason. It was upsetting. “Let’s go
home,” I said.
Sheila was nearly hysterical herself. Parked directly behind us was a
blue security police car. I had been busted. Fortunately, in the long run
nothing came of it. We went home.
I was baffled by the incident and ran it over repeatedly in my mind.
I genuinely thought I’d feel better wishing him well. I thought we could
part friends somehow and maybe find some peace. Forty years on and I still
do not understand. I have just recently found some measure of peace.
Some weeks later I drove by his home. Another family was already
there.
After an ugly interrogation by the OSI, the whole matter was
dropped. I finished my enlistment on time. On October 25, 1979 I became a
civilian again under honorable conditions and without a bad mark against
my service. I was more than ready to leave. I cannot say I harbor any ill
feelings against the United States Air Force. There are a couple individuals
I have had a difficult time forgiving and forgetting.
I don’t mean to imply I walked away from this thing unscathed. Far
from it. I had my struggles too. Fortunately, with my wife’s support, we
managed to stay together and create a life for ourselves and our children. A
year after my enlistment ended, we had our first child. Six years later our
daughter joined us. Sheila and I never shared with them what happened. All
they knew is that Dad would have screaming nightmares once or twice a
year. They only found out when they read my book in 2018.
Both our children are scientists. They love and support their dad, but
do not know how to feel about this matter. That’s okay.
 ATTEMPTS TO MAKE CONTACT
A few years after my discharge from the Air Force, I felt the need to reach
out to Toby again. I had not heard from him since that uncomfortable
goodbye at his home in August 1977. I had his dad’s phone number in Flint,
Michigan. I held onto it for some reason. In 1982 I called.
An elderly gentleman answered the phone. I told him who I was. In
a pleasant tone he said, “Yes, I know who you are.”
I said I was calling to speak with my old friend again, “Is he home?”
He paused. I think he was uncomfortable with the question. He said
politely, “Toby only stays here now and then. If you want to leave your
number, I’ll tell him you called.”
My intuition told me Toby may be homeless. I chose not to ask
about Tammy and the kids. I thanked him and he wrote down my number.
He wished me well and I hung up. I felt like I would hear from him
eventually. He never called.
Six months later it was the Christmas season. I thought it would be a
good excuse to call back and try to talk to Toby again. His phone had been
disconnected.
A few years later I was practicing law in Lansing, Michigan. Flint
was just 45 minutes away. I did a diligent search for my old friend and
came up empty-handed each time.
 A VISIT FROM TOBY’S WIFE
Then Sheila received a call. It was Tammy. She found us in the white pages.
It was a happy reunion for them. Sheila asked about the kids and they were
fine. Then she explained that she and Toby had separated a few months
after their relocation to Japan. They divorced the following year and she
had custody of the kids. She had remarried a long-haul truck driver. She
was riding with him on a cross-country run with a stop in Detroit. The kids
stayed with her parents. She asked if we were up for some company?
“Absolutely!” was our answer. It would be nice to see her again. I
hoped it would be anyway. The last time we spoke things were a bit tense.
A week later they arrived, and we had dinner together. Her new husband
seemed like a genuinely nice guy.
Tammy was gracious. She admitted that when I came to her house
on base in `77 they were stressed-out. Also, Toby had told her the camping
trip was all my idea! No wonder she was less than happy to see me. For a
time, she blamed me for her husband’s decline and the dissolution of their
marriage.
I asked her to please tell me everything she knew about Toby, and
that I would love to reconnect with him.
I was not prepared for her answer. Toby had struggled. He
developed a taste for alcohol. He did not drink much during the day, but he
could not close his eyes and sleep unless he was full of vodka.
His trouble sleeping resonated with me. For a time, I relied on a
glass of wine to get me to sleep and to keep the monsters at bay.
Unfortunately, my tolerance kept increasing. One glass became two and
then three. I recognized this was a slippery slope and I stopped.
 In the 80s and early 90s prescription sedatives and sleeping pills
were widely prescribed. I had an on-again off-again relationship with
benzodiazepines for a time. But like wine, my tolerance and dependence on
them for sleep was troubling. I finally decided on a single 25md capsule of
Benadryl (Diphenhydramine) for sleep, it is an antihistamine. I also found
physical exhaustion was a ticket to a good night’s sleep. I began running in
1980 and ran a couple miles a day, almost every day, until I had a heart
attack in 2005.
Tammy said the last she knew about Toby’s whereabouts; he was
living with his dad. After some years, his dad passed away from stomach
cancer. Hence the disconnected telephone. She said Toby reached an
agreement with his family to take over the family home in Flint after his
dad’s death.
But he eventually lost it for unpaid taxes. Employment issues
plagued him too. He had trouble staying with one employer more than a
few months. She said his time between jobs got longer and longer. He never
remarried.
She described Toby’s behavior as “odd,” but did not elaborate.
I had pressed her enough for information. I could tell she was
uncomfortable discussing her ex in the presence of her new man. I was
being insensitive and dropped it there.
We exchanged addresses and promised to write, at least exchange
Christmas cards yearly. We placed them in our address book. They lived
near Los Angeles somewhere, I can’t recall the name of the community.
We exchanged one letter and swapped pictures of our kids. But that
was the extent of it. Sometime in the 1990s we updated our telephone book,
and their name was dropped. I remember her new husband had a Polish or
Russian last name that she adopted. But we have never been able to locate
her.
 FEDERAL AGENT
That is not the end of the story. A few years later I had a case that involved
the FBI. I became friends with an agent. He was a lawyer before being
accepted to the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia, shortly after passing the
New York bar.
He was a smart guy and likeable. We developed a friendly routine of
meeting at the bar on Friday’s after work for a cocktail at happy hour. He
was a few months from retiring and eager to move to Florida and buy a
boat. Since he was close to retirement and did not appear overworked, I
thought he might be willing to help me find Toby. I had nothing to lose by
asking.
The next Friday evening I asked, “Hey Frank, I’m trying to find a
friend of mine I served with in the Air Force. Think you can help me find
the guy?”
“Sure, I can find anybody as long as they’re not a fugitive,” he said.
The FBI hunts fugitives routinely. That was dry FBI humor. I forced
a laugh, just so he would know it did not go over my head.
He instructed me to write down everything I knew about Toby,
including a photograph and physical description, and he would “give it a
shot.” He winked and said, “I can’t open an investigation. This is a favor for
a friend, just between us.”
“I appreciate it, Frank,” and we shook hands. I was confident if
Toby were still alive, Frank would find him. It turned out to be a prophetic
choice of words.
I sat down and typed up every fact about Toby I could remember,
including the scant information I gained from Tammy. It is amazing how
well you get to know someone after three years of working together. I filled
two pages with information and dropped them off at his office in a sealed
envelope.
He called me the next day to acknowledge receipt and ask me to
give him a couple weeks. I said, “Sure thing, Frank, I owe you a beer.”
He asked if that was an attempt to bribe a federal agent. I said,
“Yes,” and we both laughed.
Two weeks later I got a call. Frank said, “Meet me at the bar, I have
some information on your buddy.”
I was thrilled. We met that Friday after work. Frank walked in late
and looking somber. We shook hands and I asked, “So, what’d you find?”
He said “Terry, I have some bad news for you, your buddy is dead,
I’m very sorry.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it, “What do you mean he’s dead?
How the hell can that be Frank, he’s a young man?”
The waitress brought our drinks and broke my concentration. I had
trouble even processing the words. I managed to ask, “How? How did Toby
die?”
“It was an automobile accident on Interstate 94. He and another
driver were both killed. It happened two years ago. I’m sorry to give you
bad news,” he added empathetically.
I just said, “Thanks,” and killed my beer.
Frank added, “Terry, I’m sorry. But we both have been around the
block. We know things happen and it could be any one of us at any time.
Remember the laughs and the good times, give yourself a little time to
process this and move on with your life.”
 I thought it was good advice. I thanked him again and we changed
the subject. We talked about boats, Frank’s favorite topic.
In 2017 when I was writing Incident at Devils Den, I realized I
needed some notebooks I had written in during 1977 and 1978 about our
abduction. For a time, I was afraid the OSI might charge me with a bogus
crime. I did not trust them and wanted to document everything that
happened. I kept two notebooks. One contained everything about the
abduction experience and the chaos that followed, the other was everything
else that happened that could be relevant if they charged me with a crime.
Good documentation is the reason I could include so much detail in my
book.
The notebooks were in our storage locker we shared with my old
boss. It was up in Traverse City, Michigan. One of us would need to retrieve
them.
Meanwhile, I thought I would find Toby’s obituary and make the
drive, maybe visit his gravesite too. I thought it’s be good for closure. I got
online and searched for his obituary. I was shocked by what I found.
Toby had been alive until September 4, 2007, while I was a
prosecuting attorney for the US Territory of American Samoa. This was 10
years after my conversation with Frank. I wanted to kick myself for not
having the good sense to look for an accident report with the Michigan
State Police in East Lansing. But I did not. I took Frank’s advice and moved
on with my life.
I did manage to get a copy of Toby’s Michigan driving record. He
had two drunk driving convictions, a failure to appear, and numerous
parking violations in Flint. But there had been no fatal accident in
Michigan.
 My FBI friend had lied to me. He either lied or just did not care. But
either answer made no sense. I knew this guy. I thought I knew him well. I
worked with law enforcement folks on all levels. I knew that every FBI
special agent I had ever met was a stand-up person. They were a cut above.
Good people. So why would he lie to me?
Frank was impossible to find in Florida. When you spend 30 years
locking up bad guys it is probably a good idea to have an unlisted number.
So, I would never have an opportunity to ask him, “Why’d you lie to me,
Frank?”
I think somewhere there is a file for Toby and Terry. And the
instructions are to not let these guys put their heads together and tell their
story.
I have a theory. Two people having a shared experience are twice as
credible as one. Someone would not allow that to happen.
Chapter #2
 MONKEYMEN FACTS NEVER BEFORE
DISCLOSED
Our old home was a hundred-year-old two-story brick residence in South
St. Louis. Mom and Dad had their bedroom on the first floor. My two elder
sisters and I had upstairs bedrooms across the hall from each other.
My earliest memories of the home were from 1959 – 1960, when I
was four or five. What little I can recall was mostly normal. I mean normal
for the time. Dad drove a truck, always wore a cap or a hat outside and
smoked. I have few memories of Dad when he was not smoking. Mom was
a homemaker. My sisters were 10 and 12 years older than me. I was in Cub
Scouts for a while. There was church every Sunday morning, avocado-
colored appliances, shag carpeting throughout and our Ford Fairlane station
wagon. I had my friends and my bike. We played in the city park a block
away. I tell all this to stress how incredibly normal my early years were.
When I turned six years old, I felt like a big kid at last. It seemed as
if people in my family matured early. Everyone in my family over 30 had
dentures. Everyone over the age of 16 smoked. My friend Ernest and I had
split a cigarette a few months earlier. I thought I had the hang of smoking
nailed. That was until Ernest told me I could not just “puff like the girls.” I
had to inhale. That experience was unpleasant enough to put my tobacco
usage on hold for a few more years.
At six years of age I was already a creature of habit and ritual. In my
bedroom was a wall outlet next to my desk with my nightlight. At bedtime
it was a kiss from Mom, tuck me in, and turn on the nightlight before she
closed my bedroom door. But not before the exchange, “Good night, sleep
tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
 My nightlight was a plastic Virgin Mary. It was part of the
goodnight ritual. Mom turned it on for me at night and I turned it off in the
morning. It had been in the corner of my room for as long as I could
remember, and I never gave it a second thought. Until I had my first
sleepover.
It was a social event for six-year-old boys, a pre-teen rite of passage.
I made sure mom had everything on my list for snacks. Jiffy-Pop, chocolate
ice cream, and sugary powdered drink mix. This held the potential to
cement my standing within my peer group. I was competing against
Michael Gorman for the friendship of Ernest and Al. Mike Gorman owned
a minibike and was stiff competition. In a few years, the competition would
shift to the attentions of the opposite sex.
When we crashed from the sugar buzz and were exhausted from
watching Charlie Chan on our black and white television. We went upstairs
to my room and got comfortable on the floor with piles of blankets and
pillows. My mom popped in to announce it was “lights-out.”
At that instant, it occurred to me in a flash of insight and my
stomach turned. I realized if she turned on my nightlight, my friends would
think I was a baby. The teasing would be merciless. On her way out of my
bedroom my mom flipped on the nightlight as usual and I thought my life
was over. But then, my mom did something incredibly savvy that astounded
me. In a loud voice she announced, “Honey, I know you don’t use a
nightlight anymore, but your friends here might need one on?”
I knew immediately it was said for my benefit. She helped me save
face in front of my pals. I was both relieved and grateful.
Three small voices screeched, “No, turn it out!” She did so and shut
the door behind her without another word. It was one of those amazing
moments of parental insight. I have always remembered it fondly. My mom
deserved far more credit than she received. I think it is that way with most
moms.
What bigger kindness could you give a six-year-old? I wish I had
thanked her the next morning. Instead, I pulled the Virgin Mary from the
outlet and handed it to Mom announcing with confidence, “I don’t need this
anymore.” It was chucked into the basement with 20 years of LIFE and
Popular Mechanics magazines, assorted broken household appliances, and
a box of Barbies from my sisters’ younger days. But she would not live in
the basement for long.
1962 was the year I first encountered fear. Real fear. Like all seven-
year-olds, I had those “monster under the bed” nightmares. No more or less
than anyone else my age. Up until that time the worst terror came after
seeing Godzilla at a drive-in movie with my parents and sisters. Of course,
my sisters had to make “monster noises” and claim to have “seen
something” outside their upstairs window.
My dad sat me down the next evening and told me Godzilla was just
a man in a rubber suit and the spaceships on TV were just toys filmed close-
up to look big. I remember he told me, “Monsters aren’t real and nothing
from the sky can hurt you.” Time proved him to be wrong on both counts.
One evening I went to bed at the usual time for a school night. We
still did the nighttime routine. My mom tucked me in, and the room was
dark except for what filtered in from the streetlights. It was enough light to
cast long and distorted shadows, but I was grateful to have it. I never could
get comfortable in a totally dark room.
 FIRST CONTACT
I had not watched anything scary on TV that evening. It was a normal
evening in all regard. But for some reason I found myself fully awake and
feeling anxious. The house was dead silent. I do not know what woke me,
but I sat up in bed and listened. Everything seemed fine, but I felt unsettled
for some reason. Sometimes, the wind at night would wake me. I stared out
the window, from my bed, at the treetops. They were motionless. Whatever
woke me had not been the wind. There was a weird vibe too. I cannot
describe it. But I would experience it again. I was most definitely in my
own bed, in my own house but there was a surreal quality to the experience.
From the corner of my eye I saw a shadow move by my closet door.
I jerked my head to the right, but nothing was there. Then I swore there was
motion on the other side of the room. It was always in my peripheral vision.
I tried to lie back and clear my mind, but it felt like someone was in the
room. I could feel eyes on me. I thought to call out, my sisters were just
across the hall. But what would I say?
I rubbed both of my eyes hard. When I opened them, out from the
shadows stepped four little monkeys. I spoke out loud and asked, “What are
you?” To ask “who” did not seem appropriate. These were primates, or so I
thought. These were not human beings. I was awake, and these were real
monkeys with long tails. They were about two feet in height, maybe a few
inches more. Their eyes glowed yellow and they wore paper masks with
broad grins painted on them. I felt panic and then terror until the one nearest
the head of my bed spoke. I realized I was not hearing with my ears; I heard
his voice inside my head.
The reply had come from the monkey closest to the head of my bed.
Instead of answering my question it said, “Come with us, Terry,” and held
out a paw for me to accept.
In an instant all fear left me. I was not afraid anymore! More
accurately, I was nothing but perhaps just a bit curious. My reactions were
inconsistent with a typical little boy being visited in his room at night by
four little monkeys.
I should have screamed. But I did not. Then I felt intrigued and we
just watched one another. It was like they knew me. Or maybe I knew them.
The whole exchange began feeling familiar.
At first, they were kind of comical. One by one they stepped from
the shadows and moved in close to form a semicircle around my bed. They
stared at me and I stared at them. The one closest to me tilted his head left
and then right, the way my dog King would do sometimes when he seemed
to be desperately trying to understand human language. This time it felt like
I was the one struggling to understand.
They seemed friendly or at least non-threatening. The one closest to
me spoke again. His lips never moved, they couldn’t, as they were painted
onto his white paper mask. He asked me once more, “Terry, won’t you
come with us? We’ll go and play for a little while and bring you home!”
I was warned to never go with strangers, but these monkeys felt
familiar. I knew them. I wondered, had I gone with them before? This
wasn’t the first time, or was it? They inched closer to my bed. I heard the
one closest to my head speak a third time, “Terry, won’t you come with us
and play? Your friends will be there too.”
 PLAY DATES WITH SUE AND THE OTHER KIDS
My friends? I thought. Yes, that sounded familiar. In my mind there were
flashes of memory. We played together and “talked with our minds,” that is,
telepathically and it felt normal. I remembered a round or oval shaped room
with a grey spongy floor. There were other kids there too and we played.
There was always a petite lady there that reminded me of our
neighbor Sue, whom was a middle-aged Asian woman. I think I may have
even called her “Sue.” But there were distinct differences between the two.
She oversaw us kids as we played in that strange room.
I understood there were racial differences between people. I was
taught, rightly so, that we were white, but other people can be black or
brown. They could also be short or tall, fat or slim. I accepted there was an
endless variety of human beings, so I never gave Sue a second thought. But
in retrospect, I realized the difference was not just a distinction of race, this
was a difference of species. Neighborhood Sue was an Asian lady. The
other Sue was not a human being.
I cannot remember how the monkeys took me to the oval room. I
was just suddenly there. Sometimes there was a flash of light. Once there I
felt completely at ease. There were about a dozen other kids, mostly my
age. They were dressed in their nightclothes. I did not recognize anyone
from my school or from the neighborhood. All these years later I have
wondered that if I ever met them again, would we recognize one another as
adults?
We played with colored blocks of differing shapes. We had to
arrange them into certain configurations and then Sue would praise us.
Sometimes, a panel on the wall would slide back and we could see the stars.
So many stars, billions of stars. But they did not twinkle and for that reason,
I did not think they were real stars. Probably because of my age, I was sure
they were Christmas decorations. They just glowed and seeing them was
our reward when we did something well.
The strangest memory was of a girl we all called “Jenny.” Jenny
never played with us. I think she was Sue’s helper and she always carried a
jump rope, although I never saw her use it.
Years later when my memory of her was more focused, I realized
why she was so odd. Aside from the fact she never spoke, she also wore the
same super short “play dress” like little girls wore in the 1940s with puffy
short sleeves. She always wore white socks and black buckled shoes with
her hair in twin pigtails.
Inexplicably, I can recall all these things about her appearance
except for her face. But I remember her eyes plain as day. She never blinked
and her eyes were all white. There was no iris or pupil, just the white part of
the eye. She was different from the rest of us kids. I was afraid of Jenny.
She was scary because of her eyes. She never participated in any activity.
She just stood back and kept her distance from us. No one ever dared
engage her. We never heard her speak.
The monkey still stared at me. I felt he and his confederates
beckoning me. They came to summon me. On this night it seemed like a
stand-off. It was hard for me to say “no,” a problem I struggled with as a
young adult. Then in a flash of terror I snapped out of indecision and I
yelled, “No, … this isn’t right!”
I shouted, “Go away … this is wrong … I don’t know you!” Then
their expressions changed. Their friendly, painted smile turned into a
grimace. Their yellow eyes turned almost black, like my cat’s eyes when
her pupils dilate. I could sense they were irritated with me. That made me
scared.
There were four of them and just one of me. What would happen if
they decided to just take me? I did not mind being with Sue and the other
kids, but the trip scared me. They could carry me away and I could be lost
forever, stuck in that place where missing children go and are never found.
Now, I was frightened. I panicked and I screamed, “Mom, Dad
come help me! They’re back, they’re here!”
In an instant there was a twirling of shadows and they were gone!
They retreated into the darkness, back wherever they came from. They were
always gone a split-second before the doorknob to my room completed its
turn. I began insisting that the bedroom door remain open and the blinds
and curtains remain tightly closed. Even on the hottest evenings I preferred
the drapes closed, sacrificing the cool night breeze to feel a little less
vulnerable. I sleep the same way to this day.
 SPIRITUAL PROTECTION
After weeks of this tiresome routine, I searched the dark basement. I needed
help and, like so many people in need over two millennium, I turned to
faith. Searching the basement, I found my protector again. Without a word
to anyone, I stuffed her into my jeans’ pocket and ran up the stairs and into
my room. I plugged in the Virgin Mary again. Even though it was daylight,
I turned her on and stared at her, hands clasped in prayer with the rosary
intertwined and her eyes turned upward to heaven. Her light was much
dimmer than I remembered. Her dim glow was a brief sense of well-being.
I was told that Jesus could help me, that Mary could ask her son to
protect me. It was both comforting and confusing. Why the need for the
middleman? I wondered. Why couldn’t Jesus just help me? If he knows
everything surely, he knows that I am hurting and need his help. Why didn’t
he help me? Why didn’t he help Grandpa too?
It was common knowledge in the family that I was having trouble.
Once, a well-intentioned aunt pulled me aside at a family dinner and asked
me to follow her to her car. She said she had something for me. She
explained that I needed the help of St. Michael and proceeded to give me a
little plaster statue of the saint.
I studied St. Michael’s plaster likeness for some time. He was
standing on a snake and he held a sword. To an eight-year-old boy that
seemed cool. Surely, St. Michael was powerful enough to keep away the
monkeymen. I felt like I had the protection of two spiritual superheroes
now. I sat him on a shoebox so he could be next to Mary and visible in her
glow at night.
 I now slept with an open door. As soon as my dad hit the hallway
switch there was an audible “click” and a flood of light from the hallway
poured into my room. For an instant I was blind, but it was okay. The light
was warm and friendly, I would embrace it if I could. I would never feel
safe in my room again. I do not remember crying, but tears flooded my face
as I clung to my dad when he plucked me from my bed. I held onto him as
hard as my small arms could hold. He was bigger and tougher than the
monkeymen. That’s why they run away!
They probably knew he could shoot them. He had a real gun! He
kept it hidden behind the headboard of their bed. He could shoot them if
they ever came back. I knew he could. I was not supposed to know about
the gun, so I couldn’t ask him to shoot them for me. I wish I could have
asked him! I would have begged him, “Please, Daddy take your gun and
shoot them, so they won’t come back and scare me.”
Without a word he carried me into the bedroom. My mom never
stirred. She could sleep through anything. Damn that maternal instinct, she
slept right through all of it. I lay between them, cuddling whichever one I
could more easily wrap an arm around. I was just so scared. It is peculiar
that I never recall crying. I guess I did. I am told I did.
 KING COULDN’T PROTECT ME
Like Mom, the family dog King, a German shepherd, never woke or
became involved. I did not understand why he failed to protect me. He was
never a party to any of this and ignored it all. King was the family guard
dog, protective of all of us. Why wouldn’t he keep the monkeymen away? It
is a fact confirmed by my sister that King never spent a night in my room
again. Not once over the next eight years until he died. Even in the light of
day, he had to be dragged into my room only to exit as quickly as he could.
If the door were shut, he would nearly go mad and scratch at the door until
it was opened.
In the past when I was sick, or if I had a plate of snacks I could
share, King would be there. Like most pets King had become a “cookie
whore.” That’s what Dad called him. I was not sure what it meant at the
time. My friend Ernie clued me in.
My nightmares did not just disturb my parents. My sisters were
justifiably angry, and they made it known. They were asleep just across the
hallway. My screams always woke them. At first it scared them too. After a
while it was just “another one of Terry’s monkey dreams” and they resented
the loss of sleep.
“Monkey duty,” as I overheard them refer to my nightmare retrieval,
fell on my poor dad. He worked hard. The kind of labor I’ve only on
occasion had to perform. Then it was by choice and never in reliance on
feeding my family. He was so kind. Until it began to take a toll. The loss of
sleep made him irritable. He was not alone.
The monkeymen came for me sporadically, unpredictably. At one
point, it was five nights over a two-week span. The whole family was
involved at one level or another. All of us were bone-tired. The tension in
the household was palpable. My sisters grew spiteful. I cannot fault them.
We never spoke about this time as adults. My eldest sister refused to
read my book when it came out in 2018. She did not care to discuss it
either. She is 77 years old now. Tearfully, she told me how badly she felt
that she could not protect me when “they” came.
Like she said, “When the lights came in through the window and
you weren’t in your bed, … when you weren’t anywhere in the house.”
That was the extent of our discussion. My other sister claimed no memory
and swore she had no idea what we were talking about. That was fine, we
all cope in different ways.
It was their complaints to my dad back then that initiated, “the talk.”
One evening my father came home dirty and tired. I could see the
exhaustion in his eyes. Before he showered that night, he called me into my
bedroom for a “little talk.” His talks usually ended with me in tears,
especially if he yelled. I sat on my bed and he pulled up a chair beside me.
He began, “Terry, last night was the last time. Okay, Buddy? You
cannot sleep with Mom and Dad anymore and you can’t wake your sisters
like this. It’s not fair to any of us. How about if we leave the hall light on
for a while and leave your door open a little, so you have some more light.
That should keep these monkeymen away from you and you will be safe.
Okay?”
“Okay Dad, I’ll do my best. I promise!” He noticed but never
mentioned the nightlight and the little plaster statue that stood guard with
the Virgin Mary. He was kind. I felt ashamed of myself. I was not a little
kid anymore. I reminded myself that I was no baby, attempting to bolster
my confidence.
 My mother tried to help. She held me back from the bus one
morning as my sisters went off ahead of me. That worried me, but I would
not let it show. When my sisters had gone off to school, she sat down with
me.
She was genuinely curious about the monkeymen. I was eager to tell
her everything I knew. I wanted someone to believe me. I was awake when
these things happened. These were not bad dreams. At the age of eight, I
learned that sometimes bad dreams are not bad dreams at all. Sometimes,
they are your worst nightmare.
Mom wanted to know, “Terry, are these monkeys like the ones on
TV or the ones in the zoo?”
“No Momma, these are the monkeymen and they walk like men.
They want to take me away somewhere. They tell me we’re going off
somewhere to play and they promise to bring me back before morning,” I
said sincerely, trying not to cry.
“Terry, you can tell them to go away, that you don’t want to play
with them, go away and never come back!” She slammed the palm of her
hand on the table to emphasize her point. I took it as anger. It made me cry.
“But I had tried that!” I yelled back. The anger in my voice overrode
the tears, “I’ve done that. I told them to leave me alone, I have screamed at
them too. I’ve told them, ‘No, you have no right to be in my room, now
go!’ It never works Momma, if they want you, they take you.” I had told
my mother all this before.
To de-escalate things I said, “Yes Momma, I’ll try again.” It was the
best I could get out before breaking down into sobs and gasps for breath.
She softened her tone, “Tell Momma, why do you call them
monkeymen if they’re just little monkeys?” She was genuinely curious. I
took that to be a sign that maybe she believed in the monkeymen after all.
“But where did the moniker of monkeymen originate?” she asked. I didn’t
have a clue.
I had never thought about that before. The origin of monkeymen
was a mystery to me then and remains so today. Her question took me by
surprise. Thinking about it hard for a moment I tried to explain, “Mom, the
monkeymen aren’t like animals, they’re not like King. They walk like a boy
and are smart enough to talk to me, but they never move their lips. They
talk to me from behind their eyes.”
She parroted back my sentence, “Terry, they talk … behind their
eyes?” There was a sigh followed by a long pause between “they talk,” and
“behind their eyes.” That was it.
Game over and any credibility or empathy I hoped and prayed for
vanished. Gone in an instant. Just like the monkeymen when the lights
turned on. My mother wiped away my tears and I was whisked into the
station wagon headed for school with a note to explain being tardy. It read
“Sickness in the family.” I thought about that all day. Mom was right. There
was sickness in the family.
I tried to stop crying. I could not walk into class late and have the
other children see I’d been crying. I told myself, “I’m a big kid now!” That
became my mantra. It is easier to be brave in the light of day.
If King could not keep me safe and my parents could not keep the
monkeymen away, I guessed, “It is up to me,” I told myself. My dad never
told me about his gun. I just knew it was not a toy and touching it would
mean a whipping, punishment reserved for the worst transgressions. Dad
did tell me once that people have guns to keep them safe. Well, I sure as
hell needed some safety.
 A LOADED HANDGUN
In the backboard of my parent’s bed, next to Dad’s big “railroad” flashlight,
there was a board that ran the entire span of the headboard. It made a
perfect spot to hide something … like a 32-caliber Smith & Wesson
revolver, circa 1930.
I had lost hope. I did not believe my parents could keep me safe
because they would not believe me. The burden fell on me, at age eight, to
protect myself from the monkeymen. What if they took me and never
brought me back?
I hated them for the worry they caused me. They had caused so
much anxiety in an otherwise harmonious home. But I cannot honestly
claim that they disrupted our family harmony. We never achieved harmony.
Our household had the happy exterior that came with conformity in the 60s.
But there was the undercurrent of rebellion from two teenage girls and an
eight-year-old boy in fear of his life.
There were television shows by the score that confirmed perfection
was achieved when each family member played their role. Ridiculous
problems plagued the television family. But there were no drunken dads,
spousal abuse, or teenage pregnancies. The only drunks on television were
comedic when in real life I knew they were pathetic and angry. Sometimes
violent. Those shows set the bar as far as the ideal household in the 1960s.
Of course, the height of the bar made it unobtainable. The liquor and
cigarettes they sold to fund these funny shows were a contradiction. The
nightly news delivered a sobering dose of reality before all the “fun” began.
No wonder the backlash and rebellion of young people in the latter
part of the decade. Young people protested “the establishment” and against
the authority that gripped American society/culture.
I was afraid the Vietnam War would drag me into it someday. I saw
the dead being medevacked by helicopter from the battlefield on the nightly
news. That was when I became determined to be a medic and excuse myself
from the killing and instead, save the injured. I preferred to carry bandages
to a bandoleer. If I had to serve, I wanted my Geneva Convention card that
identified me as a “non-combatant.”
When I registered for the draft, I told the man I was a conscientious
objector … “but I’d like to be a medic.”
He laughed, “So, you’d rather carry band aids than an M16? Stupid
shit.”
But I was preoccupied with killing already. I had no beef with the
North Vietnamese. The monkeymen were my enemy. I had the right to
defend myself and kill them with violence. I fantasized about meeting them
in my bedroom one night. When the closest one held out that paw and
pleaded, “Won’t you come with us, Terry?” I would pull out my father’s
antique 32-caliber revolver and shoot the four of them beginning with the
closest. Then we would see who was right! After all, I was no little kid
anymore.
Not only did I know where he kept the gun. I knew he kept a box of
cartridges in his underwear drawer, too. Children, all children, snoop
through their parents’ belongings. To deny so is self-deception. As an adult,
I know how important it is to keep guns and ammunition separate and under
lock and key.
A dangerous scenario unfolded. I took my toy pistol and began
sleeping with it under my pillow. I played with it. I carried it with me. It
was a cowboy-style revolver with a cylinder that folded-out so the red
plastic bullets it came with could be loaded. It was a “six-shooter” as they
were referred to on television. It was made of cast metal and today could
easily be confused with a real weapon and lead to tragedy.
I practiced twirling it on my finger like the TV cowboys. With some
practice, I became good at it. I felt comfortable handling my toy and
treating it like the real thing. My family was amused that I had a sudden
fascination with a toy I had not touched in a year. I was serious. I realized I
needed help.
I enlisted my friend Ernest Pearce. Ernie went to a different school,
but we became fast friends when we met in the park one summer vacation
past. From the age of five onward we were “joined at the hip,” as my
mother used to say. Ernest’s young life would end all too soon. But, in the
moment he was my closest friend and confidant. Ernie was not a scholar,
but he was shrewd. He had some natural ability to keep a cool head and
stand up to bullies. He envied my “book smarts” and I envied his clever
ways.
Ernie was the only friend to share my secret of the monkeymen in
my room. Ernie believed me. He politely refused my offer of another sleep
over until the monkeymen were gone. But he was supportive in all other
ways. I told him I had a plan. It would validate my story and resolve a
problem in four easy steps, bang, bang, bang, bang.
“But what if you miss?” asked Ernie.
That was a question I was not prepared to answer. I knew on TV
they aimed their gun, pulled the trigger, and a bad guy would drop dead.
Seemed easy enough to me. But I admitted he had a valid point.
“Why don’t we go to the park at night and shoot it a couple times?”
he suggested.
 TARGET PRACTICE
“Great idea!” I said. One almost-eight-year-old complimenting another on
an ill-conceived life-endangering plan.
We thought it would be important to put our plan on paper. In the
back of my arithmetic notebook we laid out our actions step-by-step. We
would need to make a map too.
It is important to mention here a change in my usual behavior that
necessitated a modification to Ernie’s plan. I used to love to play outside
under the streetlights when the sun went down on warm summer nights. It
was “bonus time,” to see how long we could run the streets before being
called inside for the night “one last time.”
Not anymore. That was before the change, before the monkeymen.
When the streetlights came on now, I raced for home. For that reason, we
modified Ernie’s plan and changed the time to the early morning on the
following Saturday. It was crucial to execute the plan and return home
before certain television shows aired. Saturday morning cartoons were a
morning ceremony for millions of preadolescent kids for almost three
decades. If we were not in front of the television at one home or the other
by 9:00 AM, our parents would know something nefarious was afoot.
Ernie could help me return the gun and wrap up loose ends so no
one would ever know. I was more concerned about the logistics of returning
the gun without being discovered.
Meet up would be at my house since I was just a block from
Marquette Park. I carefully drew a map, even though we knew the route and
could walk it blindfolded.
 After Friday night dinner and before anyone else went upstairs for
bed, I would take my dad’s gun from behind the headboard. I would slip it
into my pocket and quietly slide open Dad’s underwear drawer. In the back
of the drawer was an old carboard red and yellow box that read “Bullseye
32 Caliber S&W.” I’d pull out six bullets and slip them into my other
pocket. With the six already loaded in the pistol’s cylinder that would make
a dozen, surely more than enough to practice and then dispatch four little
monkeys straight to hell.
We added compass points to our map of the park to indicate
direction. Any legitimate plan required a proper map. We would
synchronize our wind-up watches the evening before with a phone call. The
code phrase, “King’s asleep,” would be my acknowledgment that I had the
fully loaded revolver and six additional cartridges in my possession, and
everything was “a go.”
That Saturday morning Ernie arrived by bicycle at 6:30 AM. Ernie
was always reliable and prompt. I was waiting on our front porch with my
bike and a map in my back pocket, a loaded pistol in one blue jeans pocket
and six bullets in the other. We skipped reviewing our map which served no
purpose whatsoever. But we agreed it was important to take along.
Ernie carried two hand-drawn targets under his arms. Both of his
arms were stained up to his elbows with black ink from a permanent
marker. The targets were carefully drawn silhouettes on cardboard about
two feet square. The perfect size. One target bore the likeness of a crudely
drawn monkey and the other resembled Mr. Evans, Ernie’s math teacher,
complete with eyeglasses.
We rode our bikes to the park, and everything was quiet as we
expected. An elderly woman walked her little poodle on the opposite side of
the park. Not to worry, she was a whole city block away.
I had only heard gunfire on television and assumed the sound would
be comparable. Not having tackled Newtonian physics yet, I never
considered recoil. We ditched our bikes by the swings and Ernie set up our
two targets side by side at the base of an gigantic sycamore tree. It was a
beautiful morning.
Ernie walked back 10 feet and stood next to me while I inspected
the gun. Ernie insisted that I needed to disengage the gun’s safety. Neither
of us knew that revolvers have no safety. Pulling the trigger drew back the
hammer and it dropped. It wasn’t like the cowboy guns on television that
required the hammer be cocked before shooting.
This was a double action revolver. That meant one just pulled the
trigger. Period. The cylinder turned and the hammer fell in one swift
motion. The process took less than a second. Pulling the trigger was the
only step necessary. The hammer fell and ignited the gunpowder in the
cartridge and propelled the bullet at 700 feet per second into whatever lay
downrange of the pistol’s barrel. Irrespective of human flesh or cardboard,
the lead slug would find the target.
I held the gun in my left hand. I recall thinking it was much heavier
than my toy gun and smelled like oil. Turning it over and over, I looked for
anything that might be a safety. I opened and closed the cylinder a few
times. This is when Ernie grew impatient and tried to take the gun away
from me. Things began to play out in slow motion.
Grabbing it by the faux antler grip, Ernie pulled the gun away from
me … or tried. A tug of war ensued. Ernie tugged and I held onto the barrel
pulling it in a desperate attempt to keep the gun in my control. Somehow, in
this back and forth exchange and ten fingers grasping, the inevitable
happened. One of our fingers found its way around the pistol’s trigger. I am
convinced it was my finger, not that it mattered. I never heard the revolver’s
“click” as the cylinder rotated, and the hammer fell. I was unprepared for
what happened next.
From that moment things moved in slow motion with one exception,
the millisecond it took for the hammer to fall. It fell faster than my eyes
could register the motion.
A flash of yellow light and a simultaneous, thunderous “BOOM!”
rang out. A hundred pigeons took flight, and my ears rang. Momentarily
shocked and deaf, Ernie and I looked at one another awestruck for a second.
We were stunned and unsure what to do. That bullet went somewhere. We
quickly checked our bodies looking for blood. We found none.
My grandmother had a saying, “God protects fools, drunkards, and
little boys.” He did that day. The bullet missed both of us. The old woman
now carried her little dog in her arms and ran down the block much faster
than a 70-year-old woman ought.
Ernie and I scampered to our bikes and sped away. We rode standing
on the pedals, so we could push harder and faster. I felt my heart pumping
hard. I thought it was going to jump out of my chest. The whole
neighborhood must have heard the shot. Someone called the police. We
were just a half-block away when the police cruiser with its single red
cherry light flashing caught up to us. With his window down, he pulled up
beside us.
We rolled to the curb and stopped. Ernie and I glanced at one
another. If busted, we knew the consequences could be disastrous. Ernie did
not like the cops. They had been to his house for domestic disturbances
more than once. They treated him harshly the previous summer when he
was out after 10:00 PM. He still held a grudge. I didn’t like them either and
knew they always had the potential to be trouble.
The pistol was in the right pocket of my jeans and still warm. By
happenstance, my right side faced the officer’s car door. Had he looked
closely he would have clearly seen a pistol outlined in my tight jeans with a
bit or the white faux antler grip peeking out of my pocket. I dropped my
arm down and held my knee in what must have seemed an oddly contorted
stance. I sat on my bike leaning over and holding my knee to cover the gun
with my forearm. On the suspicion scale of 1 – 10, I must have pegged 10
plus. The officer was oblivious.
He gave me a quizzical glance for a second and asked, “Did you
boys hear a gunshot from somewhere in the neighborhood?”
Always one to think on my feet, I spoke up before Ernie could get
us into real trouble. “Yeah, Officer, we heard a pop,” I said. Trying to look
like a concerned citizen I added, “It sounded like a firecracker, I …”
Ernie cut me off and joined in, “Yeah, there’s some big kids by the
swings, maybe you should ask them?”
I wanted to say, “Nice Ernest, well played, sir!”
“Thanks boys, you should head home now while we check things
out,” and he was off like a shot, as were we.
We rode like the wind back to my house. We arrived breathless and
bolted through the front door and ran upstairs. We landed on my bed and
debriefed. Regardless how terrified I was of the monkeymen, using a
firearm was out of the question.
Our clothing still held the scent of gunpowder. Our ears would ring
for a few days. The pistol had a spent cartridge that would need to be
replaced. With Ernie’s help I wiped down the gun and replaced the one
spent bullet. The rest went back into a box of 30-some. Ernie wanted one
for a souvenir and the spent casing as well. I was happy to oblige.
 PLAN B
Ernie suggested “Plan B.” We decided I would stab the monkeys to death.
All I had was a pocketknife with a three-inch blade. I thought, this calls for
something a bit more lethal.
Ernie had a World War II bayonet that would serve the purpose
nicely. He was more than happy to lend it to me. What a pal. I kept it under
my mattress by day and in bed with me by night, under my pillow and out
of sight. The plan remained the same, but the execution would be just a bit
different.
I developed a taste for apples. I carried a few apples up to my room
after school and closed my door. I would set an apple on my desk and
practice swinging this foot-long steel blade into the apple to develop my
aim. I never knew that bayonets were not razor sharp, meant for stabbing
rather than slashing. I practiced anyway and got proficient at smacking the
dull blade into the side of the apple, mangling it but never slicing it. I threw
away a dozen mangled apples late one afternoon. My sister found them in
the trash. I was busted. I heard my mother’s loudest voice, “Terry! For
Christ’s sake what the hell did you do to these apples?”
I should make it plain here that the thought of extraterrestrial beings
visiting me at night never crossed my mind. I thought they were monsters
of some kind. I had seen spacemen on television before and they looked
nothing like monkeys. My family thought they were just bad dreams.
Extraterrestrial beings arrived by spaceship. They also had two
antennae like the TV show My Favorite Martian. We assumed television’s
portrayal of alien beings was accurate. There was no flying saucer, at least
for several months yet. Everyone knew spacemen came in flying saucers.
They never just stepped out of the shadows like the monkeymen. I would
soon find myself feeling conflicted.
 A FLYING SAUCER
This was when one of the most extraordinary events in my young life
occurred. If you have read Incident at Devils Den, you are familiar with this
experience. I will try to be succinct here. There are details that were omitted
for the sake of brevity in the first book. I think they’re important.
It was a warm day in May 1963, and I always remember it as a
Saturday. But it must have been a weekday. It was after lunch. Our windows
were all open, and I could hear my mom’s soap operas through the screen
windows, hence my assumption it was a weekday. The neighborhood was
alive with dogs, kids, cars and people outside enjoying the beautiful spring
afternoon.
I had a bale of hay in our backyard set up as a target. My uncle had
given me an adult target archery set. This was no toy. No way would I ever
give my children such a lethal weapon at that age. It really was a different
time.
I was by myself, Ernie was on a trip to “the lake” for his final
vacation. Ernie drowned that summer and introduced me to heartbreak. I
inherited his bayonet and have it to this day.
But, on this day all was right with the world. I had not had a visit
from the monkeymen in a week or 10 days. Everyone took that to be a
hopeful sign.
There was not a cloud in the sky that day. My attention was 100%
devoted to my target practice. Looking down and loading an arrow into the
notch of the bow, I saw a circular shadow move across my feet.
Instinctively, I looked up. There it was. A flying saucer… and it was
beautiful.
 Awestruck, I dropped my bow and arrow as my eyes tried to take in
every single detail. What could this be? I quickly reviewed my mental list
of possibilities and ran out after eliminating hot air balloons and dirigibles.
Flying saucers were the only possibility left on the list.
Today, I would call it “sexy.” That was not yet in my vocabulary at
age eight, I believe the word I used was “bitchin.” It was shiny and just
beautiful in the way a new sports car is beautiful. It was metallic with a rim
that curled upward. I remember being sorely disappointed that I could not
see the topside. That would have to wait. I was amazed there were no
portals or window, no rivets or seams. I called the bottom “silver.” Of
course, it was probably something made from exotic metals.
What I failed to adequately describe in my first book was the change
to my environment. This made the difference between a flying saucer
sighting and a UFO encounter. This was a sensory experience. There was a
change in the acoustics. I stated in Incident at Devils Den the neighborhood
became quiet. In retrospect that is less than accurate. It was like the sound
was muffled. It was as if someone dialed down the volume and words were
distorted. The voices sounded like mumbling. There was the ionized air like
after a spring thunderstorm.
Then I did something that baffles me to this day. The thought
crossed my mind that I should lie down on the freshly-mowed yard and
look up. I reasoned I could get a better view of the thing. Of course, that
made no sense whatsoever. But that is exactly what I did. I just lay back on
the grass, but I cannot remember lying down. The yard was freshly-mowed,
and I knew there would be hell to pay if my mother discovered grass stains
on my clothing. I did not care. I was captivated.
 I cannot recall how long I laid there. It could have been just a few
minutes or longer. The disc wobbled in the breeze just slightly. It tilted to
clear the power lines and, without warning, shot off. It went from a dead
stop to 500 miles an hour. It would have been missed in the blink of an eye.
I lay there for a while. In an instant the sound returned to normal. I
could smell the fresh-mowed lawn, but the scent of ionized air was gone.
My gaze was fixed on the hole in the sky where it vanished. Not a literal
hole, there were no clouds, just the point in space where it disappeared. For
months afterward when I was in the backyard, I would stare at that spot in
the sky and hope they would come back. But they never did.
As if someone snapped their fingers and I was back, I jumped to my
feet and yelled, “MOM! Come, hurry!” My poor mother admitted afterward
she was sure I had shot a neighbor in the head with an arrow. She came
running and did a quick assessment for blood. Finding none, she shifted her
attention to quieting my screams. Odd, other than calling for her I do not
remember screaming but I’m sure I did. She ushered me inside, more
accurately, she dragged me inside by my arm. My head remained turned,
my eyes glued to the spot in the sky where the flying saucer had vanished.
I was about to learn what happened in 1963 when a kid says he saw
a “flying saucer.”
I was out-of-control with excitement. I asked, “Mom, did you see it
Mom? Was it a real spaceship? Do you think it came from Mars?”
As soon as we were inside my mom was quick to say, “Terry, I don’t
know what you saw but you did not see a flying saucer.”
I stuck to my guns. How could she know what I saw? I was there,
and she wasn’t!
 Then Dad got home and was intercepted by Mom before he could
make it to the laundry room. The interrogation began immediately, “Now,
what’s all this business about seeing flying saucers?”
Correcting him, I said, “No Dad. It was a saucer, just one, not
saucers.”
My dad was annoyed. “Son, you can’t go around telling people you
saw a flying saucer. They will think there is something wrong with you, or
wrong with us. Do you understand?”
The quickest route was, “Yes, Dad.” My parents were always
concerned about what the neighbors might think.
This was 1963 and a child’s voice was discredited from the start.
Anything out of the ordinary drew the same line, “That boys got him such
an imagination, I tell you what!”
 LIKE WALTER CRONKITE USED TO SAY, “AND THAT’S
THE WAY IT IS.”
Even though my parents left rural Arkansas shortly before I was born, my
mother never lost her “country voice” and carried it the rest of her life. I
was raised in a family that spoke like characters from the 1960s television
series, Hee Haw. You may need to consult YouTube or Google. On my first
day of school, my accent drew teasing and ridicule bordering on bullying.
My parents could not understand it. I had no accent.
That night after dinner when my dad watched the evening news, I
watched with him. Whether Huntly and Brinkley, or Walter Cronkite, I
listened intently to every word and its enunciation. I couldn’t have cared
less about the content of the news broadcast; I was watching to learn
diction. My folks were amused that their six-year-old watched the news. It
did not take long to lose my “country,” and speak as well as any news
broadcaster of the day. My vocabulary was limited, but my enunciation was
spot-on. I was soon correcting other kids for poor grammar too. I found that
brought scorn and sometimes respect.
After the flying saucer experience, I was shocked to find that adults
would not believe me. I had a good reputation. I didn’t lie or tell stories. But
they refused to believe me. I could not understand it. There was another
unforeseeable consequence of the flying saucer experience. The dreams and
nighttime visitors.
This is a part of my story that is so outrageous it’s hard to believe. I
do not think it’s coincidence either. It is by design. It is a story engineered
to sound like foolishness. I can best explain by example, albeit a ghastly
one. But I tell it because it underscores the importance of listening to our
children and not being too quick to dismiss what might sound like the
impossible.
 “IF IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE IT’S NOT TRUE.”
–Judge Judy
When I was a felony prosecutor, a police detective came to me seeking an
arrest warrant in a child abuse case. This is a little hard to take and is not
easy to tell. Be forewarned, it is unsettling and may be disturbing. Stories
like this break my heart.
If you think it may be too troubling, you are invited to skip the next
couple paragraphs. The paragraphs are in italics below:
The accused was a house-dad who babysat his seven-year-old
stepdaughter while Mom worked evenings as a nurse. We sat in the
conference room. It was me, the lead detective, the little girl and her
mother, and a social worker from Child Protective Services. Addressing the
social worker, I asked, “Can she tell us what happened?” The little girl
spoke up while everyone listened with concern. I will call her “Jane.”
Jane complained that while her mom was at work, some nights, her
stepdad, “Turned into an Indian,” and “then the marching music started,
and we take off all our clothes.” She demonstrated with exaggerated
marching around the conference room table. Jane said, “Stepdad’s eyeballs
go in and out. Then, it’s the glamour model game.” In a whisper from the
safety of her mother’s lap, she said, Stepdad takes naked and dress-up
pictures of me.”
There were a few more details I will omit. She had no physical
injuries, fortunately. She swore stepdad never touched her, “he just takes
my picture,” she explained tearfully.
At my suggestion, we had a forensic therapist interview her. Jane’s
story remained consistent. The social worker found the facts of her story
unbelievable, but the little girl was so credible in all other ways and
understood the difference between a lie and the truth. We did not have
enough evidence to get a warrant, not yet. The little girl voluntarily went to
live with an aunt while we sorted out things. Jane’s mother backed her
husband 100% and resented police involvement in their family affairs.
Two weeks later when the little girl’s mom was cleaning a guestroom
in the home, she noticed a ceiling tile about a quarter inch out of place. She
investigated and found a shoebox shoved out of her reach. Using a coat
hanger, she pulled the box within reach and placed it on the dresser to
investigate. She was devasted by what she found.
She took it to the detective immediately. Within an hour he knocked
on my office door and asked if I remembered the “Marching Indian Case.”
I replied, “Of course,” and he handed me a box. In it was a polaroid
camera and a dozen assorted photographs, a computer hard drive, a
cassette tape of marching music, a cheap costume store variety Native
American war bonnet and a pair of novelty glasses with eyeballs attached
to springs that popped in and out.
Stepdad made the little girl’s story so outrageous that without
physical evidence, no one would believe the little girl. A jury would
rightfully have trouble finding him guilty based on the little girl’s story
alone. The evidence on the hard drive took things to the federal level. I lost
jurisdiction and the FBI took it from there. I promise you justice was served.
 IN AN APPEARANCE MOST BENIGN
The extraterrestrials chose to appear to me as circus monkeys. They knew I
would never be believed. It was devious in a couple ways. At first, I saw
circus monkeys as comical and benign myself. They chose to appear in a
way I would find less threatening and adults would find impossible to
believe. Their hope was to take me voluntarily if possible, without a grown-
up or my sleeping sisters involved.
This is a mystery to me. I know these beings could have taken me
without my consent as I would find out later. Why ask me to agree to go
with them? I guess these things have rules they abide by if a child is young.
I will never understand. But others have written to me using the email
address I gave in the epilogue of Incident at Devils Den. To date, more than
1,300 people have emailed me to tell me about their stories. Sure enough,
dozens have told me about being asked by their visitors to accompany them.
Like me, many said they believe they went sometimes.
Just as curious is the variety of disguises their captors chose. Some
people told me when they were between four and six years old, they saw
owls, deer, glowing orbs, racoons, cats, even Disney characters in their
bedrooms in the middle of the night. Beings that communicated with them
telepathically. Of the 1,300 people who have responded so far, about 400 of
them sound rock-solid to me. I believe them. Not that I judge the veracity of
anyone’s experience. I do not.
But there is a thread of commonality that runs through this group
and enough detail to ring true. First, they all begin with an apologetic
paragraph. An introduction something like “Please don’t think I’m crazy,”
or “I know this is hard to believe,” or “I really don’t think this was a
dream,” on and on.
 A good percentage of them say that despite all the birthday and
holiday parties, the vacations and wonderful playdates on summer breaks
that they have lost to time, they can still vividly recall these “dreams.”
Usually adding, “Isn’t that curious?” Indeed, it is.
Like my experience, it is always the same beings, usually two to
five in number. They always appear solid and sentient. They report that this
was not sleep paralysis or any kind of psychological disorder to the best of
their knowledge. They assert it happened multiple times and “this was
reality,” not a dream, confabulation, or fantasy.
For me, it was always the same four little monkeys. They were grey
circus monkeys. Even today, no matter how hard I try I cannot recall what
they wore or if they wore anything at all. But in my mind’s eye I see them
in little red jackets, but I do not think that’s true. Always, they made the
same plea to go with them.
There is another kind of nightmare that haunts my sleep. This is a
dream I found disturbing. It was not a screaming bloody murder nightmare,
this was different. I can remember most of what happened in these dreams
as clearly as what I had for dinner the evening before. I did not want to
admit it or even discuss it. It felt like a special secret; one I was not
supposed to tell anyone. Incredibly, I still feel guilt sometimes when I speak
or write about it. Even today it is distressing for me to dwell on or discuss it
with others. It feels like I have violated someone’s trust and all the emotions
that would accompany the breach of fiduciary duty.
 SUE
These dreams involve a “woman” who looked like our neighbor. Officially,
her name was Mrs. Cherkoswski, which I do not think even she could
properly pronounce, but the neighborhood kids all called her “Sue.”
She met and married her husband while he served in post-World
War II Japan. He died in an automobile accident before I was born. She was
a kind soul who no one outside the neighborhood ever visited. My mother
always referred to her as, “Poor Sue.”
I do not know if there’s any truth to the Chinese geomancy of “feng
shui.” It claims there are energy forces that harmonize individuals with their
surroundings, as explained by Wikipedia.
When I was five years old, my dad bought a home in our South St.
Louis neighborhood not far from where we lived. It is a family mystery
why my dad would buy a home six blocks from where we were pleasantly
settled. The house was a two-story brick home with two bedrooms upstairs.
It was the identical floor plan to the home we lived in. Sue warned my dad
against buying the house and said it would be “bad luck.”
My dad of course dismissed Sue’s warning the way he dismissed
anything that did not comport with his understanding of the universe. She
never used the words “feng shui,” but 30 years later I saw the topic
discussed in a real estate magazine and recognized the concepts as being
feng shui. Sue was Japanese, not Chinese, but she was no less adamant
about the house having “bad energy.”
My Aunt Winnie said the house was haunted. I never heard or saw
anything I would describe as ghostly. Coincidentally, we did have an
incredible streak of bad luck that touched everyone in the family during the
year we lived there. That is correct, we were there for just 12 months. A
year later my dad bought a different home eight blocks over, so we were in
the same parish and schools. My dad was bitter about taking a financial hit,
but we were all happy to leave that home.
Sue went to Catholic Mass every Sunday and sat near us. She baked
incredibly delicious pastry the likes of which I had never tasted before. I
only mention this regarding a newfound fear. Around age six I was
suddenly and inexplicably afraid of Sue. To be precise, I was absolutely
terrified of her without good reason. I wished she would go with the
monkeymen and leave me alone forever.
The memories trickled in. I went with the monkeymen sometimes.
More and more of the memories came back each day. These were what I
referred to as the “play dates.” Call it what you will, I was being
indoctrinated, programmed, conditioned, groomed or trained, and we were
not supposed to talk about it.
When the monkeyman extended his paw to me and pleaded with me
to go with him, I was certain I had gone before. Sometime in the past.
Lately, when I took his paw into my small hand sometimes it was not a paw
anymore. It was four exceedingly long ugly fingers. Years later this image
still haunts my sleep. I am sure I went with them, but I cannot remember
how many times. All I have is bits and pieces.
I remember that a few times, when the monkey took my hand, there
would be a twirling sensation followed by a brilliant flash. The light was as
bright as the camera flashes used back in the day. The ones that left a blue
image burned into your retina for hours.
It is curious that when I focus on remembering and strain my
thoughts to pull up the remembrance, I’d get nothing. Sometimes when I try
to focus, I get a black page in my mind instead of the image. It felt like
trying to remember pi to the 40th digit. Bits and pieces were the best I could
ever hope to recall. Of course, I know now the monkeymen were a screen
memory, a projection of how they wanted to be perceived.
Then there were the times when I was not thinking about Sue or the
monkeymen and a thought would pop up. It happened when I was not
trying to remember that these thoughts would intrude, usually in a time and
place when they were least welcome.
In 1977 while in the USAF, I was subjected to hypnosis under
“chemical enhancement,” better known as sodium amathol or “truth serum”
in the movies. That faulty hypnotic regression took me back to my
childhood abductions. I am certain if those events had not taken place in
1977, I would know only a fraction of what I know today. Or, I could have
slipped into madness like my friend Toby and lost my life to alcohol, a
“bucket of pills” or some other unforeseeable fatal consequence of
entanglement with these entities or their overlords.
I recall that on these playdates with “Space Sue,” we never spoke.
At least not verbally or audibly. We all communicated with our minds as
natural as any conversation I have ever experienced.
It was easier because there was never a chance of being
misinterpreted or not getting the point across. You would think the chatter
of five kids at play mentally would be loud. It was not. Just as when
listening audibly I could choose to ignore the background noise. It was no
different than a dinner party. If one of the kids got scared or was crying, it
was polite to “tune them out,” and we all did this intuitively just like the
other rules of civility we learn in childhood. We were too young and naïve
to realize not all our thoughts belonged out in the open.
 We were never offered food or drink. I do not recall ever requesting
a “potty break.” I felt like I was a part of this group. I belonged there.
Whenever any one of us was frightened, we would sit on Sue’s lap or cross-
legged on the floor in front of her. There were some toys, mostly geometric
shapes of varying color, but I do not remember much about them. At least
not in detail. I remember there were multicolored tiles like dominoes. Sue
asked us to arrange them in certain patterns and match them, like green and
round, blue and square, etc. The toys were always abstract construction type
things. There were no toy trucks or army men. Sue was always quick to
offer praise when a job was well done and encouragement when we
screwed-up.
I remember once crying and saying I wanted to go home. Sue held
me in the way any woman would hold and comfort any eight-year-old. I
remember as she held me, I clung to her around her waist like my mom. I
thought, “My God, she’s so tiny.” But she always had room for one of us on
her lap, at least the smaller kids.
I asked Sue once, “Why can’t we talk with our minds at home? I
like it.”
She explained, “You’re not yet ready because you still need your
words.” She said she did not need words to talk. She saw I was confused.
She asked patiently, “When you think about something what part of
your body do you use?”
I still didn’t understand.
“You don’t use your foot or your tummy, right?” she asked, poking
me playfully in the belly.
I giggled. I was being baited into a question. I thought for a
moment. “Yeah, but where?” I guessed, “Is it in my head?”
 “Yes!” Then she cradled my head in her hands and looked into my
eyes. “Behind your eyes there’s spot and that’s where your thoughts come
from.” She had the most beautiful black eyes.
“Okay, behind my eyes is where I think?” I added, seeking her
approval.
Still cradling my head in her hands, she looked into my eyes deeply.
Sue did not just talk to me with her mind, she could give me pictures and
stories too. She showed me my body looking down on it from above, I
could see inside my head and she showed me what looked like a bean in the
center of my brain. I understood. It was not scary or gross. It was
fascinating.
She told me, “Your thoughts come from there. Before you even
know it, Terry, it is what’s called potential. That might not make sense to
you now, Terry, but it will one day. You will remember this.”
“Potential” was not yet a word in my vocabulary. But I certainly
remembered it.
She was correct as usual. I remembered that thoughts originate as
“potential” before our brain even converts it into language. It is why she
could read the mind of anyone without the need to know the language. It
also explains why she never had a discernable accent and why at times she
would answer my question before it was fully formed in my mind.
Sue explained many things I could not fully understand at my young
age. But she made certain I’d remember some of them later. Human thought
potential exists at a deeper level. Maybe it began in the reptilian brain that
demanded quick reaction for survival? There was no need to know my
language because she understood my thoughts at that level.
 Sue didn’t use these exact words, but she patiently explained: You
don’t need language to express fear, love, or surprise. You do not build your
words from letters to form the thought, This plate’s hot, I better drop it
before I burn myself! There is no language involved in an accident that only
takes an instant because it comes from someplace deeper. It helps you to
survive. She told me it is the same with more complex thoughts too. That is
the part I do not yet fully grasp. The part that is above my pay grade.
For years, her words have been on my mind. Imagine, a culture with
no need for language. It would require a highly evolved being to master
their thoughts. I takes discipline, apparently more than I have. From
personal experience, I discovered just how difficult it is to control what our
minds entertain.
Thoughts, like clouds, drift by unimpeded and rarely examined. As a
species, we never had the need to discipline our thoughts since they
belonged only to us. Our thoughts are private, kept locked away in a
compartment deep in our mind. I tried to control my thoughts when
someone else could read them. I failed miserably. It was a lesson in
humility, and it underscores how highly developed these beings are.
Occasionally, in a flash of insight it all makes sense to me. Then, I
try to recapture it and it all evaporates before I can get to my keyboard.
I’m not a neurologist and this is a question better asked of one. Just
like Sue explained, thoughts originate somewhere in the human mind. It’s a
chemical process but there’s more at play. I was shocked to discover
consciousness was a topic not well-understood. In my psychology classes in
the 1980s it was simply defined as a state of awareness. It is that and so
much more. Forty years later we have just scratched the surface.
 The definition of “life” is changing since the advent of
cardiopulmonary resuscitation and lifesaving advances in medicine over the
last 50 years. To be truly alive one needs to be conscious or at least be
capable of achieving consciousness.
I researched the topic a little and discovered there are patients who
are conscious and aware but lack the ability to respond to any stimulus.
They are cut off entirely from our world. Thought to be in a persistent
vegetative state, they lie immobile and aware of everything happening
around them. But incapable of responding to any stimulus, including pain.
Due to a catastrophic event or illness they are incapable of speech,
hearing, or movement. They lack all means of expression. But in some
cases, they are aware of sound and can understand language. It varies with
the degree of the injury. Sometimes, brain scans can show different parts of
the brain react to the patient’s spoken name. In 2019 there was a news story
about a man who regained full consciousness after 10 years in what doctor’s
thought to be a vegetative state. He could recall what was said and done to
him during his stay in a long-term care facility.
I can think of no worse manner of human existence. To be
imprisoned in our mind for our entire span of mortality is maddening to
even contemplate. It’s the ultimate solitary confinement, their eyes closed,
existing in darkness.
Beginning back in 1962 I started dreading the night. I was still
screaming at 3:00 AM, losing sleep and my grades suffered. My parents
were beside themselves and my sisters were justifiably angry. Something
had to change. I felt Ernie’s bayonet was my key. I would kill all four of
these little sons-of-bitches the next time they dared creep into my room.
 TAKEN
That evening, I carefully secreted Ernie’s bayonet under my mattress
intending to pull it out and have it at the ready as soon as my mom left the
room. I now insisted on an open bedroom door at night, so I needed to be
stealthy. It would be hard to explain. Ernie’s bayonet could be confiscated.
Then I’d have to explain that Ernie gave it to me for protection and that
would result in a call to Ernie’s mom. That would be unacceptable.
Sometimes, eight-year-olds can think things through.
It became my nighttime routine. Kiss from Mom and when I heard
her footsteps on the stairs, I’d hop out of bed, grab the bayonet from under
the mattress and slip back into bed, and wait. Just having a weapon under
my pillow made me feel more secure. It was a force equalizer for an
otherwise defenseless little boy outnumbered by three.
Then it happened again. About 30 days after the nearly-fatal
experience with my father’s pistol, it happened. It began like all the others. I
woke up with that sense of dread and my heart pounding. The nightlight
was back in service and St. Michael was on guard, but they did nothing to
stop the shadows. I recognized that familiar feeling. It felt like someone
was in my room. I felt eyes on me. I watched, waiting for a shadow to
move.
My plan was to wait until the first one spoke. Then I would pull the
bayonet from its sheath and thrust it into the chest of the monkey closest to
my head. The one that always told me, “Terry, come play with us and we’ll
have fun.”
Yeah, we’ll have some fun alright, with Ernie’s bayonet through his
chest. That is the one I would kill first. Maybe then the other three would
run away and never come back. Except for bugs, I’d never killed anything
before. I could not imagine the full consequences of a dead monkey on my
floor, but I embraced the concept.
I watched. Waited for a shadow to move or dart across a wall. I
reached for the comfort of Ernie’s bayonet underneath my pillow. Then it
hit me. For the first time in all these weeks I’d forgotten to take the bayonet
out from underneath the mattress after lights-out. I failed to follow the
routine and they arrived! My weapon was out of reach and useless. Did they
know? How could they know? Of course, they know.
I might have gone with the monkeymen once or twice in the past.
Those memories were not clear. But it was clear the experiences were real
and not a dream. I had dreams about Sue, and I could tell the difference.
That’s how I met Sue. I took the monkeyman’s paw and then I felt the
twirling sensation and flash! I was in the playroom with Sue and the other
kids.
Days after first seeing the UFO in the backyard I would be abducted
again from my bed and I experienced a frighteningly real dream. This was a
new memory. It was one of a handful of recollections that spontaneously
returned to my conscious mind in mid-2018. That night it began as a dream,
but I couldn’t shake it off and dismiss it like a regular nightmare. It took
time to fade. I don’t believe it was a mere dream or a fantasy, it felt too
familiar.
But this was no trip to the playroom. When the monkeymen came
for me I felt a calmness sweep over me. I felt no fear or aggression, just the
expectation that they had come for me again. They didn’t speak to me this
time. This was a different experience, one without dialogue or negotiation.
There was no polite conversation. I was not being offered an invitation. I
believe they knew my true intention was to kill one of them and that may
have changed the rules.
Abruptly, there was the twirling motion, flash, and I found myself in
a different room. This was my first time in this place. Instinctively I yelled,
“Sue, help me.” But Sue never came.
Just two big insect-looking beings were in charge. I met them for the
first time. The monkeymen were there too, but they no longer wore white
masks or had tails. They were “worker bees” as I described them. They
used hands instead of paws to subdue me. The whole affair had a clinical
feel like being at the doctor’s office. There was a bright overhead light. This
may have been the origin of my fear of dentists.
I was naked and on an examination table. The insect-like beings
were seven-foot-tall praying mantis-like things, complete with triangular
shaped heads and huge compound eyes.
I would meet one of them again 14 years later. It would wear a white
lab coat when we met again in 1977. The monkeymen were there too. Just
as in 1977, they no longer had the slightest primate features. I saw them for
what they truly were.
I was immobilized and scared to death. I know I was screaming. The
small grey ones are all around me and placed me face down on the table. I
was immobile, but I do not recall straps or restraints of any kind.
The ubiquitous grey ones I encountered deserve an observation here.
There are likely many different species based on the accounts of others. I
believe the ones I encountered were not living conscious beings. They are
not sentient like you and me. They may be a mix of machine, quantum
computing, nano technology and organic material. They lack free will and
are not able to determine their own actions, they do as they are told. They
are engineered and manufactured somewhere. Even at the age of six or so I
called them, “worker bees.” Many others have used that exact same name
for them.
The insectoid thing wasted no time. Long fingers deftly manipulated
stainless steel instruments of some kind. He did something to my lower
spine like what they did to me in 1977. They never touched my knee where
the implants were found in 2012. Not that I recall.
While my anxiety was managed slightly, there was no control of the
pain. The pain ran from my tail bone straight up my spinal column and
registered as a strong electric shock that came in pulses. It was one every
three seconds or so. I screamed; I know I screamed. The next day I was so
hoarse I could barely speak.
That’s all I can remember. I should say that’s all I was allowed to
remember. I felt Sue had let me down. That only added to my hurt.
But I was headed for a long hiatus from the monkeymen, Sue, and
the praying mantis beings. I’d see another flying saucer in 1966. I wouldn’t
share the experience with another human being until 2018. Aside from that,
I enjoyed 11 years of peace.
Chapter #3
 COUSIN GERALD
I had a cousin a year younger than me. His name was Gerald. He and his
family lived in northern Arkansas in a city near Jonesboro. While my
parents and sisters were dealing with my monkeys and Sue, my Aunt
Winnie, Uncle Ervin, Gerald and his six siblings had a crisis of their own.
Gerald was the only one I ever developed a quasi-friendship with. We saw
one another just once or twice a year.
Like me, Gerald was the only one in the household targeted for
attack. He shared a bedroom with two younger brothers who never saw or
heard a thing. Except for Gerald’s screams after the fact. I felt sorry for him
because he had two potential eyewitnesses that could back him up, sleeping
in the same room!
I was always hopeful one of my sisters would catch a glimpse of
these things that came for me, but that never happened. I always thought it
was because they were across the hall. But Gerald’s story made me
reconsider. They would probably never have seen or heard a thing, even if
they were in my room when they came.
I believed every word of Gerald’s story and it was chilling. It was
shockingly similar. He was thrilled to hear my story. For the first time he
knew he was not alone. We were brothers now.
When I was nine the night terrors receded and were fewer. I wish at
nine I had been able to journal all the occurrences to preserve them. But that
was beyond my ability. But I can clearly recall telling myself, “This is
important. I can’t lose this memory.”
The thing I remember most about this period, 1962–1964, was
seeing the flying saucer in my backyard in 1963. That was the most
impressive and exhilarating experience. Then there were the memories of
Sue, the bug things, and the monkeymen. Those memories were hard kept.
Ernie’s untimely death before he reached 10 was the loss of my confidant,
my best friend and best witness to what I experienced. Poor Gerald had no
one in his corner, at least not in Arkansas.
Years in the future, my friend Tobias would lose his life. Toby was
the only other witness to my 1977 abduction from Devil’s Den State Park. I
have always wondered if their deaths were somehow tied to our shared
experiences. I’m sure there’s an element of survivor guilt that I’ve never
properly addressed to this day.
Because of the distance, Gerald and I never played together much.
We were never close, that is until their 1963 annual visit in March. I saw the
flying disc two months later in May.
They stayed as our houseguests for two weeks every summer on
their “vacation.” That is what poor people did. Gerald and his two younger
brothers slept in my room during their St. Louis visits. The girls slept with
my sisters and Uncle Ervin and Aunt Winne slept on a sofa bed in the living
room.
In 1963, Gerald and I discovered our common ground. He was being
tormented at night by two clowns about two and one-half feet tall. They
wore white baggy suits, flat clown masks with holes for eyes and an
exaggerated painted-on smile and painted red nose. I guess ET decided the
circus theme suited the Lovelace family.
I told him all about my exploits with the monkeymen and my plans
to kill one of them. I told him how Ernie and I took my dad’s gun and test-
fired it to practice murdering monkeymen. He did not believe me until we
snuck into my parent’s bedroom and I showed it to him. It was still fully
loaded. We played with it for about 30 minutes. Then I put it back before
we were busted. He thought I was a pretty cool guy! He wanted to hear all
about the monkeymen. I told him every detail I could think of and he
soaked up every single word.
 I KNOW WHERE MY DAD KEEPS HIS RIFLE
Then it was Gerald’s turn. He said, “Boy, I wish I could get my hands on
Dad’s hunting rifle for a couple nights. It’s just inside their closet in the far
back corner. Dad always keeps it loaded. He said it would be handy if
intruders ever broke into the house.” It was a bolt action 30-06 with iron
sights. It used to have an expensive scope.
Gerald explained his dad had too much to drink one night after a day
of hunting with his friends. He rarely came home with a deer, but he always
came home loaded. With alcohol that is, not ammunition in his rifle
necessarily. While inebriated, he cleaned his rifle when he dropped it onto
the concrete garage floor. The glass in the scope shattered. Oops, maybe
that is what they mean when they say, “Never clean a gun while loaded,”
sage advice.
Uncle Ervin always kept his rifle fully-loaded, one in the chamber
and four additional bullets in the magazine. According to Gerald, his dad
taught him, “Empty guns kill people.” I knew there was something clever
and meaningful in those words. But I could never decipher it. Everyone
knew loaded guns kill people. Unless he meant, “Always treat a gun as if
it’s loaded?” But I doubt Uncle Ervin was capable of thought on that level.
Gerald said he would love to sneak his dad’s rifle into his bedroom
and hide it under his blanket. Then when the clowns came, he could shoot
them. There were just two. I explained the pratfalls of using a firearm. It
was even harder for him with his two brothers in the same room. There was
always the risk of shooting his brothers or another family member since a
rifle that powerful could punch through every wall in the house and
continue outside to God-knows-where.
 I understood that desire. The need to have some control. We just
wanted it to end, to have jurisdiction over our rooms at night and be able to
rest. He said the clowns appeared only at night and woke him, just like the
monkeymen were doing to me. He would have that same anxious feeling
that someone was in the room that should not be there, he could feel eyes
on him, and he felt like something bad was about to happen.
Gerald’s younger brothers slept in bunk beds just opposite of his.
Oh, they heard his screams as the clowns stepped back into the shadows
and disappeared. Of course, they would always disappear before they could
be seen.
I had to ask, “Did you ever go with them?”
Gerald thought about it for a minute or two and said, “Yes, I think
so.”
I asked, “Do you ever remember where they took you?”
Gerald admitted, “No, but I know they can take me somewhere.
Some nights I am not so scared, and I think I do go with them. I can’t
remember. I am afraid they might take me someplace where no one can
help me, like down to H- E- L- L. That scares me. But I don’t think they’ve
ever really hurt me, not yet.”
Poor Gerald. He could not say the word “hell.” His family was
devoutly Fundamentalist Christian. It’s all Gerald ever knew. It was a belief
system that had been hardwired since his birth.
The next morning, my mom and Aunt Wynonna or “Winnie,” were
at the kitchen table discussing Gerald’s problems with clowns. Winnie was
by nature a loud and boisterous woman. Ervin was a meek man of very few
words when sober.
 We knew Gerald was the chief topic of their discussion because we
heard his name. Gerald and I listened from the landing at the top of the
stairway while our moms engaged in a debate over coffee and cigarettes.
Aunt Winnie fired the opening salvo, “Is Terry still screaming and
scaring those two girls of yours at night?”
My mother was taken off guard, she stammered. “Well … No,
things are better now, mostly all quiet,” she said confidently.
“He isn’t seeing those monkeys in his room anymore?” Aunt Winnie
asked. I could hear it in her voice. She did not believe my mother and
wanted to press the issue.
Mom was dismissive of the monkeymen and unashamedly
minimized my nightmares. My monkeymen stories had made it through the
entire family by this time. Courtesy of my two older sisters no doubt. Little
did they know there would be more to come.
In damage-control mode, Mom bragged to Aunt Winnie confidently,
“Oh, Terry has pretty much outgrown it now, it’s just a phase. I stopped him
from watching Space Ghost on television and that about cured it! Those
kids have such imaginations, I tell you what!” she said with bluster I rarely
heard from my mom.
The ball was squarely in Mom’s court, “I hear Gerald’s got scary
clowns that come to visit him at night? They wake up Gerald and his little
brothers sleep right through it all? There in the same room, how can that
be?”
Without thinking Aunt Winnie admitted, “Oh, they wake up alright
when Gerald screams like hell.” We could hear her voice trail off. She knew
she slipped up.
 My mother was quick to pounce, “Screaming like hell? Oh, the poor
dears. I thought those little ones never heard a thing. I guess I heard it
wrong, you know how gossip gets around.”
Winnie would not allow my mom to get the better of her. She added,
“Terry’s got two sisters that share that bedroom about six feet from Terry.
They don’t wake up when he screams about monkeys in his room? I heard
he scares the wits out of them and they’re so tired they have trouble staying
awake at school.”
Touchette, Aunt Winnie.
The top of the stairway in our house was the perfect place to
eavesdrop on adults at the kitchen table. I heard some amazing things
sometimes.
Aunt Winnie sheepishly admitted that it was true, Gerald was being
tormented by two little clowns that sneak into his room and scare the hell
out of him. And yes, Gerald’s screams wake up his brothers at night.
In an attempt to show empathy, Mom was quick with parenting
advice, “You better stop that Twilight Zone and Space Ghost crap. Do you
let him watch that shit Winnie? That’s your problem.”
Winnie shot back at my mother, “Well Anne, you need to get Terry
blessed right away. Gerald was baptized, twice now and that seems to be
driving them demons out of the house. We heard from so-and-so that Terry
was not sleeping, and his grades had slipped too! Now, I know you and
Arthur are Roman Catholic and I do not hold that against you, but you need
the Holy Ghost on your side, amen!”
Oh brother. That was enough for my mom, “Winnie, you want a
little in your coffee?” Winnie knew what Mom meant. She must have
nodded with approval because we didn’t hear her reply. Out came the
whiskey bottle from deep under the sink. We heard the distinctive sound of
glass clinking against coffee cups. Years later I understood. These women
disliked one another.
Poor Gerald. I thought I had a tough time. He was dragged into
church and the whole congregation prayed for him. The preacher sat him
down and told him, “Gerald, sometimes we think bad things, dirty thoughts.
That is what opens the door, son! Then those demons can sneak in disguised
and take your soul!”
Gerald had been convinced it was all his fault. They convinced the
poor kid he could get rid of the clowns by “right-thinking and prayer.” If
that failed it was because he wasn’t “truly repentant,” said the congregation
and his family.
I had long given up on the Virgin and St. Michael. I placed my faith
in a bayonet. But I was intrigued, “Does it really help? Can you pray and
make them go away?”
Gerald teared up and shook his head “no.” Gerald was convinced he
was a sinner and an embarrassment to his family and the church.
I tried to reassure him. He was my cousin, and I didn’t think it was
wrong. I hugged him. He hugged me back. I told him it wasn’t his fault, but
I could tell he didn’t believe me.
For just a moment I thought, Maybe Gerald’s right, maybe these
monkeys were demons from hell in disguise. I was still hopeful I could kill
one. Just give me an opportunity and I would prove they were not demons,
but mortal monsters that bleed and die. But Gerald’s talk shook my
confidence a bit. What if I stabbed one and nothing happened? Could it
really drag me to hell forever?
 The following Monday after breakfast they were ready to head back
to Arkansas. They piled into an old, engineless camper van pulled by an
even older pickup truck. Just as they were leaving, I gave Gerald my
folding pocketknife with the three-inch blade. He thanked me, and we
shook hands like men. I had a question I forgot to ask. I whispered, “Gerald,
the clowns. What color are their eyes?
“Yellow.”
Gerald knew where his dad’s rifle was kept. He would use it to end
his life in 1969.
Chapter #4
 “NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN”
ANSWERS FROM BETTY & MISSING TIME
On an autumn weekend in 1987, I was looking forward to my seasonal
Sunday motorcycle ride. I rode only three months out of the year. Always
by myself and always for recreation. I believe people who rely on their
motorcycles for transportation were at greater risk of being hurt or killed.
I loved to ride in Michigan’s crisp autumn chill that lasted from late
August through Halloween. The smell of woodsmoke hung in the morning
air as people had burned the first firewood of the season the previous
evening.
It was my custom to ride my bike for two hours or so and be home
between 10:30 and 11:00 AM to make pancakes for my family. It was a big
deal for the kids. I used chocolate chips to make funny faces on their
pancakes. It was special.
I had several preplanned routes in my playbook. I waited until I was
on the road to choose which ride best suited my mood. All my routes,
except for one, took precisely two hours to complete. One route crossed a
set of tracks and put me at risk of being stuck at a railroad crossing by a
Union Pacific train hauling a one-hundred-boxcar-load of coal. They always
traveled east toward the car plants in Detroit and across my path. Then I
could add 15 minutes to the journey.
As I explained in detail in Incident at Devils Den, that morning
something went terribly wrong. That would be the last motorcycle ride of
my life. The route I chose that day did not cross railroad tracks and offered
some nice scenery, smooth blacktop roads, little to no traffic, and very few
cops. All the variables that added up to the perfect motorcycle ride. The
speed and brisk air were exhilarating. There were a few puffy white clouds
drifting across blue sky. I refer to them as “Simpson clouds” in reference to
the opening scene from the FOX animated series, The Simpsons.
Somedays, my mind would be devoted to work. I might mull over
facts of a pending court case, vacation plans or chores that needed to be
finished at home, or I might think of nothing at all. This was a day for my
mind to wander like those puffy white clouds sailing overhead.
There was nothing in the ride out of the ordinary with one
exception. I was on a flat stretch of road and I suddenly became aware I
was on a gravel farm road with a thousand acres of corn to my left and
right. How did this happen?
I never took my bike on gravel for two reasons. It could be
dangerous, and it was bad for the motorcycle. A chipped paint job would be
devastating. In the days before cell phones, if I broke down or, God forbid,
was injured in an accident, it might be hours before I was found.
I attributed it to absent mindedness and pulled my bike to the side of
the road. I took off my helmet and looked around to get my bearings. I
assume I must have dismounted to stand by my bike. But there’s a gap here,
I have no memory of setting the kickstand and climbing off the bike. I
found myself standing next to my motorcycle on a gravel farm road,
holding my helmet by the strap and trying to understand what just
happened.
I was in the middle of 1,000 acres of unharvested late-season corn
and everything looked the same. I was never one of those lucky people with
a built-in compass who could always find north. In the days before GPS,
travel instructions had to be given to me in a series of right or left turns and
landmarks such as fast-food restaurants. It was difficult for me to
understand how I could end up here on a gravel farm road. I correctly
assumed if I turned the bike around, I would find my way back to
pavement. I turned the bike around and made the one-mile drive back to
blacktop road. It was a relief to be off that dusty, creepy farm road and back
on familiar ground.
Mentally, I went over this trip a hundred times in the year’s past.
The last conscious thought I had was driving on blacktop. I remember
looking at my speed and easing back on the throttle to slow down to 65
MPH from 85 MPH as I approached a curve. I do not recall blacking out,
but I could not account for any events that may have happened before my
next memory. It was as if I blinked and was suddenly doing 30 on a remote
farm road. I remember pulling over and standing on that gravel road next to
my bike, confused and trying to get my bearings.
It is indisputable that I was two hours late arriving home. My wife
was sickened with fear for my safety. I could not understand how I could
lose two hours. There were no train tracks or coal trains. I did not stop for
gas. I was no more than a mile down the gravel road before I turned around
and drove back. None of it made sense.
 BETTY AND BARNEY
Until a few days later, when my wife shared Betty and Barney Hill’s
account from a 1961 edition of LIFE Magazine: a respected news magazine
of the day. She never explained why she kept a 25-year-old magazine
article. I suspect I know why she kept this one.
I was missing time. Two hours of my life was unaccounted for. My
wife suggested I read their story. No discussion was necessary. I had never
heard of the concept before. I lost several hours in 1977, but that was just
because I could not remember. This felt different because it not only
happened to me while I was awake, I was also engaged in a conscious
activity. It could not be confused with a dream.
I read Betty and Barney’s story. It sent a chill up my spine. I was
particularly troubled by the couple’s transcript of their recollections under
hypnosis
When I review the disparity in my memory between easing up on
my throttle and finding myself doing 30 MPH on a gravel farm road, there
was no void. No blank slate. It was like I was in a movie and someone cut
and removed a 10-foot section of film so there is no way to account for
those two hours. They are gone. Seamlessly gone as if the ends of the film
had been spliced neatly back together minus the 10 feet in between. It’s the
uninterrupted continuity that makes it seem perfectly normal.
There is no doubt I was abducted. It was hard to accept that I had no
recollection of what occurred during what felt like just a few minutes. But
two full hours had passed. Much of it remained lost for 30 years until
October 2017 when a late-night visitor to my home refreshed my memory. I
doubt I’ll ever know the reason for her kindness.
 My mind had been tampered with in 1977 by people with little
regard for my mental well-being. The purpose of that exercise by special
agents of the OSI was twofold, (1) to access my unconscious to determine if
I was truthful about not having photographs of the UFO we saw, and (2) to
“scrub” my conscious memory of the entire event through hypnosis.
Their paramount concern was that two USAF active duty NCOs
might take their story to the National Enquirer Magazine or a television talk
show. Worse yet, there was a chance that I may have hidden 36 B&W
photographs with negatives of a triangular shaped UFO landing in an
Arkansas State Park.
 THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES
I am profoundly grateful for my memories. All of them. People, places and
events, good and bad. Our lives are defined by sum of what we remember,
and we own those images and experiences. Ruthlessly, trauma, disease and
ET can rob us of them. There’s truth in the saying, “You don’t know what
you don’t know.”
Except for our memories what else can we ever really possess?
Nothing tangible for sure. There is but one thing we own and can maybe
hold onto after the death of our physical body, our self-awareness.
Consciousness is a construct of our memories. Remembrances give us our
sense of identity. Dementia and Alzheimer’s are so devastating because
they rob us of our loved one’s names and even our own. The face in the
mirror becomes a stranger.
It’s a misconception to think Alzheimer’s disease leaves one
blissfully unaware. It leaves its victim hopelessly alone, hypervigilant and
terrified. I know from experience. My wife and I cared for my mother as
she slipped into dementia and ultimately into Alzheimer’s that took her
mind and then her life.
I had always considered myself a materialist. Not like Madonna’s
song, but a philosophical materialistic view of a world created by atoms
arranged orderly and following the laws of Newtonian physics. Then a
neurologist explained to me the irreducibility of the human brain.
In plain English, there is a surgical technique for sufferers of severe
epilepsy or traumatic brain injury. The connections between the two lobes
of the brain is severed, or in drastic cases an entire lobe, half the brain, is
surgically removed. In a purely material universe, the patient’s intellect and
personality should be reduced by 50%, but it is not. Most often, patients
recover and retain their full cognitive ability and sense of self. How can that
be? No one knows. But it points to the fact that consciousness and our sense
of self likely reside outside the brain.
The doctor described himself as a “dualist,” believing that in
addition to the atoms there’s “something else,” there is more to us than just
brain function, the firing of neurons and electrical signals breaching the
synapse. It may exist on a quantum level we can’t perceive, or it may be
some mechanism we’re completely unaware of.
He stated, “There’s a reason behind genuine out-of-body
experiences. There is also a reason why people who are clinically dead have
near-death experiences where the can describe a room and individuals from
a perspective looking down from the ceiling. Some have been able to relay
entire conversations overheard while the individual was clinically dead. The
question then becomes, does this experience last for eternity or does the
identity and sense of self fade into nothingness after death becomes final?”
The debate over consciousness is a hotly debated topic. But the
common thinking now is that consciousness is more than the sum of our
parts. Nowhere in the human brain can consciousness be located and
mapped to an identifiable area. I wasn’t aware that neurologists had mapped
the human brain entirely, determining which area is responsible for speech,
movement, cognition, etc. But consciousness remains a mystery.
Let’s hope at least a piece of it survives bodily death. It is all we’ll
ever truly own on this plane of existence. Everything else we simply keep
in our custody until our heart beats its last.
Sometimes, a memory can be a gift too. Things lost or forgotten,
suppressed or erased, can sometimes be restored.
 I call this chapter “Nice to See You Again” in reference to the entity
I knew as “Sue” in my childhood and was renamed “Betty” when we met
again in 2017. I knew they were one and the same being. I had a feeling of
fondness for her when I saw her again. Not a romantic feeling, more of a
maternal attachment I cannot explain.
BETTY’S GIFT, A WAY TO SAY, “THANK YOU” FOR BEING
THEIR LAB RAT
I had heard some abductees claim to have been given “gifts” during
encounters. I received a gift in October 2017. It was from Betty during a
face-to-face visit in my Dallas, Texas home. Incident at Devils Den stopped
just short of the entire story. I regret being cryptic, but I was unsure how
much to share. I nearly excluded the entire final chapter for fear it was so
fantastic that it might discredit my entire story.
I’ve since discovered that what happened to me was not so unique.
Other sane, credible people report similar experiences.
The incomplete memory of what happened on that farm road back in
autumn of 1987 had haunted half of my adult life. In one of the vignettes in
the final chapter of Incident at Devils Den, I shared a memory from Betty
about my time aboard a “very big ship” and a trip that took us around the
dark side of the moon. What I did not fully explain was how I traveled from
that dusty farm road to the large spacecraft loitering somewhere between
earth and the moon.
One evening in October 2017, my wife and I had just returned from
a movie. It was late and my wife went to bed while I locked-up the house.
My OCD-like evening routine has roots that stretch back to 1963 and
coping with monkeymen.
On this night, I completed my nightly bedtime ritual of setting the
alarm system and returning to “recheck” it just before bed to make certain it
is set. It always is. This night I fell asleep almost immediately.
It was odd. It felt like I had no sooner closed my eyes then opened
them. When I did, I found myself sitting bolt-upright in my living room
chair.
A remarkably similar event happened 1966 when I was eleven years
old. I woke sitting upright in my bed while my room was flooded with
bright lights through the blinds and heavy drapes. Pulling aside my heavy
drapes, I peeked through the blinds and there was a flying saucer outside
my second story window. It was the source of the vibration, the lights, and
the noise.
That was a bitterly-cold January evening in 1966. Underneath the
disc was a dense fog or steam. I recall being excited to have an opportunity
to see the topside of the saucer. When I saw it three years earlier in my
backyard, all I could see was the bottom. It was satisfying to see. I felt
special. I felt like they came to visit me. Most people spend a lifetime and
never see a UFO. I saw one when I was eight and again at age 11. They did
not just make a wrong turn at Albuquerque like they used to say in the old
Bugs Bunny cartoons. It wanted to be seen.
After watching it for some time, I turned and went back to bed with
a flying saucer still parked outside my second story bedroom window. With
multicolored lights still flooding my room.
I felt the same sensation 11 years later while in the USAF in 1977. It
was the odd mix of sedation and mild disinterest. Those two emotions are
not mutually exclusive. It’s a difficult feeling to put into words.
It is worth mentioning here that I have never walked in my sleep.
Not once, ever. But here I was in 2017, seated in my favorite chair with no
clue how I got there. I recalled that scent of ionized air. It’s exactly what
you experience when you walk outside after a spring thunderstorm.
I was not panicked. I was fully awake and alert. Physically, I felt
calm, almost tranquilized but keenly aware of my surroundings. The
emotion was just short of apathy. It is more accurately described as
disconnected. I felt disconnected from the events that unfolded. It was a
familiar feeling.
My eyes darted to the left to check the alarm panel. Its lights were
properly lit. My usually curious cat lay undisturbed on the windowsill,
pausing only to stretch before returning to sleep. My phone was still in the
breast pocket of my tee shirt with the ear buds dangling to my lap.
I thought to call out for Sheila. My wife was asleep just down the
hall. But I knew she would never hear me. She would not wake up. Just like
Gerald’s brothers, she couldn’t wake up. They take care of that too.
I should not have been surprised. In 1987 my wife had an
experience with an extraterrestrial being in our home. The only experience
in her lifetime. Back then, we didn’t have a home alarm system other than
the usually vigilant family dog. An English setter. She woke from a sound
sleep and reached across the bed for me. I wasn’t there. I was busily
engaged elsewhere in an experience of my own.
At the foot of our bed she remembers a four-foot-tall, hooded figure.
She was between the foot of the bed and our bedroom window, so only
visible in silhouette. She told me the dark outline of a woman spoke, but her
lips never moved. The entity told her, “Go back to sleep, everything is
alright.” That is exactly what she did. It wasn’t until two days later that she
recalled the event.
I asked her, “Why didn’t you scream?”
With a puzzled expression she said, “Funny, the thought never
crossed my mind.”
So, why should I be surprised? I thought to myself. She was back.
 If I were given a choice in the matter, I’d rather meet with whoever
or whatever sat across from me, “on my own turf.” If ET wants a
conversation, I would rather we have a discussion in my living room than
on their spacecraft.
But why was I in my living room? I know they can conduct business
while I lie in bed without waking my wife. Poor Gerald back in 1963, dealt
with two diminutive clowns visiting him while his two younger brothers
slept soundly just feet away in their bunk beds.
The answer struck me in a flash. My firearm on my bedside table
was inaccessible in the living room. It’s just a guess but it made sense in the
moment. If my handgun were in my lap what would I do? Shoot a woman
in my living room when she did not appear to be a threat? That would be
contrary to my sense of morality. On reflection, I seriously doubt that a
handgun would be any threat to an ET. I felt the mild sedation. Somehow,
they can control our mood. Perhaps they can control much more.
Seated directly across from me was a four-foot-tall woman I
mistakenly took to be Asian. Although most of her features were obscured
by a pair of oversized sunglasses and a cheap wig.
On closer inspection I could tell she was not a human. At first
glance, I doubt she would draw a second look on the streets of downtown
Dallas. But something was off. Something about her stature was
inconsistent with the proportions of a human body. Her complexion was not
grey. It was an ashen flesh tone with a slight bit of cyanotic blue.
She was dressed in black. She wore a black blouse buttoned to the
top with longish sleeves to hide four long thick fingers. Around her neck
was a red scarf tied loosely to hide her pencil-thin neck, and a pair of black
slacks that flared slightly at the cuff. Sturdy black shoes with an inch of
heel to compensate for her short stature.
Atop her head was a wig. It was an outdated style reminiscent of the
wigs my sisters wore in the 1960s. It had not been brushed and it sat askew
on her head pulled forward. This was because of the bulbous shape of the
back of her head. I was confused how this could possibly be the same
woman from my childhood. I wanted to see more of her face.
Before I had finished my thought, God, I wish she’d remove those
glasses so I could clearly see her face. As if on cue she raised her left arm
and removed the glasses. I recognized her face immediately.
Before I tell you about our conversation, a quick note about how
extraterrestrials communicate. All dialogue is telepathic. It came back to me
from my early childhood. I could remember because it was second nature
back then when Sue, now Betty, and I saw one another on our “play dates”
in the round room.
But something was different about this too. As a child I had no need
to govern my choice of words. I simply allowed my mind to roam. I was an
adult now. We all understand that adulthood brings responsibility. We learn
to discipline what comes out of our mouths and control it, so we conform to
social norms.
If I spoke my thoughts candidly, without regard for the feelings of
others, I would eventually insult everyone I meet. I never realized how
many thoughts of an inappropriate nature crossed my mind. I don’t think
I’m different from anyone else in this regard. This is the reason human
beings do not communicate telepathically. We lack the mental discipline. It
would be a disaster.
 As soon as I recognized we were communicating telepathically I
had the thought, Oh no, what if I think something provocative that might
anger her, or something inappropriate? After all, I was not a child
anymore.
Of course, the result was akin to telling a class of fourth graders not
to think about elephants. That will be all they can think of. Crazy
inappropriate things flashed through my head and it was all as clear to her
as the spoken word. I think she was genuinely embarrassed. I certainly was.
Then, I heard her voice in my head assure me, “You can keep some
of your thoughts private ,Terry, just try.” I will never know if that was true
or just said to put me at ease.
I took in her appearance and posture once more. Her legs were
crossed, and she still sat in a non-threatening posture. That put me a bit
more at ease. While I felt mildly sedated, that did not mean I wasn’t scared
out of my wits. I was.
The thought flashed through my mind that the wig she wore was
almost comical, it reminded me of a cartoon character from the 1960s
cartoon The Flintstones. Betty Rubble, hence, the name “Betty” in 2017. As
a child I knew her as “Sue.” But now and forever she will be Betty.
In reference to my mental comment about her wig, she immediately
shot back in the form of a question, “You don’t like it? It’s the same as last
time.” I heard her voice in my head with crystal clarity, as if her words were
spoken.
“The same as last time when?” I thought.
“The last time we saw one another,” she replied. I thought her
answer was evasive.
 My response was still, “When?” But crazy as it sounds, I also felt
concerned that I may have insulted her. I felt I may have hurt her feelings
with my remark about the wig. I was obliged to follow up with: “No, it
looks nice. I’m scared, that’s all.” She acknowledged me with a nod. As to
“when we last met,” my question still hung in the air.
A few seconds later her answer came. She showed me a scenario
that I saw play out in my head. I was a passive observer. The experience
differed from my own thoughts in that it popped into my head and I
watched a very brief scene. I have no way to prove this assertion, but it is
true. I could tell the thought came from her and did not originate in my
mind. I had no control over it. In that regard it was more like watching a
scene on my laptop, except in my mind.
She showed me a scenario from my 1987 motorcycle ride and the
two-hour missing time event. This memory was in vivid color and as close
to being three dimensional as my mind could conceive. If it were a dream it
was an exceptionally colorful, lucid and realistic one. All the mental
conversation was an interactive dialogue. I carefully chose my words, and
we exchanged a real conversation. In a typical dream we are an observer
more than a participant. In this vision, I knew I was witnessing a scene from
the past and the dialogue was an exchange that I remembered.
Viewing the scene from above, I recognized a younger me standing
on that dusty gravel farm road on a sunny autumn day with a very pleasant
cool breeze. I saw my motorcycle there and immediately knew where I was
and what was happening. I had dismounted and stood next to my bike,
holding my helmet in my hand by the strap. Above me and nearly parallel
to my view was a large flying disc less than fifty feet over the browning,
unharvested corn stalks. It was silent and motionless. It was much larger
than the ones I saw as a child.
 As I watched, the craft then glided over the road in front of me and
descended to less than five feet above the roadway. A doorway slid open
and a ramp slid down and touched the road in front of me. I was compelled
to walk up the incline and entered the craft without assistance and without
fear.
Just as I experienced inside the triangle in 1977, the interior seemed
twice as large as the exterior. That made no sense, but that is what I
experienced. In the emails I’ve received from readers of my book, a few
others have told me they had the same experience on entering an alien craft.
I was seated comfortably in a white plastic seat with headrests but
no lap belts or safety restraints of any kind. I chose to sit next to Betty, the
entity I knew as “Sue” in my childhood abductions. I felt like the seat had
been reserved for me. I settled in with my helmet on my lap.
Betty and I immediately acknowledged one another with a polite
nod. I recognized her immediately from my childhood as “Sue.” The
interior of the disc reminded me of a home theater. There was a domed
ceiling more than tall enough for me to stand comfortably upright. I saw a
dozen or so seats. I recall being disappointed that there were no windows,
and we faced a plain white wall in front of us. The inside was brilliantly lit.
There were a couple human beings seated in front of me as well.
They were both male and appeared to be farmers. No one spoke.
My attention was focused on Betty and I said to her audibly, “It’s
nice to see you again.” I still felt no fear. Just the opposite, I felt happy to
see her. She had not aged a day since I last saw her back when I was just
nine years old.
The doorway closed and the lighting inside changed once the
sunshine was blocked. There was a slight sensation of motion, like being in
a fast elevator. The ride took only a few minutes, then it felt as if we had
gently set down somewhere. I remember the door opening. I rose and Betty
took my hand as we exited together through a hatch and down a walkway
that descended for that purpose.
Seeing her again was very emotional for me. I would compare it to
meeting a long-lost sister. It is sad that I can’t share with you these images I
have in my head. Words are inadequate. This is a memory from my ride
onboard the “very big ship.” The one I explained to Brad during my OSI
interrogation in 1977. Under hypnosis I described the craft as being so large
it could never transit across the face of a full moon because it could be seen
from earth as a dot with the naked eye.
Betty warned me in 2017 that talking about anything to do with the
moon or the “big ship” placed me in potential danger because it was a
sensitive topic. She was unequivocal, the danger was not from her “hosts,”
as she referred to aliens, but from my government. I have since resigned
myself to the fact that the more visible I am through writing and speaking,
the safer I am. At least that is my hope.
 THE AGREEMENT
For fear of overwhelming the reader I held back on some details of my
conversation with Betty in the final chapter of Incident of Devils Den. I’ll
share them here and ask your indulgence.
I asked Betty plainly, “Does the United States government and your
hosts work in concert? If so, toward what end?”
She answered me immediately with a slight nod and said, “Yes, they
have worked together by mutual agreement since shortly before your birth.”
As usual, she was short on details. I was born in 1955.
I recall that at a UFO conference in 2018, a speaker said that in 1955
President Dwight D. Eisenhower met with aliens at an Air Force base in
California to sign a treaty between them. You can find this on both the web
with a Google search and all over YouTube. If true, I would love to read the
contract they entered that day so I could understand what promises were
made on both sides to form a contract.
Sue was dressed in a light grey tight-fitting one-piece suit that
accentuated her frailty and small frame. She wore no insignia on her
clothing, and I saw nothing to indicate rank, no ornamentation or jewelry.
She had removed her wig, so her head was bare, with just sparse hair and no
discernable ears. I think this is her usual appearance because it was so
familiar from childhood memories of her.
 DETAILS FROM THE MOON TRIP
Let me qualify some of this information. These are memories mostly
recovered since 2017. But since publishing my first book in 2018, more and
more of bits and pieces filtered into my conscious memory. Each bit of
information is another piece to the puzzle and it helps create a fuller picture.
I’d point out that this is not unusual. Many people have told me since
reading my book and speaking openly about their own past events, it’s like
a doorway opened. It’s true.
I was with Betty on our 1987 “moon trip.” She held my hand. I
recognized my fondness for her. She used my name when she spoke to me,
telepathically of course. It touched me when she used my name.
We had been shuttled from earth by a saucer and entered a spaceship
as large as a city. My memory of the “very large craft” is at first believing
we were in a massive warehouse of some kind or an immense office
building. We walked down a long straight corridor until we came to a huge
glass panel 60 feet in length and at least 20 feet tall.
Outside were billions of stars. I was amazed how bright the stars
were and the fact they never twinkled. I wondered for a moment if this were
a planetarium of sorts. Then I recalled a similar experience when Sue slid
back a panel and showed us a comparable scene. It would be 10 years later
before I learned that stars viewed outside the earth’s orbit do not twinkle.
The twinkle effect is caused by light distortion from our atmosphere.
There was never the slightest sensation of movement inside the big
ship. At this point, I still didn’t know where I was or what our final
destination would be.
 We must have been positioned to look out at the sky facing away
from the moon as we approached. It must have been to our right side and
hidden from view. It felt like we were stationary, and the moon just rolled
over and into view from the right. It scared me. I know in my mind I
thought, Oh shit, it’s going to hit us!
Betty quickly reassured me everything was under control and there
was no reason to be afraid. She explained we were moving. The moon is
relatively stationary.
The bright side of the moon was greyish white in color and glowed
like the noonday sun on white limestone. I knew that we were the ones
moving but my mind had a problem overriding what my eyes registered.
The dark side of the moon was as dark as 2:00 AM on earth and it is
separated by a very distinct line where the bright side ended, and the dark
side began. It was a breathtaking scene. We watched together.
I don’t know why, but I told her about my children, and she
acknowledged me with something very kind—I forget her exact words.
Then she shared, “As a hybrid, I’m incapable of bearing children.” She
spoke matter of fact and without emotion. I thought that was sad.
Whatever we were traveling in completed its turn because we were
now squarely facing the dark side of the moon. We traveled for a long while
looking at the black below us. The billion stars that were in front of us were
now out of sight. The landscape was as black as ink.
Then widely scattered patches of light came into view below us. I
saw three flying discs. All were lit around their edges 360 degrees. They
flew in a tight “V” formation. They did not land like an aircraft, rather they
slowed and just dropped in unison to the surface maintaining their “V”
configuration.
 There were towers and buildings, some illuminated brightly from
inside. I also saw some large heavy equipment like you would expect to see
in a mining operation. Betty pointed out a mushroom shaped tower that she
said was one and a-half kilometers in height. That equates to just under a
mile. It was difficult to gage size or distance from our vantage point, but I
would estimate our altitude at 10,000 feet.
Something seemed odd or out of place about this city on the dark
side. Then it registered. Cruising over LAX at night there were cars,
streetlights, and parking lots laid out in a grid fashion. In stark contrast,
below us was a scattered collection of buildings. I recalled my property law
class from law school about zoning ordinances. That is what gave it the odd
appearance. Absent roadways, there was no gridwork or urban planning.
There were no zoning regulations as the buildings were a patchwork of
scattered structures of varying height and orientation.
I saw no interconnecting roadways. That seemed odd to me when I
compared it in my mind’s eye with flying into any city on earth at night.
Otherwise, activity and occupancy-wise, it looked like LAX at night with
structures as far as I could see in any direction.
There were other points of white light moving around in the sky
overhead. Because it was dark, I could not tell if they were saucers or what.
Just dots of light. Some were traveling slowly in a straight line and some
were darting about. They were all in groups of two or more and in
formations. I saw three craft of some kind descend low and just set down.
There was no deacceleration like landing a plane. Just like the ones I saw
earlier, they just dropped low and set down, parked in a neat row.
I noted many of the buildings were constructed like an apartment
complex on earth, with multiple floors, square windows, some lit and others
dark. It reminded me of an urban downtown area at night with tall office
buildings, mostly dark, but with offices lit here and there.
Here are a couple things Betty told me that are disclosed in the first
book, just with more detail for the sake of accuracy. I asked her, “Are
human beings living here on the moon?”
She immediately responded. “Yes, my people (hybrids) and my
hosts (aliens) also reside here with humans on the surface. There are others
that reside inside the moon below its surface.”
According to Betty, there is a race of beings that reside inside the
moon too. The concept of an inhabited, hollow moon is not new. Today
there are many people who believe the moon’s interior, like earth’s possibly,
is populated by a reptilian race of sub-surface extraterrestrials.
In 1901, the famed science fiction writer H.G. Wells wrote The First
Men in the Moon. Note that Wells chose to use “First Men in the Moon” as
opposed to “on” the moon. Well’s novel is about a manned space mission
that discovers the moon is a hollow sphere inhabited by a race of insectoid
extraterrestrials living in its core.
Betty described the moon’s subterranean inhabitants as “reptilian,”
and said they are “possessive and territorial like humans.” I asked if they
were still there? She replied “yes”, and she emphatically stated the moon is
a hollow, artificial vessel. She said it has been in our sky since “long before
man appeared.” She explained, “The builders left a clue for mankind to
discover,” in the solar eclipse the moon fits exactly over the face of the sun
completely covering the visible disc with only the fiery corona visible. She
added, the possibility of that occurring by chance “defies statistical
probability. Your ancient ones recognized this.”
 There was a joint space program called “Project Clementine”
launched on January 25, 1994 by the Strategic Defense Initiative
Organization and NASA from Vandenberg AFB in California, aboard a
Titan IIG rocket. Information on the Clementine mission, its instruments
and results can also be found in the Clementine special issue
of Science magazine, Vol. 266, No. 5192, December 1994.
Part of Apollo 12’s mission involved intentionally crashing a two
and one-half ton ascent stage of the lunar module onto the moon’s surface
to register the seismic activity with instruments left there by earlier Apollo
missions. Famously, it is reported that the collision caused the moon to
“ring like a bell,” implying to some that the moon was hollow. That quote is
alleged to have been spoken by an unnamed NASA scientist measuring the
seismic crash results.
The shallowness of the moon’s craters has been cited as proof the
moon’s surface thinly covers its extremely hard subsurface. According to
Betty, “It is not an organic space object.” She said it was “manufactured a
long time ago. Its original inhabitants abandoned it before the rise of
mankind and the reptilian entities discovered it vacant long before man had
evolved.”
 REPTILIANS AND BROKEN PROMISES
It’s never been my goal to spread fear or panic. Some things sound so
outrageous as to belie credulity. In the interest of complete candor, as Paul
Harvey used to say, here is “the rest of the story.”
Betty stated further, that “Reptilian entities live in your western
desert and have since before man evolved into intelligent beings.” She
stunned me by stating in a mater-of-fact fashion that, “Reptilians feed on
blood from cattle and will feed on human blood and tissue as well. Your
government has a treaty that limits the number of human beings and the
number of cattle that the Reptilians can take. The Reptilians have no
obligation to return them or agreement as to their ethical treatment. She
said, “Since the mid 1960s they have failed to honor the agreed limits.”
I asked her, “What limitations?”
She explained the agreement “limits the number of humans that may
be lawfully harvested.” Likewise, “the number of cattle from private
ranches and federal land is limited according to the conditions in the
Eisenhower accord.”
I found the verb “harvested” to be dreadful in this context. It equates
human beings with pork bellies on the commodities market. Just another
product raised, bartered, bought and sold for eventual slaughter and
consumption.
My incident in 1977 occurred in an Arkansas State Park adjacent to
the Ozark National Forest. I feel truly fortunate to be alive. Devil’s Den is
an area identified by David Paulides as a “cluster” location. A place where
people have been known to disappear under the strangest of circumstance.
 A former law enforcement officer turned investigative journalist,
David Paulides began researching the unexplained circumstances of
campers and hikers that vanish in state and federal parks around the world.
He established the disappearances as a global phenomenon in his book
series Missing 411.
The fourth volume in his series is entitled Missing 411: The Devil’s
in the Detail. I highly recommend it. In it, Paulides reveals that state and
federal parks containing the name “Devil” or “Diablo” in their name form
“clusters” where statistically people disappear more frequently than in other
areas without the diabolical reference in the name. Paulides draws no
inferences. Instead, like a good investigative journalist, he reports facts and
statistics and allows the reader to reach their own conclusion.
Next, I remembered the 1969 moon landing and the final Apollo
mission in 1972. Then the space shuttle program abruptly replaced manned
moon missions. It is odd to think that, at the time of this writing, mankind
has not left earth’s orbit in nearly 50 years. But as of 2020 they are planning
to do so soon.
I asked Betty why we abruptly abandoned moon missions. She
claimed we had not. She said the Apollo missions and the subsequent
shuttle program were “the public face of your nation’s space program.” She
continued, “Human beings have lived on your moon for many generations
now, your government has two space programs. One for the people and
another that is secret. Just like your nation, countries have governments
with superficial control, but there is only one global council that truly
represents and controls your planet. Many people begin work for the covert
government as ‘young people’ and will serve in that capacity for their entire
lives.”
 I was curious and asked, “Why do these people and alien beings live
on the moon?”
She answered, “All are there to collect the rocks.” When she
detected my puzzlement, she explained superficially that “Helium-3 is a gas
that is trapped inside moon rocks.” That was the only explanation she
offered.
I relied on Google to explain the significance of Helium-3.
Extraordinarily little Helium-3 exists on earth, but it is abundant on the
moon. Helium-3 can be used in a fusion reactor to create power without
producing toxic radiation as a waste product. It is truly clean energy, aside
from whatever byproducts are created by the processing required to release
the gas.
I failed to grasp the enormity of her statements at the time. She had
just confirmed (1) the existence of a secret space program, (2) that
extraterrestrials and human beings live on and inside the moon, (3) that
extraterrestrials reside inside the earth and some have free reign to abduct
cattle and humans by a written agreement and (4) she inferred the existence
of a global ruling council or cabal. Four concepts I previously believed to
be conspiratorial fiction.
Significantly, she told me, “Some [in the secret space program]
serve on your moon for life, but most serve on earth. Terrestrial government
leaders rotate and show a face to the people of national pride that keeps the
population satisfied. They feel secure and believe they are competently
ruled and protected. They believe the illusion that they have some control
over who rules them. There is no consolidated global leadership among the
collection of governments with regional and territorial interests at odds with
one another. Your world is a single global entity, and it has a single ruling
council.”
Betty told me people on earth are “too primitive and too territorial to
form an overt and cohesive global government, as worlds must if they
intend to survive.”
She admitted her hosts and their hybridization program between
aliens and humans are intended to preserve a piece of humanity. That is
disconcerting.
“But preserve us from what?” I asked.
It must be something bad on a global scale I reasoned. We are
clueless about what goes on with our planet as evidenced by climate
change. In 2019 scientists announced we had passed the tipping point to
reverse climate change. We are self-absorbed beings with little regard for
those who come after us.
Betty agreed. She described most of humanity as, “earth-centric.”
We locked eyes and, in an instant, she asked me a question. It was
only the second question she asked me, both were rhetorical in nature.
She asked, “What does a colony of ants do when it reaches a point
beyond self-sufficiency?”
I said, “The queen leaves and starts a new colony.” She kept eye
contact with me and said, “You see, it is so for humanity. Many earth
governments are preparing for the evacuation to a new home.”
I immediately took that to mean Mars would be humanities next
home. She confirmed that assumption with a clear “yes.”
Mars will be a new home for the lucky ones at least, those who have
the resources or status to be selected for relocation. Those who cannot go
will be left. Their fate will be the same as 3rd class passengers on the HMS
Titanic, with no chance of escape. They are doomed and will not survive.
At the time of this writing in mid-2020, the world has been rocked
by the COVID-19 virus, civil unrest and political instability internally.
There is also heightened tensions between the United States, China, Iran,
and the former Soviet Union.
Back in 2017, Betty picked up on my concern about the threat of
thermonuclear war. She said, “nuclear detonations tear the fabric of space-
time and result in interdimensional bleeds.”
I do not know what “bleeds” are except they sound ominous. I
thought, “That can’t be good.” And Betty did not reply with words. Instead,
she expressed deep sadness that I perceived through empathy. I felt awash
in sorrow and wanted to cry. I regret that I do not have the slightest idea
what interdimensional bleeds may be. I am a lawyer, not a physicist, and I
believe the answer is beyond my ability to comprehend.
Chapter #5
 OTHERS WHO REACHED OUT

In the epilogue of Incident at Devils Den, I encouraged readers who had

similar experiences, memories of bizarre dreams from early childhood, or
sightings that effected their lives, to share their stories with me. I also
promised to protect their anonymity. Hundreds of people have contacted me
and said reading my book resonated with them and some said it even
awakened memories from their childhood. Others just wanted to share their
sightings and experiences. Some were critical of my portrayal of ET as
“evil.”
Over 1,300 emails have hit my inbox since Incident at Devils Den
was first published on Amazon in March 2018. I am not a therapist or
medical person. I cannot offer medical advice, but if you would like to
share privately, I’ll listen to you, reply, and help if I can.
You’re welcome to securely contact me at
lovelace.landpope@gmail.com. I will respect your anonymity and you
won’t receive junk email from me.
All that said, here are a selection of the best stories sent to me by
readers. I have established a dialogue with each contributor and each case
below is “vetted” as much as possible for authenticity and sincerity. I do not
judge the experience of others, but some experiences resonate with me. I
hope I chose the ones that resonate with you. I have changed names and
locations, unless the location is integral to the story, and diligently tried to
de-identify the writer but retain the facts.
 I think the word “abductee” is more accurate than “experiencer.” An
experiencer might witness something and never become more than a
momentary observer. Abductees are taken and have a more intimate
encounter that results in behavior changes, even if they have no memory of
the incident. Some encounters are negative and some positive as we’ll see
exemplified in the story of Julia and her sister Mollie below.
Most abductees are fine in the light of day. But there is something
menacing about the dark of night. It is what made me run home as a child
when the streetlights came on. It is why so many of us feel uncomfortable
in our own basements in the dark. We know while we are asleep at night the
monsters are awake, inside our heads and sometimes inside our house.
Many of these stories draw a parallel between alien abduction and
childhood abuse by an adult. Trauma is traumatic regardless of the species
of the perpetrator. It is not a level playing field. An abuser, whether alien or
human, operates from a position of power over their victim.
I spent a couple years of my legal career as a felony prosecutor of
sex crimes. I made the same observation in Incident at Devils Den. We are
to aliens as children are to adults. Unfortunately, at times that relationship
can be unhealthy on many levels. That is the best analogy I can think of.
During my abduction in 1977, I recall being inside the gigantic
triangle-shaped craft. There were the shorter grey beings milling about.
Then I noticed a taller alien being that seemed to be in charge. It was twice
the height of the grays and carried itself with authority. Inside this alien
craft, Toby and I both were paralyzed except for our eyes, which we could
still move. I directed my gaze to the left to look at him. By happenstance he
turned his head at the exact same moment and we inadvertently locked
eyes.
 In an instant he was in my head. He knew everything about me. He
saw everything in my mind including memories and deepest secrets and
absorbed them all. There was such intelligence behind those eyes, but
nothing else. Not one ounce of empathy or mercy. It was raw intellect. That
brief encounter was one of the more ghastly moments of being aboard the
craft. The memory still haunts my sleep.
Alien entities are so far above us on the evolutionary ladder that we
are no match. My family had a pet Irish setter when our children were
small. She would place her head in my lap and look into my eyes lovingly.
She recognized me as the alpha. I could sense limited intelligence behind
her eyes. We each understood our respective roles.
When I was in the presence of that extraterrestrial it was the same,
but I was the dog in the equation, and there is not an ounce of trust on either
side. Just one superior being and an intellectually lesser one.
I think that fact is what makes the UFO/extraterrestrial phenomena
so hard for people to believe. Humanity is accustomed to being the top dog.
ET has toppled us from our perceived predominance in the universe. A
tough pill for some to swallow.
I hope you enjoy the 30 cases I chose to share.
 Case #1
The Christmas Store
Olivia
Henderson, Nevada

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

I am a 76-year-old widow originally from Reno, Nevada. I listened to your
Audiobook and decided to tell you about an experience my late husband
and I had on a weekend trip from Las Vegas to Reno in 1968.
My late husband was a physician, a nephrologist or kidney doctor. I
was a housewife and never worked outside the home. We never had
children, but we had an active social life. We used to enjoy the drive from
Vegas to Reno to visit my sister and our friend who owned a successful
automobile business there.
We had a Peugeot automobile we bought in France on an
anniversary trip and had shipped back stateside. It was my late husband’s
toy. Paul loved that car because it was just unusual. It was also wonderfully
comfortable for long trips. About once a month we would make the drive to
Reno and visit our friends and enjoy a lovely weekend.
This weekend in March 1968 would be the most unusual trip we
would ever make to Reno. We usually left no later than 3:00 PM to avoid
traffic, but Paul was tied up at the hospital until 6:00 PM. We considered
cancelling, but we had a room reserved and really wanted to make the trip.
Paul called the hotel and told them we would be checking in late.
We could sleep-in the next morning so the late start would be no big
deal. Back in `68 it was two-lane blacktop for the whole 240-mile trip. We
knew we would be worn out when we got there, but it was not a concern.
 Usually, we would stop for gas in the little town of Tonopah off the
highway that marked about the half-way point to Reno. They had a nice
diner there called the Stagecoach or something similar. The sun had just
set, and we decided to stay for dinner and coffee as well as fuel. There was
not much commerce in Tonopah back then. The drive was mostly desert with
a few small towns separated by many miles of road. It’s different now and
there’s a nicer highway too.
We had a good meal and were back on the road within an hour. As
we were leaving the city limits headed for Reno, Paul and I saw a new
business. It was, of all things, a Christmas store.
This was 1968 and I cannot recall ever before seeing an entire store
devoted to the holiday before. The building sat back from the road a bit and
was lit up inside with bright lights that came streaming out of every
window. There was a porch that stretched across the front of the store with
Christmas lights of all shapes, sizes and colors draped across the front of
the building. Some of the lights twinkled some flashed and others did not. It
really caught our attention.
We both were certain it had not been there a month ago when we
last made the trip. But we usually passed through Tonopah before dark and
could have just missed it. We agreed It was odd to have a Christmas store in
such a remote location and open for business in March.
I asked Paul to please stop since they appeared to be open, but we
saw no cars. We could see shadows of movement inside. Paul slowed down,
but we could not find a place to pull into a parking lot. It was strange, we
never saw a parking lot! It was just sand in front of this new building. It
made no sense to complete the building before installing a point of egress.
There was no road behind the building either.
 We assumed the place must still be under construction.
I remembered it being a brick structure, Paul thought it was
wooden, built from rustic barnwood. We could not agree on a couple of
points but paid it no mind. We both agreed that the store was brightly lit up
inside and out.
Paul sped up and pulled back onto the highway to resume our trip
north. We usually chatted for the entire drive, but this trip I felt sleepy.
Neither of us were talkative. I reclined my seat and slept until we reached
the Reno city limits. I had eaten a heavy meal and attributed it to my
drowsiness.
We checked in at our hotel and never bothered to unpack and hang
things up so they wouldn’t wrinkle. Instead, we went directly to bed and
sleep. Uncharacteristically, we slept for ten hours before our friends woke
us with a phone call.
The rest of the trip was routine. We had a good time and by Monday
morning we were ready to head home. On our way back, I asked Paul to
keep an eye out for that peculiar Christmas store when we were close to
Tonopah. We did not have the time to stop, but we wanted to see it in the
daylight.
It was not there! We passed the spot where we were certain we saw
it on our way up. But there was nothing there but sand and sagebrush. We
continued home and I think we both felt frustrated that we could not find it
again, but we dismissed it as a simple oversight. Surely, we overlooked it
and drove past.
A week later I brought it up at dinner. Paul admitted it was “on his
mind” for some reason.
 I suggested we take a quick drive to Tonopah and look for it. We
agreed to make the trip the following weekend.
We got up early the following Saturday and made the drive to
Tonopah to have lunch and find the Christmas store again. It felt like a fun
adventure. We reached the city limits and drove through town looking, but
we never found it. We drove through town twice and still could not find it.
We had lunch at the Stagecoach, and I asked the hostess, “When did
they build the Christmas store in Tonopah?”
“What Christmas store?” she asked. She looked at me like I was
crazy. I was not confused; we knew what we saw. She politely insisted there
were no new stores in Tonopah.
The hostess told us, “The owner here is the president of the town’s
chamber of commerce. If anybody knows about a new retail store in town,
he’d be the man.” She offered to have him speak with us.
Mr. Yang introduced himself and asked if he could join us. We
insisted. He pulled up a chair at our table and was very gracious. He gave
us a brief but fascinating history of the town. But he was courteously
adamant there were no new commercial structures built and no new
businesses in town.
I can still see that building in my mind. We both saw the same thing.
We saw it in Tonopah ten minutes after leaving the restaurant. There was no
uncertainty about the location.
Afterward, Paul became indifferent and rightly pointed out that we
had other things to worry about. We never really discussed it again.
I’ve seen a lot in 76 years. But those two minutes when we drove
past the Christmas store is as fresh in my memory as if it had happened
yesterday.
 ANALYSIS
Olivia’s case is striking in that she and her husband both witnessed
something strange. They both agreed on what they saw, mostly. There were
subtle differences. But they were only in front of the store for two minutes
as they drove by.
The question remains, what did they see? I do not think it was a
retail store. I don’t think what they saw was even terrestrial. I believe what
they recall is a screen memory that disguised the true nature of what they
witnessed.
Olivia said she would rather speak by telephone than exchange
emails. I called her, and after some initial pleasantries I asked, “Olivia, do
you think what you saw may have been a spaceship? Do you believe you
and your husband’s perception was somehow being manipulated from
inside that store somehow?”
She replied with a nervous chuckle, “That’s silly!” Then she paused,
“But I can’t rule that out either. That makes as much sense as anything else.
I admit that I entertained that thought over the years, but I try not to dwell
on it. It was a cute little store. I’d like to remember it like that, even if it was
a mirage.”
I asked her if she thought they may have experienced “missing
time” during that leg of the Reno trip while she slept? She was unsure but
had considered it.
She asked, “How would one know? It was very uncommon for me
to sleep in the car. If we did lose time, I don’t think it was hours like you
lost on your motorcycle ride. No, I do not think anything happened between
Tonopah and Reno. Although, I have always questioned those couple
minutes between Paul slowing down and then accelerating again as we
rolled past when we failed to find the driveway.”
“Do you think it’s possible you stopped at the store for a time and
can’t remember?” I asked.
She Admitted, “Maybe we did stop. Maybe all we can remember is
slowing down and speeding away and the in-between was lost to us. Paul
and I both were mildly out of sorts the next 24 hours. That makes me feel
strongly that something happened. Paul and I both had bad dreams about
the little Christmas store for the rest of our lives. Never on the same night
and no more than a couple a year. The whole incident was dark and creepy
in a way that would give Lovecraft nightmares.”
“Do you still have nightmares about the incident?” I asked.
“I still have strange dreams on occasion. It is unusual because the
content of the dream was always the same. It is just Paul pulling onto the
shoulder and stopping the car to look at the Christmas store, and both of us
are mesmerized by the light show. I can never clearly remember anything
other than stopping and just staring at the building from the shoulder of the
road for a few seconds, and then Paul driving away. I stared at the thing, but
I cannot sharply focus on it from memory. In my dream it is always like
looking through a pair of eyeglasses with oil or something rubbed onto the
lenses, or through eyeglasses of the wrong prescription and everything is
blurry. Then I become terrified for some real reason and wake up feeling
disturbed. Paul’s nightmares were similar, but he rarely discussed them
because his faded so quickly.”
I thanked Olivia for her story. It reminds me so much of Betty and
Barney Hill. I wish she and Paul had thought to draw a picture with pen and
paper separately and compare what they saw immediately afterward.
I suggested she read Betty and Barney Hill’s story.
 Case #2
Pig Roast Interrupted
Garrett
Midland, Texas

Dear Terry,
I had some really strange stuff happen to me as a kid too. But the story I
want to share with you was from when I was in my mid-twenties. I had a
life-changing event just like you and your friend. I lived in a big house in
Midland at the time with my ex and our daughter. Midland is a decent size
little Texas community. I’d been a firefighter there since I returned home
from military service. I prefer to just go by just “Garrett.” I retired as of
2016.
When I was 27, a bunch of the guys at the firehouse all bought AR-
15s and Ranch Rifles. We were planning a big hunt for wild hogs. We had
all served in the military and were decent shots. The five of us, Jeff, Tom,
Billy, Melvin and I, all hung out together and usually took an annual fishing
trip. This would be something different.
Jeff’s family owned a hunting camp with a trailer on fifty acres that
would sleep the five of us comfortably. His family went down once or twice
a year for a get-away or to hunt. Game was plentiful. His place was just a
couple hours away so we could all go in my F250 pickup.
Hogs are a nuisance here since they’re the top predator. Our plan
was to shoot a couple hogs and have a pig roast there. We’d all get away
from the firehouse for a long weekend, have some fun and hopefully take
some meat home to family and friends. It was supposed to be just a fun
weekend away from work. We planned this trip like you and your friend
planned your trip to Devil’s Den. We were methodical. We were first
responders too. We stocked and took care of our fire engines and vehicles,
keeping everything in order. Unlike your trip though, we didn’t forget a
single item on our list.
We were all obsessed with this stupid hunting trip and it didn’t turn
out like it was supposed to. Not at all. Everything started out well. Then on
the day we were supposed to leave, Tom backed out at the last minute. He
said he didn’t feel well. It must have been sudden because he was fine the
previous day. We chalked it up to a fight with his wife over the trip.
The remaining four of us made the ride down and got settled in. We
had fun the first night. We got there late so the next day would be the start
of our hunt. We’re not a bunch of drunks and we sure don’t do drugs
because we were subject to random drug tests. This wasn’t like a bunch of
novices out in the woods getting spooked at night over nothing. We were all
seasoned outdoorsmen. I know this is hard to believe. If it hadn’t happened
to me, I doubt I would have believed it. I never believed any of this stuff was
real. I always thought it was comic book stuff.
Jeff killed a hog that first day. The rest of us got nothing. We teased
Jeff about having the home court advantage. But it was his place, and we
were his guests. There’d be another hunt the next day. At least we had a pig
to roast that second evening. Even if we didn’t bag another pig, it would
still have been a nice trip and we’d all have some meat to take home and
share.
Billy was a great cook. That evening, he and Jeff used a
wheelbarrow to take the pig a good piece away from the trailer. Jeff’s
family had a special spot with a hoist. It was 200 yards away so not to draw
coyotes and stink up the place. While Billy and Jeff did the butchering, we
set up the pit for the roast. We had a nice fire going and it was just getting
dark. The smell of the firewood was nice, even for firefighters. We were all
in good spirits and hungry.
Finally, the hog was on the spit and the four of us sat around and
talked about guns, the firehouse and the latest gossip. Billy’s skill as a cook
meant we’d all have a nice dinner. We could hear the coyotes and crickets
along with the crackling fire. By now the smell of the roasted pig was
making us all pretty hungry. It was a pleasant evening with good friends
and good conversation. It was the last time the four of us would get together
outside the firehouse.
Melvin was in his early 50s and close to retirement. We all knew he
was struggling with his health and pitched in to help cover him on the job.
This night he was anxious for some reason. Jeff asked him, “Hey, man, you
alright?”
Melvin said, “Yeah, but I think I need a nitro [tablet]. No big deal.
I’ll pop one and lie down on the couch for a while. I’ll be good as new by
the time the pigs done. Wake me if I doze off.” With a wave and a “good
night” he went inside the trailer and shut the screen door behind him.
That left the three of us, me, Jeff and Billy. I sat with my back toward
the trailer, facing outward. I could see the ridge where the forest got thick
and fifty yards of open field in front of that. That’s when I saw what looked
like a couple guys with flashlight in the woods. I never saw the guys, but I
sure as hell saw the beams of light dancing around in thick woods.
I announced, “Boys, I think we have company.”
Jeff and Billy turned around and saw it too. Annoyed, Jeff said,
“Poachers probably. Our place is well posted. Pretty ballsy to see our fire
and not give a damn. Maybe they’re hunting possum. That’s why the lights
are in the trees.”
I asked, “What do we do?”
Without warning, Jeff pulled out his .45 caliber handgun and fired
seven shots in the air. “We let them know we’re here and they’re not
welcome. That’s what we do.”
Jeff was pissed off that someone would trespass. Their trailer had
been broken into the previous year, so it was a sore subject. He ejected his
empty magazine and popped in a fresh clip, slamming a round into the
chamber in one smooth motion. “That’ll fix their asses,” he said
confidently.
I asked Billy to check on Melvin. The last thing we need to do is
trigger a heart attack for our comrade with an unexpected burst of gunfire.
Jeff and I continued to watch the lights as Billy went in through the
front door.
We were surprised that despite our warning shots, the lights were
brighter and more active than ever.
Jeff was livid. He wanted a confrontation, but I warned him, “We
don’t know who we’re dealing with here, let’s be careful and think this
through.”
He nodded in agreement.
Just then Billy burst out of the trailer in a panic. “Melvin’s gone,”
he declared urgently.
“What the hell do you mean he’s gone? He’s in the goddamn trailer
and the back door is blocked by boxes of shit. Maybe he snuck out to take a
piss. Let’s find him,” I said. The trailer had no plumbing. I wasn’t afraid or
too worried at this point.
Oddly, Jeff didn’t notice all the urgent raised voices. He was still
fixated on the lights in the trees. He’d picked up his rifle and walked about
fifty yards into the field toward the tree line. I yelled, “Hey Jeff, we lost
Melvin, give us a hand!” He had to have heard me, but he didn’t respond or
even turn around.
Billy ran down to check the truck and I walked toward the outhouse.
We were both calling out for Melvin as we went.
That’s when the fright set in. At least for me. It’s difficult to describe,
but after a few years as a firefighter you learn to trust your gut. That nose
for danger saved my life more than a few times when fighting fires. “Trust
your senses and listen,” I whispered under my breath. I had those
goosebumps and felt my heart racing.
Something was just off, not right. I got to the outhouse and reached
for the wooden door handle, calling out, “Hey Mel, you I there?” I recall
the feel and texture of the wood to my fingers.
The next thing I knew I was in the trailer in the recliner. I heard
Jeff’s voice and opened my eyes to see the yellowed drop panel ceiling of
the old trailer. It was early dawn. I sat up; Melvin was on the couch with a
sheet pulled up to his neck.
Jeff nodded at me and walked over to the couch. I think we both had
the same fear. Jeff kicked the sofa with his foot a couple times, “Hey, old
man, you alright?”
Melvin stirred and then sat up and asked, “How was the pig?”
“Good question,” said Jeff. We rushed outside to the fire pit. Jeff’s
pig was burnt to cinders on the bottom and an uncooked, ugly grey on top.
It was garbage. The embers were cold. Without another word said we went
back inside. Billy was up now, but kind of out of it, struggling to make
coffee.
Jeff announced, “Hey guys, I say we head home. Any objections?”
There were none. Afterall, it was his trailer. I asked Jeff what he
wanted to do with the pig carcass.
He said, “Leave it for the coyotes, I don’t give a damn.” So be it.
We started loading my truck. That took maybe 30 minutes and we
were back on the road. In my head, I kept going over and over the facts
from that night. Where the hell did Mell go? Was he in the outhouse? How
did I end up inside the trailer at sunrise? We’d all had a couple beers. I
mean, it was a “boys’ night out.” But no one was drunk, I swear to God.
Billy sat next to me in the truck and played with the radio. Jeff and
Melvin were both in the backseat and slept the entire way home. Billy and I
both admitted we felt like we were coming down with the flu.
There was little to no conversation. I don’t get it. I felt angry at
Melvin for the disappearing act. I felt angry at Jeff for walking out of camp
toward what could have been armed poachers and Billy for being so damn
useless. But I didn’t want to confront anyone. I didn’t even want to discuss
it. Everyone else was in the same frame of mind.
We were back at the firehouse on Tuesday afternoon to begin our
shift. Tom joined us full of enthusiasm and questions about how the big
hunting trip went. His questions just made us uncomfortable. No one
wanted to talk about it. I just wanted to forget about it.
Then Tom asked, “Why’d you guys come home two days early?”
 Jeff went off on him, “If you weren’t under your old lady’s thumb
you could have been with us. It just wasn’t a good hunt. Get it? Now give it
a rest will you.”
The gang of five never got together socially again. I asked to be
moved to a different shift. Billy moved to another duty station on the other
side of town for a year. Melvin retired early for medical reasons. He was
dead from a heart attack two years later. Billy opened a successful
barbeque restaurant a couple years later and left the fire service. Tom split
up with his wife and moved to Little Rock, Arkansas where he was picked
up as a paramedic serving the city. I left the fire house three years later and
went into the concrete business with my brother-in-law. That was a good
move for me and my family.
We never faced it. The nightmares began a month later. We slept at
the firehouse. When one of us woke up screaming everyone knew it. We all
took our turn.
My dreams are so peculiar. Even after all these years they’re still
vivid and always the same. It’s odd that nothing particularly frightening
happens in them. But they all take place at Jeff’s hunting camp. Usually
beginning with a frantic search for Mell, ending with me seeing what looks
like hooded figures crossing the field in our direction and Jeff walking out
as if to greet them. The lights are always in the background illuminating the
woods. I have trouble waking up and screaming is the only way to break out
of it. It’s embarrassing in the firehouse and it scares the hell out of my
girlfriend at home.
About six years later my girlfriend and I dropped by Billy’s
restaurant for some barbecued brisket. It was my first time there. Billy was
in the kitchen and I asked our server to please let him know an old friend
was here. As our food came out, Billy followed in his chef’s apron. He asked
the waitress to bring him a cold bottle of Shiner beer. We shook hands and I
introduced Sarah. He pulled up a chair. I complimented him on his
restaurant and said the brisket was phenomenal. He thanked me and was
obviously proud of his restaurant.
We made small talk. The last time I saw Billy may have been Mel’s
funeral. I asked him, “Billy, what happened to Mel that night in Jeff’s
hunting camp?”
Billy looked stunned by the question. “I don’t know.” Then he
paused and asked me, “Still having the dreams?”
I admitted, “Yeah, now and then.”
“Me too, enjoy your meal and come back and see us,” Billy said,
shaking my hand. He knew I wouldn’t be back.

ANALYSIS
There is a legal term that fits here nicely, it’s “Res Ipsa Loquiter,” or the
thing speaks for itself. Without competent hypnotherapy I doubt if we’ll
ever know any more details. If Garrett does seek regression, he promised to
call me with the results. I note that Garrett began his correspondence with
admitting to childhood experiences as well. He declined to discuss them.
 Case #3
Unidentified Submerged Object
Elliot
Boston, Massachusetts

Hi Terry,
My name is Elliot and I’m currently in a Boston suburb retired from the
restaurant industry. I recently heard about your book on the podcast
Mysterious Universe, where they talked at length about your story and their
thoughts about it. There were a couple points in the story that definitely got
my attention, so I bought your audio book to check it out for myself.
I’ve had a couple UFO sightings in my life. The most dramatic
happened when I was in the US Navy stationed out of San Diego in 1955. I
was onboard a ship, I won’t name it, and it doesn’t matter. We were headed
for the South Pacific because of some secret nuclear testing. I worked in the
galley, nothing glamorous. And the mission had nothing to do with me. My
job was to feed people.
We were at sea on our third night out of port. It was about 2:00 AM
and I was making sandwiches for the guys on watch when I heard the
klaxon sound “general quarters.” That means every man to his post. You
might think of it as battle stations. It’s the highest alert status.
I dropped my apron and ran to my duty station which was topside
where I had a decent view of the sky toward the stern. It was a crystal clear
night with a three quarter moon made visibility decent, especially when
your eyes grew accustomed. The sea was calm, like glass.
I was with a guy named Tony from Florida and we were sneaking a
smoke when both of us saw a silver, cigar-shaped object surface about 100
yards off our port side. We thought it was a submarine of some kind. The
odd thing is, it never broke a wave when it surfaced. How does that
happen? We were probably doing 20 knots and this thing paced us for a
couple minutes. Then it lifted out of the water and shot out of sight in an
almost vertical climb while still oriented horizontally, and it never broke a
wave as it left the surface of the sea.
We stayed at our station for about an hour until the XO [Executive
Officer] grabbed all us guys who were topside and took us to a briefing
room where we sat for about 45 minutes in silence. Finally, the XO came in
with two guys in suits. He had a manila folder and passed around a piece of
paper to every man. He explained it was an “NDA” or non-disclosure
agreement. We were ordered to read it and if any man didn’t understand it,
he was to raise his hand. A few people did and the XO explained it to them.
It was our promise not to ever tell anyone about “what we saw.” He never
explained what it was that we were supposed to have seen, just that we
couldn’t talk about whatever it was, with anyone, ever.
The guy in the suit said, “You can’t tell your mother, your
sweetheart, a shipmate, your priest or your family. If you do, you risk a
dishonorable discharge, going to Leavenworth Penitentiary and paying a
big fine.” At my age now I don’t much care what they do to me. But I still
want to keep my identity anonymous. I know better than to poke a bear.
Then we formed up in single file. One by one, we showed our
military I.D., and he watched each one of us sign this document. We didn’t
get a copy. After we signed, we moved to the next table. There, they made us
all empty our pockets and we were frisked. We figured they were looking for
anyone who may have had a camera with them. No one carried a damn
camera. When we got finished the XO gave us a harsh warning. We were
ordered, “No scuttlebutt!” Scuttlebutt means swapping rumors with other
sailors.
I found out later that the guy in the suit got to us by helicopter. I was
told by someone who was on watch at the time and saw it land. He said two
guys in suits got out and were met by the XO.
We were part of a task force, so the helicopter could have come from
another ship. That could explain how it got there so fast. It was just out of
place. There was a lot of stuff going on with the nuclear testing which
meant all kinds of crazy secret stuff, so who knows.
Below and at the bow of the ship is what’s known as the “radar
hut.” I had a buddy who was the chief radar man onboard. We were friends
and we’d have a few cold beers together on shore now and then. I found out
an hour later that my friend wasn’t aboard anymore! He went in that
chopper with the suit guys. I got that from someone else on board that
witnessed him leave with a leather satchel bag. I was told they cleaned out
his bunk and locked up his personal possessions. I never saw my friend
again. If he was onboard, he would have starved to death because he never
visited the mess hall again.

ANALYSIS
I’d heard of unidentified submersible objects (USOs) a few years back. It’s
a fairly recent phenomenon. Maybe it’s a very old phenomena not often
discussed. The US Navy seems to have taken the forefront in UFO sightings
since the December 17, 2017 disclosure of the “tic tac’ objects encountered
by the entire Nimitz Carrier Group in 2004. That New York Times piece by
Leslie Kean should have been the story of the century.
The latest news in the UFO/USO community was the December
2020 disclosure by a retired Israeli general, former defense minister and
respected academic, Haim Eshed, that the United States and Israel have
been in contact with ETs representing a “galactic federation.” According to
Haim, former President Donald Trump had planned a disclosure to coincide
with the 2020 presidential election. That plan was cancelled when ETs
emissaries advised that “humanity was not ready to accept their existence.”
They expressed the need for the global community to expand its
consciousness before making an announcement that could have a global
impact with possible unforeseen consequences.
Eshed also shared that we have bases on Mars currently as well as the
moon. These bases are manned by both human and extraterrestrial
personnel working in unison.
The story was carried by the Jerusalem Post, the New York Post,
NBC news and others, but saw little coverage otherwise. The link to the
Jerusalem Post December 8, 2020 article is here:
https://www.jpost.com/omg/former-israeli-space-security-chief-says-aliens-
exist-humanity-not-ready-651405
Oddly, the United States Navy acknowledged our F-18 carrier
fighter pilots, the most elite pilots in our armed forces, saw objects that
were unidentifiable and outflew them at every turn, defying the laws of
Newtonian physics. No one seems too interested.
 Case #4
Bring in the Clowns
Roger
Denver, Colorado

Hello Terry,
I just listened to you being interviewed and thoroughly enjoyed it. A few
points really resonated with me and I thought I’d share my experience.
Some of this sounds outrageous I know.
I grew up in a good home in the Denver area. My dad was an
engineer and my mother a CPA. My dad had some wartime experiences as
an officer. He never spoke about it, even to this day aside from some
superficial acknowledgements. I’m convinced he suffered from PTSD. He
would occasionally wake up screaming like you. In your book you talk
about being afraid of the four monkeys that would visit you at night. For
me, it was clowns. I was afraid they would kidnap me from my bed, these
clowns seemed non-threatening at times and I wondered if they were
dreams. But I know. I think I went with them, too.
We always had a strange home life in terms of “presence.” A strong,
early memory of mine is when I was about four or five and I was being
tickled in bed. The thing was, there was no one visible. Around that time, I
developed a tremendous fear of clowns, deformed people, and people with
mental disorders such as down’s syndrome. I also could not sleep with my
head out of the covers and had a fear of sickness vomiting, and war. While
the clown fear eventually faded, the fear of the handicapped, both mentally
and physically, did not. My parents would have to check a store before I
went in to make sure it was “all clear” before I could enter.
 Years went on and I had various anxieties and hang-ups, but then,
around the age of 17 or 18, I started to develop a debilitating anxiety where
I would have to pull my car over on the side of the highway, pop the hood,
and pretend I was checking out an engine problem simply because I could
not tolerate being “trapped” any longer. I could barely drive down streets
with no shoulders, planes were out the question, a high floor of a building,
classrooms where there was a lecture, movie theaters, meetings, etc. Any
situation where I could not leave 100% on my own terns.
I would drink a good bit in the evenings, was a chain-smoker at the
time. I have a tendency towards compulsion.
Around the year 2012 I saw, what I believe, were two UFOs. I was
out in the evening and for some reason, I decided to look to the sky and of
all the lights up there, I locked in on one. After a few seconds of staring the
stationary light just flew off at an incredible speed and then disappeared.
This happened two more times. Around that same time, a friend
called me saying a light in the sky was following her in the car. She is not
one for UFO talk but the light frightened her and after a while of following,
it just shot off. Around this time, I had a terrible fear of the night.
Of something coming through the door, something being “there.”
A few years later, I was getting a better handle on my anxieties and
was working on the top floor of a high-rise. The office was all windows and
had beautiful views.
I was looking out the window one late afternoon, and right outside
the window, a few feet from me, was this silver “blob.” It was not a shape
so to speak, the best way I can describe it is that it looked as if it was made
of tin foil over putty that moved and undulated. It hovered outside the
window and then slowly made its way around the corner of the building and
then, I think, it disappeared. I remember a pleasant feeling coming over me.
A moment of calm instead of the usual anxiety and fear I seemed to live
with.
Since then, aside from dreams and a lot of sleep paralysis, I had not
experienced anything out of the ordinary until last year. I was walking with
my daughter one Sunday; we were going to meet my wife for brunch. An
Asian man stopped me and my daughter. He had a friendly disposition and
was well put together, so I heard him out. He said, “Your daughter is very
special. Her eyes, it was in her eyes.” Then he went on about there was
“many ships in the sky right now.” After a minute or two, he carried on
with his walk. While writing that last statement, my eyes welled up, she is
special.
Best regards, Roger

ANALYSIS
Roger’s admitted OCD behavior resonates with me. I maintain my assertion
that having an encounter with these things changes us. I think there’s a
difference in seeing a silver disc dart across the sky and something more
intimate.
I thought it was curious that an Asian man happened to stop them on
a busy street and begin a conversation. Unfortunately, I am still uneasy
around Asian women because of my childhood events. But I’d welcome
such an encounter, especially in a public venue.
In 2007, my wife and I were in Chicago for business. We were
enjoying the downtown area browsing a bookstore. As usual, I was looking
at books on the half-price rack. A shabbily dressed African American
woman in her 60s walked over to me. Looking over her reading glasses, she
said, “I know you.”
 Politely, I asked, “Where have we met?”
She said, “You’re one they take too, they took you when you were a
little boy.”
She smiled, turned and headed for the front door. The store was
packed with shoppers. By the time I found my wife the lady was gone. I
would have given anything to have thought quickly and offered her a cup of
coffee for the chance to ask a question or two.
Like the four little monkeys that plagued my sleep at age eight,
Roger was tormented by clowns, just like my cousin Gerald. What a shame
my cousin is not here for the two of them to speak.
I can understand a child’s fear of being taken away against their
will. I have no doubt they intentionally chose to appear to me as circus
monkeys. They came into my room in the guise of four monkeys because
the ETs somehow knew that was the most benign form to assume for me. I
recall saying, “They were kind of funny at first.” They appeared in a way I
found less intimidating, almost comical.
If children all over the world saw the same grey figures without
their masks the phenomena might receive the attention it deserves. But
abusers are too clever to allow that to happen.
My family did not believe my story about what I called, “The
monkeymen.” My cousin Gerald’s story is coming up. Poor Gerald, his
family dynamics were far worse. They considered it a spiritual issue and
placed the onus on poor Gerald in front of the entire congregation to rid
himself of these demons. Riddled with guilt, Gerald saw the issue as a
problem of his own making, a defect in his faith, a failing in his character.
His fault was laid bare before his entire community.
 The monkeys I saw all wore the same white mask to disguise their
faces, similar to the clowns Gerald encountered. I wonder why. I remember
it was like a paper plate with holes cut for large yellow eyes. They all had
the same large yellow eyes. Gerald described the clowns he saw as having
yellow eyes. I wish I had thought to ask Roger what color his visitors’ eyes
were.
As I asked earlier, isn’t it amazing so many people can have clear
and lucid memories of dreams and experiences from age four, sometimes
younger? Usually, it’s events of a paranormal nature that tend to stick with
us for a lifetime. It is odd I can recall the monkeymen so vividly but cannot
remember the Christmases and birthday parties.
Roger’s story is remarkably like my own discomfort in the company
of Asian women, store mannequins, and burn victims. Roger tells us about
his fear of “destruction,” while Elliot described a fear of war. I have had
similar nightmares and intrusive thoughts about a post-apocalyptic world.
It amazes me that many people who see them as children will then
encounter them for life. Other people live an entire lifetime and never see a
thing. I believe they intentionally show themselves to some people and hide
from the rest. In the 45 years of my marriage there were two occasions
where I saw a silver disc in the sky, clearly a classic UFO. My wife did not
see it. She could not see it. This was in the days before cell phones with
cameras in our pockets.
That “pleasant feeling” again. Roger experienced that same semi-
sedated feeling I felt and described in my book while at Devil’s Den State
Park in 1977. I also remember that feeling from age 11 when I saw a silver
disc outside my second story bedroom window in the middle of the night.
No fear or panic, I felt oddly satisfied and calm. I was almost smug
knowing that seeing a disc above me three years earlier could have been a
“one on.” But seeing the same thing twice meant they were there to see me
and be seen. Roger stated with uncertainty, “I think the UFO disappeared.”
This statement underscores my assertion that they control our emotions,
perceptions, and memory. Just as two people witnessing the same event
may see different things, we see what they want us to see.
 Case #5
The Carnival Ride
Julia
Lake St. Charles, Louisiana

Julia’s story is a bit unusual. That is why I chose to present it as mostly a

narrative. What began with an occasional email dialogue eventually led to a
couple exceptionally long telephone calls and an in-person meeting, so I
had a great deal of facts to work with to explain her story. Julia’s life is the
best documented and most compelling story I have received to date. I hope
you agree.
One morning while pouring over the accumulated emails from the
previous day, I landed on an email from a 69-year-old nurse anesthetist
originally from Oklahoma who began with the usual disclaimer, “Now, I
know this will sound a bit crazy.”
I wanted to tell her “Julia, I’ve heard everything, disclaimers and
apologies aren’t necessary.”
She made her career as a nurse anesthetist and dealt with the
greatest mystery of all, human consciousness. I verified her credentials
through the Louisiana Nursing Board online. Then I refilled my coffee and
dove deeper into her story.
It is a fact that while under anesthesia you do not dream. It is just
“lights out.” You wake up in recovery and if everything had gone as
planned you have no memory at all of the indignities your body just
suffered at the hands of the steel scalpel and being stitched back together
with needle and thread.
 All you can recall was a warm pleasant flush as the anesthetist
pushed the plunger of a syringe, injecting a milky liquid into your IV
tubing. What followed was darkness and then the light of the recovery
room. I was determined to discuss the topic of consciousness with Julia if
given the opportunity. My present task was to read, process, and document
the incredible story she told. I believe every word of what she experienced.
I was struck by her grasp of English grammar and had the feeling a
great deal of thought and more than a few tears were part of her emails.
Most of the emails I receive are from people in their 40s through 80s. I tend
to take note of demographics because I think, since I’ve unwittingly found
myself now in the role of an investigator, these things are important.
Like myself, people tend to hold these stories close to their vest until
their later years, when criticism from their peers is no longer an issue. Julia
acknowledged that hospital administrators and probably half the medical
staff would not believe her experience or appreciate her story becoming
public.
Julia’s case is the best in my opinion because she is so credible, and
her story is amazing. In ways, it is like the “Christmas store” in Case #1.
Her story is the result of a month-long exchange of email correspondence,
no less than four telephone conversation and finally a meeting in person at a
breakfast restaurant.
We split the distance in driving and met in Texarkana, where Julia
could visit a family member. I had never been to Texarkana. It is where my
mother was born in 1924. Because Julia’s story is an amazing and
heartbreaking saga, I really thought it would be worth the drive. We are
both retired so why not take a road trip? It is a great pleasure to share her
story with you.
 Julia told me about life in rural Oklahoma 60 years ago when she
was a little girl. Her parents, like mine, were originally farm people before
moving to the city seeking work in thriving factories frantically producing
arms for the second world war. Most stayed for the post-war boom.
She described the little cottage home where she grew up and the
pink room that she shared with her younger sister Mollie. When Mollie was
seven and Julia was nine the family went to visit their maternal
grandparents in rural Oklahoma. It was an annual summer vacation visit
and they always looked forward to the two-week trip.
Her grandparents lived on the family farm where their mother was
raised. It was blessed with a single oil well. It supplemented the family
income nicely and insured a college education for Julia and Mollie. She and
her sister loved their grandparents very much. She described them as fun,
doting and affectionate. Usually, during these visits there was card-playing
and gossip among the adults while the girls played outside in the massive
front yard until the yellow porch light signaled it was time for a bath and
then bed.
There was a long driveway up to the farmhouse and a split-rail fence
enclosing the manicured front yard. It was home to a massive oak tree in the
middle and a painted tractor tire cut to resemble a flower, painted white,
filled with soil and dozens of bright purple gladiolas.
There was a 10-foot-high mound of dirt or berm that ran 100 yards
along the back of the house. The top served as a roadway for the tractor.
The mound of dirt worked as a wall that separated the front yard with the
house from the back. Behind the berm is where outbuildings and the farm
implements were located. There was a barn, some pigs in a pen, tractor, and
farm machinery.
 There was also a farm pond in the back that represented what is
known in the law as an “attractive nuisance.” A magnet for young children.
A lethal danger for the unwary. Like an unguarded, unfenced swimming
pool it was a drowning hazard. At a depth of eight feet it would be more
than sufficient to swallow both girls in its murky water that looked like
chocolate milk.
Both girls knew the rules and had just that year been allowed to play
in the yard without direct adult supervision because of their exemplary
behavior. They knew the rules and obeyed. This was Julia’s ninth summer
at Grandpa Jeb’s, the seventh for young Mollie.
Mollie’s story began like so many other tragedies. This day would
build a metaphorical berm that would separate two little girls for a lifetime.
But it was a beautiful summer day, and the flower garden was alive with
butterflies the girls chased until exhausted.
After a trip to the house for a cold drink they sat at the base of the
berm and discussed what to play next. Tag was out of the question since
they were both tired from chasing butterflies that always evaded their grasp.
Julia described their mood as happy, laughing at silly things and joking
about how fat grandma had become.
As their snickering and laughter died down, Julia asked, “Mollie, do
you hear that?”
Mollie cocked her head and listened. After a few seconds, her face
lit up and the girls said in unison, “It’s a circus!” The gentle breeze flowing
over the berm carried the unmistakable sound of a calliope, a signature
circus musical instrument of the day. Calliopes were usually steam powered
and played like a piano, each note was formed by forcing steam through
long whistles of varying lengths and diameters like a church organ. It has a
distinctive sound that was an icon of the traveling circuses.
The circus was a huge amusement for entertainment-starved farm
folks before the mass migration to cities in World War II and the availability
of motion pictures and televisions. Circuses traveled a circuit by train from
city to city with carnival type rides, exotic animals, unwinnable 5¢
challenges for an opportunity to win a sawdust-stuffed bear, enjoy cotton
candy, and see the clowns.
Mollie asked excitedly, “Can we go? Oh, please Julia let’s go!”
Being the elder and in charge, Julia thought for a moment and noted
the sound was not as loud now. She felt it her duty to be the big sister and
keep her younger sibling safe.
“No,” Julia said. “Maybe they’re on a train or just passing through?
I think we better ask Grandpa Jeb first. We can’t go behind the house; you
know the rules Mollie.”
But Mollie pleaded. With a well-crafted argument, Mollie quickly
sought a loophole in the rule that would make any lawyer proud.
Mollie suggested, “Well Julia, we can’t go over the berm, but we
could stand on top of it and see if there really is a circus first. Then we can
run get Grandpa.”
The two girls smiled at one another and scampered up the steep
grass covered mound till they reached the summit. From the roadway on top
of the berm they had a magnificent view. What they saw below them was
unbelievable.
To the left of the farm pond there was a merry-go-round. Not just
any ride from a traveling circus. This was something incredible the likes of
which they had never seen. As they drank in the scene with their eyes the
music began again. It was louder now, and the tempo was faster too.
Julia felt the need to add a second disclaimer to her story at this
point, “Mr. Lovelace, I know this sounds crazy, but this thing was
unbelievably big. It was three times as big as any merry-go-round I had
ever seen, and the horses were not saddled and weren’t on poles either.
They looked like they were alive. There were a million multicolored lights
all over this thing. Also, it was spinning way too fast, alarmingly fast. Too
fast for anyone to get on or get off. The music was louder now too, and this
merry-go-round wasn’t even sitting on the ground! It was hovering above
the ground by three feet or more.”
I had to interrupt at this point to ask, “How do you know it wasn’t
sitting on the ground?”
Because, Julia said, “I clearly remember it cast a perfectly round
shadow underneath as it was about noon.”
Then she said something that resonated with me. Something that
may well resonate with you too. The point of this exercise is to hear the
stories of others and look for the commonalities that validate the sighting.
Julia explained, “We crossed over and sat down in the grass on the
other side of the berm. We lay back to just watch. I remember a feeling of
deep contentment, almost a numbness and euphoria combined.”
She explained, “We felt no compulsion to get near it, but the music
and seeing this thing spin was hypnotic. There was a spellbinding quality to
the experience. We held hands, laid back and listened as the music became
louder. At some point we must have lost consciousness. I doubt that we fell
asleep.”
 But she added, “There is no way we fell asleep. While watching and
listening we had no way to know what was going on back at the
farmhouse.”
According to relatives, what was “going on back at the farmhouse”
began with calling the girls for lunch. Grandma called first and was soon
joined by Mom. When the girls did not come and could not be seen from
the porch, the women panicked.
Coincidentally, a car made a wrong turn down their long driveway
about this time. It parked for a moment and made a U-turn on the gravel
drive and drove away. The two women on the porch never saw the car
approach or make a U-turn, they only saw it as it was driving away, headed
back to the main road.
That innocent mistake led to full blown panic when the two women
connected the unrelated scenarios and assumed the girls had been taken by
persons unknown in the car.
Grandpa Jeb and the girls’ dad, accompanied by Grandpa’s dogs,
spread out and searched the front and backyard, including the barn while
the two women were explaining to the Sheriff what they had just seen. They
saw the pond water looked undisturbed, but both men knew that meant little
assurance of anything.
Two sheriff’s deputies arrived in 10 minutes along with friends from
a neighboring farm to assist with the search. Julia’s grandparents were well-
known in the community and highly-respected. Word that the girls were
missing spread through the little community like a prairie fire.
The car that had made the U-turn in the driveway was parked at a
neighboring farm two miles away. It was an innocent wrong turn by
visitors. The couple in the car claimed they never saw the girls and had
never been closer than about 50 yards to the grandparents’ home. The
search efforts shifted back to the farm. It was now nearly 2:30 PM and the
girls had been missing for an hour and a half or more.
Later, Julia learned from her mother, “A deputy pulled Grandpa
aside and told him, ‘Jeb, I’ve got some help and a couple dogs on the way.
I’ve also got two men coming to help with a johnboat and poles, just in
case.’”
Grandpa knew what that implied, and he broke down. The deputy
suggested he pull himself together and “get the women inside.” There were
a dozen people at the farm to help with the search by this time.
By 4:30 PM there was a boat on the pond. Two strong men with
long poles stirred the water, dredging the bottom to bring to the surface any
small bodies that may be lifelessly afloat between the pond’s bottom and
middle, afloat by natural buoyancy. Neither girl could swim.
“These men have done this work before,” said Grandma solemnly,
confessing their faces betrayed the dismal task they faced that hot
afternoon. The grandparents watched and cried according to what Julia was
told afterward.
Soon, even more help arrived from the church and the VFW hall.
They fanned out along a tree line that separated the homestead from the
fields. The corn was high and if the girls were in the field and lost, the
search could go on into the evening.
Then the discovery was made, and the call rang out from one of the
boatmen, “We gottum Jeb! We gottum both!”
All the adults rushed from the front yard over the berm at a run. And
there they lay, Julia and Mollie on the backside of the berm looking deeply
asleep. They were lying in the grass, still holding hands and dry as a bone.
They soon stirred from the excitement around them and woke up, confused
as to why all the commotion.
Julia explained. “Later, they told me that one of the men in the boat
was looking in our direction and claimed he didn’t see us. He had looked
away for a moment. When he looked up again, he saw us lying in the grass.
According to him we were just ‘suddenly there.’”
According to her mother, the boatman told Grandpa Jeb, “They
wasn’t there one minute, and the next minute they were there on the grass.
No one can understand it,” he said, “But no one gave a damn neither!”
It was now 5:00 PM and the girls had been missing for four hours at
a minimum. Neither had the slightest memory of anything that may have
happened to them during the hours they were missing. Julia said, “It’s a
blank slate.” Their belief was that they simply fell asleep.
Initially, Julia and Mollie both felt that they had just fallen asleep
and now faced a spanking for crossing the berm. The girls were shocked
when they received an outpouring of loving kindness, along with a stern
warning from their grandma, “Don’t you girls ever scare Grandma like that
again or I’ll whip the tar out of both of you!”
Julia said something else that hit home with me. She said that except
for a couple rare exceptions, the family never spoke about the incident
afterward. Ever.
Also. from that day forward “they were different little girls,”
according to Julia. Their relationship was different in ways Julia could not
articulate in a phone call. She said it was a turning point in their lives and
she and Mollie, while they always loved one another as sisters, were never
as close, never playmates again except on rare occasions. No more chasing
butterflies.
 Their parents noted a marked change in the girls’ behavior. They
were both more serious and less playful than before this all happened.
Historically, Julia had marginal grades in math since second grade.
She played softball and was a tomboy, preferring to play outside rather than
do her homework. Her grammar skills were acceptable, as were history and
other subjects, but math had plagued her young academic life since first
grade. It baffled her when it unexpectedly improved.
When the school year began again in late August, Julia grudgingly
pulled out her basic arithmetic book and found that she understood the
concept of fractions almost effortlessly. She excelled in all subjects and did
her homework without coercion.
Her parents told Julia she was “like a little adult.” She enjoyed their
praise and said she felt like a grown up.
Mollie on the other hand, was sullen and withdrawn. It was an
abrupt change in her usually carefree and outgoing personality. She
demanded a “room of her own,” and when the facts were explained that the
house did not have a third bedroom, she became uncharacteristically
resentful.
According to Julia, “Molly lost her laugh. She was never the same
either. For some reason I do not understand. I grew uncomfortable around
Mollie, my own sister. And I could not wrap my head around it. It was like
we became strangers almost. Oh sure, we loved each other on a familial
level, and even shared some secrets occasionally, but things were different
between us. Mollie had problems in school and could be brooding and
withdrawn. I just do not get it. We could never talk about what happened at
Grandpa Jeb’s that summer day, almost never. For some reason, the both of
us considered it off limits.”
 Julia skipped their adolescent years. She said Mollie married young
and had a family right away. Julia’s grades took her to university where she
excelled in nursing school. Her math skills secured her a place in a nurse
anesthetist program and she had a fulfilling and lucrative career in
medicine. Her only regret? That she did not pursue an MD instead of her
RN. She admitted she had underestimated her ability.
In her third email to me Julia explained that five years earlier,
Mollie had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. Separated by some
distance, Julia took time from work using the Family Medical Leave Act to
spend time with Mollie toward the end. Mollie moved from Kentucky to
Louisiana to be closer to Julia as she entered hospice care. Mollie was
estranged from her children and the three men who had fathered her
children.
Julia said she was by her bedside providing loving support and
palliative care, offering generous pain medication to ensure her comfort.
Mollie mostly refused the pain medication and the two of them typically sat
in uncomfortable silence. Julia felt conflicted. Mollie did not want to die
alone but did not want to engage her sister either.
Julia said, “It was clear she was going to pass soon. I held her hand.
I think it was the first time I held her hand like that since we were at the
farm. She was lucid and still refused morphine. I felt the time was right to
ask, so I pulled myself together and asked her, ‘Mollie, would you like to
talk about what happened that day at Grandpa and Grandma’s house?’”
Sadly, Julia said, “Mollie turned her face toward the wall and
withdrew her hand. She held clenched fists under her chin and angrily said,
‘No!’ She passed a few hours later.”
 I asked Julia to please tell me about her dreams and tell me what she
thinks really happened that afternoon at the farmhouse. She promised she
would give it some thought and compose something. I asked her permission
to share her story and she agreed, so long as I not disclose her identity. I
kept my promise. The following is the correspondence Julia drafted that
explains what she thinks happened after years of nightmares and assorted
phobias. It is a compelling story and I’ll present it in her own words without
commentary.
In an emotional final email, Julia explained the back story and
draws some conclusions.

Dear Terry,
I’ve been thinking about your questions and how to tell this story in a way
that will make sense for your readers. I’ll start with the nightmares. Mollie
had them too but would not talk about them until one day when we were in
our 30s, when I told her about two recurring dreams that were making me
crazy. This was 25 years after they took us. I don’t have a contemporaneous
memory of events. I have no memories that did not originate in nightmares.
I told Mollie I dreamt we were kids again, back at Grandpa Jeb’s. I
remember looking at the carousel and feeling trance-like. I was on
autopilot. They took us. I can see them as shadow people at first, then they
became solid. They took our clothes off and a thing that looked like a white
computer monitor came down from the ceiling and spun around me, it was
like having a CAT scan. It had a clinical feel.
There were six-foot tall beings and the little ones they call greys.
The taller ones were in control. I kept hearing a voice in my head,
telepathically, I guess. It told me, “Don’t be afraid, we won’t hurt you.” I
think the voice was female, but it’s hard to say.
In the second dream, I was lying on a table and they stuck a
stainless-steel probe of some kind up my nose. It hurt like the dickens and I
heard an audible “crack.” This was in a dream, so I never felt the pain, I
just remembered or imagined it. In the same dream I saw my legs being
spread and they did something down there. It hurt, a lot too. I knew right
then that I’d never be able to have children. That’s a weird premonition for
a nine-year-old. It turned out to be correct.
As I was telling this story to Mollie, she looked at me in
astonishment. She confessed we shared nearly the same dream. I’m sure she
discussed this with me only out of shock and surprise. But she spoke openly
and shared a little of her story this once. It was the only time.
In a rare moment of openness Mollie told me about her nightmare,
“they did something to me ‘down there’ too. But they also did something
through my eye that hurt like hell. They stuck something like a silver
knitting needle in my eye near the bridge of my nose. I screamed ‘No, it’s
too big.’ It hurt so much I thought I’d lose my mind. Maybe I did, Julia.
Maybe I did way back then. They took something else from me too. I know
they took my virginity. They took away my innocence. I was just a child. We
were children then.”
We both cried. It was the only time we laid bare our souls to each
other in 50 years. I wish I could explain the guilt I felt afterward. What
should have been a shared moment of discovery turned sour. I had a bout of
depression afterward, and Mollie broke off all contact for a while. I still
take prescription antidepressants.
 Mollie was diagnosed in her early 20s as having bi-polar disorder
and impulse control issues. She had a string of failed marriages and the
dad’s got custody of her three children. I never had a chance to get to know
them. Mollie would never let me into her life. Our parents only saw the kids
a few times.
Mollie’s life was one of excess in everything including pain
medication after a questionable back injury and a workers’ compensation
claim. Thank God she married good men, but she could not hold onto a
relationship. She was afraid to let anyone in. She distanced herself from the
family and no one knows why, except me. I know because I understand a
little about the emotions involved.
Mom made the connection between the farmhouse and the changes
in both of us. It’s hard to judge changes in yourself, but I felt different after
it happened. I know what we saw was no carnival ride. It was a goddamn
spaceship and that’s no lie. Over the years I saw it change in my dreams. It
lost the horses and the lights changed. Those dreams scare the hell out of
me.
You know I’ve never married, but I’ve had a close partner for many
years, and we have our dogs. I feel lucky to have had a full life. I’ve had a
good life but whenever I allow myself to think about the farm and what
happened in the four hours when we were missing, I know I won’t sleep so
well for a few nights.
I had a spell where I had a shot of tequila before bed in the evening.
I also had a painful shoulder injury, a torn rotator cuff from tennis. I
embraced it. The pain gave me an excuse to pop a few Darvon legitimately
for pain. Conveniently, they were the only semi narcotic medication I could
take that wouldn’t be missed from the medication cart. It was discontinued
ten years ago and that was the end of it.
I admit I stole a Fentanyl patch once or twice at the expense of
patients in pain, substituting a used patch for one I could take home. But
they checked the serial numbers, so I was fortunate to get away with it. I
regret the pain those poor patients endured so I could get a high and have a
good night’s rest.
Suffice to say, in a few years I was spiraling out of control. I had
missed some work and my supervising doc had a talk with me. I guess he
smelled alcohol on my breath from the previous evening before we went into
the OR for an emergency surgery. Even with our masks on. I’m pretty sure I
slurred my speech too.
He could have thrown me out of the OR, but at the time there was no
one else on such short notice. This was a small community hospital with
one anesthetist, me and a single resident at the time.
The patient had a good outcome. I was the on-call anesthetist, but it
was rare in our little community that anything happened. It was an
irresponsible thing to do.
My chief gave me an ultimatum, talk to someone and get it together
or I’d lose my job. That was a wake-up call. We had a program for medical
staff that allowed us to seek help through a third-party referral service at no
cost and it was confidential. I made an appointment to see a counselor. I
was blessed that my partner was supportive without being enabling.
I saw this counselor about a dozen times, and it was helpful. At least
so I thought. To a point anyway. We had discussed what happened at the
farm. I spoke candidly. He did not appear surprised when I told him about
the traumatic event in my life when I was nine. I shared the nightmares too
and told him Mollie admitted to having the same dreams.
He knew my gender orientation was toward the same sex. I do not
think I make that a secret. I understand science and use it every day. But the
interpretation of psychological test results that can see into a person’s
psyche seems subjective to me.
When I asked him if these tests were reliable, he was quick to point
out that they have been “recognized as valid for 50 years.” He claimed
answers to series of yes-or-no questions can reveal much about a person.
But how does he know if the patient’s answers are even truthful? How is it
possible to see three different psychiatrists and get three different
diagnosis?
During our last session he told me I needed to accept the most likely
explanation. I asked him to please explain.
He commented arrogantly, “Occam’s Razor.”
I still did not understand.
He said, “The most obvious answer is usually the correct choice.
You girls fantasized about going to the circus and saw in your own mind’s
eye an image of a merry-go-round. You may have heard music from a
calliope, but not from the backyard. It could have been carried on the wind
for miles or have come from a television program inside your grandparents’
home. Mollie probably never saw a thing, that is why the two of you could
never speak about it. Arguably, it is the real reason. Where did you go for
those four hours? Who knows, maybe you were asleep in the barn, I do not
see that as important now. Stories can be embellished over years and facts
interpreted differently with each retelling.”
 Indignantly, I asked, “Do you think I’m making this up? For what
reason?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t believe you intend to deceive anyone.” Then
he shocked me to the core, “I think it’s possible the story has changed over
the years.”
Then he paused for a long moment and asked, “Isn’t it possible,
Julia, that you took Mollie’s virginity that day?”
I had trouble putting those words together. I exploded, “You son of a
bitch, go to hell.”
That was the last counseling session I had with him. He considered
it “a breakthrough.” I thought it was crap, he obviously was not listening.
But he cleared me to return to work.
Then the nightmares returned with a vengeance. That confirmed he
was full of shit. Something paranormal happened to me and Mollie and I
will never believe anything else.
This is going to sound crazy, but I am just going to say it. You know,
I want to put it out there for your opinion and for other people too. I think
we were kidnapped by aliens. What you called an abduction in your book.
They took us and did God knows what, but it changed us. It has taken me a
lifetime, but I am okay with it now. Mollie’s gone; I do not know how much
time I have left; I have significant health problems myself. I am glad I wrote
to you because I saw your friend in my Mollie.
This counselor thought this was all a dream or a childhood fantasy.
Well bullshit. I know a little about the human mind. I understand human
anatomy and physiology. Those little bastards did something to Mollie and
to me on the cellular level, maybe at the molecular or even the quantum
level, who the hell knows. But they changed us.
 Mollie knew something about what happened that day. I am sure
whatever happened, I never hurt Mollie. I am sure of that. I think they broke
her mind and it cost her sanity. After the mental health appointments, I’d
had enough. I do not want to have hypnosis to help me remember or recover
memories. I do not think memories recovered by hypnosis can be counted
on as a reliable record of past events. I have seen it in my practice where
people have all kinds of wild delusions under the influence of hypnotic
drugs and drugs that have a supposed amnesic effect.
I realize now that I am almost 70 years old that what happened to us
was not from this solar system. Maybe not from this dimension. This has
been in my face all my life. I think it is time to put it to bed. I don’t want to
think about it anymore. Mollie is gone and I just want to live in peace.
It was nice of you and your wife to drive over and meet me for
breakfast. I think I’m going to sign off. The more I talk about this the harder
it gets and the more anxiety I have.
I think I’ll try to enjoy semi-retirement, maybe work a day a week or
two. We want to travel and see some of the country. I want to forget about
this stuff for now. Thanks for returning my emails and taking time to talk to
me. Maybe my story will help someone else. Good luck with your writing
and may God bless.
Sincerely yours, Julia
Julia passed away in January 2020 from pancreatic cancer. I hope
she’s found peace.
 Case #6
Through the Roof
Tina
London, Ontario Canada

Hello Mr. Lovelace,

First off, I wanted to say that your story was fascinating, and I couldn’t put
it down. The details you describe and the events that unfolded in your life
are incredible, and I hope this email finds you doing well. Parts of your
book, however, speak to me on a deeper level, particularly your experiences
as a child.
When I was younger, maybe five or six years old, possibly a little
older, I would have repeating dreams of “falling” from the sky, face-up,
towards my bedroom. I have graphic images of my house and neighborhood
from above at nighttime as I fell from the sky towards the corner of the
house where my room was located in. I can even remember seeing wood,
insulation and the plasterboard ceiling.
This was all before Google Earth existed, so young-me should have
had no idea what that imagery above my house looked like, especially in
such vivid detail.
I would “pass” through the ceiling and roof and fall onto my bed,
often “waking” as I bounced onto my mattress covered in sweat. Most of
the time, that was the end of it, and I would eventually fall back to sleep.
But I’d be tired the rest of the day.
But one time, I woke up from a fall/bounce and saw a face staring at
me from my doorway. It appeared to be grey/white, though it was dark and
only illuminated by my nightlight. I could clearly see two large, dark eyes
staring at me (not freakishly large, but big enough I could make them out in
the darkness), and a few fingers wrapping themselves around the corner of
the door frame. I froze in my bed as me and this thing stared for what felt
like an eternity. Slowly, it backed away and moved into the hallway before I
could no longer see it at all. It was maybe four feet tall? Or possibly even
shorter.
Another similar night I woke to loud “popping” sounds and found
my room flooded with a brilliantly bright light. Peering out my window, I
saw several figures in my yard standing motionless with a light that seemed
brighter than the sun behind them. This popping sound continued, but for
some reason I felt unconcerned. I shrugged it off and went back to bed.
When I asked my parents the next day, they said it was most likely
neighborhood kids hitting trees with baseball bats in the middle of the night.
Odd answer, but okay.
My childhood was filled with bizarre experiences that I cast off as
“ghostly” phenomenon, and those around me sensed it too. Close friends
and family honestly believed I was haunted but looking back I think it might
have been something more. I remember waking to strange figures in my
room, shadow figures, hearing voices, etc.
A friend of mine even saw a strange triangular UFO above my
neighborhood when he was coming to visit once when we were in our teens.
Around that same time, I had a few periods of missing time and developed a
severe eating disorder that almost wiped me of my entire childhood
memory. But the strangeness remains.
As an adult, the weirdness has died down significantly. But now I
suffer with an immune deficiency disease they cannot fully identify. I
struggle with keeping on weight (I was chubby for a while, but now I cannot
keep my weight above 100) and I suffer from debilitating migraines and
full-body aches that slow me down daily. Was this all a side effect of
something bizarre that happened to me as a child? I am not sure. But your
book hit a few key points that helped connect some dots in my own life.
Tina, London, Ontario
The similarities between our stories are astounding.

ANALYSIS
Poor Tina, another sadly dismissive parental response. Their possible
explanation sounds less plausible than a flying saucer.
Tina had that familiar feeling of disinterest and near apathy that
sometimes accompany an encounter. At Devil’s Den, Toby and I decided to
go into our tent and go to sleep while a spacecraft as large as a five-story
office building was parked over our heads.
Years earlier, when I was 11 and sound asleep, my bedroom was
flooded with flashes of incredibly bright light. I described the light as, “like
trying to look at the sun.” I opened my eyes to find I was sitting bolt upright
in bed. I walked to the window and peered out from curtains and blinds to
see a saucer just outside my second story window.
I pulled back the curtain and stuffed it into the blinds, so I could
have a hands-free look. There was a flying saucer with colored flashing
lights two feet from my bedroom window with a heavy fog or steam
underneath.
I remembered the one I saw in the backyard three years earlier. I
wondered if this might even be the same craft. With brilliant lights flooding
my bedroom I turned away and went back to bed and immediately fell
asleep.
 The only emotion I can remember is being happy to see the topside.
In 1963, I only saw it from below. Other than that, I felt complete
disinterest except for a feeling of satisfaction.
No one else in the house saw a thing that night. When I first woke
up the next morning it felt like a dream. Then I looked over to my window
and saw the curtain tucked into the blinds. Then I remembered everything.
It was no dream. Had I not tucked that curtain into the blinds I guess I
would have always considered it just a dream.
I had heard stories before of people moving through walls and
ceilings. I never imagined I would have an encounter of my own. Much less
one I could document. It happened on the early morning of April 16, 2019. I
normally woke up about 8:00 AM. This day I awoke at 5:55 AM covered in
sweat and gasping for air. Tina in the paragraph above woke in a sweat
when she landed back on her bed.
My wife woke and saw I was in distress. I was having trouble
getting enough oxygen. I had no chest pain, but the sweating, shortness of
breath and cardiac disease history justified a call to 911. My wife called and
then took my blood pressure and pulse before the ambulance crew arrived
about 10 minutes later. My pulse was tachycardic, 150+ beats per minute.
Fast enough that it was difficult for my wife to count with 100% certainty.
The blood pressure cuff read 220 over 110. My normal pressure was in the
120/80 range. Thankfully, my blood pressure dropped quickly as did my
pulse rate.
By the time we arrived at the hospital it was 160 over 90 and
steadily headed back to my normal range. My oxygen saturation was 94%
measured by the paramedic’s oximeter when they picked me up. I was
given oxygen during the 15-minute ride to the hospital. My pulse rate
dropped to 90, and thanks to the oxygen my saturation bounced back to
99%. I was no longer starved for air and had stopped sweating.
I had a heart attack in 2005 and had a triple bypass. I had a second
in 2011 requiring a stent. I knew the drill: a chest X-ray, EKG and cardiac
enzymes. I was admitted to Methodist Hospital in Dallas for observation
and hooked to a heart monitor.
An hour later the cardiologist paid me a visit. My vital signs had
returned to normal; my chest X-ray was clear. She said the EKG was
“unremarkable” when compared to my most recent test at the VA Hospital a
year earlier.
She said she had no idea what caused this event. She said they
would keep me until 3:00 PM and discharge me if my heart monitor showed
a normal rhythm and my vital signs remained stable. I was to speak with my
cardiologist at the VA Hospital and be fitted with a halter monitor to check
for irregular heartbeats. They found none. I might mention, I do not suffer
from atrial fibrillation.
We were home by 4:00 PM and I felt fine. We had dinner that
evening and as was my habit, I went for a walk after dinner. I would usually
walk a brisk mile and return home. As my feet hit the sidewalk, I pulled out
my iPhone 6 and glanced at my health app. As I expected I had walked
under 100 steps for the day. But then I saw the “flights of stairs climbed”
recorded below the distance walked. I was shocked to see it said I had
climbed six flights of stairs that morning.
This is where an explanation is necessary. I sleep with my iPhone in
the breast pocket of a tee shirt every night. I put on my earbuds and listen to
meditative apps at night. This has been my habit all the way back to the
1990s and my Sony Walkman with headphones.
 Why? Because it helps me to fall asleep and keeps out ambient
noises. I am spooked at night by random sounds. If I hear a noise,
something I cannot identify, I am compelled to grab my pistol and a
flashlight and walk through the entire house. I explained the drill earlier:
check the doors, check the alarm system, etc. Once the ritual is complete, I
can go back to bed and usually fall asleep. If I cut it short, I will feel angst
about it and usually get up and complete it. Typical obsessive-compulsive
behavior related to my PTSD.
If you look at the screenshot of my iPhone app, you will see the x-y
graph moves from left to right to correspond with the passage of time. The
vertical plane indicates height, a flight of stairs is in increments of 10 feet
up.
I live in a Texas ranch home with a single stair; it is the threshold at
my front door. Note that the “flights climbed” are indicated by a single
vertical bar to 60 feet at 5:24 AM. That is 31 minutes before I woke up at
5:55 AM. At 5:24 AM I was in my bed and next to my wife asleep.
Normally, if I climbed a few flights of stairs, say to reach the fourth
floor of a parking garage, the iPhone’s app screen would display a stairstep
configuration, with bars going up to indicate the first 10 feet, then the
second, third, and finally the fourth. This is because of the passage of time
as I reach each landing and begin the next flight. Each flight of stairs
represents a journey of 10 feet up.
The single bar on the April 16, 2019 screenshot, according to Apple,
indicates that my phone traveled 60 feet “up” between 5:23 and 5:24 AM. If
I had stairs in my house, it would have to be a six-story building. There is
no way I could climb six flights of stairs in under a minute.
 A note about how height is measured in the Apple health app. I
assumed it was by change in GPS coordinates in space above ground level.
That is not correct. Apple explained that each 10-foot flight of stairs is
measured by change in barometric pressure.
Apple ran a diagnostic on my phone to rule out a malfunction.
Everything on the phone and the health app was fully functional.

I asked the Apple Store technician what this readout meant. He said,
“It indicates your iPhone traveled 60 feet above your location at 5:23 AM
on the morning of April 16, 2019. I can’t say more than that.”
Aside from an abduction, the only possible explanation is that
somehow my telephone traveled by itself, say attached to a drone, sixty feet
straight up as the screenshot shows. I do not own a drone and would never
perpetrate such a ridiculous hoax.
I include medical bills from the Garland Fire Department
Ambulance Services and Methodist Hospital. If this were a hoax
perpetrated by me, it is an expensive exercise.
Apple Health App dated April 16, 2019 shows six floors of stairs climbed at 5:24 AM. I was in bed
asleep until 5:55 AM. My home is a single story Texas Ranch with a single stair being at the front
door threshold.
Single vertical bar between 5:23 and 5:24 AM on April 16, 2019. Each flight of stairs represents ten
feet. Six flights of stairs represent sixty feet “UP.”
Medical bill from Methodist Hospital showing charges for emergency services dated April 19, 2019.
 Case #7
Alcohol and Fear of the Night
Elizabeth
Billings, Montana

Dear Sir,
Thank you for your book! I initially heard about it on my favorite podcast,
Mysterious Universe. They did a compelling piece on it and I knew I had to
read it. And I loved it.
I share many of the same fears you described. I always imagined I
just had some sort of strange nighttime anxiety. Ever since I was maybe
four or five, as soon as the sun would start to set, I would be filled with a
feeling of fear and doom. I would usually end up crawling in bed with my
mom. When I got older, I would sleep in the living room with the television
on. I did not like the dark and I didn’t like it quiet.
I am a pretty upbeat person during the day, but the nighttime
changes me so. I was an alcoholic for many years.
I would start to drink when my kids went to bed and would continue
to drink until I was sleepy enough to fall asleep. I must have awfully
specific sleeping arrangements, bed against the wall, pillows stacked high
on the other side so I can’t see if something is there. I was never abused as
a kid that I know of. The fear just has always been there as long as I can
remember.
I have a fascination about aliens and find myself daydreaming about
them all the time, but no memories at all to recount. I guess that is all I
have to say. I wish I could get over my nighttime fear. And your book really
got me wondering if I had seen or experienced something that had been
swept away from my memory.
Thank you for sharing. I appreciate your honesty.

ANALYSIS
It’s unthinkable for a parent to drink themselves into oblivion when they
have children sleeping in the same home. Elizabeth state’s she was never
abused as a child. ET can wipe our memories or replace them with screen
memories. In Elizabeth’s case she has no recollection what happened to her
as a young child. It’s frightening to consider the possibilities.
Fear of the night is consistent with changes Toby and I both
experienced. Fear of sleep and anxiety at sundown is one of the
commonalities abductees share. We are vulnerable when we’re asleep. The
temptation to self-medicate can be overwhelming. It certainly played a role
in the death of my friend. Whether we are three or 83, having an intimate
encounter with these things changes a person.
 Case #8
Why Not Minot?
Benito
Minot, North Dakota

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

I just finished your book and it reminded me of an odd thing that happened
when I was a teenager. We have a small ranch near Minot, ND. It’s a
military town with a large Air Force base with nuclear tipped missiles all
over the prairie.
I am the fifth generation to work the family ranch. It has been a
tough year for us with the pandemic taking a toll on businesses here. We
don’t have a lot of COVID deaths compared to New York and other parts of
the country, but the packing houses laid off a lot of workers because the
virus and it crippled the processing center.
That hurt ranchers. I’m 43 years old now and I’ve worked the ranch
since I was 11. It’s mine today and I hope our son will continue with the
family business.
My sighting happened when I was 17, me and Dad took a trip to
Billings, Montana to visit my older sister and take her a care package and
Christmas gifts from home. We made the ride several times before on 94, so
we were familiar with the drive. It’s about 500 miles and a good day’s drive.
We took my dad’s Buick instead of the truck. We had planned a stop in
Glendive, MT, as usual, for hot food and to stretch our legs.
We drove at night hoping to beat a storm front moving in with snow
and wind. We thought we could make better time if we left earlier at night to
beat the weather. There was little traffic because it was the day after
Christmas. We made good time until we were on the other side of Glendive.
It was 10:00 PM and the weather was cold and overcast, but dry. My dad
was driving, and I was hooked up to my MP3 player and not paying much
attention.
Past Glendive there’s not much to see, especially at night.
Occasionally, we’d see the lights of another ranch off in the distance or
pass an exit to nowhere. Otherwise, it was just us in the darkness with a
semitruck encounter here and there.
I saw a light over the top of us. A single, bright light that lit up the
inside of the car through the windshield and our sunroof. I took off my
headphones and asked Dad, “What’s up?”
He said he thought it was a police helicopter. It had us in its
searchlight for some reason. Dad admitted he’d been speeding, but there
was no pursuit car anywhere, just this helicopter that lit up the inside of the
car. It paced us for several miles.
I turned off the car radio and rolled down my window. We were hit
with a blast of cold air as we listened for the familiar noise of the
helicopter. We couldn’t hear anything but the wind. My dad was worried
because if we sped up, it would speed up. Likewise, if we slowed down, it
slowed down to stay right on top of us. After about five miles of this my dad
felt annoyed. I felt a little disturbed.
Dad suggested we pull over and stop. He wanted to see what it
would do.
I said, “No, let’s just keep going, do the speed limit and wait for him
to get tired and pick on someone else. He’s probably just running our plate
for some reason and waiting to hear back.”
 But dad insisted we stop the car. He used his turn signal and pulled
off onto the shoulder. We stopped and he put on the emergency flashers.
Whatever it was, it stayed right over us. Dad didn’t have the binoculars he
kept in the truck. They would have come in handy to get a better view of it.
All we could see was a single bright light. It was lower now. I still couldn’t
understand why we didn’t hear anything but the wind.
Dad turned off the ignition for some reason and pocketed the keys.
He grabbed his coat and got out of the car. The heater was off, and I knew it
wouldn’t take long before the car got cold. I slipped on my jacket as Dad
slammed his door. He was outside for a long time walking around and I was
getting concerned. The light was still right on top of us. I felt safer just
staying in the car.
This is the weird part. The next thing I knew we were driving again
and about 10 miles down the road, or so we thought. I wondered; did I fall
asleep while Dad was outside?
It’s strange, I don’t remember him getting back into the car and
continuing on the trip. The helicopter or whatever it was, was gone now. My
jacket was lying in the back seat. I couldn’t find my MP3 player at first. It
was in my jacket pocket. I don’t remember taking off my coat either. The car
was nice and warm. Dad’s coat was in the backseat too.
I asked Dad, “What happened?”
He said, “I don’t know, I just looked at it for a while, I started the
car, and the light was gone. Have you been asleep?”
“I guess so. I must have been because I don’t remember you getting
back in the car,” I replied.
Dad asked, “We clocked another 10 miles. Do you remember us
pulling away and back onto the highway?”
 “No actually, I think I fell asleep. Where are we?” I asked.
“About 30 miles past Glendive, I’m guessing. We’re behind
schedule,” he said.
I looked at the clock in the car and it read 11:40 PM. Confused, I
asked Dad, “Did it take us and hour and 40 minutes to cover thirty miles?
How long were you out there?”
He paused and said, “I don’t remember.”
I thought that was weird, but I didn’t say anything. We came to the
next little town and I said, “Wait a minute, I think we’re more like 50 miles
past Glendive!”
“Ah,” Dad said, “That explains it. That accounts for the hour and
40 minutes.” He said it in a dismissive way, like “that settles it.”
He wasn’t making sense. I did the mental math and in 100 minutes
we should have been more than 50 miles farther down the road. I did not
say anything because I had no way to know how long my dad was outside
the car. With that variable unanswered I had no idea how it got so late.
We didn’t say much for the rest of the trip. I threw my coat over me
and dozed. I should have offered to drive, but I didn’t. I was so sleepy.
We were an hour-and-a-half late getting to my sister’s house. When
we got there, we grabbed our suitcase and packages and got inside. It was
starting to snow.
My sister said she was worried about us. She offered to make us
some eggs and bacon. We both passed, preferring to get some sleep instead.
At 17, I rarely passed up a plate of bacon and eggs.
We slept late the next morning. We did not talk about the helicopter
following us, or Dad pulling over and losing 90 minutes somewhere. It just
never came up. I’d like to know how we ended up down the highway with no
memory of making the drive.
One last thing. Our car was covered in snow the next day, so we
didn’t notice anything unusual. A month later we had a few days of warmer
weather and my mom took the car through a car wash. That’s when she
noticed the paint had badly faded on the hood and the roof.
We could not explain it. The car had been covered in ice and snow
for a month, so it was hard to tie it to what happened to us back on
December 26th when we went to Billings.
My dad blamed General Motors and thought we had a bad paint
job. The manufacturer’s warranty had lapsed. When dad took it into the
dealership for an oil change, he spoke to the body shop manager. He agreed
to take look at it. He said it was paint damage and looked like it had faded
from exposure to bright sunshine over time. That was a joke, we don’t have
sunshine in Minot.
There were no known problems or recalls of any kind regarding
paint according to Buick. He suggested maybe there was a problem at the
car wash. He put us in touch with someone from Detroit who took a report.
But no help with the paint.
We both had nightmares about the Montana trip for some reason. It
was never anything scary we could identify. It was just dark and foreboding.
Usually it was just us parked on the shoulder with the light overhead. Dad
passed away in 2015. I wish we had discussed it.

ANALYSIS
I thanked Benito, who prefers to be called “Ben.”
 I suggested Ben go online and read the transcripts from Betty and
Barney Hill’s hypnotic regression from their 1961 abduction. During a
phone call he asked me about hypnotic regression and if I thought it would
help recover what he couldn’t remember. He also asked if I could suggest
someone trustworthy to do the hypnotherapy. I suggested he speak with my
friend, Yvonne Smith in LA, or Kathleen Marden in Florida. She’s Betty
Hill’s niece. They are both certified hypnotherapist who have done
hundreds of regressions between them.
When I read Ben’s story, I was again reminded of Betty and Barney
Hill and their abduction in rural New Hampshire. There are several
commonalities they share.
The deserted stretch of road at night. Seeing something in the sky
they could not identify. Barney also noticed paint damage to the trunk of
their car. Barney used his binoculars to look at the craft they saw. Ben’s dad
would have used them if they’d been traveling in his truck. And, of course,
the missing time and subsequent nightmares they also share with the Hill’s
experience.
Ben said his family never fully discussed the matter. Betty and
Barney did eventually, but only after they sought help.
 Case #9
UFO Over Pensacola
Katie and Sue
Atlanta, Georgia

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

My college roommate and I had a weird experience while attending college
in Atlanta in March of 1998. I was 20 years old at the time and studying
marketing. My uncle, who owned a used car business, gave me a 1995 VW
convertible as a high school graduation gift. I needed wheels to travel to
the dorm and back home to Raleigh, North Carolina. My friend and
roommate, Sue, was a year younger and from Durham. We met as freshman
and became fast friends.
On a long weekend Sue suggested we drive to Pensacola on the
Florida panhandle and visit the beach for a day or two, just to see the
ocean again and get away for a while. She knew a spot that was nice and
rarely crowded. We packed my car with a cooler, beach towels and the
usual necessities and drove down. I booked us a room near the beach at a
budget motel for our one overnight stay.
But we failed to check the weather forecast for the weekend. The
week had been sunny, but Pensacola was cool and overcast both days.
Undeterred, we drove straight to the beach and arrived by noon. The
weather was crappy, but it didn’t rain, and the wind was tolerable. We were
the only ones there. That was pleasant.
Clouds and the cool temperatures aside, it was a beautiful stretch of
coastline. While walking the beach we talked, mostly gossip about our
classmates, and we split a joint.
 The trip wasn’t what we expected, but it wasn’t bad either. By the
way, the marijuana we smoked was not very strong and what we saw wasn’t
a drug induced hallucination. We were happy and just relaxed, but in
complete control of our senses.
At the water’s edge we stopped to look at a tanker on the distant
horizon. It was just a ghostly silhouette because of the limited visibility. I’d
describe the day as cool, overcast with exceptionally low clouds.
While watching this distant tanker, we saw a grey cigar-shaped
object slowly drop from the clouds. It stopped 50 feet or so above the water
and just hung there between the cloud cover and the sea. It was less than a
half mile out and it was big, probably 50 yards in length and as tall as a
single-story building. We couldn’t see windows or other markings of any
kind. It was solid grey but plainly a physical object made of some kind of
metal, bolted together by someone in a factory somewhere. It wasn’t an
ethereal or transparent structure. It looked to be rock solid.
We were blown away. Neither of us had ever seen a UFO before and
we doubted they were real. This fit the UFO definition. It was
unquestionably real, a solid object that could fly (and submerge too) and
unknown to us. It was an interesting, exciting, and unique experience.
We couldn’t take our eyes off of it. Because the day was overcast, I
left my camera in the car and could have kicked myself for losing the
opportunity to capture this thing on film.
Neither of us were prepared for its next move. After a few minutes it
unexpectedly dropped below the waves and was gone! It didn’t give us the
impression it crashed in the sea; we shared the opinion that it intentionally
submerged. We didn’t hear a splash and it just slid smoothly into the water.
 Backing away from the waterline, we sat on dry sand and continued
our vigil for almost an hour, waiting for it to resurface and fly away. It
never did. Neither of us were afraid, just the opposite, we were enthused
and debated what it was that we had just seen. We quickly eliminated all the
possibilities other than a UFO. At the time, we thought what we saw was
something not made in a factory on earth.
Sue pointed out that we were close to a naval air station and it could
have been a secret craft of some kind. She made a persuasive argument.
I’ve thought about it over the years and maybe she was right. I have
no idea what our defense industry might have had in its inventory in 1998.
A naval air station was nearby, and this thing was aerial and nautical too,
so maybe.
Sue and I graduated together and moved back home to North
Carolina and began careers. We’ve maintained our friendship. We’re both
married with families now and live a couple hours away from each other. I
work in marketing and Sue, oddly enough, works for a defense contractor.
She doesn’t speak about her work, but we see each other at least once a
year and talk on the phone now and then.
Our sighting that day comes up often when we talk. I’d still love to
know what we saw. It wasn’t as spectacular as your experience, but it was
an awesome event, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

ANALYSIS
Katie is still unsure of what they saw that day. I asked her if local
newspapers carried anything about a UFO sighting. While in their hotel
room that evening, they watched the local news, and it wasn’t mentioned.
The following day Sue scanned a local newspaper for stories about UFO
sightings. There were none.
 Katie said she may have had a dream or two about that day, but
never a nightmare. She described the one or two dreams about the day as
just a replay of their walk on the beach and noting the ship in the distance
and seeing the grey cigar-shaped UFO.
As for a belief in UFOs? Sue is skeptical and Katie is a little more
open to the concept, but says she is still unsure exactly what they saw that
day.
 Case #10
Takuahe
Antonio and Maria
El Paso, Texas

Many thanks to Marcia Garcia for translating Maria’s emails from mixed
Spanish/English, and for acting as translator in our phone call. Without your
kind assistance I would not have been able to understand the subtleties of
her story.
Dear Mr. Lovelace,
My sister gave me a Spanish version of your book to read. We had some
scary stuff happen in 2016 and 2017. We moved in 2018. My son claimed to
have seen a visitor in his room just like you did in your book.
We’re from Mexico originally, but we live in El Paso now with our
son, Stephan, who was born here. My husband, Antonio, me, and Stephan
lived in a trailer in a little park on the southern end of town.
Antonio and me split-up for a while when our son was almost five
years old. He moved out of the trailer and took most of his things. This was
when he started working on the road as an electrician.
His job took him to different construction sites, and we didn’t see
each other much. We both had family nearby, so it wasn’t like we were
alone. Antonio sent money when he could and visited when he could.
Our son started having problems sleeping when he was four. Some
nights Stephan would scream so loud Antonio would get up and take a
flashlight and check the yard, while I calmed Stephan down and got him
back to sleep. On these nights he usually slept between us.
 Antonio moved out a year later when Stephan turned five. From the
age of four until he was almost six, Stephan complained about a “takuahe”
or an opossum in his room on and off. When it was just me and Stephan,
he’d wake me up, usually close to 3:00 AM, screaming and begging to sleep
with me. He slept with me a lot because his nightmares happened once or
twice a week for a while. Then, no nightmares for a month or two and we’d
think it was over, but it would return unexpectedly. They came and went for
about two years. Especially after Antonio moved out and it was just the two
of us; things got creepy.
The animal Stephan described was not the usual possum. He
claimed this one walked on its back legs and had large black eyes. Antonio
and Stephan looked all over the room for any space where an animal could
get into his bedroom. They found none. Antonio thought this might reassure
Stephan that he was in his own room and was safe. It didn’t work.
As Stephan got a little older, he was able to tell us more. It was a
crazy story and we didn’t believe him. But something was scaring him.
Stephan told me one morning after a bad night when he was four,
“The possum comes into my room when it’s dark and wakes me up. He’s
friendly most of the time and only scares me sometimes. He has very big
eyes and walks like people do.”
I asked, “What does he do that scares you?”
He said, “Sometimes, he talks to me but he never moves his mouth.
There is light in the room from the window too. His fur is clean and soft, not
like the possums I’ve seen.”
Surprised, I asked, “Where did you see a possum before?”
“In the backyard by the trees, but they are a lot smaller and don’t
have big eyes. I saw a dead one too,” Stephan exclaimed proudly.
 When I told Stephan, “Possums are not very big, and they don’t
walk like people or have big eyes.” He was quick to tell me I was wrong.
I asked him, “So he talks to you?”
He said, “Yes Momma, that’s what scares me the most. He knows my
name too.”
“Tell me, what does this possum say that scares you so bad?” I
asked.
“He says stuff to me, but I don’t remember!” was his answer.
Stephan was getting upset and tearful. But I asked him one more
question. “Stephan, where does he come from, this possum? Does he live in
the backyard or under the trailer?”
“No momma, he just comes. I see the lights turn on in the backyard
and he’s just in my room.” Stephan said, much to his mother’s confusion.
“Stephan, there are no lights in the backyard. The light outside the
back door has never worked. Did you know that? I can show you,” I said.
That was very disturbing. I was unsure what to think, I just scared the both
of us. I tried to hide my fear.
Stephan was unwavering, “No, I saw the lights come on before he
comes into my room. He doesn’t come from the door, mostly through the
window, or I just wake up and he’s just there, in my room.”
A few weeks later I was having trouble sleeping too. I got up and
moved from my bedroom to the couch in the living room to watch some TV.
From the couch, I could see into Stephan’s room. I was wide awake and was
watching my soap opera from Mexico on the DVR player. I saw a light
shine in through Stephan’s room. A bright, bluish light, like someone was in
the backyard with a flashlight shining it through the window. I was about to
get up and investigate, but I guess I just fell back asleep.
My bedroom is situated toward the front of the house and I can’t see
the backyard from my bedroom. I decided I’d sleep on the couch for a while
to make sure our son was alright. I was afraid from all of this and I needed
help with getting the trailer secured.
Antonio was working a job in Colorado, so I confided in his dad. I
invited him over for dinner and a visit with Stephan. I asked him to bring
his toolbox.
Word of Stephan’s problems sleeping and the possum in his room
had spread through the family. Antonio’s dad, Filipe, was also an
electrician. He offered to install some lights in the backyard and some
motion detectors. We lived on the back end of the trailer park, so there was
no trailers or buildings behind us. There was a ditch, open land and a few
junk cars, but that was it.
Filipe suggested maybe someone was out there at night. Stephan
might be seeing someone in the backyard with a flashlight. Our trailer was
on an incline, so the rear windows was eight feet or more over the ground.
That meant no one could be scaring Stephan by peeking through his
window. The back door was at the top of a dozen stairs, kept securely
locked and rarely used. The doors were secure, but I wanted light.
Filipe fixed the porchlight first. All it needed was a new bulb. He put
in a much higher wattage bulb that lit up the whole backyard when turned
on by an inside switch.
Next, he installed two new lights with motion detectors on the
corners, so they covered the whole backyard when activated. I hoped that
would be the end of the possums in Stephan’s room.
 I continued to sleep on the couch. If anything were going to happen
in Stephan’s room, I would see it. A week after Filipe left, something did
happen in Stephan’s room.
One night, Stephan screamed and woke me from a deep sleep.
Raising my head from the couch, I saw light coming from his room like a
lamp was on. From the hallway it looked like a flashlight shining through
his screen again. The glass window was raised because of the heat.
As I walked into his room, I saw an orb of bright light about the size
of a softball in the middle of his room. I screamed; five-year-old Stephan
was crying hysterically. This thing was inside the house.
The ball of light moved slowly toward the open window and right
through the screen. The motion detectors never tripped. I closed the window
and watched as the ball of white light was now outside, hovering over the
backyard. I saw it float toward the back of the property, pick up speed and
dart 90 degrees straight up and out of sight.
I picked up Stephan and carried him to the couch. I turned the back
porch light on too. Then I focused on calming my frightened son.
Stephan exclaimed, “That was possum Mom, did you see it?”
I thought he was still hysterical. I assured him, “No, it was just a
ball of bright light from somewhere, a ball of light can’t hurt you.” But the
truth is, I didn’t know if that was true or not. I had Stephan sleep with me
until we could sort this out.
He was sure I had just met the “possum” that had been visiting him,
speaking to him and terrorizing him for more than a year. I was not sure
where to turn for help, so I told our Catholic priest who came and blessed
our home.
Afterward, he pulled me aside and asked if I could afford to move?
 I said, “Why? Is this thing a demon or something supernatural?”
That question shook him up a bit. He didn’t answer my question, but
strongly suggested we find another place to rent. He said, “I think you’ll be
much happier somewhere new, a fresh start for the family.”
We moved a short while later. Antonio and I reconciled our
marriage and with two incomes for the household we were able to find a
nicer home and move in just a couple months.
Stephan has had bad dreams, but so far, thankfully no visitors of any
kind. Do you think they’ll come back?

ANALYSIS
I told Maria truthfully, “I hope not.” But I’m not sure what you are dealing
with. It could be you’re having “ET visits” like the ones I experienced as a
child. But it could be something different.
A lot of people believe there is a spiritual component in all of this. I
can only tell you about my experience. I think if ETs tag you in childhood,
you’re tagged for life for some reason. Maybe true, maybe not. But even if
Stephan is destined for a lifetime of interaction, it doesn’t mean they will all
be negative.
I know almost nothing about hauntings. Maybe what you
experienced in the trailer was a haunting tied to the premises. That may be
why your priest encouraged you to move. Hopefully, you’ve left the
problem behind.
If what you’re dealing with is supernatural in origin, your priest
would know better than I. I find his reaction to all this curious. There is an
old saying, “You don’t know what you don’t know.” There’s so much that
we don’t yet understand.
 Case #11
ETs: Angels or Demons?
Suzie
Baltimore, Maryland

Dear Sir,
I saw your television show episode on My Horror Story. I also listened to
one of your podcasts. I tell you they’re no demons, they’re not here to harm
us in any way. They are here to help us enter a new era of peace and
prosperity. Our government knows this, but it’s kept a secret.
I had my first experience when I was four. A tall angelic being used
to visit my room. I was still sleeping in a crib and I remember how the room
lit up when they came to visit me, and his head almost touched the ceiling.
Sometimes just the one, sometimes six of them.
They glowed white and their robes were navy blue around their
chests. They spoke to me and told me they were my guardians, and I could
call on them whenever I need them. I call them my “angels.”
My first husband was killed in the Afghan War. We had a one-year-
old at the time. When I got the news, I was crushed. But I already knew it
had happened. Two days earlier two of them appeared in my bedroom and
told me, “Everything will be okay, Roland is with God.”
My family and church stood by me, and my angels were with me at
night and comforted me. I knew through them that my husband was okay
and in a better place with the Lord. I knew we’d make it and we did.
Your story scares people. People should not be afraid, and you make
people afraid of them. I know they’re here to help.
 If the things you met were as evil as you said, they were not from
another planet. You saw demons from hell. Did you or your buddy ever
mess around with Ouija boards as teenagers or fool with spells and
witchcraft? That’s what people do and it’s an invitation.
A lot of people don’t believe in the devil anymore. He’s real and so is
his army. If your faith in Jesus Christ were stronger, you’d have been
protected by just calling on his name.
I don’t believe UFOs come from other planets. I suggest you get
connected with a Christian church and approach this matter through
prayer.

ANALYSIS
I’m tempted to think of Suzie’s experience in terms of a paranormal rather
than a spiritual matter, if you can make that distinction. I contrast this story
to Stephan’s opossum experience in the previous story.
The Ouija board and magic spells statement takes me back to my
cousin Gerald and his admonishment from the preacher, “not to think bad
thoughts … that’s what lets the demons in.” I respect most organized
religions. I should say that I respect the rights of people to worship what
they see fit.
A couple things do trouble me about the blurred line between the
paranormal and the supernatural. David Paulides’ research in his Missing
411 books and the phenomena, of unexplained disappearances from state
and national parks, volume IV, makes a statistical correlation between state
and national parks that contain the name “devil” or “diablo,” and
significantly greater chances for hikers, campers, and hunters to vanish.
Paulides, as a consummate statistician offers facts that support the
supposition that there is a negative or demonic component at play that
somehow ties the devil names to statistically higher incidents of abduction.
Because ETs come in such a wide variety, it makes sense that more
than a single species of extraterrestrial visits earth. All are probably highly
evolved and intellectually superior to human beings. However, advanced
intellect and advanced ethics are different animals and may not necessarily
run on parallel tracks. A species of beings could evolve in science, math
and all matter of learned subjects and not be ethical or moral outside their
group.
Consider the Nazi culture from the second world war. The Nazis
promoted discipline, learning, and saw themselves as an advanced race.
Arian superiority was a myth of course. There is no denying they were a
regimented and intelligent culture. But their ethics, empathy and morality
did not progress and suffered from a philosophy that discouraged kindness
and civility toward those they considered inferior. Anyone not Arian was
inferior to some degree. For all their technological advancements their
ethics did not keep pace. Their effort to advance intellectually was inhibited
by their bigotry, expelling some of their nation’s greatest minds because
they did not fit the Arian mold. Just because a group, religion, society or
alien civilization is highly intelligent, it does not necessarily mean they treat
others ethically.
There could be some very evil but highly-evolved beings out there.
It’s a horrible thought that suggests the need for spiritual protection.
Again, I admit there may likely be a spiritual component to all of
this. I have had letters from others who tell me I can avoid an encounter
through prayer. Prayer may provide effective protection against one alien
species but not another. If that’s true I couldn’t begin to understand why.
 I respect Suzie’s opinion but disagree with her conclusions. My
cousin Gerald’s misery comes to mind. I do not believe the creatures I
encountered were from the spiritual realm. The thing they traveled in was
100% solid nuts and bolts and real in this plane of existence. I also can’t
rule out that the ship itself wasn’t a living sentient organism as another
reader suggested. Especially since they can control our perception.
As I’ve said before, my attitude about my abduction has softened
somewhat over the years. I’ve let go of the anger. I believe if I could speak
with them today their attitude would be, “No hard feelings, just doing my
job.” I don’t think what was done to us was done out of malice. I think our
injuries were collateral damage.
There’s the matter of the other human captives we saw aboard this
craft. What happened to them? They were a mixed bag of men, women, and
children.
My intuition tells me it did not end as well for them. When that
triangle went up in the air and disappeared, Toby and I were alone in the
woods. Where did those people go? Were they dropped off somewhere?
Were they together as one group or were they random individuals
kidnapped like us?
It is called survivor guilt. I still wonder what became of them. Why
were we fortunate and kicked out the door but they continued their ride into
possible oblivion? It takes me back to my friend Toby’s question in 1977,
“Why us?”
 Case #12
A Living Thing
Marvin
White Cloud, Minnesota

Dear Terry,
Thank you for your fascinating book. I have some things to share with you
that you’ll find hard to believe and may disagree with. I ask that you just
give them some thought.
I’ve had experiences since my early childhood as well. I recall being
on their ships too. Have you ever considered the ship itself could be a living
thing? They explained to me that the ship is not only alive, it can reason
and make independent decisions. In my Native American culture we see
everything as having a spark of life.
I had never heard of an alien spacecraft being alive, but I can’t
reject the idea out of hand either. I look at the advancements we’ve made in
artificial intelligence in the past decade. I cannot even imagine what could
be achieved with a thousand or a million years of effort toward its
development. Since A.I. writes its own code the growth could be exponential
and the line between mechanical and organic blurs. A craft that can think
for itself and execute commands on its own would be the pinnacle of
aeronautical engineering.
Once you deal with that completely, consider that the entire universe
is an organic living thing that we’re a part of. I know that sounds like a
stretch but meditate on it. If you don’t meditate now, I suggest you begin a
regimen of daily meditation. You can begin with as little as five minutes. I
also suggest you try yoga or tai chi to augment your meditation routine. If
you do these things, you’ll expand your consciousness and find yourself in a
much better place.

ANALYSIS
Thank you, Marvin. It’s not a stretch for me to see the entire universe as
organic. The interconnectedness of things easily leads me down that rabbit
hole. It is the same line of reasoning that makes me consider we could be
living in a simulation. Elon Musk, someone I admire greatly, said the odds
of us not living in a matrix are “a billion to one.”
I have friends who practice both yoga and tai chi along with
mediation. I’ve practiced meditation using meditative cassette tapes back in
the day, and with apps on my iPhone or YouTube to this day.
I agree that meditation is a good way to experience peace and live a
better life in general.
I assume you’re familiar with the concept of “mindfulness.” I read
The Power of Now back in the 2000s. I thought the mindfulness concept
and living in the present moment made good sense. I try to practice
mindfulness in my daily life, but I admit there are distractions that steer me
away from the practice. Probably because I lack the mental discipline.
 Case #13
UFOs and the Near-Death Experience
Peter
San Diego, California

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

We met at the UFO Congress in Phoenix in 2018. I don’t know if you
remember me. I explained that I had been taken as well as a child. We also
talked about NDEs or Near Death Experiences and the possible connection
between the NDE community and the UFO community.
I had a significant NDE when I was struck by a car while riding my
bicycle at age 12. I was coming home from school. I have no memory of the
accident. I only remember being suddenly above my body by about 15 feet. I
recognized my bicycle before I recognized my own body. It was strange. I
felt little connection to my broken body on the pavement other than
recognition. The driver who struck me fled the scene. There were other kids
and adults all around me. I heard the siren and saw the ambulance arrive. I
was placed on a stretcher after being examined. I watched as they loaded
me into the ambulance and began chest compressions. I could see
everything through the top of the ambulance, and I followed it to the
hospital.
I wasn’t worried in the least. I felt euphoric. I felt like I was losing
my grasp on this world and I slipped into darkness. It was like being in a
pool of indigo ink. It was just silent blackness. I had no physical body. I was
just light and consciousness. I had no physical sensations, and for the
moment I saw nothing but black and it was dead silent. I had never
experienced silence like that before. I have no idea as to how much time
had lapsed. Time seemed irrelevant. I floated in this condition without fear
or anxiety. I wondered, is this how I will spend eternity?
I saw the tiniest pinpoint of white light in the distance and I felt
drawn to it. I’m unclear if it was expanding and growing or if I was drifting
in its direction. It grew steadily larger with the intensity of the sun. It was
bright enough to have been blinding but I could stare at it without any
discomfort. Then I became aware of sound like wind. I felt at peace and just
watched as the light expanded and enveloped me. I felt at home without fear
or discomfort.
Next, I was in a grassy pasture in a beautiful place with vivid colors.
Flowering plants were everywhere and all of it felt alive and
interconnected. In the distance there was a low cloud bank, like a line of
heavy fog. Instinctively, I knew it was a barrier of some kind. A woman
walked out of the fog and toward me. I didn’t know her, but she radiated
love. It was like the love from my mother but multiplied tenfold. She even
looked like mom, but she wasn’t. I later discovered while looking through
family photographs she was my maternal great grandmother whom I’d
never met.
She had the kindest eyes and I felt at peace. Until she told me I had
to go back.
I immediately protested and said, “No! I want to stay and see what’s
over there, behind the fog.”
She said, “You’ll see it next time, when you come back when it’s
your time and we’ll visit again.”
Then it was just BAM! I was slammed back into my body with a jolt
and felt the pain immediately. I had been in surgery for a ruptured spleen
and a shattered pelvis. I couldn’t grasp what had happened. I didn’t know if
it was a dream or reality. No one would discuss it with me. I was told it was
a dream from the anesthetic. Then, in college I learned we were
unconscious while under anesthesia and dreams weren’t possible. I kept it
to myself for a time. Then I found others that shared the experience, and I
became involved in IANDS, the International Association for Near Death
Studies.
In my late teens I learned about the NDE phenomenon. I was excited
to discover I wasn’t alone. I was astonished to find that many other people
have had the same kind of experience. The details may slightly differ, but
the takeaway message from the experience was the same. I also lost all fear
of death. I fear dying because of the pain that may be involved. But I’d seen
death and knew what waited for me on the other side. I knew what was
important, to be kind to one another and to learn.
In my mid-twenties I read a book by Edgar Cayce. In it, Cayce
described other worlds and reincarnation throughout a living universe, not
just on earth. I feel that these beings must be from the same source. There
must be a single divine source that we all connect to. The
interconnectedness of everything makes us family.
Have you ever considered these may be related phenomena?

ANALYSIS
Yes, Peter, I think they are related as both involve altered states of
consciousness. Edgar Cayce hit the nail on the head. We feel that
interconnectedness because we’ve lived past lives. Some of them may not
have been on this world.
I’ve read two NDE books by the oncologist, Dr. Jeffrey Long. I’ve
visited his website where people can share their experience. He makes a
compelling case for our minds to survive the physical death of our bodies. I
hope he’s right. We’ll all find out one day.
 Case #14
Fetal Abduction
Linda
Poplar Bluff, Missouri

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

My husband read your book and shared it with me a year ago. We have a
problem and are curious if you’ve ever heard of this before. It sounds like
fiction. But it’s not.
In 1986 we bought a small farm near Poplar Bluff. My husband is a
geologist and works for the government, mostly regulating the mining
industry in the area.
We were both raised on a farm, so we own a couple horses and lease
out our farmland. We wanted to live in the country. This was our dream
home. I’m a stay-at-home grandmother raising our grandson now, while
our daughter is in the Middle East on a one-year tour. She’s made the Air
Force her career.
Back in 1992 I had some difficult pregnancies. My first pregnancy
was a miscarriage at the sixth month. We tried again and had our daughter.
It wasn’t a difficult pregnancy, but we had a few scares.
A few years later, my husband wanted a son to “complete the set.”
We tried again when our daughter was four and we were successful. I had
suspected I was pregnant. I confirmed it with a home test kit, and we were
over the moon. I saw my doctor a few days later, she likewise confirmed we
had another child on the way. We were so happy with the news.
When I was at about the 11th week, I woke up one morning and felt
slightly sore in my pelvic area. I’m petite at 5’5” and 95 pounds. I laid back
on the bed and felt my abdomen, it was flat. Something felt very wrong.
My husband agreed and I cancelled a social obligation so we could
see our doctor. She was someone we trusted. She handled my other
pregnancies. I had seen her just three weeks prior and everything was good.
Then I called my doctor and asked to be seen right away. The nurse
suggested I go to the emergency room if it was urgent.
She asked me if I was “bleeding or spotting.”
I told her, “No, no blood. Some mild cramping, and my abdomen
feels flat.”
She asked, “Are you in pain, do you have a fever?”
I told her honestly, “No. But I don’t feel right.” After that I broke
down into tears and sobbed. It was unexpected and uncontrollable, and I
felt embarrassed by my inability to control myself. My husband took the
phone and said he would take me to the emergency room and please let our
doctor know.
I’m not a drama queen. I’m a tough farm girl who can pull her
weight and then some. I could not remember the last time I cried real tears.
I guess it was when I miscarried. God, I did not want to lose this baby. This
is tough to explain. I felt overwhelmed by feelings of loss and grief. I
couldn’t talk, I just kept sobbing.
On our drive to the hospital, my husband was worried because I
could not stop crying. Try as I might, I felt sad and I cried. After the 30-
minute ride to the ER, I was able to pull myself together.
I calmly explained my symptoms to the nurse. She asked, “Are you
sure you’ve not passed any blood or tissue?”
“No!” I said, unintentionally raising my voice.
 I was placed in a bed and examined by the OBGYN on duty. I asked
him anxiously, “Did we lose another baby?”
All he would tell me was, “I find no blood near your cervix or
anywhere else.” He knew my doctor and called her office. He accessed my
medical records and ordered a sonogram. They also took blood.
In five minutes, a tech arrived with the sonogram machine. She
began the test immediately with the cold jelly goop they use. She had the
machine turned away from me. My husband was on the other side of the bed
holding my hand and couldn’t see it either. I’m not sure we’d know what to
look for at this early stage, so I guess it didn’t matter.
I asked the technician as she was wrapping up, “Does everything
look okay?”
Without facial expression she softly said, “I’ll give this to your
doctor, and he’ll be right in.”
Thirty minutes later he came back and shook hands with my
husband. He sat on the edge of the bed and addressed us both.
“I’m sorry to say you’ve lost the baby. But I do not believe it
happened last night. Also, you don’t have an infection. In the past week
have you noticed any blood or felt something pass?” he asked.
“No.” I was too numb to cry anymore. Paul still held my hand.
The doctor said, “I want to do a thorough exam and make certain
there’s no need for a D&C or ‘dusting and cleaning,’” as he called it. He
said my labs were all normal.
Everything was normal with my body. Except the healthy fetus I had
in my uterus the day before had now vanished. This happened the evening
before, there’s no question in our minds.
 The doctor said, “It’s as if you’d never been pregnant. I can’t
explain that. Perhaps the tests were false positives, but I doubt that after
reviewing your chart. I can only guess. It is likely you lost the child some
weeks back, there was little pain or discomfort, and it went unnoticed. I am
sorry, otherwise you’re healthy and you can probably go home soon, after
we’ve done a more thorough exam. Then you can get some rest. Be good to
yourself and follow up with your doctor in a week. If you have spotting or
pain, come straight to the emergency room.”
I knew I had lost this baby the night before somehow. We were sad
for a while and grieved our loss. We’d been down this road once before and
knew how to heal. The soreness in my pelvis was minimal and completely
gone the following day. Anyone, any couple, who has lost a pregnancy
understands.
I followed up with my doctor the following week. She had no
answers. She did tell us we could try again if we like. We did try. Six months
later we were successful again.
The process and emotions were identical to the last time. I missed a
period, my home pregnancy test was positive, my doctor’s test was positive,
and I know my body. I know how pregnancy feels. This would be our fourth.
I was pregnant again and we were cautiously excited. My doctor warned,
“Let’s watch this pregnancy carefully.”
We did everything right. But on week twelve I woke with that same
sense of loss and differences in my body. There was no rush this time, I
knew what had happened. I made an appointment for an office visit the next
day with my OBGYN.
She was shocked and said she was sorry, “Linda, there’s no
evidence of a pregnancy or that one was even lost. There are changes in
your body when you lose a pregnancy. I don’t find any evidence that
indicates a pregnancy to begin with.”
She offered to send me to a specialist for a workup. We decided
against it. We were blessed with a daughter and decided that the three of us
made a family.
Now, I will tell you about the dream and the strange lights. About a
week before we lost our third ‘phantom’ pregnancy, I was locking the barn
and bringing in the dogs. It was just past sunset. Walking away from the
barn and back toward the house I saw a flash of blue light. Like a camera
flash.
I looked over my shoulder at what I first took to be the moon. I only
saw it for a moment and it just blinked out. I don’t know why, but it startled
me. I ran the last 30 yards back to the house. I did not tell my husband. I
had never seen anything like that before.
I had never seen anything unusual in the sky in my entire life. Seeing
this thing in the sky felt significant in some way I cannot explain.
The dream occurred a few days after the loss of the final phantom
pregnancy. In this dream, I was in a small room that had a medical feel to
it. But it was not a hospital. I knew that somehow. There was a small, dark-
haired woman there holding a fetus in a towel. She let me hold it for a few
seconds and I knew this fetus was mine.
I was suddenly panic-stricken with the thought, “This baby can’t
survive outside my womb!”
The dark-haired woman then made eye contact and I heard her
voice in my head comfort me. She promised the child was healthy and
would grow into a healthy and happy adult. For some reason I trusted this
woman and felt like I knew her.
 I begged her, “Please don’t take my baby.”
She said, “You agreed to this.” Then the dream ended.
I woke up feeling good the next morning. The loss was still there,
but the grief was gone. Maybe this was a mental mechanism to cope with
the loss. Whatever happened, I felt healed and whole. We’ve practiced birth
control since.
One final note, I strongly feel a connection between what I saw over
the barn and my lost pregnancies. As strange as this sounds, I’m at peace
with it. Maybe they were not mine to keep. Maybe I was just a surrogate
mother and incubator. Her parting words, “You agreed to this,” helped me
accept it.

ANALYSIS
I thanked her for her candor. This correspondence is a collage of three
emails and a telephone call. Linda was unexpectedly upbeat and didn’t view
the miscarriages as the loss of living fetuses because she believes so
strongly that they survived. She said she feels confident those babies will
live long, productive lives in a loving environment. She told me she was
hopeful to meet them again one day on this earth. I told her I hoped so too.
Her comment, “You agreed to this,” is documented in perhaps a
hundred emails I’ve received from others. The question is, was this
agreement made in this lifetime? Or was it perhaps made from the other
side in preparation for this life?
 Case #15
The Blue Light Special
Barbara
Louisville, Kentucky

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

I read your book a while ago and it took me back to something that
happened during my high school days when I dated a guy I’ll call “Joe.”
I’m 30 years old and from Louisville, Kentucky originally. After
college, I moved to Cincinnati and I write for their newspaper. I like
“Cinnci,” but Louisville is home. I think I’m pretty well grounded and not
prone to fantasy. I do not watch science fiction movies, although I have had
an interest in UFOs since this happened.
At the end of our senior year in high school, Joe and I were dating.
We had a strange experience while camping one weekend. It happened at
my parent’s cabin and it’s still fresh in my memory. I’ve only shared this
story with my mother and no one else. People can be judgmental.

Joe and I had known one another since 9th grade, and by the time we
were seniors we’d been dating steadily for a year. We discussed marriage
and we knew each other’s family. It seemed destined to be.
We didn’t use drugs on our trip to the cabin. On the night this
happened we hadn’t been drinking either. Those things had to wait till my
college days.
When we were seniors, we skipped school on a Friday to give us a
long weekend during the Memorial Day holiday. My family has a cabin on
lakeside property we own about an hour away. Another couple was
supposed to join us but backed out at the last minute, so it was just the two
of us. I’d stayed in that cabin dozens of times since I was a little girl and
never had anything weird happen.
It was unusually hot that evening, so we stayed down by the canoe
dock since it was cooler near the water. The mosquitos were not too bad.
There was a stone barbecue pit and a picnic table there, so we took our
cooler and grilled some chicken.
About 10:30 PM we were packing up to move back to the cabin
when Joe saw a bright light in the sky across the lake. It was shining
through the treetops. It was bright enough to reflect on the lake. The west,
where the sun had set, was to our right. A sliver of a moon was just off the
horizon behind us so it could not have been the moon. It would creep across
the treetops for a while and stop. Whatever it was, it was slowly moving
toward the east.
We both thought it was a helicopter because we saw a beam of light,
like a searchlight, coming down from the underside and lighting up the
forest below. But there was no noise. It got brighter and eventually popped
above the treetops and we could see it better.
It was a ball of light. It was a solid object that glowed, it wasn’t
made out of light, it emitted light. It changed colors at times from white to
blue and would grow dim for a bit and then get brighter. Joe thought it
could be sheriff deputies looking for poaches from a helicopter. We never
heard any gunfire.
Just like you and your friend experienced, it got quiet when this all
began. We put our stuff down and sat to watch. It stopped its eastward path
and sat still, changing from blue to white and back again. It felt like 30
minutes, but I glanced at my watch and it was almost 1:00 AM. We had
been watching this thing for over two hours. It finally shrunk in size right
before our eyes. It just blinked out.
We had been sitting on top of the picnic table during this and talking
about all kinds of stuff like graduation and college. Joe was considering the
navy. I just remember us chatting, but it didn’t seem possible we had talked
that long.
Our conversation had all but stopped after a while and we watched
this ball in the sky. I think neither one of us were scared, we were curious. It
really had our interest.
The embers in the barbeque pit were cold by then and it was darker.
We picked up our stuff and walked back to the cabin. I guess we’d talked
ourselves out because we didn’t have much to say on the walk. We made it
to the cabin in the dark. It wasn’t much of a party when we got inside either.
We did not fool around at all; we went straight to sleep and that was
unusual.
We slept until 9:30 AM on Saturday morning. When we got up, we
both felt fine, but the details of the previous night were a blur. Joe said he
must have fallen asleep. He swears to remember waking up shortly before
we left to make our way back to the cabin.
I have no memory of either one of us sleeping and I do not
remember Joe ever falling asleep either. I just remember us staring at this
light across the lake, then going to sleep back in the cabin after it blinked
out.
It was a hot and lazy day. By 1:00 that afternoon we were both
ready for a nap. We slept for two hours and woke up around 3:00 PM. This
was in the heat of the day. The nap felt good, but it wrecked our plans to go
tubing that afternoon.
 We decided to go home early. I don’t think either one of us wanted to
admit it. We didn’t want to spend the night there. It was just an hour drive.
We never saw the blue light again. We were home by Saturday
evening and just went our separate ways. We didn’t see each other for a
week. That was unusual. We talked on the phone now and then mostly.
We drifted apart after this trip and we began seeing other people.
Joe left for boot camp in August after graduation. There were no hard
feelings between us though. I think we both knew relationships were hard to
maintain at our age when apart.
Joe is still in the Navy and has been back in town, although I’ve
never heard from him. That was okay. I had moved on anyway.
I do have an occasional nightmare about the camping trip. It’s
always the same. They are always in color and have a reality feel to them. I
don’t mean that I’m experiencing it at the moment, but it’s like a memory of
a real event. I suspect a lot more happened than I will ever remember.
In my nightmare, I am in bed at the cabin and I wake up. It’s dark,
and I realize Joe’s not in bed. I feel spooked for some reason and I notice a
dim light from the hallway, like a candle flickering.
When I turn my head to the dark corner of the room my eyes focus
on three grey aliens about three feet tall. They have the big eyes, and they
are right out of the movies. They just stare at me. I scream and wake up.
It creeped me out so badly I’ve slept with my TV on for the rest of
my life.

ANALYSIS
Linda’s story is common in a lot of ways. She and Joe shared an experience
and drifted apart. Who’s to say they wouldn’t have drifted apart anyway? It
is possible they had an episode of lost time and were abducted. I think that’s
on Linda’s mind as well, although she doesn’t voice it other than to imply
more may have happened than she can remember.
I asked Linda if she had any health problems after the trip. She
admitted she did. She told me she had headaches that became a nuisance.
She was treated by a neurologist and they faded in a year or so. She had not
suffered from headaches before the trip, certainly not these severe.
She claims the pain in her head was so bad that she took prescription
medication and would need to lie down in a dark, quiet room for an hour
until they faded.
Her recurrent dream is telling. Linda could maybe benefit from
hypnotic regression to recover a clear memory of what, if anything, really
happened that night.
 Case #16
Old School 727
Kenneth
Burlington, Vermont

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

I enjoyed your book. I don’t read a lot of UFO related books, but I enjoyed
yours. I want to tell you about an experience my wife and I had in
Burlington. I know you worked for the State of Vermont and lived in
Montpelier, so I know you must be familiar with Burlington.
We live in the suburbs a few miles from campus. My wife and I own
a printing business we inherited from her parents.
This happened to us back in February 2008. We had joined some
friends for dinner on a Friday night. Afterward, we were headed home just
a few miles down the road. As you know there’s an airport in Burlington
and we live in a flight path, so we’re used to seeing and hearing aircraft.
I flew airplanes in the Navy for a couple years and had hopes of
being a commercial airline pilot one day. Eye disease and the sudden onset
of poor vision ended that dream, but we love our business, and everything
turned out for the best. I am home for dinner every night and can read to
my kids before bed, something I wouldn’t be able to do as a commercial
airline pilot or a Navy pilot for that matter. My vision problems are mostly
corrected with glasses so I can drive and read most fine print.
We said goodnight to our friends and parted ways about 10:00 PM,
we had to have the babysitter home by 10:30. It was a cold night, even for
Vermont standards. We each had a single glass of wine, no more.
 As we are winding our way down the hill toward home, we saw a
really weird aircraft. My wife saw it first and pointed it out to me. It was to
her right and it was low, I would say about 5,000 feet. Not too low to be on
an approach. But it was hanging in midair. I swear it looked stationary. It
was not moving slowly; it was dead still.
I pulled over and oriented the car where we could see it at the very
top of the windshield. I rolled down my window and didn’t hear any aircraft
noise at all. At that altitude we should have. We were off the main road and
just inside our subdivision, so there was no other traffic.
It was and old school Boeing 727 airliner. I recognized the three,
rear engine configuration with the center engine at the base of the tail.
They’ve been out of service for years and except for maybe Iran, they’re no
longer in use by anyone. Because of the lighting I could not see markings to
identify the airline.
In addition to its being motionless, it was brightly lit from the inside
and the landing lights were shining brightly too. I recall that the navigation
lights were proper. I did not see landing gear down.
What struck me most was its speed. More precisely, its lack of speed.
No jet aircraft could fly that slow on approach without stalling out. It was
traveling way below glide speed and should have dropped from the sky like
a duck full of buckshot.
Things got even stranger. As we watched, it began a slow drift
sideways! I swear it was in level flight but just moved slowly starboard until
it vanished behind buildings and trees. Airplanes do not move that way. It
was not in forward flight. The entire sighting lasted about a minute or a few
seconds more. It was brief but thrilling.
 It was the craziest thing I had ever seen. I think if my wife and I
were not so keen on aircraft we might have drove right past it without a
second thought.
By the time I reached for my phone it was gone from sight. I’m just
glad my wife was there to witness it because no one would believe me. We
kept it just between ourselves.

ANALYSIS
I have never heard a story like this before. Although the fact that the aircraft
was “brightly lit inside” rings a bell with the Christmas Store story in Case
#1, and others too, including my 1977 experience.
I wonder, could they have misperceived its speed? I think not.
This is a great example of a trained observer witnessing something
unexplainable. Had I reported this event it could be easily dismissed. I’ve
never flown aircraft. Back in 1977, I’d characterize myself as a “trained
observer,” but that was a very long time ago. People ask me, “What’s the
best way to see a UFO?” The #1 suggestion is to be aware of your
surroundings and your emotions.
Kenneth knew enough about commercial aircraft to recognize a
Boeing 727. I did some research and the last commercial 727 flew for an
Iranian airline in 1982. That was sixteen years before their 2008 sighting.
The Google photographs of the 727 have the distinctive three engine tail
configuration, just like he described.
I asked Kenneth if they made it back in time to get the babysitter
home, or were they late? He did not reply to my email. I thanked him for a
compelling and interesting story.
 Case #17
ET Can Cure?
Mandy
Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania

Dear Terry,
I saw your photograph in the back of your book. Are you still losing
weight? You know they can heal you? They can if you just ask.
They healed me from a serious blood disease I had since I was
young and was still living at home. They used to come and visit me too.
One night, when I was 23, I was in my new apartment and I felt like
they were coming. I can feel their presence sometimes and know when
they’re going to come for me.
I’m visited by the tall whites. They look like angels. I’ve never been
afraid of them. They came at times when I needed help. I believe they are
really angelic beings. I don’t think these are from “out there” in the
universe somewhere. I think they’re higher beings from another realm.
A week before this night my boyfriend and I were at a county fair.
They are big in Pennsylvania, especially out in the country. There was a
fortune teller there, or a psychic, whatever. This woman wanted $20 to tell
my future. I didn’t have $20, so my boyfriend offered to pay for me.
She was an older woman who spoke with an accent. She said she
was from Latvia. She didn’t read my palm. She just stared at me for a while
and looked at a shallow pan with a half-inch of water in it. She was
mumbling something I couldn’t understand and stared at that pan of water
for a couple minutes.
 Then she took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, “You will
have a baby with this man, (my boyfriend) but you will not marry. You have
a blood sickness. There are three guardians that watch over you. They’ll
come soon. When they do, tell them they need to heal you. They need to heal
you so the baby will not be sick. Ask them, they’ll help you.”
I believed her. I thanked her and we left. I could not get it off my
mind. Silly. I asked my friend to sleep over because I did not want to be
alone in the apartment that night.
A week later, I woke up at 3:15 AM and they were there. There were
the three of them by my bed. They were as tall as the ceiling and dressed in
white robes that glowed. Not enough to light up the whole room, just a soft
glow. They just have a warm white glow that’s comforting.
I remembered what the old woman told me, and I said out loud,
“Please heal me. Fix what’s wrong with my blood so my baby will be okay,
please.”
The glow got brighter, and I felt warm all over. That’s the last thing I
remember because I guess I went back to sleep. When I woke up the next
morning, I knew I was healed.
I go in for blood tests twice a year. My visit was a few weeks away. I
was so excited I called and asked for an earlier appointment. When they got
me in the following week, I told the nurse, “I’m not sick anymore.” She
wrote it down but didn’t say much, she drew a vial of blood and sent me on
my way.
Four days later my doctor called and had me come in for another
blood draw that same day. She called me herself two days later and told me
to cut my medication in half for one week, then a dose every other day the
following week, then stop taking it all together, then come back in for a
recheck! She wouldn’t tell me if I was healed, just that, “Your numbers look
good.”
The second blood test showed I was healed. She said it was a
miracle and I agreed.

ANALYSIS
I’ve been told this before. But I’m still reticent to call on “them” for fear
they will actually come. My weight problem has resolved and I’m back to a
more than healthy weight. I admit I am envious of the loving relationship
you have with your ETs. It reinforces my belief that they come in many
races and temperaments, just like human beings.
 Case #18
Astounding Similarities
Brian
Victoria, Australia

Dear Terry,
… However, my three experiences I can relay to you, which may be of
interest, are as follow:
1) When I was approximately 12, my brother and I used to go to
choir practice every Thursday evening in preparation for Sunday’s services
and on this one evening as we approached the church a huge silver disc
sped across the sky behind the steeple of the church. There was no sound,
just this flash but long enough to see that it had the typical saucer shape. It
must have been quite large because it dwarfed the church itself. Didn’t
really give it much thought after that but remained very interested because
my dad was always interested, and he used to cut out all the notices in the
two main papers he subscribed to, “The Age” and “The Herald Sun.” So
that always kept my interest up!
2) Much later on, say approximately around 17 or 18, a group of
friends (including my brother) all decided to go down to the beach at
Sandringham (a seaside suburb south of Melbourne City) in the cooler
evening because at that time of the year (summer) the evenings were always
extremely hot 85° F and it was very hard to sleep. No air-conditioning in
those days. We were all carrying on as you do when with friends and
suddenly a smallish fiery ball at very high altitude slowly crossed the sky
from south to north towards Melbourne. This was curious because this was
of course many years prior to Russia’s Sputnik. [Brian was born around
1940, making him currently 80 years of age in 2020] A couple of us pointed
it out to the others that showed some interest. Curious in itself but not
noteworthy really until about 10 – 15 minutes later we saw the same fiery
ball on the same path and altitude.
Now this immediately caught the attention of us all but that wasn’t
the end to it because 10 – 15 mins later another orbit, same path, same
altitude, same fiery-looking ball crossed the sky. That was the end to it
though and a few of the group left the beach becoming somewhat rattled by
the experience. Next day, one of our group contacted the weather
observatory at Carrum to see if they had weather balloons up that evening
— they hadn’t!
3) Many years later, say when I was in my mid-40s, two of my
friends and myself decided to pack up working in Melbourne and move to
the Sunshine Coast Queensland. At that time, we were all in high-pressure
jobs which were wearing us out and we all decided to make the shift to the
coast, sharing a house together until we found work and domiciles that
suited us all individually.
Taking a road trip together. It is incredible how many times this
setup sets the stage for an encounter.
In travelling around, looking at the sights we found this wonderful
spot very high up on the hinterland ridge which was at the back of the coast
and on that day, parked our car and walked to the fire emergency lookout
tower on the highest part of that ridge. What amazed me at the time was
that we were the only people there. All was very still and quiet. We climbed
the stairs of the tower and you could see the whole coast area — just
magnificent!
 However, as we looked around, suddenly all of us felt very dozy and
we must have all dropped off to sleep because before we knew it, we awoke
to find the sun setting in the west of our position. That was extremely
strange because we arrived a little after lunch and now it must have been
about 5 PM. What happened in those sleepy hours? Still don’t know to this
day.

ANALYSIS
What happened indeed? Probably a great deal. They climbed a fire tower
that offered a spectacular view and decided to take a nap? It is just odd
behavior, the parallels to the mid-afternoon siesta Toby and I took in 1977
are astounding.
In his response to my inquiry about the aftereffects of this event,
Brian shared with me something profound. He stated:
The tower experience cemented for me the direction I wanted to
pursue for the rest of my life, and I feel that this experience culminated in
this being my main interest for the future.
So that’s my experience, there have been no others that I am aware
of! Of course, if you think it may be of interest to you or your book then
please feel free to use any part or all of my experience.
Cheers.
Thank you, Brian. I appreciate reading your story. It’s unsettling to
find all the commonalities between people like you and I who’ve had these
experiences. Like your experiences, they weren’t a “one on.” It was a
continuing pattern of encounters with a few years of peace in between.
In Incident at Devils Den I described that impulsive afternoon hike
we took before setting up camp. By around 3:00 PM we stopped on a
limestone outcropping that offered us a beautiful view. As we lay back on
the cool limestone with a canopy of shade from a perfectly placed tree, we
both fell asleep. I was deeply asleep until Toby began kicking me and
yelling, “Get up, get the hell up.” Before I even opened my eyes, I could
hear the panic in his voice and knew it had to be getting late in the
afternoon. It was 7:00 PM. We were a four-mile hike through rough terrain
to get back to camp. Fortunately, we made it back just at sunset. We had not
even set up camp and did so with the help of my car headlights. I’ll always
wonder where those four hours went. But just a couple hours later, things
got much stranger.
Brian tells us he saw a “huge silver disc… quite large because it
dwarfed the church itself.” Followed by, “[I] Didn’t really give it a thought
after that.” He was accompanied by his brother but makes no mention of
debriefing or engaging in a discussion worth mentioning. Interesting too,
his father, just like mine, was keenly interested in UFOs.

Three middle-age men are on a high ridge and notice two conditions
in regard to their surroundings, (1) they were alone, and (2) “All was very
still and quiet.” The same scenario Toby and I experienced just seconds
before he asked, “Hey Terry, were those lights there before?”
The similarities to my own experience is unsettling. I bet it will
resonate with a lot of people. Whatever we are dealing with, it is a global
phenomenon.
 Case #19
Strangers in the Pasture
Byron
Johannesburg, South Africa

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

I am a 34-year-old mechanic in Johannesburg, actually we’re in a small
hamlet in the country a bit outside the city. The area is mostly ranchers who
did business with my father before me. Farming machinery and trucks are
the bulk of our business, but we can fix about anything mechanical. We
know most everyone. It is a family business begun by my dad in the 60s. It’s
me and my aunt and uncle now. We own a cottage attached to the shop and
we have a little land to grow our vegetables.
Now, this is hard to imagine but I have no reason to make it up. I
experienced it in 2014, and my memory is clear and there is nothing wrong
with my mind or my eyesight. Late after the harvest that year, an old
customer rang my mobile for some help.
He was stuck in his field with a broken down tractor. I’d worked on
it before and was familiar with the machine. He broke a belt and asked me
to bring another around to get him running. Easy job. I had the part, so I
grabbed my tools and drove over. I found him at the far south side of his
field about two kilometers from the house, right where he said he’d be.
His name was Duncan. He’s passed on since so I don’t think he’d
mind if I use his name. Duncan was an older gent, but stout and
hardworking. When I parked my truck, I could see Duncan was in a state. I
told him to relax, I’d have him on his way before long.
 But it wasn’t his tractor that had him worked up. There was a tree
line on the south end of Duncan’s property that marked the boundary
separating his property from his neighbor’s. Everyone is friendly so it
wasn’t a neighborly quarrel.
I was confused, he asked me to follow him without explanation. As I
followed him through the trees, he advised me to be quiet. I had a firearm
on my hip, Duncan carried his in his hand. That was a little odd, so I drew
mine as well. Duncan was not the kind of man to draw his sidearm unless
he suspected it might be needed. I was expecting some trouble but still had
no idea what the devil could be so dangerous. Troublemakers were the only
thing I could think of.
Just opposite the trees in the middle of Duncan’s neighbor’s sheep
pasture there were four silver objects about 50 meters away. It was the most
unbelievable thing I’ve ever seen. My first thought was somebody is making
a movie. I looked for cameras and there were none. It was just us and these
four things.
They were flat on the bottom, round on top like half a sphere, about
as big as my Range Rover. They were all spinning clock ways at the same
speed and were about six feet above the pasture, casting long shadows
eastward in the afternoon sun. There was no noise at all. They glinted in the
sun like polished aluminum. I saw no doors or windows and there were no
wheels or legs underneath that we could see.
They frightened me. I had to resist the urge to run back to the truck
and take off. But I didn’t want to alarm Duncan who was dealing with heart
problems. Besides, there had to be a logical explanation for these things.
I asked Duncan, “How did you find these on the other side of the
trees?”
 “They flew right over me while I was removing that busted belt,” he
said. He paused for a moment. He knew I had more questions. Duncan
continued, “I noticed their shadow moving across the ground from the
corner of my eye and looked up. They were no higher than my barn when I
first saw them, and they never make a sound. All four were grouped in a
diamond-like formation, like you see them now. They passed over me and
then dropped low over the treetops and into the pasture, still spinning like
tops. They haven’t moved since. What the hell are they?”
My mind was racing for a sane explanation, “They could be
satellites or military craft of some kind…?”
“They could be goddamn spaceships too!” suggested Duncan in a
whisper.
“No way in hell Duncan, whatever they are there’s a sober
explanation. I say we walk over there and check them out. I’ll show you
they’re not from outer space. They’re from the States or Russia, maybe
China, but there’s no such things as spaceships.” I replied with authority.
“I’m not getting close to them; I’m staying in this thicket. You go
over and I’ll cover you,” suggested Duncan, holding up his pistol.
“Cover me? Are you mad? You’ll shoot me in my arse you fool, put
your pistol away. I’ll do the same and walk over to look at them friendly
like,” I said.
“If you get into trouble run like hell and we’ll make it to your
lorry,” Duncan advised.
With more than a little false bravado, I strolled over there as casual
as you please. The closer I got, I could hear a mechanical whining noise
and felt the hair on my arms stand up. Whatever these things where, they
were generating a magnetic field. I could feel it.
 The tall grass underneath the things had matted down and twirled
together to form a pattern, like a crop circle. I wondered, “Am I watching
these things make crop circles?”
Duncan became impatient with me. He yelled for me to come back.
Instead, I decided to greet them. Looking at the one closest to me I yelled,
“Heita, is anyone there? We’re friends.” To my surprise the thing slowed its
rotation and stopped dead still. The other three continued to spin. And
never moved.
Then it lowered itself almost all the way to the ground but didn’t set
down. I still didn’t see any seams, doors or joints of any kind. Just a dome
of highly polished metal of some kind.
Now this is where things become harder to believe. An arch-shaped
portal opened on the side facing me. It opened like a camera lens
expanding to make a two meter tall doorway in an instant.
There, inside this thing stood a man in a sliver suit and boots. He
stood almost two meters tall and filled the doorway. His facial features were
human, hairless and maybe of the Mongolian race. He never smiled or
changed facial expression, but I heard him speak by thought transference. I
could hear him in my head. All fear had left me, and I was thrilled because
I knew I was witnessing something profound.
Never changing his facial expression or talking from his mouth, he
asked me, “Do you have a wife and children?” His tone seemed friendly
enough, but his question seemed a tad forward.
Speaking aloud I politely told him, “No,” and asked, “Where do you
come from?”
He replied immediately, “We come from a place near the star system
you call Orion, we are not here to harm or to help you. We are here to
observe. We need to make some repairs, we will be on our way soon,” he
said, adding, “We make an apology for our intrusion.”
I assured him, “No worries, take as long as you need.” It seemed
appropriate to ask, “I know how to repair machinery, can I help you?” I
strained my eyes to see what was behind him inside his vehicle, but the
opening was small, and the interior was illuminated, so I saw him mostly in
profile and nothing behind him.
He knew what I was thinking. He offered, “Would you like to step
inside and see our devise?”
I felt like a child begging permission. All I could say was, “Yes,
please.” But I was compelled to add, “I’m concerned about my friend’s
well-being. He will worry about me if I go inside with you. He might panic.
I fear his heart might fail him.”
The visitor said, “I understand, go back to your friend because he is
very afraid. Tell him we caused you no harm. Tell no one,” and with that
the door closed in the same fashion that it had opened. I stepped back a few
meters and it resumed rotating. Walking mostly backward, I rejoined
Duncan who was eager to hear the story and confirm I was not harmed.
Duncan shook my hand and we both turned to watch them from the
trees. He eagerly asked, “What did he say to you, was he friendly?”
I assured Duncan, “He was a gentleman. He apologized for the
trespass and said they needed to make repairs. He knew you were afraid,
and I should return and tell you he didn’t hurt me. They come from Orion
somewhere and said they were watching us. He also said to ‘tell no one.’”
Duncan had pulled out a small amber pill bottle and tossed a couple
tiny pills in his mouth. I assumed it was heart medicine. I asked if he was
okay and he nodded.
 “He was very kind to me, he even invited me inside,” I said proudly.
“I was worried, I’m glad you didn’t go,” Duncan said with relief.
“If they took you, what would I tell your aunt and uncle? What would
become of you?”
I reassured him everything was alright, and we were in no danger.
Duncan seemed winded. He paused to take a deep breath and said,
“He told us to tell no one? Who the hell would believe us? We’d be a joke
and the boys would never let us live it down. I say we tell no one, not the
constable, not your uncle and I’ll not tell Romina, no one.”
I agreed, “It’s a pact then and we’ll tell no one.” I was proud of
meeting a space man and bragged to my friend, “Can you believe it? He
invited me inside for a visit to see their machine.” Just as I finished my
sentence, we saw all four of these half-dome things slowly rise to about 30
meters and fly away at great speed. We were awestruck by their speed and
stood in silence for a few minutes, trying to grasp what had just happened
to us.
Duncan and I both had mobile phones, but neither of us thought to
take a photograph. That’s hard to believe too, but it never entered our
minds.
We followed the stranger’s advice and never told anyone what
happened that afternoon. We knew we had seen something not of this world.
Duncan claimed he regretted not going with me to see them up close. I don’t
think his heart could have taken it.
I fixed his tractor in short order and we parted. Over the next few
years Duncan and I would review the experience over a glass of whisky
when we could if we were someplace private. Like two old war mates we
went over every little detail of our adventure, recalling every second.
 Duncan passed away suddenly in 2017 of a heart ailment, he lived
to see 82. You’re the first soul I’ve shared this story with Mr. Lovelace.
Please keep it true if you put it in your book.
There is an interesting addendum to this story. Duncan’s neighbor,
Weston, came around to the shop and said he found crop circles in his
pasture. He showed me photographs, they were not the best quality and I
doubt anyone took him seriously.
I pretended to be amazed. He appreciated that I was interested, and
I confirmed, “Those look like real crop circles to me!”
Eight months later, well into the new season, he came by again and
asked, “Remember those crop circles? Well, that crop circle nearest to
Duncan’s land is just a round patch of dirt now, nothing will grow there.
Not a weed or a blade of grass. No ants or weevils either. I tossed a piece of
mutton in the center and even the flies want no part of it.”
I told him that was amazing, adding too, “I wish I’d seen whatever
did this to your pasture.” After two years the grass slowly returned and has
almost covered the bare spot. I never had any dreams about it, but I dream
about Duncan a lot.
Yours respectfully,
Byron

ANALYSIS
I thanked Byron for trusting me to tell his story. Except for a few
grammatical tweaks, the story is in his words.
Not every encounter is a horrific event. Byron’s story is a positive
tale with a happy ending. It’s interesting that he and Duncan remained
friends afterward and enjoyed reliving the event. Like Betty and Barney
Hill, they remained friends and preserved their marriage. My wife and I too.
So many others do not and it’s a mystery to me why.
It’s also significant that neither one thought to pull out their phone
and take a photograph. Toby’s camera was within reach when we had our
encounter. Neither Byron nor Duncan took photographs. That is a quite
common reaction.
 Case #20
Donnel’s Blimp
Tyrell
Chicago, Illinois

Dear Sir,
I read your book and you asked if anyone had strange experiences, they
were welcome to share them. Here we go and it’s a strange one alright. My
name is Tyrell, I’m a writer and community activist with a master’s degree
in social work (MSW). I prefer to not use my real name as I’m a visible
political figure in the City of Chicago.
In grade school, my family lived in “the projects” on the South Side
of Chicago from 1964 until 1970. I have many fond childhood memories
from there despite its deserved reputation for violence and poverty. As
children we didn’t recognize our poverty. I was raised by my mother and her
sister. There were six of us children and two adults in one apartment. I had
four brothers and an infant cousin.
We lived in the Robert Taylor Homes, a Chicago public housing
complex. More like a ghetto-high-rise apartment than a “home” in the
traditional sense. The “housing complex” we knew as “the projects” were
known for narcotics, violence and perpetual poverty.
Taylor was a dangerous place to raise a child. I was always with a
brother or two. I can recall violence a few times involving others, but I don’t
recall ever feeling afraid for my life. Things would have likely been different
if we’d run the streets or ran with a different crowd, I’m sure.
The only bad memories I have were the omnipresent cockroaches.
They were a constant nuisance. Otherwise our home life was loving and
nurturing, although crowded.
Mom impressed on us the need for education and the avoidance of
risks. I loved school and did very well. Some of my siblings did not fare as
well. Our lives are determined 50% by the choices we make, and 50% by
chance, circumstances and events outside of our control.
During my first year of high school we moved. Mom got a better
paying job at an electric assembly plant that remanufactured various
appliance. We were able to rent a large home in a better neighborhood and
school was a block away. I had no trouble adapting to my new
neighborhood or school and felt accepted. I played basketball and was
president of the chess club. I tell you this, so you have an idea of who I am.
When I was a senior, I was home one school night and we were on
the upstairs back porch after dinner, just talking and trying to catch a
breeze. It was late April and hot, all we had were fans. It was dark outside
and my eldest brother, Donnel, saw what he thought was a blimp. He’d seen
one once before at some sporting event and was sure that’s what it was. It
was suddenly right in front of us. We should have seen it before.
We all stared as this “blimp” slowly floated by. There were no lights
on it. None at all. It was lit on the underside by the streetlights. It was just a
few feet higher than the rooftops and powerlines. I thought it was
dangerously low. We didn’t see or hear any engines either.
We weren’t afraid. My mother said, “Listen.” We all stopped talking
and listened, expecting to hear something. What we heard was nothing. The
neighborhood was silent. “Donnel’s blimp” made no noise and we heard no
traffic noise either.
After Mom said, “Listen,” I don’t recall any of us talking either. The
blimp was cigar shaped and there was no undercarriage, windows,
advertising lights or navigation lights at all. It slowly cruised past the house
and disappeared. It must have dropped lower and been hidden by an
adjacent house, but that doesn’t make sense. It would be too low and the
distance between homes was only about 15 feet at the most.
Almost as soon as it was gone, we all just went inside and went to
bed. Despite the heat, I slept like a rock and had a hard time getting out of
bed in the morning. At breakfast that morning there was little conversation.
There was no mention of Donnel’s blimp. We didn’t discuss it until nearly a
year later.
We were driving to a Cubs game and my cousin spotted the
Goodyear Blimp and pointed it out.
While we watched the blimp, Donnel spoke up. He asked, “Hey, you
guys remember last April? We were on the back porch and I saw that blimp
go by? Remember, that crazy blimp with no lights?”
I said, “I think I remember.” Everyone admitted to remembering it,
but the details were fuzzy. There was an uncomfortable minute of silence
until someone said something about the game, and the subject changed. I
didn’t think it was unusual at the time.
Weeks later I thought about it for some reason. I played the whole
thing over in my head in slow motion, like a movie. Our reaction in the car
on the way to the game too. When Donnel brought it up I felt uneasy for
some reason. The details were a blur at the time. I can remember everything
clearly now.
Donnel and I spoke about it the next day. He didn’t remember it as a
big deal. I pressed him, “Is there some reason you don’t want to talk about
it?”
 He got angry. He said, “Yeah, we saw a stupid blimp from the back
porch, what the hell’s the big deal?”
I apologized and said, “All right, you’re right. Sorry, no big deal.” I
never discussed it with anyone else in the family. We never asked neighbors
if they saw anything that night. No one ever asked us. This was urban
Chicago, and no one noticed or cared. In retrospect it just feels odd. It feels
like maybe what we saw was not a blimp.

ANALYSIS
I asked Tyrell if he or anyone in the house had memories of strange events
before or after. He said “no” and described the blimp sighting as a “one-
on.” I thanked him for his story because it helps validate the same thing
we’ve heard before. Witnesses are reticent to talk about a sighting, even
among family members.
 Case #21
Someone’s in the House…
Mary
Omaha, Nebraska

Hi Mr. Lovelace,
My name is Mary and I’m writing you to tell about the bizarre things that
happened in our family home when I was 13. These things happened now
and then, until things came to a head and I left home to live with a relative
who was not a Jehovah Witness. I am 39 now, and teaching 5th grade in an
Omaha suburban school.
I never married or had children of my own. I enjoy children
vicariously through teaching. I have never been treated for any form of
mental illness except for mild depression following the untimely death of my
brother. I’ve been taking a prescription antidepressant for years and my
mood is stable. I do not drink or use drugs because they are contrary to my
religious beliefs. I did not make up this story for attention, that’s why I insist
you not use my true name. The suburban area surrounding Omaha is a
collection of huge districts pulling in students from farming communities all
around Omaha. Just “Mary” is fine.
I finished your book and found it deeply unsettling. I am not exactly
sure what it is regarding your book that made me feel so unsettled. But I
think I know. It was my adolescence in a demonic home where my family
had contact with what my parents believed were “demons.” We also
experienced poltergeist activity in the home. It was a literal nightmare for
two years.
 There is a family dynamic at play here that is somewhat unique and
relevant to my reactions and coping efforts. I was raised in a Jehovah
Witness (JW) household. We were dedicated to Jehovah and the cause of
bringing others into the Hall to worship with the congregation. That
involved “door knocking” to hand out our magazine, the “Watch Tower,”
with the aim of saving people by bringing them into the congregation.
Practicing the JW faith requires obedience to Jehovah and discipline to do
his work.
Each family member knows his or her role and is expected to
participate. It is a very structured upbringing. My social life was strictly
limited to friendships with other JWs. Usually, socializing together at
functions in the Kingdom Hall. Associating with people outside the
congregation was frowned upon.
Post-secondary education was not a priority, but if you wanted a
college education you could attend a JW institution that emphasized
religion and did precious little to prepare you to compete in the outside
world. I was fortunate to attend a small college not affiliated with any
religion and obtain a teaching degree.
This began when I was an average 13-year-old JW girl, little
different from any other. Dating was a complicated affair for us. You were
expected to only associate with congregation members and your time
together was always chaperoned. A boy and girl might date for five years
and marry before ever knowing intimacy on any level.
Notwithstanding the rigidity, I was happy with the same
prepubescent angst most feel at age 13. This was my environment when
supernatural things began to happen. I guess they would be called
“paranormal” today.
 My experiences were frighteningly like yours in so many ways. I
know this sounds strange, but when I read your book, I felt you were talking
to me.
At home, I had a room to myself. I was the youngest, just like you,
with two older brothers across the hallway. It mirrored your living
conditions in so many ways.
My father was a window washer and my mother a homemaker. Both
considered to be noble professions. Being a JW means preparing for the end
of times by living a good life and personally spreading the news about
Jehovah to others. JWs believe the end of the world is coming and we
should prepare and be ready.
There was also great satisfaction in knowing the rules, living within
the boundaries and having reasonable expectations about your future. That
is the allure of JW, the simplicity of life that came from blind obedience.
I am not here to disparage JW. I still love Jehovah although,
through no fault of my own, I eventually found myself shunned as an
“apostate” by the congregation and everyone in it, including my own
family. The word “apostate” simply means one that leaves their religion.
Everyone that leaves their place of worship to become a JW is an apostate!
I was expelled from the Kingdom Hall as a result of what happened
to me. I’m not asking you to harbor anger toward my former religion or my
family. I have no anger. I was the focus of these events that disrupted my
preplanned and orderly life, and I just want to share the facts. What I
thought was demon activity in our home was actually extraterrestrial
beings. I know that now.
One evening I went to bed at 10:00 PM. I was exhausted from a day
of hard work, door knocking and handing out our literature. Afterward, we
had fellowship at the hall and by 9:00 PM, I was exhausted and glad to be
home with the day over.
It was the middle of a Nebraska summer and hot as blazes. We had
no air-conditioning, but my father gave us all window fans.
We lived in the country. We had a five acre lot with a doublewide
home that was comfortable and spotless. My bedroom faced the rear of the
property. It was next to my parents, and my two older brothers were across
the hall. I had never felt spooked before in this house, except for an
occasional bad dream.
Less than a quarter mile behind us was an old cemetery. It hadn’t
been used since the 1920s and was so overgrown with weeds it was invisible
from our backyard. It had been back there my whole life and I never paid it
no mind. I certainly hadn’t visited it.
This hot summer night I went straight to bed and fell asleep
immediately. It was sweltering, so my window was wide open with an old
box fan leaned against the widow screen. The white noise of the fan
whirling was like a lullaby.
At 2:15 AM I woke up to lights outside my window. They were
shining into my room like a searchlight or a bright motorcycle headlamp.
There was just a single beam of light and I had no idea what it might be. It
scared me and I thought someone might be trying to break in.
I went to Mom and Dad’s room and knocked on the door. My dad
opened the door. He’d been sound asleep. He rubbed his eyes and asked,
“What is it Mary?”
I said, “Dad, I think someone’s in the backyard! They shined a light
through my window.”
 Dad didn’t hesitate, he said, “Shut your bedroom door and wait in
our bedroom with your mother.” In his pajamas and slippers, he grabbed a
flashlight and walked out the side entrance. We didn’t own guns. But my
dad was a strong man who did hard manual labor for a living. I think he
could handle about anything.
He came back in a few minutes later. “Yeah, there must be some kids
in the old cemetery because I can see lights down there.”
Fortunately, he did not find any sign that someone tried to break in,
but he called the sheriff’s office and made a report anyway. They agreed it
was probably just kids in the cemetery. They said they would send a car to
check things out. We all went back to bed.
I wasn’t satisfied. Something had been in the backyard and close to
my window. Dad saw lights at the cemetery by the time he got outside, but I
know they were in the backyard. My imagination ran wild with thoughts of
being raped and murdered in my bed.
The next morning, I felt exhausted, like I hadn’t slept. A week later
the light came back and woke me up again. But it was different this time. I
remember going to the window and just watching it. This time, it was about
100 feet off the ground and the light was blue and red sometimes, but mostly
all white. I watched it for a while and went back to bed. This time I wasn’t
concerned or afraid and I didn’t feel the need to wake anyone.
The next morning, my mother woke me up and asked, “Why did you
go outside at night with no shoes?” She was angry.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I told her, still in bed and
not yet fully awake. I was angry for being woke up and accused of
something I didn’t do. I had no idea what was going on.
 She was lecturing me about tracking mud and grass through the
house. “You’ll get a bucket and soapy water and clean these floors before
you eat breakfast.”
I pulled back my sheet and threw my feet over the side of the bed. I
was shocked to see my feet were muddy and there was dirt and grass at the
bottom of my bed. I was dumbfounded. At the moment, I had no memory of
the light in the backyard that night, I wouldn’t remember that until later that
afternoon.
Mom added, “And you’ll wash those sheets too!”
After I cleaned the floor and Mom had cooled down, we talked some
more. She was worried and asked, “Did you meet someone last night? One
of your girlfriends or some boy? What were you doing outside at night and
why didn’t you wear shoes? Did you even wear a robe?” she asked. This
conversation was more about concern rather than scolding me. I reassured
her I met no one. But I thought to myself, “No one I remember anyway.”
I had no memory of getting out of bed or ever going outside. I
thought about it and the only thing that made sense was sleepwalking. My
mother knew I didn’t lie.
But soon, there were more strange things happening. Stuff inside our
house was moving around all by itself. Either that or someone in the family
was playing a horrible prank. That wasn’t possible, not my family. We were
obedient and loving. None of us would ever do such a thing.
My dad’s wallet went missing. He found it two weeks later, it was on
top of the hot water heater. I would leave things in my room and they’d be
moved. Sometimes by a few feet and a couple times found in my brothers’
room or the bathroom.
 One night we were all at the kitchen table working on homework,
Mom was sitting with us doing her reading. We heard a noise and we all
looked up at once. A bowl of apples on the kitchen counter slid across the
countertop. Over the edge and crashed on the floor. We all watched it,
everyone except my dad who was in bed already. We watched this glass
bowl slide four feet and right over the edge of the countertop. Seeing a bowl
of apples move by itself as if pushed by an unseen hand scared all of us. It
seemed such a mean and malicious thing. We prayed together. None of us
slept well that night.

I began having awful nightmares about meeting tiny people in the

backyard at night. They didn’t hurt me, but they examined me medically and
I obeyed them. I heard them tell me “don’t be afraid” and I was in a
different place like a strange office. The “little people” as I called them
were nice to me, but I could never see their faces, they were just a blur.
They told me things I could never remember. This was terrifying. I do not
believe these were dreams. Not for one minute. This happened.
I finally told my parents and we all prayed. Things quieted down for
a while around the house, but at the hall, things were headed out of control.
These bizarre events had been happening for almost two years now and it
was impossible to keep it secret.
I had a girlfriend at school who was a Baptist. I liked her and
wanted her to bring her family to the hall and be our guests. She always
refused. But she was always nice to me. Years later it dawned on me, “She
pitied me.”
Between classes one day we were talking in the hallway by our
lockers. The hallway was packed with kids and we spoke louder than we
should have. I told her what was going on inside our house and my
“dreams.” I told her I did not think they were dreams. She wanted me to
talk to her pastor. I couldn’t do such a thing; it would be a betrayal of my
faith.
“Mary,” she said with genuine concern, “I think you may have a
demon in your home.” My church has dealt with these things before. They
can be driven out.
I gasped. The thought of our home being possessed by demons
scared me. I wondered, “Were they possessing me?”
Regrettably, this conversation was overheard by a fellow JW who
promptly told the elders I’d been discussing spirits with a non-believer and
had even discussed consulting with their pastor.
JWs don’t believe that ghosts exist as the disembodied spirits of the
dead. Mom and Dad went to the elders for guidance. It’s what good JWs do.
They did an “investigation,” which meant they spoke to all the other girls
that knew me and wanted to know if I was involved in “spiritism” or if I
read books about witches, spells and the like. We were all taught those
things are “detestable to Jehovah.”
During this investigation, someone falsely accused me of reading
books about “witches and casting spells.” Supposedly, I was seen reading
this book in a corner of the library by myself. I would never have done such
a thing and I was devastated to be accused.
While this was all coming to a head, my brother claimed he got up
to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and saw a three foot tall
“spirit” in the hallway. He screamed bloody murder and the whole house
woke up. He was convinced “something” was in the house.
 The next evening, I was at the Kingdom Hall with my parents. We
met with two elders who wanted to “get to the truth.” Their idea of the
“truth” was for me to confess my sins, be contrite, beg forgiveness for
allowing myself to be misled and perform an appropriate penance.
That was unacceptable to me. I told them the truth. I said, “I will
not confess to a lie. I don’t read such things and the Baptist friend is
someone I hoped to bring into the congregation. I invited her and her family
to come to the Kingdom Hall, she reciprocated and invited me to visit her
church. I politely declined.”
No one believed me. I was brokenhearted to leave my school, the
congregation and my family. I was sent to live with an “apostate” aunt in
Omaha. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I quickly learned
about the world outside the congregation. I was loved like a daughter. My
aunt taught at a small college and I was able to attend for little money. I
had a job, friends and enjoyed life. My aunt and I are as close as mother
and daughter. We attend the Church of Christ together. I never hear from my
family. I miss my brothers terribly.
I wish that were the end of it. It wasn’t. “They” left me alone for a
few years but now and again I’d see the lights outside my window at night.
I’d be exhausted the next day and I knew I’d been taken by them. The
Church also teaches that these things are demons from hell. I don’t think so.
Not at all.
Someday, soon I hope, the truth of their presence here on Earth will
be known and they’ll be accepted for what they really are, living creatures
superior to us in intellect that come from a faraway solar system in a
distant galaxy. But I don’t believe they are supernatural in any way.
Superior in some regards, but still the Lord’s creatures.
 ANALYSIS
I commend your courage and the ability to recover from that level of
rejection. Your story is another reminder of the spiritual aspect to this
phenomenon.
Your aunt must be an amazing woman. There is so much about
world religions I’m just unfamiliar with. I almost left your story out of the
mix because I was concerned about offending Jehovah’s Witnesses readers.
My wife was quick to point out that a book entitled “Devils Den” is
unlikely to make the JW reading list. Many people have told me “there’s a
spiritual component to all of this.” I think so too, but I don’t understand it. I
have had some poltergeist-like events myself and they are scary. Thank you
for sharing your story and I wish you and your aunt the best.
 Case #22
Never Accept a Ride From a Stranger
Delores
San Francisco, California

Hi Terry,
I enjoyed your book, but it was scary as hell. It brought back a memory
from 1968 when I was 15 years old. I was hitchhiking from East San
Francisco where I lived with my parents to Long Beach to attend a party.
It was a sunny Saturday morning around 9:00 AM. I’d had my
thumb out for 20 minutes and was getting discouraged. My smile and my
peasant blouse usually insured a pretty quick ride. We all hitchhiked back
then. Unaware there were numerous murders up and down I-5 of young
girls looking for a ride.
Finally, an older car, a silver car with white leather interior pulled
over. It was odd, but not too unusual for California where cars are a big
deal. It looked like a style from the late 50s. The ones with the fins. There
were not a lot of silver cars around at the time. This was shiny silver too,
almost like chrome.
I caught up to the car and sized up the driver from the open
passenger side window. If anyone looked creepy or gave me a bad vibe I’d
say, “Thanks, I’ll catch the next one, my friends should be by any minute
now,” and walk away.
The driver looked like a slightly-built middle-aged guy. He was a
small man, about the size of my younger brother. He wore jeans, a white tee
shirt, sunglasses and slicked back hair. What we called a “greaser look”
back then. A bit unusual, but he didn’t look dangerous and he smiled. He
asked, “Where you headed?”
I told him and he said, “I can get you close, hop in.” The car was
amazing on the inside. The front seat was a big bench style seat. I thought it
was vinyl, but it was nicely stitched white leather. The car was big too, and
the dash was all chrome and shiny. It looked like it just rolled off the
assembly line. He had some country western music playing low on the
radio.
I thanked him for the ride and told him, “My name’s Dee. Man, this
is a very cool car.”
He said, “Thanks.” That was it. He wasn’t talkative and kept his
eyes on the road instead of on me. That was a good thing.
I asked, “What kind of car is this? I don’t see any emblem or
anything to tell what kind of model this is. Is it a Plymouth?”
Without taking his eyes off the road, he just said, “It’s foreign.”
And with that, I immediately felt sleepy. Like he had slipped me
something, but I didn’t eat or drink anything and we were just five minutes
into the ride. But I wasn’t freaked-out, just tired. I just sat back on this
comfortable seat and closed my eyes. I felt like I dozed off for just a second
and he said, “We’re in Long Beach, where do you want off?”
I was shocked because I had no memory of the ride. Nothing.
Fortunately, I didn’t feel like I’d been accosted in any way. The same tune
was still on the radio and his eyes were still on the road and not on me.
I said, “The second traffic light would be cool, thanks!” That would
place me just a half block away from my destination off a side street. My
lucky day, or so I thought.
 As I got out of the car, I noticed a bank on the corner with a clock
outside. It read 11:38. He picked me up around 9:00, it must be wrong I
thought. This was a much longer ride.
I intended to look at the backside of the car as he drove away to try
to identify the model, but I was distracted by the clock. I felt spacey and
tired again. I was a little unsteady on my feet but walked to my friend’s
house. He was glad to see me. I was supposed to be there early to help him
set up things for the party and enjoy his company.
I told him I felt kind of “out of it.” He offered me a joint and a cup
of coffee. I settled for a cigarette instead and asked if I could lie down. I
slept for a while and had the most peculiar dreams that I wish I had written
down or told someone about. I can’t remember them and that still bugs me.
When I woke up it was after 5:00 and the house was filling up
already. I felt better and joined the party. I had a couple cans of beer and
passed on the marijuana, I still felt disoriented.
I promised my mom I would be home by midnight and left the party
early. I got a ride from friends and was home by 11:00 PM. I showered and
checked myself to see if there was any sign I might have been messed-with
in that car. I seemed fine. I went promptly to bed and slept nine hours with
no dreams.
The disturbing thing was that the car and this guy were just so
weird. Getting sleepy and dozing in a stranger’s car is totally out of
character for me. I always had my guard up when I was in a stranger’s car.
The ride took much longer than it should have; I have never been able to
figure that out. The fact that this memory is so crystal clear in my mind
after all these years is odd too.
 My boyfriend at the time was really into cars. I told him about this
weird car and the guy that picked me up. He didn’t have a clue. Foreign
cars of the day didn’t have fins. It could have been 12 years old, but it
looked so incredibly new. My boyfriend asked if it had “that new car
smell.”
I told him, “Yeah, kind of. The scent of the leather was really strong.
Even with the windows down.”
Lastly, I skipped my period the following week! I didn’t think I could
be pregnant. But I didn’t know what may have happened in that car. I had
my older sister take me to the doctor and I checked out fine. I had two
pregnancy tests a week apart. Both were negative. I was examined and
there were no tears or bruising that could be attributed to a sexual assault.
That was the last time I hitchhiked. I made my career in law
enforcement as a dispatcher. Maybe that’s what keeps this so fresh in my
mind. I’m retired now. I doubt I could tell you more than one or two things
about my life from when I was 15. But this memory is as sharp as the day
after.
I always refer to this as my “Twilight Zone happening of 1968.”
Have other people had these things happen to them?

ANALYSIS
Yes Dee, other people have had similar experiences. Not identical, but very
strange. I asked Dee if she ever considered hypnotic regression to try to
recover the lost time. Her response was short and to the point:
If “he,” or “they,” suppressed my memory, as I believe they did, it
was done for a reason. I can only assume it was done for my benefit. I’ll
leave well enough alone.
 Case #23
Hypnotta
Doug Auld
Hoboken, New Jersey

I chose to write this in narrative form because Doug is reticent to blow his
own horn. I met Doug earlier this year when he began a group discussion
panel on Zoom. It was an eclectic collection of experiencers and researches
in the UFO and related fields.
Our panel included Sev Tok who wrote an amazing book called, You
Have the Right to Talk to Aliens. Her book is filled with wonderfully
inspiring words. My favorite quote is on page 108, “When you are
achieving your purpose for this lifetime, the entire universe aligns with you
and provides a beautiful support system.”
We also had Nancy Tremaine on our panel. Nancy is a speaker and
author of Symbiosis and Preordained, both excellent books I highly
recommend. We discovered Nancy and I share a great deal in common.
Also, on our panel was the delightful Agnes from Austria who contributed
so much, the well-read Albert Wacha, our friend “Aurora,” me, and Doug
Auld. Doug organized and produced the show. We had guests like Grant
Cameron, Kathleen Marden and many others.
The second of four children, Doug Auld was born in Queens, New
York, 1953. His family moved to a rural New Jersey town when Doug was
a young child. He had a natural passion for nature and animals, often
visiting the lakes and stream behind his house.
Doug was a resourceful kid who enjoyed tinkering. He liked taking
apart and reassembling things. He learned to solve mechanical problems.
By the time Doug turned 17, he began attending a technical high school for
auto mechanics. His goal was to someday take over his dad’s car dealership
and follow in his footsteps. His education and experience taught him to
think creatively and solve problems by logic and by troubleshooting
mechanical things.
Surprisingly, these skills led Doug down another path, away from
automobiles and toward an outwardly contradictory path toward his true
passion. Doug discovered his instinctive ability for fine art and music.
A 1973 concert by The Doors was Doug’s catalyst into the world of
music. Doug began to study classical music on the piano and discovered his
innate ability to discern pitch. So finely-tuned was his ear that he became a
piano tuner with minimal training. His teacher called him “a natural.”
Doug and his brother Greg formed a band called East Agony and
performed their original music in the NY, NJ area. The band lived on
through the 80s in various incarnations. Doug wrote the music and Greg
was lead singer.
In 1976, Doug visited the Salvador Dali Museum with his brother
Greg, who also painted with oils. The surreal images of Dali were
extraordinary, and they haunted Doug. He was intrigued by the technique,
style, and story of the paintings. It became a near obsession.
Inspired by Greg, Doug bought his own brushes and paints and
decided to “give it a go.” Doug’s first painting was a portrait of the pop
singer Cat Stevens. On seeing his finished painting Doug’s family could not
believe their eyes. On his first attempt Doug discovered he was an artist
with a gift for oil painting. He intuitively captured images with paint as
skillfully as a photographer captures images with pixels. Doug had found
his true purpose. The would-be auto mechanic was a renaissance man.
 As Sev Tok said, “He began achieving his purpose for this lifetime
… and truly the universe aligned and provided the needed support.” Doug
began his art career as a representational painter. He produced 6 distinct
series of works to date. His paintings are much sought after, and he hopes to
hold a museum exhibit in 2021. I encourage you to visit his art website and
judge his talent for yourself at dougauld.com.
In a book devoted to aliens, UFOs, and the otherworldly experiences
of everyday people, what does a piano tuner, songwriter and classical
painter have to do with the paranormal?
As long as he can remember, Doug has always been drawn to the
paranormal. He grew up on Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits
and all the UFO and sci-fi movies of the day. He began following the UFO
community and its many witnesses and whistleblowers in military and
government circles. Doug also became an avid sky watcher, who captures
amazing objects with his camera in the night sky. After years of study,
eyewitness encounters and research, Doug became convinced the
phenomena is real.
He used his creative gifts of art and music to express his passion for
the paranormal in a screenplay. Doug just completed a stage musical,
“Hypnotta,” a fictional story, with an amazing plot based on true events.
It is interesting that Doug had never heard the word Hypnotta
before. He explains, “It was a gift, given to me when I woke one early
morning.” It was a rare moment when an idea manifests from a sleep state
to become something profound. The use of the word Hypnotta in Doug’s
show refers to the twinkling of conscious between the states of asleep and
awake. It is not a new concept.
Consider…
 Nine ideas that manifested in the sleep state:
Google. As a student, Larry Page had an irrational fear that he’d
been accepted into Stamford University by mistake – which
triggered an anxiety dream. ...
The sewing machine. ...
DNA. ...
Einstein’s theory of relativity. ...
Frankenstein. ...
The periodic table. ...
The structure of the atom, and undoubtedly Doug’s favorite,
Salvador Dali’s Persistence of Memory.
Inspired by experiencer Nancy Tremaine’s real-life encounters,
Hypnotta tells of the struggle between two 10-year-old friends, Nectar and
Jilly. Together, they witnessed an incredible UFO event while at school one
day. It was a profound and life-altering event for them both. It caused them
to question their belief systems. Because they dared to be truthful, they
dealt with the pain of being doubted, even being called liars by their parents
and peers. The ridicule drove them to seek to comprehend why people who
profess to love them cannot accept the truth. The lines between black and
white blur as they try to discern where truth begins and ends.
The show then brings you into the present day, 12 years later. It
recounts Nectar and Jilly’s journey to reconcile all they saw and
experienced and process the consequences. They attempt to find peace and
achieve harmony with their past. Their efforts take them to the airwaves and
digital media with their blog they call, ”Hidden Truths.” They investigate,
research, interview witnesses and experiencers, spreading the word that this
stuff is real and that too many suffer in silence for fear of scorn, but hope
exists.
 Through their work they seek validation, as well as vindication for
themselves and others. They work to expose corruption and conspiracy.
They seek to shed light on the darkness of lies and coverups by powers that
want to suppress the truth.
It’s dangerous work. But the friends know, the more visible they are,
the more vocal they are, the safer they are. They experience triumph and
tragedy so truth and justice may just prevail. Despite the drama, Hypnotta is
free of violence and foul language. It is not needed to tell their story.
Hypnotta is about hope. It was created to entertain, inform, and
bring to light the hidden realities of the spirit world. It’s the light that
illuminates the darkness of misconception regarding the paranormal. In
doing so, it frees us from fear.
Hypnotta is uplifting and inspirational much in the tradition of ET
and the Wizard of OZ. It’s Judy Garland and ET on a voyage to see the
Wizard. It’s just fun.
Join us and become a part of the production, please contact Doug
Auld at dougrauld@gmail.com
Please visit his art website www.dougauld.com
 Case #24
That’s My Boy . . . Ugh, Girl?
Timothy
Mobile, Alabama

Dear Sir,
I’m about your age. I lived in Mobile all my life except for two years in the
US Army, 1969–1971. My family has a furniture business started by my
granddaddy back in 1940. I’ve had a solid upbringing; I don’t drink or use
drugs and I’ve been married to the same woman for 38 years.
This story is going to sound way out there. It happened in 1986 –
1987, beginning in early summer. We lived outside the city in a semi-rural
area. We’d rather I not mention the city by name. My wife and I are both
members of a Baptist Congregation that we love.
I wouldn’t want this experience to harm our relationship with the
church we consider family or be seen as demon contact with a member of
the opposite sex or such. It was not a demon. It was not a woman either. But
its gender was 100% feminine. That at least is not debatable.
It was a really warm summer night. I was ready for bed and I went
outside for a quick smoke. I lay down on our porch swing, which is just as
comfortable as our bed and I was catching a little breeze to help with the
humidity. I remember lighting up a smoke, but I don’t remember finishing it
or putting it out.
I must have fallen into a deep sleep. The next thing I knew I was in
an examination room of some kind, but different. The exam table was built
to accommodate one very large person or two people comfortably. The
table was padded plastic and soft. I don’t recall anything else besides white
walls. A small grey man with a human face came into the room carrying
some kind of grey canister like a fire extinguisher. I could never get a good
look at his face. I couldn’t see it clearly. He just seemed like a little generic
guy.
He told me to stand up and undress, and I did so without a second
thought. When I was naked, he sprayed me down with some sort of aerosol
from this canister he held under his arm. I was fine with this too. Whatever
this thing was it had a smell like acetone, and it dried almost immediately.
He turned and walked out of the room.
I never once had an aggressive thought. I could have easily beat this
guy and got the hell out of wherever I was. But I didn’t. That’s unusual for
me, I’m not that passive, usually.
I sat back down on the exam table and felt, I hope it’s okay to say
this, “sexually aroused.” I didn’t understand it. I thought, “that man
sprayed me with something to make me feel like this.”
As I finished that thought a tall blond woman came into the room
alone. She was dressed in a white robe that went to her knees. She looked
human and about 20 years old and was a very healthy girl, if you get my
drift. She had green eyes and made eye contact with me while she took off
her robe. She never changed her facial expression or broke eye contact. She
let the robe drop to the floor.
She was gorgeous. Looking back at it, she was like perfect. I’d say
she was my idea of a perfect woman from her head to her toes. She had
shoulder length blond hair. It was weird that she had absolutely no body
hair. She did not have eyebrows or hair around her genital area or on her
arms. Her skin was very white. She didn’t appear to be wearing makeup.
She didn’t need it. We embraced, and as I held her, I noticed there wasn’t a
mole or a blemish anywhere on her body.
It’s so unlike me. I’m a religious man. I love my wife and can’t
imagine how this could ever happen to me. I tried to convince myself it was
a dream. That worked, but just for a while.
She climbed on top of the table with me. She was just as aroused as I
was, I’d say she was the aggressor. And well, we “did it” in the missionary
position. She was wonderful, except she never opened her mouth. She just
moaned loudly throughout the experience. That was unnatural. If it had not
been for her eye contact, I’d been concerned she was in pain. I guess
moaning from pain or pleasure sounds about the same. Her eyes were the
deepest green and seductive I’d ever seen.
As soon as we finished, she got off the table and picked up her robe
and just walked out, carrying the robe in her hand. The little man came in
and handed me my tee shirt, shorts, and slippers. That’s all I was wearing
when he picked me up. I can remember getting dressed, but after that,
nothing. I woke up in our bed beside my wife. It was so real. In a way it felt
like a dream. But at the same time, I felt violated. I was used somehow
against my will.
It was not how people usually have sex. It’s not how I would act
unless I’d been under the influence of some drug. It was crazy. I never told
anyone. But the memory’s still with me, and I’m ashamed to admit parts of
it are a pleasant memory.
I slept very well that night. In the morning I checked my shorts for
any sign of discharge and there was none. I’m married and what I did was a
sin. But I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty. It wasn’t my doing. Not all of it
anyway. The cannister of gas the little man held was maybe some kind of
disinfectant? Maybe it was something to make me excited? What happened
was outside my control.
About eight months later in 1987, I went to bed with my wife as
usual. This is going to sound hard to believe. I woke up around 4:00 AM
and the little man was in my room again. I was in a haze or twilight-like
place. I levitated off the bed by about a foot and floated down the hallway
and through the front door. I don’t mean an open front door. I went through
the damn thing feet first about three feet above the floor. Ten feet from my
front door was a silver, metallic egg-shaped thing the size of an RV. I don’t
know how I got into it, but I found myself in my night clothes sitting on a
padded plastic cube in a white room again.
Looking around, I never saw the little man again. The room was
empty except for my chair. A woman walked in. I don’t think she was a real
human being; I think she was an alien of some kind. I’m no expert in these
matters. Maybe you can tell me? She was grey and three feet tall. In her
hands she had a swaddled infant in a little white cotton blanket. She had a
face that was almost human, except it was flat and her eyes were black. She
seemed to be casual and friendly enough.
She spoke to me but never opened her mouth. I swear I heard her
inside my head, just as clear as if you and I were in a room having a
conversation. She held the child out to me, and I took it from her. I was
blown away by how little the thing weighed. I thought, “Is this child sick,
what am I supposed to do?” She spoke to me telepathically again and said,
“This is your child. She needs to see you, smell you and feel your touch.”
I pulled back the blanket that was hiding her face. I broke down in
tears. Surely, this was my child. She had the most beautiful dark eyes. There
was intelligence behind those eyes. Though she never spoke to me. But she
communicated with me by her facial expression. I was blown away by the
love I felt from her.
Concerned, I asked the matron, or whoever she was, again out loud,
“Is she sick, she’s so frail?”
The matron responded telepathically again and said, “The child is
healthy and well. She will mature into a beautiful being. You’ll see her
again. Know that she is well and that we thank you.”
I kissed her forehead and handed her back to the matron. The little
man came in and walked me down a short ramp onto my walkway just a few
feet in front of my home. As soon as my foot hit concrete, it flew away.
I was locked out of the house, but I knew where to look for the spare
key when needed. Key in hand I laid back on the porch swing and fell
asleep. I woke up at dawn and let myself back in the house. My wife was
sound asleep still. I lay down and joined her. I experienced mixed emotions
of happiness, satisfaction, and a sense of loss. I wondered, “Where will she
grow up?”

ANALYSIS
I’ve heard this story from both genders. It’s common. But how would we
know if they have the ability to erase our memory or supplant reality with a
screen memory? Just for argument’s sake, what if this has happened to
millions or billions of people? Toward what end? In our next case a sane,
solid, former military intelligence analyst with 16 years of active duty
military experience recounts a sexual encounter with a blue lady in his own
bed. In place of her head was a computer monitor.
 Case #25
Intelligence, A Hero’s Journey
Matthew Roberts is a former active duty US Navy, and former Office of
Naval Intelligence service member. Matthew was on board the USS
Roosevelt during the Gimbal event.
His book, Initiated, is available on Amazon and
it’s highly recommended.

As told by Matthew:
I first contacted Terry after reading his first book “Incident at Devils Den”
in 2018. The reason I decided to reach out to him was because of the
multiple subtle similarities between what he experienced and what I
experienced. What struck me about his story was his credibility. He had an
impressive resume, so I knew in reading it he had to be serious because he
was putting all that on the line. At the time I was writing my own book
about my experiences. Like Terry, I understood that all of this is much
bigger than myself. I understand how all of our experiences are stories
worth telling. Individually, they may not tell us a lot but when taken in the
entirety, they start to paint an undeniably credible picture of the
phenomenon. Collectively, the weight of the evidence over the last 100
years is undeniable proof of the phenomena.
I knew some people would never believe my outrageous story. There
were times in my life when I wouldn’t have believed it either; until it
happened to me. Even a few of the people closest to me, friends who
recognized me as the most levelheaded and trustworthy person they had
ever met, would change their opinion. I soon discovered who my true
friends were.
I realized that I had to share my experiences because I knew what
happened to me was very real, it was happening to others, and there needs
to be voices out there to share all of this. When my experiences began, I was
not okay for quite a while. Like so many others who’ve shared the
experience, it’s difficult to process an encounter with the inconceivable
without questioning your sanity.
There was no one to talk to, and no way to make it stop. These
experiences catch you off guard and turn your life upside down. I told Terry
he could choose an experience from my book to include here and I’m glad
he chose the one he did because it seems to be the most unbelievable and
yet the most deeply personal aspect of the truth of the phenomenon. In
talking about this aspect of the phenomenon, we reduce the stigma. When
all of this started for me, I was not a spiritual person. I thought religion was
nonsense. In looking back at that now, I realize how completely ridiculous
that is. The truth is that there is indeed a spiritual component to all of this.
Human beings have long believed in some aspect of the
consciousness surviving the death of the human body. Evidence of this
belief is supported by archeological data found in funerary sites in ancient
Egypt, and as far back as burials dating to 100,000 years ago.
Archeologists have unearthed entombments of early humans where personal
items and even floral arrangements were placed in the graves of the
deceased to take with them. They interred their loved ones with material
object that would be useless to a soulless corpse. It’s proof that they wanted
the cherished and respected members of the community to face the
unknowns of the afterlife adequately equipped. They believed their loved
one’s essence, consciousness, and identity were immortal. That meant that
one day they would be reunited on a different plane of existence or return to
this realm anew.
Mythology and religious accounts from cultures the world over
validate our experiences. Still, many completely dismiss it because we live
in a world ruled by peer review. I challenge you to show me a belief system
that humans held over the past 100,000 years that had no basis in fact.
Something drives these beliefs, otherwise they would have never become so
deeply embedded in the human psyche. Today, as I write this, I would take
all of the religion, superstition, paranormal, mythology, and lore and I
would tie it up in a nice little bow under the quite normal and natural title
of “consciousness.”
Once, just to take my mind off things, I decided to go to an after-
work get-together with some coworkers. In the haze of not getting enough
sleep, I forgot to bring civilian clothes to work with me, so I had to go home
and change. I came home from work in a rush and changed quickly. I got
dressed but didn’t like the shirt I chose, so I changed it. Feeling rushed, I
threw it over the closet door. It’s not something I ever do because I like to
keep the closet door closed and you can’t do that if there’s something
hanging on it. It’s sloppy, I’m meticulous and averse to clutter and disorder
in my bedroom. Like so many other people who’ve had encounters with the
paranormal, I must sleep with my closet door shut.
I got home late that night and recall being exhausted, so I took a
shower and went to bed. I was too tired to bother with hanging up that shirt
that still hung on my open closet door. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” I
thought to myself as I looked up from my bed at the open closet door. This
wasn’t the type of thing I would normally do. It was out of character for me.
I had adopted this philosophy about life. Whenever I was tempted to
procrastinate, I took that as my cue to take immediate action. Nonetheless, I
threw my head into the pillow and fell asleep rather quickly.
At some point that night I woke up. I could feel a hand touching my
arm. I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was my window off to the left. I
was in my room, in my bed, on my back. I was looking at the trim around
my window as I thought about how I must have snored myself awake. I
inevitably do this when I sleep on my back. I am a stomach sleeper because
of that. I then noticed that my vision was slightly blurry. I could not see the
detail in the trim around the window anymore. I tried to raise my hand to
my face to rub the sleep out of my eyes and realized that it just flopped there
at my side. I couldn’t move. I glanced down toward my hand and noticed
that I was no longer under my comforter. My body felt very heavy.
I then woke up fully because I felt a hand on my right arm just below
the shoulder. I should have been scared out of my wits, frightened that there
was someone in my room and they had their hand on my arm. But my
thoughts and emotions were inappropriate to the events that unfolded. I felt
no fear. It was as though my emotions were also paralyzed. I fought to turn
my head to the right. As I did, the room became even more blurred and the
grip on my arm became tighter. I turned my head slowly and scanned the
room. I saw my shirt hanging on the open closet door. By the time I was
able to get my head turned to the right, my vision shifted from blurred to
completely out of focus. I squinted and saw a dark shadowy outline of
someone standing over me bent slightly at the waist. They moved closer,
looking into my face. I saw two arms, a torso, and a head. As soon as I
processed what I was seeing, the very tall shadowy figure began to slowly
light up with this golden glow.
I saw the being lean back and away from my face. I saw the golden
glow reflect on the walls behind this figure. It was as though this figure had
a light source on its back that became more luminous as it slowly began to
warm up. The figure began to turn its head toward my window. Soon, the
light became blinding and then became organized into rays of golden light
that were extending out of the indistinct dark head of this being standing
over me. All the while its hand was on my arm. I saw the being turn its head
back in my direction. Abruptly, an image appeared over the face of this
being. It was the image of a face. It was as though there was an extremely
high definition screen, similar to a computer monitor. It covered the beings
face and displayed benign images of people I knew. I was aware these were
projected views and not the genuine individuals portrayed.
The faces were so sharp and well defined that it occurred to me I
had never seen a device with this type of clarity before. I never imagined a
device capable of such precision existed. It stopped on a picture of an ex of
mine from 20 years ago. It wasn’t as though I could have thought this image
was this person in any way. While it was crystal clear, it was plain to see it
was not the true face of the person I was seeing. It was fake, a projected
image to deceive me. You can’t hold a tablet up to your face with an image
of someone else and be deceived or even pretend that it’s actually the
person. In looking at this scene and taking this all in, I thought to myself,
“What is going on?!” I drifted back to sleep. Just before I lost
consciousness, I felt the heavy weight of a large being crawling onto my
bed.
I began to have a sexual dream with me and my ex from 20 years
ago. In the dream, it was me and my ex surrounded by nothing but complete
darkness. There was no floor, no bed; there was nothing. I was barely
asleep. The dream seemed so real, as though I was actually feeling the
things that were happening in the dream. I opened my eyes as I started to
regain consciousness.
 I could see that there was a female on top of me. I was back in my
room out of the dream. This female had blue skin. I could see her legs were
straddling me. My hands were on her legs and I could feel her skin. It was
not like human skin. It was clearly thicker and felt tighter than ours. I could
see a belly button. I remembered seeing that there was even a slight layer of
fat under her skin because I could see the cellulite dimples even though she
was thin and had an amazing body. She was wearing a top. The top had red
and silver stripes in a vertical zigzag pattern and appeared to be made of
the most impossibly tiny beads. It appeared handmade, and of the finest
craftsmanship. The way her top glistened in the light of my TV made me
think that the beads may have been tiny rubies and actual silver beads or
perhaps some other precious metal.
As I scanned up toward her face it was a blur, although much
clearer than before. It was obvious that she did not want me to see her face.
I could only see the outline of her face and a very large black mass around
her head. I couldn’t make out what this black mass was. Maybe she had a
lot of black hair on her head? Maybe she was wearing something on her
head and perhaps that mass on her head is some kind of technology?
Maybe it was the technology she didn’t want me to see? Perhaps her face is
very alien and would be shocking if I saw it? Maybe she had giant black
wings? Or it’s a combination of all of that. I wasn’t really sure, but as I
write this now, I know what it was. Whatever was going on up there she
wasn’t going to let me see it. I was in and out of this dream state several
times as the experience wore on.
At one point, I felt her breath on my face. I remember thinking that I
couldn’t believe this was happening. I knew even in this state that she was
not human. I knew there must have been some craft parked in the backyard.
In my dream I did climax, obviously. She wasn’t going to leave without that
I’m sure.
The next thing I remember was waking up the next morning. I was
once again looking at the window when I woke up and daylight was coming
in through it. I went downstairs in a daze, went out to my truck and stood
there dry heaving. I wanted to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach. I
climbed in my truck and lit a cigarette. I was confused. I was angry. Most of
all I was terrified. I was raped and there was absolutely nothing I could do
about it. I had zero recourse. It was sinking in that there was nothing that I
or anyone could do about it. I couldn’t even tell anyone. I found all of this
very, very, deeply disturbing. I felt devastated. I wanted to understand all of
this. I was just raped and denied any empathy or meaningful
communication.
I began to unwrap the experience in my mind. How could this being
have known about an ex and the intimacy we shared 20 years ago? Why
was there a complete disregard for me in this encounter? What does this
mean for humanity? I may have a child or countless children somewhere in
the universe that I will likely never know or even meet. The thought
occurred to me that this has been going on a long time.
Religious art and even cave paintings have always depicted deities
and divine beings with golden halos around their heads. Golden rays of
light extending from the head. It was exactly the same light show I had seen
as this being stood over me. The whole story of fallen angels having sex
with the daughters of men went rolling through my head. This is a fucking
nightmare!! Were we just fuel for some kind of slave race and didn’t know it
yet? What - the - f**k - is - going - on?!!
 I began to comb through the entire experience. My mind was racing.
Lying there paralyzed…that feeling of heaviness…feeling like my body
weighed a thousand pounds. This was what medicine would describe as
“sleep paralysis.” The dream state surrounded by nothing… I’ve
experienced that before… This isn’t the first time this has happened to me.
Tears began rolling down my face as I recalled another time when I felt the
same heaviness. I started shaking. I was terrified as I recalled these
experiences, I thought were just weird dreams in my past. Now I know
better.
For a long time after this experience I was not okay. I was a 39-
year-old man that slept with the lights on like a small child. The dark
terrified me because it was a place where the comfortable reality to which I
was accustomed no longer existed. The nighttime terror was exhausting and
at times I couldn’t bring myself to go to sleep because the second I did; the
darkness would creep in. Reality would crumble like the deteriorating walls
of some old, dark haunted mansion and come crashing down around me.
Whether it was waking up to a room of beings that were clearly not human
or some night terror where I woke covered in so much sweat that it looked
as though I had been standing in the shower, sleep was not something I
looked forward to. The emotional crisis and terror I felt saw to it that I
spent the next several months curled up in a ball on the floor of my
bedroom with my teeth chattering, shivering, and crying like a baby.
As I sit and write this to be included in Terry’s book, I want readers
to know that I have never been better than I am right now. I am reminded of
my favorite bit of Greek mythology in the form of “The Homeric Hymn to
Demeter.” In the hymn the goddess Demeter wanders the earth disguised as
an old woman. She decides to repay the Lord of Eleusis and his family for
their kindness toward her. To repay them, she decides she will turn their
youngest son into an immortal god. To accomplish this, she begins
delivering the boy sacred rites by coating his body in ambrosia and placing
him in a fire to burn like a log every night, burning away his mortal soul.
The boy’s mother discovers this one night and screams. Demeter is enraged
by her reaction. Demeter throws off her disguise and chides the boy’s
mother, “Silly mortal, unable to tell the difference from good fortune and
bad.” Soon Demeter is standing enveloped in her immortal beauty as her
divine light shows like a bolt of lightning illuminating the entire palace.
These days, I can see the truth of these experiences in all the world’s
religions, mythology, art, movies, and music. It’s everywhere. I see it in the
works of ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome. I found it most recently in the
humanist art and Neoplatonism influenced perennial philosophy movement
of the high Italian renaissance. Know that if you are experiencing these
things associated with the phenomenon that you are going to be alight.
Once I worked past the fear, I realized that “I AM,” and that this is the most
powerful phrase ever spoken. It can be found in two of my favorite songs,
“Heaven” and “The Adventure,” both by Angels and Airwaves. In the wise
words of William Walker Atkinson, one of my favorite authors on the subject
of the phenomenon and the associated pain, “All Life follows this plan—the
pains of labor and birth ever precede the Deliverance. Such is Life—and
Life is based upon Truth—and all is well with the world.”

ANALYSIS
Matthew’s restrained by law from telling us his complete story. I’m not a
psychologist, so I can only imagine how difficult it must be to carry this
burden. I kept mine secret for 40 years. Matthew is still a young man.
Entanglement with US Naval Intelligence or the FBI could be a disaster
affecting his future career, peace of mind and emotional health. It might
also hinder his ability to heal from a traumatic sexual assault.
There’s also the lingering question. What was the purpose of this entity’s
encounter? It was likely to produce a partially human hybrid. It’s painful to
wonder if your child, even if only half human but your flesh and blood none
the less, exists on some other plane of existence. A problem many more
women than men report, but the true numbers will never be known.
 Case #26
Another Veteran’s Story
Gregory Perkins
Huntington Beach, California

Dear Mr. Lovelace,

Greetings to you, hopefully all is well! Thank you for sharing your deeply
personal story regarding the strange events, which have seemingly greatly
impacted you and Toby throughout both of your lives. Please accept my
condolences regarding the loss of Toby. I understand that you lost touch
after the incident, according to your book, but I would not think that would
make his passing much easier, considering the events you shared. Aside
from that, speaking from experience, losing brothers-in-arms (those with
whom we served in the military)—irrespective of how much time passes—is
always impactful. Thank you for your service, sir. I have served 14 years
and 2 months in the U.S. Army as an enlisted non-commissioned officer
(1994-2007).
I have experienced events of “high strangeness” which I would like
to share; I am hoping you will not mind. I have had a fascination with
paranormal topics for most of my life specifically because of events I
experienced beginning from when I was approximately four years old.
I will share what I think was the most impactful to me from that
time. I believe around late spring-early summer of 1980; I was playing
outside in my maternal grandparents’ garden. This was not a small garden;
it took up roughly a quarter of their property. They lived in a residential
area in a section of California known for its many vineyards and wineries.
My mother’s side of the family were agrarian and blue collar laborers. My
grandparents grew mostly grapes with a decent-size patch of vegetables.
I remember playing in the dirt in their small corn patch one day. The
sun was shining, and it was warm. Suddenly, something fell out of the clear
blue sky and bonked me on the head. It hit hard enough to cause me to cry
but not hard enough to cause any serious damage. It was a small dark
object with a filament type line attached to its center. It did not touch the
ground; the small object was dangling just above the ground by this line. I
traced the line up into the sky where it appeared to come from nowhere.
There was no visible source. The line appeared to literally come out of the
clear blue sky.
I remember running into the house to tell my grandma that
something hit me on the head in the garden. She comforted me, but also
said that’s what I get for being disobedient; the garden was supposed to be
off limits. She sent me back outside to play.
Of course, I went straight back to the garden. I climbed over the
small fence and loitered at one end of the garden. Somehow, I knew that
whatever it was that bonked my head was still around. I took off running
through the garden as fast as my little legs could carry my disobedient little
butt towards the other end. The objects were dropping out of the sky one by
one attempting to bonk my head again. I moved just fast enough that the
objects would miss and fall behind me. I was looking over my shoulder and
could see them miss me which made me squeal with laughter. I ran clear
across the garden out maneuvered three attempts to bonk my head. I
glimpsed the first two objects being retracted back up into the sky as I ran
on. After the third object fell behind me, I turned around and grabbed a
hold of the filament. I pulled myself up and set my little feet on top of the
object dangling at the end of the line. I swung on the line, waiting for it to
pull me up to wherever it came from. It never did. The line stayed stationary
as long as I was hanging on to it. I remember feeling some bounce as the
filament stretched some with me playing on it. After a while, I became bored
and let it go.
As soon as I let go, the object retracted back into the sky. I never
saw the source—or, perhaps better stated, I do not remember ever seeing
the source. Mr. Lovelace, I personally know there are things all around us
that we cannot see. However, “they” watch us for sure.
As far as I can remember, I was never approached by
“monkeymen.” They did not approach me in that form. When I was young,
they would take the form of clothes on a hanger. A set of clothes or a jacket
would approach me, with no visible body or limbs. Just the clothes, with the
hanger sticking out as the head. I called them the “hanger heads.” I’m sure
the monkeymen were scary but try to imagine your reaction to empty clothes
on a hanger coming to get you. In retrospect, I do not think they meant to
frighten me. They were trying to appear as something benign and non-
threatening. Dude, big fail.
To be completely honest, as far as I can recall, I never actually saw
“them.” At least not their true physical forms. A very small part of me
wants to see them at least once so that I know I’m not crazy. But perhaps
I’m fortunate to not have seen them or to not remember seeing them.
My wife and kids were recently on a long trip to visit her family back
in Iowa. She decided to make the long drive with our kids to save on
airfare, and to avoid the hassle of air travel in the current COVID-19
environment.
Unfortunately, I could not go. I had just started a new job and had
no vacation time accrued. So, I stayed home with the dogs. We have three
large, male English setters. We generally do not let them in our bedroom—
even though they are house trained—because their hair gets everywhere.
One night, they were running around the house and back and forth
up and down my bedroom hallway half-heartedly barking every few
moments. As if there might be something there to bark at but not totally
sure. They kept me up because I kept getting out of bed to see if I could
figure out what was antagonizing them. I could find nothing. It could have
been a deer or stray dogs on the property. I reassured myself it was
probably nothing, but I still felt a bit spooked. I chalked it up to being
alone.
The next night, they started the same behavior after I went to bed.
This time was different though. I could feel myself being forced to sleep. I
could feel the familiar tingles running down the back of my neck. As I
fought it, the tingling would intensify. I went from wondering, “Is there
something weird going on with my neck?” to, “Yep, there is definitely
something happening.” I wasn’t necessarily afraid, but damn if I did not
fight it anyway. You can feel their annoyance when you do not fully
cooperate. Instead of feeling worrisome about their annoyance, for some
reason, it eggs me on. Their agitation makes me do it even more. They
finally got me into that place between awake and asleep.
At this point, I felt something or someone crawl onto my bed with
me. I tried to move but was completely immobilized. I fought incredibly
hard and managed to start breaking their immobilization. I moved my arm,
but it was extremely difficult. It was analogous to moving through soft clay.
The harder I fought the more they turned up the juice on whatever it was
that they were using to keep me still. I was able to move regardless.
 As soon as they realized I was breaking free, they sent a person into
my dream to talk to me. It was a light-skinned Black lady. I said to her, “So
this is the form you appear in.”
She did not respond. She just started to walk away. I asked, “Since
you’re here, can you run your fingers through my hair?”
She stopped, turned to look at me inquisitively, and said, “Yes.” I
could feel fingers stroking my hair. She then knelt down beside my side of
the bed and said these exact words: “We would love it; it would be very
helpful to us if you could bring home moon focus.”

Immediately afterward I woke up and was able to move freely again.

I picked up my iPhone and searched for “moon focus” but did not find
anything I felt was relevant. This happened only a few weeks ago. I have no
idea what “she” was talking about. Mr. Lovelace, do you by chance know
what is meant by “moon focus?”
Anyway, after that night, my dogs slept in the bedroom. The largest
dog slept in bed with me. They didn’t come back while our dogs were with
me. I know they have wild technology and can do crazy things, but I’m not
convinced they can safely deal with me and the three dogs together.
Although, I could be wrong. Also, I sense that they are concerned that their
technology was not 100% effective on me. It was 90% – 95% effective so it
may as well be 100% for all the good fighting being retrained did me. But
they find that 5% – 10% concerning. That 5% – 10% difference may
account for the fragments of memories most of us carry.
There is a lot more, but I think this is enough for now. I want to
conclude by thanking you again for sharing your story. Your book was well-
written and informative.
 I am taking you up on your offer to reach out to someone. I don’t
talk about this mess with people generally. I keep this all to myself.
Somehow, that seems counterproductive. But if I say anything, people think
I’m nuts, I lose credibility, people laugh and joke, etc. I talk to my wife
about it and she is understanding. But her understanding only goes so far
because she’s also very pragmatic. She tends to only concern herself with
things over which she has control. I’ve reached out to MUFON about my
experiences. They sent me a form to fill out. Unfortunately, they only care
about those experiencers whose experiences meet very specific criteria. In
other words, they gravitate towards those who have the most sensational
stories. My tale is definitely weird but by no means is it earth-shattering. If I
do not hear from you, I wish you all the best. I’m glad your ordeal is over,
Mr. Lovelace.
Most Sincerely,
Gregory

ANALYSIS
I emailed Gregory back immediately. So much of his story hits home with
me. As earlier discussed, people have reported entities appearing to them in
their childhood as benign beings. For me, it was little circus monkeys. For
my cousin Gerald, it was clowns. People have reported bunnies, orbs,
racoons, Disney characters, owls, “little grey men,” and on and on.
I asked Greg’s permission to share his story because I thought it was
important on several levels. We’re both veterans, and like Matthew Roberts
in the previous case, we both have military service in our history and
experiences in our home with a female non-human entity. Both of us
experienced disguised beings as young children.
 His experience at his grandparent’s property with the filament of
line dropping down from a clear sky reminded me of my own backyard
encounter in 1963. Was he abducted? I can only speculate, but I would say
it’s likely.
I asked Greg if there was more to his story he’d care to share with
us. The following is his kind reply:

Hi Terry,
Thank you for responding to my email. I didn’t think I would get a response
so quickly. I don’t mind if you use my story for your book, if you think it’s
worthwhile to include. I’ll share whatever details I can remember. I do
agree with you that “they” follow us for a lifetime. I know that they are
always there. I can occasionally feel their presence—they make it known.
As far as I can remember, though, I have never actually physically seen
them.
As to your questions: Have you woken with weird wounds or bruises
in the past six months?
Short answer, no. That’s a detail that seems critically different from
many encounter stories. I do not ever remember waking up with or
otherwise receiving unexplainable wounds, bruises, or marks; not in the
last six months nor throughout my entire life. Aside from no unexplainable
marks or no memory of unexplainable marks, my encounters seem to be
similar to those that others experience. Why? Good question.
Have you suffered from a vague anxiety that “something big is
coming?” I do have a feeling that “something big is coming.” But I don’t
have anxiety about it. Oddly, the feeling doesn’t worry me or bother me in
the least. It’s not ambivalence, I do care. I’m not sure how else to explain it.
 I don’t mind sharing more information. The encounter in my
grandparents’ garden is not the weirdest event. A lot of my memories as a
child are with my grandparents. I was born in 1976 and spent a good bit of
my early childhood with my grandparents in California. This is why my
experiences were centered around my grandparents.
One evening, I was lying on the couch watching TV. The set was an
old-school, box color TV with the rabbit-ear antenna, on-off pull switch,
and UHF click dial as well as a VHF click dial.
Grandma was sitting on the end of the big couch doing her
crossword puzzles under the table lamplight. My grandpa was in the
kitchen. I heard his footsteps in the kitchen coming towards the living room.
I sat up and twisted partially around to ask him a question as he was
coming through the doorway between the kitchen and living room. However,
my question was never asked because I immediately recognized something
bizarre was happening.
As I turned and looked at Grandpa, he was completely frozen in
place, in mid-stride. One foot in the kitchen, the heel of the other foot
planted in the living room with toes off the floor. His mouth was wide open
as if he were speaking. Despite his mouth being opened, his lips and eyes
were crinkled in a way as if he were amused. It was the same effect as
looking at a single frozen frame of movie film.
I looked over at my grandma. She was frozen in place under the
lamplight with her pen, still and unmoving, pointed into her puzzle book. I
looked back and forth between them trying to reconcile what was
happening.
A few moments later, they vanished in the darkness as the lights and
TV went off. I was left sitting on the couch in complete darkness whereas
just a moment before, my grandparents were fully animated and into their
evening routine.
I was terrified. I didn’t know what time it was when this first began
and when all the lights went out. I have no idea if there was missing time—I
suspect there may have been, but my position on the couch hadn’t changed.
Aside from cowering underneath the afghan in paralyzing fear, I don’t
remember anything else from that night. I also don’t remember asking my
grandparents about it. I remembered it happening at some later point in my
life.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say how long before or after the garden
incident this took place. I’ve had unbelievable things happen to me
throughout my life.
Another example. My dad’s parents had a four-foot above ground
swimming pool. One day I was there, I don’t recall my exact age, but I was
a kid. Not knowing how to swim and having very little experience with
water outside my routine bath, I jumped into water that was over my head.
I sank like a stone to the bottom; my feet were on the pool floor. I
turned around to try to get to the ladder but couldn’t reach it. I was
struggling to get to it.
But I wasn’t panicked—because I was breathing the whole time
while submerged underwater. One of my uncles (my Uncle Joe, I believe)
eventually lifted me out of the water. There I went, taking off to the next
thing as if nothing happened.
Another incident occurred when I was a little older. I was walking
home from a friend’s house when it was stormy. I stepped off the curb to
cross the street when I suddenly, immediately, and uncontrollably jumped
back to the curb. My body reacted before I even knew the catalyst for my
actions. I was back on the curb in a split-second and a bolt of lightning
struck the exact spot where I had been standing less than a second before.
That was nutty. My entire life in some respects has been charmed. I
haven’t been immune to bad things or bad luck, but I seemed to escape
potentially major life-altering events unscathed. Not only do these things
follow me, they intervene a lot on my behalf.
I don’t know why, Terry. Why are some folk terrorized by these
things and others treated well? Not everyone is affected by them or treated
the same. Some people are treated with disdain, some with ambivalence,
and others with kindness and respect. Many, many people are not treated
any way at all because they are completely ignored and left alone. I don’t
think I’d be here, Terry, if they weren’t watching and intervening.
I’d be more than happy to answer any questions you may have and
help you fill out other details you think are pertinent to telling the story. If
you want to interview me or otherwise talk about this, I’m more than happy
to oblige. My story is all over the place and it’s hard to make sense of it all.
Our children have all had weird experiences too. They were all different
from my experiences and from each other. My oldest saw a “shadow
person” watching him from his bedroom doorway. My middle one said he
floated out of his bedroom down to the basement where he was surrounded
by men with laptops. My youngest had interactions with what he called,
“the monsters in the woods.” They are all otherwise healthy and generally
well-adjusted youngsters. Our middle one now swears it was just a dream.
Perhaps it was.
Let me know what you need, Terry. I’ll accommodate as best I can.
Thank you for taking an interest in my experiences.
All the best,
Greg

ANALYSIS
Greg’s email was one of the best I received, not only because of its
authenticity, but the variety of his experiences are incredible. I also find
military witnesses to be some of the most credible.
His story demonstrates this phenomenon is a familial experience.
They tend to be a family affair involving multiple generations. His
description of the filament line from above and the stoppage of time while
visiting his grandparents are both unique. His stories underscore how
diverse these experiences can be.
In a subsequent email Greg assured me his children are fine and
don’t seem to have suffered trauma from their encounters. I asked him to
please keep me informed of future developments.
 Case #27
Mt. Diablo Abduction
Tony
Northern California

Dear Mr. Lovelace.

As we discussed in our telephone conversation these events happened, or
should I say began, in November 1996. It occurred at Castle Rock Park in
California on the foothills of Mt. Diablo. My experiences began with solo
excursions, but ultimately my cousin and best friend would be drawn into a
shared experience. It changed our lives and sadly altered the nature of our
relationship.
It started with a visit to a hill atop Castle Rock and the discovery of
a special place. What I knew as “my spot.” Visiting that spot morphed into
an inexplicable compulsion to travel to Castle Rock Park at night and enjoy
some time there. It became a strangely satisfying nightly excursion. I felt
inappropriately possessive of my little spot. My visits to the site became a
nightly ritual that took on the feel of an obligation.
I made the journey to “my spot” almost every night. In retrospect, I
was being controlled by something. Whatever was driving this compulsion
was outside of my ability to perceive it. It made no sense to me then, and it
makes no sense all these years later. I was obligated to make the trip and
stand vigilant. But for what? Beyond the compulsion it was a mystery. I
should add there was nothing wrong with my state of mind or mental health.
I wasn’t suffering from OCD in any other area of my life.
I recognize now that I was to there to make myself available to
“them,” but I had no conscious awareness of that at the time. My spot was
a meeting place, and my appointment date would come soon. I always made
a campfire as my beacon. On some level I knew they didn’t need a beacon to
find me, but the fire gave me a little light and the warmth was comforting.
This night, as I stood next to my campfire, I just enjoyed the
magnificent view of Mt. Diablo in the glow of the moon. I felt at peace with
the woods around me. I’d been there for about an hour or so and everything
had been serene and peaceful. It was mostly silent except for the occasional
hoot from a nearby owl or the quiet rustling of a raccoon or possum in the
tree line. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Just another quiet night in the
hills, just me and nature, subconsciously waiting for my rendezvous.
Then I heard the footsteps. They were easily distinguished from the
other forest sounds. We’re the only bipedal animal on the North American
Continent, the only bipedal animal on the planet for that matter. I heard the
unmistakable crunch of footfalls from no more than 25 to 30 feet away. I
heard each foot meet the ground and twigs crunch under the weight. I
squinted and strained my eyes to see beyond the dim light of my campfire,
but whoever was there chose to stay hidden in the shadows at the tree line.
It was unnerving. This didn’t feel right. Something was off.
I shouted into the darkness, “Hey, who’s there? I’m just enjoying my
fire and chilling. No problems man.”
Silence. I waited but there was no reply. By now, the footsteps had
moved closer. When they were within 15 to 20 feet away, I tried again,
“Hey, what’s up? You better let me know who you are. I’m warning you! I’m
armed.”
I questioned myself, “Another hiker?” That hardly seemed likely. I
wished I’d had a firearm. I did have a decent knife, long enough to be
lethal, but it worried me I might be taking a knife to a gunfight. Still, it was
all I had. I felt my heart pounding as the adrenaline kicked in. Balancing
the fight-or-flight impulse, I stood determined to hold my ground.
Whoever was there wasn’t intimidated. Their failure to respond
turned the whole encounter adversarial. The last thing I wanted was a
confrontation. I still couldn’t make out a figure in the distance. It continued
to get closer and I held my knife at the ready to defend my position, what I
saw as “my ground.” The footsteps were now just 10 or 12 feet away. I
could clearly hear them, but no one was visible. It made no sense. I took
some comfort in that they didn’t make the pounding sound of heavy steps
taken by something or someone much bigger and heavier than myself.
It was now nearing eight feet from where I stood. Defensively and
instinctually, I backed up a few feet. By the dimming light of my fire, I could
see dust rise and the leaves move with each disembodied footfall. I started
to call out again but stopped myself. I reasoned, “Whatever this was, it
wasn’t human, or it would be visible by now.” My mind raced with
possibilities, “ghosts maybe?” I wish it had been. I’d been better prepared
mentally to encounter the spirit of a deceased Native American or some
long-deceased explorer.
The footsteps abruptly halted just six feet in front of me. Still, I saw
no one. This whole encounter lasted just thirty seconds, but time is hard to
measure when I’m under stress. My knife was at the ready and I stood in a
defensive posture. I was afraid but dared not show it.
I then became aware of a static electric-like charge in the air. I also
had that feeling of eyes on me. I was aware that I was being watched by
something invisible. I froze in place. Terrified, I realized I couldn’t move as
I tried my best to take a step back. I felt a numbness come over me, my
fingers tingled. Unable to maintain my grip, my knife dropped to the
ground. Now I wanted to flee for my life. Only able to move my eyes, I
strained hard again to focus on what was now nearly in front of me.
Then I saw it. Well, I almost saw it. It was a transparent but
distorted silhouette. I could distinguish its blurred outline against the
background of the trees behind it. It was a humanoid figure about four foot
tall with a disproportionate large head, spindly limbs and torso. This was
not the image of a human being. I sensed that somehow, we locked eyes,
even though its eyes were invisible.
Either from shock or terror I felt I was losing consciousness. I
wasn’t fainting. There’s a difference. I felt like I’d been anesthetized and
was drifting into a sedated state. I can recall that his figure reached out to
me and took me by my arm. Firmly but not forcibly, it guided me back
toward the campfire. I was unsteady on my feet and staggered as he walked
me back. I was unable to resist. The thought of resisting never really
entered my mind.
That’s when I heard the others approach. They were also invisible,
but I was aware of the presence of three or four other beings around me. I
felt other hands on my back, head and arms to steady me. They gently
helped me to the ground by the fire. The one cradled my head and placed it
on top of a rotten log. The others straightened my legs. I was stretched out
by the fire with the impression they wanted me to relax. I felt reassured that
everything would be okay. My fear ebbed and I began to relax as the
sedated feeling intensified.
I never heard them audibly or telepathically, but I knew their
intention. They controlled my perceptions and actions so I would comply
with their instructions.
 It was suddenly silent. No more sounds of motion, but I knew they
were there watching. I was in a calm state, relaxed but still conscious.
Without warning I saw a blinding flash of light visible through the closed
lids of my eyes. It was like a bomb went off in front of my face. I heard
nothing and felt nothing. Quickly, everything went black and I lost
consciousness.
I figure I was out for about six hours. When I came to, it was dawn.
The sun was just up. It was about 6:00 AM. My campfire was cold.
Glancing around my campsite I could see nothing had been disturbed. My
backpack was in place and even the ground looked undisturbed. My
clothing was fine except for a little dirt from being on the ground.
When I sat up, I realized I hurt. I was sore and groggy. Confused, I
had no memory of what transpired that night. My mind was blank. All I
could recall was being overwhelmed by sleepiness and lying next to the fire.
I assumed I’d slid into a deep sleep, tired from the hike and the late hour.
In September of 2019 something unexpected and dramatic
happened. I woke up. After years of nightmares and flashbacks my memory
returned. At least partially. I could now remember what happened up until
that silent explosion of light. It would be just a glimpse into the totality of
my journey.

ANALYSIS
Mt. Diablo has a long and haunting history. More so than Devil’s Den. Here
again we see someone drawn to a location by an uncontrollable compulsion.
Tony did not send me his account of the actual abduction, all I have is bits
and pieces from a telephone call. In that call, he spoke about an abduction
event where he and his friend and a cousin were taken together. He
remembers an exam room and a being similar to what I saw in 1977, an
entity I call “Dr. Bug.”
He also uses a phrase I’ve heard used often lately. In the last year or
so, people tell me they, “woke up.” Memories come flooding back in what
some refer to as a “download.” Is this reality, fantasy, or confabulation? I
believe this is real and a global phenomenon leading us to a global shift in
human consciousness. But I don’t expect change to occur overnight.
 Case #28
The Billy Hallmon Story
By Billy Hallmon

I met Billy Hallmon at a Dallas MUFON meeting in 2018. I spoke for

roughly two hours. I ran into Billy in the hallway afterward and in 15
minutes he told me the most incredible story.
Billy is a credible man and a keen observer. I’ll defer to Billy and allow him
to tell you his story personally:

Photograph of Billy displaying his recreation of the UFO he saw over Dallas, Texas. Photographs are
property of Billy Hallmon and shared with his kind permission. It’s worth noting here that Billy is a
talented artist and can “draw what he sees.”
 A UFO over Dallas had two operational phases, which I observed—
slow-speed and fast-speed. During the slow-speed phase, it looked and
sounded material, and acted within Newtonian laws. Conversely, during the
fast-speed phase, the UFO appeared to be non-material and moved outside
of Newtonian physics. I visually and audibly witnessed my UFO change its
physical state so that it could act at either slow-speed or fast-speed.
Understanding this phase change is paramount because in order for
humans to achieve interplanetary and interstellar travel, we must first learn
how to alter the physical state of our space vehicles—from obvious material
to apparent non-material—like this and other UFOs have done. UFOs do
not simply zip silently through the air and water at hypersonic velocities
while in a material state because they would burn up. No, they obviously
phase change first and then achieve a non-material condition. Of
paramount importance, this UFO phase change offers an insight into how
we must engineer our own spacecraft in order to achieve interstellar travel.
On two nightly walks, I observed what was obviously the same UFO
over northeast Dallas on two different dates that were six months apart.
About 9 PM CST on December 11, 2013, the sky was clear and there was a
waxing first-quarter moon to my southwest. Visibly under the moon and
above the horizon, a tiny dark silhouette swiftly rose upward against the
luminous night sky from ground level. This appeared to be about three miles
away and airplane-sized. At first, I thought it was a swept wing jet
interceptor taking off from Love Field, which lay eight miles westward to
my right. However, there were no lights as required by the FAA and the
thunderous roar of afterburners never materialized. The shadow had
peculiar transparency that was unfamiliar. It climbed almost vertically at a
slight angle towards me, traveling about twice as fast as a jetliner, which
would be over 1,000 mph. When it reached the glare of the moon, I lost it.
The silhouette never reappeared above me on my side of the moonlight, so I
now assume that it continued upward into space. I was not sure that I had
actually seen anything material so I did not tell anyone about it, including
my wife. On subsequent walks, I would scan the sky for a repeat
performance. Six months later I was to bump into this thing again in a
surprise visit.
On Friday night, June 13, 2014, at 11 PM CDT, I had just left a gym
at Buckner and Northcliff and was walking northward on Northlake Drive
through a tree-lined residential neighborhood, approaching Peavy Road.
The sky was clear and there was a full moon to my southeast, lighting up
the streets below. I was approaching two 40-foot overhanging oaks on my
right, or east side, when a brilliant sky light quickly moved in from the east
and instantly stopped about 1 mile directly above me. By now I had walked
under the trees and saw that this was not an airplane, so I spun to my right
and carefully stepped into someone’s front yard under the foliage for cover.
Things were happening in microseconds and I instinctively realized that my
December silhouette was out hunting and had stalked me immediately
before I had walked under the trees. It lingered overhead for a few seconds
and then moved back eastward to impatiently search back and forth above
the neighborhood there. Visualize standing on the bottom of a deep clear
lake watching the underside of a motorboat, which was searching from the
flat water surface above, and you get the picture.
The thing was garishly-beautiful like a fairground ride contraption.
It was about half the size of a 737 and appeared rather wedge-shaped. The
body was not visible because of the glare, but I infer from my earlier 2013
sighting that it was solid. There were two strings of green lights in a V-
shape along its sides. Knock off the point of the V and string red lights
across the gap to understand its full makeup. The green lights were steady,
but the red lights pulsed together on a 2-second cycle—there was no 1-2-3
sequence. The pulse was uniform and not keyed to any movement, so I
assume they were ornamental or had some external function. At their
maximum, all of the lights, both green and red, were of equal size and
intensity. The red lights appeared to be the front; it always moved in this
direction, it never moved sideways nor backward. To change direction, it
would always pivot, so I assume that it was unidirectional. It seemed to be
on an impatient commando get-in-and-get-out mission. The entire
appearance throughout was strange, cartoonish, and almost comical as the
craft frantically went back and forth, repeatedly. I would have laughed if I
had not been so shocked and apprehensive.
There was an almost imperceptible sizzle emanating from the UFO,
which sounded similar to an electric generator brush or bacon frying. This
sound varied in intensity, either from a load put on machinery inside the
UFO or from electrostatic around the shell as the craft moved around. The
sound drifted down, much as from a hot-air balloon or migrating geese.
Here I had visual and audible proof of a nuts-and-bolts machine and of its
apparent distance one mile above me. There was nothing vague about my
2014 UFO; it was as real as your car. During the six months between the
December silhouette and this ambush, I had researched UFO experiences
and knew not to mess with them. Anyway, I was cowardly sucking up to my
tree trunk and became a certified tree-hugger. Thankfully, the full moon
bathed the treetops above and made visual penetration into underneath
difficult. I kept under the wooden tree limbs to help block my bodily infrared
heat radiation from detection.
After the longest three minutes of slow-speed searching, the mile-
high UFO stopped at a periphery. Then, it suddenly shot downward like a
meteor at a slight angle away from me. I thought, “So that is what you have
been up to!” I later calculated that it “landed” around Lochwood Park. It
traveled one mile in five seconds in a straight line from its mile-high perch
to the ground without revving up against inertia or slowing down against
momentum. When I saw it go behind the eastward housing, I instantly
confirmed its size and distance with the visually-familiar background
reference. Throughout all of this movement, the UFO remained about the
same distance from me because it maintained the same apparent size, never
greatly swelling nor shrinking. During its dive, the UFO’s appearance to
me became transparent, artificial, and surreal. It looked like a ghost of its
former garishly-bright searching form, now being about one-third as bright.
It was completely silent; there was no sound, either emanating from the
UFO or from its estimated 720-mph dive through the air. I have never
witnessed anything like this five-second alteration during my now 80 years,
except perhaps for the vague 6-second upward-moving dark silhouette of
2013.
To visualize this slow-speed to fast-speed phase change, pretend that
you are attending a drive-in movie theater. A Boeing 737 flies overhead
about one mile up, plowing through the air and emitting that wonderful jet
noise. You can see and hear that this is a hard material machine, which you
could rap on with your knuckles. Then, over on the movie screen, the
projector sweeps across a silent photographic image of that 737—same
apparent size, shape, and color. You instinctively see that this is only a
transparent light projection, which you cannot touch. That was essentially
the difference in appearance between my UFO when it changed from slow-
speed to fast-speed. Throughout the second phase, the UFO looked
transparent and ghostly, as though behind a screen.
Confirming that there was an actual physical barrier of some sort
between the diving UFO and I were these six factors:
1. Screening and transparency in the UFO’s direct visual appearance.
2. Total cessation of its previous operational “electrical” sizzling sound.
3. An absence of inertia against starting and of momentum against stopping.
4. Inferred nullification of fatal G-forces from hovering to instant Mach-1.
5. The absence of compression or friction noise against the atmosphere.
6. Continuation of a 2-second blinking red light cycle with no time-change.
A very acceptable hypothesis that I have seen, which would explain
my UFO’s operation, comes from Robert L. Schroeder’s book, “Solving the
UFO Enigma: How Modern Physics is Revealing the Technology of
UFOs,” Schroeder illustrates how the UFOs may be defying our
understanding of Newtonian physics and I highly recommend his book
because it fits my case perfectly. UFOs are particle accelerators that
generate gravity and according to relativity, “gravity shrinks distance and
stretches duration.” For example, I saw a one-mile dive while the UFO
only felt one yard. I estimated five seconds while it experienced a long one
minute.
Based on my observation and logical inference, I believe the 2013-
2014 UFO was a utility vehicle, which was directed to snatch people off the
streets of Dallas and take them up into near space for unknown reasons.
The UFO was possibly unlit in 2013 because commercial airline flights
were at a peak at 9 PM. Then, the lit up 2014 version at 11 PM might have
been because flights had already quit by 10 PM. I have never seen a UFO
described like mine, with seemingly non-functional ornamental lighting.
Perhaps this was designed to attract a sucker to stand still and gawk? In
retrospect, I later noticed that there was no automobile traffic when the
UFO had me pinned under the tree. Maybe the thing had scoped out an
area where there was no vehicular activity. My beliefs are inferred from—
 Its takeoff from a NE Dallas neighborhood near the White Rock
Lake spillway on 12-11-2013.
The sneaking up on me as I walked home from the gym at 11 PM
CDT on 6-13-2014.
Its subsequent three-minute search above the Old Lake Highlands
and Lochwood neighborhoods.
The Mach-1 dive to the ground, which I could trace to around the
Lochwood Park area.
After my experience, I soon ran into an equally-bizarre phenomenon
—the solipsist UFO debunker, who knows more than the witness. Having
myself been oblivious to any paranormal existence for 73 years, I know that
folks need some personal background information, so here it is. I was born
in 1940 and had my first UFO sighting in 2013, although I have never been
successfully abducted nor met an alien face-to-face. In 1957, at age 17, I
joined the United States Navy and served 4 years as an interior
communications electrician and scored in the 99 percentiles on the GED
science test. (There is no 100 percentile.) I graduated from Texas Christian
University in 1968 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree. In 2009, I retired
from AT&T with a total of 44 years in the graphic arts field and can draw
what I see. During both UFO sightings my vision and hearing were good,
as there were no restrictions on my driver’s license. As of today, I have
attended about 25 consecutive air shows with my daughter and have much
experience viewing things that fly—both manmade and otherwise.
Billy Hallmon
November 17, 2020
 Billy and daughter Elizabeth

ANALYSIS
There’s very little I can add of value. Billy does such a spectacular job of
telling his story. I would like to add a note of thanks for sharing his
photographs and sharing his experiences.
 Case #29
Dirty Little Secret

An excerpt from
Dirty Little Secret: Confessions of an Alien Contactee
by Erin Montgomery
Roswell, New Mexico

I first met Erin Montgomery at Roswell’s Annual 4th of July UFO Festival.
If you’ve never been, it’s a lot of fun with a street festival vibe and a kid-
friendly venue. I recommend it. Erin and I hit it off immediately, as so often
happens when abductees first meet one another.
Erin wrote a very candid book entitled Dirty Little Secret. It’s on
Amazon. I was honored that she asked me to write the introduction. Yvonne
Smith wrote the prologue. It’s a book that is at times hard to read from the
sense of loss and heartbreak that accompanies this phenomenon. But,
especially for some women, it will reverberate loudly. It’s a relatively short
but intense read. Below is an excerpt.
***
As a contactee, there are many different aspects of being in contact with
extraterrestrial or extradimensional creatures. Some of these experiences
are very loving and kind, often full of important lessons and information.
However, there is no denying the trauma that contact with these non-human
entities causes on the human brain. It cannot be ignored that people who
are taken at night from their beds are forever changed by these experiences,
and often, they are changed in ways that takes work with a professional to
fully heal.
 Even as a clinical therapist, and even though I have spoken about
my experiences over and over again on paper and on many radio and video
interviews, sitting down to explain the trauma that comes with contact is
something that I have waited until the last minute to do. The avoidance of
the feelings that come up around these moments is palpable and it is taking
everything I have to not get up and start scraping paint off the walls in the
bathroom, anything just to not to have to do this.
This desire to avoid remembering what happened is one of the
symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I experienced it with
the writing of my book “Dirty Little Secret: Confessions of an Alien
Contactee.” Not only did I struggle to recall information, but the act of
reliving the experiences created a mental anguish that is common in people
who have been traumatized. I wrote:
So many nights have consisted of me curled in a ball with my back
to the wall, the light on, long past midnight. “Please don’t come. Just leave
me alone. Go away. Oh God, just leave me alone.” It certainly wouldn’t be
every night—it ebbs and flows like waves of contact times. I always seem to
have a warning or a message before they come. A cold feeling washes over
me, my heart races. “No not tonight.” And there I would be, balled up in
bed. I certainly don’t sleep. This often lasts several days until I can no
longer keep both eyes open and focused on the door and windows: sleep
overcoming me regardless of my protests.
The real question here is—how many of those nights that I spend in
terror are really nights in which I was visited? How much of this anxiety is
due to PTSD? In the process of becoming a therapist, these symptoms look
very familiar to me. I see it often with my clients, many contactees, and
certainly myself (as I wipe sweat off of my upper lip while I type). Yes, even
the act of writing this book is causing me serious mental distress.
 What is PTSD? Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is the re-
experiencing of a trauma that one has endured in varied and often
surprising ways with acute stress symptoms that accompany those triggers.
Months, even years, after the initial trauma, a person may experience
disturbing memories, nightmares, flashbacks, psychological distress, and
physiological reactions such as sweating, pounding heart, rapid breathing,
possibly even chest pains (DSM-5, 2013). Those suffering from PTSD will
do what they can to avoid these memories, etc., which may include avoiding
the people, places, or activities that remind them of the trauma. There may
be some blocked memories around the trauma, exaggerated negative
beliefs, some distortion around blame, persistent negative emotional states
such as fear, anger, or guilt, a loss of interest in others and activities, and
other depressive symptoms (DSM-5, 2013). A person with PTSD may be
easily irritable, be hypervigilant, have an exaggerated startle response, lack
of concentration and may suffer from sleep disorders (DSM-5, 2013).
There is no doubt that alien contact can be traumatic, especially
when contact starts as a child. So far, I haven’t found a way to stop the
contact, however, I can treat the PTSD. I don’t have to be afraid to go to
sleep. I don’t need to negatively impact my family by being irritable and
withdrawn. I know my husband suffers as well. He startles awake so easily
and so dramatically that I must be very careful not to wake him. But who do
you go to for this? Many counselors are trained in dealing with PTSD, and
many of those are also trained in hypnotherapy. But making the decision to
see a counselor isn’t so simple for a contactee. One cannot just spring this
information on just any ol’ counselor. Well, I mean you can, and some
counselors may be receptive, but this isn’t anything I have personally
wanted to talk about in therapy. No way.
 As mentioned in the preceding blurb, these moments of trauma
symptoms come and go. Sometimes there are no issues, but at others the
levels of paranoia and fear can take over one’s life. And then something
happens to remind one of why they are afraid in the first place. After
attending my first UFO Festival in Roswell in 2012, I had a reality shifting
experience that challenged everything I thought I understood and knew
about being a UFO contactee. I had been coming to terms with the fact that
I have been contacted by aliens since I was a child and was having
experiences off and on throughout my adulthood. But then this happened:
Things got really intense that night as I tried to go to sleep. I had to
fight with paranoia for the first time in a long time. This feeling of
anticipation creeps in, causing my heart to race, I breakout in a cold sweat,
and my mind repeats, “They are coming, oh God, they are coming tonight.”
I can’t close my eyes, I can’t turn off the light, I can’t turn my back to the
door or windows, and I pull myself into a tight ball trying to logic away the
inevitable. “This isn’t happening. I am crazy. I have totally lost it. Oh my
God, what was that?”
Next thing I was aware of was being wrapped in a sheet type of
gurney, folded snug in the material and was carried right through the wall
of my bedroom! I remember feeling a sense of awe as I watched the barrier
between inside and outside pass over my head. I reached my hand out for
comfort. How did I know I would find comfort like this? My hand was
grasped by a warm, reassuring being. I gazed into her (Her? How did I
know her gender?) eyes and knew her. She was…how does one describe an
alien? She had large expressive eyes in an overly large head, small mouth
that seemed to smile, and wrinkly grey skin on her too-thin limbs. She was a
sweet being, one that I feel I have known since I was a child; one who
knows just what to say and do to keep me as docile as possible.
 She stayed by my side. I must have been put down, to sleep, knocked
out, made unconscious, lost memories or something because the next thing I
remember is feeling excruciating pain ripping through my lower abdomen. I
screamed and tried to sit up but found I was restrained across my chest. I
was on a cot or medical bed. A surgical barrier was up across my stomach
so I couldn’t see the lower half of my body. Again, the pain tore across my
mid-section. My handler, for lack of a better term, patted my shoulder and
clucked calming sounds. Taking a deep breath, I looked at what
surroundings I could see. There were many other cots in rows around me—
all filled with women in the same predicament. We appeared to be in a cave
or underground as the walls were rough-hewn stone. Military green
cabinets lined the walls. Two taller grey aliens were near my feet, doing
whatever it was they were doing to me.
A human male in a military uniform covered by a white lab coat, a
grey buzz cut, and a clipboard of papers he was sifting through walked by
me. He glanced down at me, looking directly into my eyes. I tried to sit up,
call to him, ask for help. But he blinked and looked over me as if I didn’t
exist. My own species, regarding me as no more than cattle. I felt my heart
sink in my chest. My tenuous hold on hope crumbling through my fingers
and my only sense of comfort coming from a being who has, as far as I can
tell, been with me only to keep me calm when scary things are happening.
Swiveling my head to look at the cots nearest me, I finally
understood what procedures were being performed. We were being
harvested! Tiny fetuses, smaller than the palm of my hand were being taken
from all the women around me. And me! That is why it hurt so bad. Induced
labor! But I wasn’t pregnant—was I? How could I be? I was single then,
with no sexual partner. Why isn’t there something more sophisticated
happening with the harvesting? Why did it have to be a–cynically called—
natural birth? And why did that human not care? I started to scream in an
ever-desperate crescendo, “What are you doing? These are your own
people! What do you need us for? Why are you taking babies? Why did you
take my baby?” The buzz cut man turned back around and looked over me.
My handler reached forward and placed her hand over my face. I
disappeared into darkness.
I woke up back in my bed. Under the covers. Curled up in a fetal
position. I stretched out my legs only to feel aches and cramps around my
midsection. The memories trickled back, and I threw off the blankets. Three
fingerprint bruises laced each inner thigh. When I looked in the mirror my
eyes were swollen, and tiny broken blood vessels dotted my eyelids as they
always do when I have cried a serious cry during moments of extreme
emotional hurt. It wasn’t a dream.
It was at this point that my mental health took a drastic turn to the
south. How could I process the fact that not only was I dealing with being a
life-long contactee with alien entities, I was having fetuses harvested from
me, and there were human military personnel who were observing the
process?! I started missing more and more work. My ability to take care of
myself and my children was beginning to diminish. I definitely was not
sleeping, at least not well, and not for many hours at a time. But what was I
to do? Who could I talk to about this? Several years went by before I could
not stand it any longer and decided I needed to take my peace of mind into
my own hands as contact was not going to stop:
I was very lucky to have met Yvonne Smith at the Roswell UFO
Festival in July of 2012. It was through her I joined Close Encounters
Research Organization International or CERO (cerointl.com), her support
group and was able to go through a hypnotherapy session with her. My
paranoia and inability to sleep was beginning to impact my ability to work,
care for my family, or even take care of my own basic needs. I knew that
Yvonne was going to be back in Roswell for the UFO festival, so I made an
appointment to meet with her in the afternoon of July 4th, 2015.
I was very nervous going into this session. I had never been
hypnotized before. I had no idea what to expect and so I brought a friend
with me to drive just in case I was a zombie or something after the session. I
was imagining myself driving into the little alien lamp posts that line
Roswell’s Main Street. Yvonne put both of us at ease quickly and we
discussed the process of hypnosis and what it was we were aiming to
accomplish.
I was determined to pull the moment that had caused me the most
trauma. I felt like I needed to go right to the source so that I could finally
get some sleep! Yvonne took me back to the home my father built for the
family. I was seven years old and could even remember the nightgown I was
wearing. I saw a light coming through my window. It was so bright. I
thought it was the moon. I became aware of a small being with a very
pointed face standing next to the head of the bed.
I had the impression this was a female figure, and I was comfortable
with her. She touched my arm which felt like electricity. She told me that we
were going to go for a ride. It was then that I noticed two other beings in
the room. They looked just like her, but I knew they were boys. One was
standing by my bedroom door, which was open. The other was at the foot of
the bed. He reached out and touched my foot.
Together the two held me aloft. This was fun! I felt like I was flying!
They directed my body, floating out of the bedroom door. When they had me
positioned in the hallway, we began to rise up towards the ceiling. To my
amazement I phased right through the ceiling, into the attic and out through
the roof! It was like my atoms were slipping between the atoms of the wood
and other building materials as we ascended. Did I know how to explain
that at seven years old? No, but reliving it, I was able to put that sensation
to words.
That bright light that I thought was the moon became visible as it
came from the bottom of a circular craft that hovered above the house. In
the beam of light, we as a group ascended higher and higher. We entered
the ship through an opening on the underside, where the light was being
generated. The interior of the ship is smooth and rounded and metallic like
the tank on a milk truck. It felt so sterile.
I was floated down a hallway and into a room that looked like an
exam room. There were cabinets in the room and a chair that looked like a
dentist’s chair. They placed me in the chair and secured me into place. The
female being stayed near me, calming me. A few minutes later a taller entity
entered the room. He was much taller than these smaller beings. His limbs,
torso, and even fingers appeared so long and thin. I had difficulty focusing
on his face at this point, but he felt insect-like as he had moving mouth
parts, like mandibles. He was wearing a black jump suit with red piping
around the edges.
As he approached me in the chair, I began to panic. The female did
her best to reassure me. He produced an instrument that was like a two-
pronged mental fork. He inserted something biological, pink and wiggling,
into the fork area. My head was restrained, my mouth opened, and the fork
instrument inserted the mass into the roof of my mouth.
He left quickly after, and I was released from the chair. I remember
the female entity showing me the stars outside the window and pointed out
Earth far, far below. She led me back to the center of the ship, we descended
back into my bedroom and I was placed back in bed.
I left the session feeling dazed. It wasn’t that I was still in a hypnotic
fog—it doesn’t work like that. I was fully awake. And I was aware—more
aware than I have been perhaps ever in my life. I had witnessed the
memories of my childhood self. Defining memories that have essentially
made me the person I am today, trauma and all. I had my own truth, the
proof of my contactee status. I really had experienced being taken onto a
spaceship by alien beings. And from the familiarity of the handler being, it
obviously wasn’t the first time.
That night, I was able to sleep without vigilance. I could turn out the
light and sigh with relief as sleep overcame me. After this session, I
understood that I needed to follow in Yvonne’s footsteps. I needed to help
others like me.
Three years later, I had an intriguing memory pop up when my
husband at the time accidentally shone a light in my eyes while heading to
the bathroom in the middle of the night. Soon as the light hit my eyelids, I
had a memory of standing outside as a child, surrounded by these non-
human entities, large head and eyes, naked, chattering together, and I was a
part of the group like a friend and we were so excited about something
coming. It was approaching July again, and so I made another appointment
with Yvonne to dive into this memory. I wanted to explore this possible
moment of joy and happiness. I wanted my trauma experiences to be
redeemed by remembering something fun and positive. However, while the
information that came out of the regression wasn’t all negative as I was
taught how to manipulate gravity and how to access chakra centers in the
body, it also highlighted the beginning of the “hybrid program” that I was
to participate in from then until now:
 I remembered being outside in a group of people, several children
and small grey-type aliens around me. There was a sense of excitement in
the air, anticipation. There were adults at the front of the group, and I
remember seeing my father among them.
The excitement grew and I saw the lights of a ship as it descended
toward the group. There were many tall trees around us and I heard the
awful screeching sound as the ship penetrated into the tree line, shattering
the trees around it. The ship landed and we slowly walked on board. I
remember my feelings of fear increasing as I got closer, and I wanted to be
closer to my dad, but he is quite far ahead of me in line.
I was lead in a room off to the left as the rest, including my father,
continued ahead. There were three beings with me, as I seem to most often
recall. I was stripped naked and my anxiety skyrocketed! They helped me
onto a table and there were straps placed across my belly and chest. They
placed a strange cone shaped cap onto my head that seemed to have
electrodes coming from it. I could feel my scalp being manipulated by the
energy inside. Then I felt hands on me, spreading my legs apart. Apparently,
I was having my very first pelvic exam! I was at the beginning of puberty, so
I can understand why, now, they were interested in my reproductive health.
After the exam, I was helped off the table, was able to dress, and was
escorted into a different part of the ship.
The harvesting of fetuses has become a constant in my adult life.
Dream after dream of giving birth to these very small babies, no bigger
than the palm of my hand, naming them, introducing them to other children,
bonding and loving them, and then leaving them. How does a human make
sense of this? Men and women both endure these procedures, the creation
of hybrid children using their DNA. I am part of a multiple generation
family of contact, and now my children are having experiences as well.
They have the tell-tale signs of being part of this breeding program
themselves with bruises on their thighs and pregnancy symptoms with no
possible way they could be pregnant.
The emotions of a person dealing with the fact that they have these
experiences is compounded when they find out their children are also being
harvested. And a heavy despair settles in because…. what can we do?
Nothing. Not a thing. There is no way to stop this. It has been happening for
generations and it will continue to happen in generations to follow. One of
the most disturbing emotions that crosses through my perception is that of
disconnect. I shut down. I stop feeling, become devoid of emotion, in regard
to knowing my children are suffering now, in regard to knowing there are
children on ship that I have little to no contact with. The guilt of feeling
nothing weighs heavier than the sight of a scary being with moving mouth
parts inserting an implant into the roof of my mouth.
I do not have full recall of every experience I have had with these
beings. Little bits and slips of memory come to me, sometimes at very
unexpected and inconvenient times. After the publication of “Dirty Little
Secret,” I started to do promotional radio shows and podcasts. One show I
did was with a couple who are fellow therapists. They wanted to explore my
moment of trauma when the implant was placed in my mouth. They thought
that perhaps I was so terrified of that being because I had run into him
before. I wanted to explore this idea as they were suggesting to pretend, I
had met him before, but a wall came down and I felt like I slammed face-
first into it. My mind was not going to allow me to access that information.
It was so abrupt that I was startled, but the couple easily steered the
conversation in a different direction. That week was a grueling week of
shows, and I found it more and more difficult to sleep, get up, and do what I
needed to for work, and I was becoming more and more irritable. Then, one
day while at work between clients, talking to a fellow experiencer friend, we
had simultaneous recall of a moment when we were children.
In a circular room, a small bench along one wall, and two round
doorways at 45 degree angles from each other across from the bench, he
and I found ourselves remembering being on that bench. Red light
emanated from the ceiling, and an impenetrable darkness rose from the
floor. At about the age of 6, long braids down my back, and wearing only
underwear, I clung to this boy of about ten with blond hair and also in his
underwear. Our feet were tucked up close to us to keep them away from the
blackness. Abject terror filled us as we felt into the moment. Why were we in
this room? How did we get here? Why are we so afraid? Why are we
naked? Then, two beings, so tall and so thin, in black jumpsuits entered,
one through each doorway. They approached us quietly, arms pulled tight to
their chests, triangular heads and large dark eyes intent on us. They had
mandibles. These must be the mantid beings people talk about, and so much
like the creature who placed the implant into my mouth. They reach us and
we were picked up by the two entities. We began screaming and reaching
for each other, desperate to be able to touch each other for comfort. We
were taken out of the room and that is where our memory stops.
Shaking, breathing heavily, tears squeezing out of eyes that have
seen fresh new horrors, my friend ended the phone call, and I was left to
compose myself before I had to call my next client. Questions still swirl in
my mind. What happened with us that night? Were we hurt? Why were we
so scared? And why were we in our underwear? How do I pull myself
together enough to help the next client on my schedule when I just had the
rug pulled out from under me, again? Weeks later I still fight with the
resurgence of my PTSD symptoms. Time to call for another hypnotic
regression. I believe it is.
 “Dirty Little Secret: Confessions of an Alien Contactee” was
written in order to map my journey as I processed these traumas, and as
has been recently experienced, they are never fully put to bed. However, it is
important for all of us to come to terms with our traumas in order to face
these entities with clear heads as to more easily assess why they are among
us, because among us they are. Through this process I have followed in
Yvonne Smith’s footsteps, have begun work as a clinical therapist, and
begun training to be able to do hypnotic regressions myself in order to help
others who have suffered as I have. The lives of contactees are irreversibly
changed by this contact. We feel different than other humans, we experience
things other humans don’t, and are able to perceive on a level that can only
be explained as psychic. We can choose to stay in these symptomatic states
and fight with our fate, hide from reality, and slip into depressions so deep
that we may turn to substances or worse, or we can choose to rise above the
fear, heal the trauma, and find ways to discern what is happening to us so
we can share with the world. I choose to embrace this challenge. What do
you choose?
ANALYSIS
Compare Erin’s experience to the facts in Case #14. In total I received
seven emails from women who claim to have “lost” a fetus. I included a
story from a man’s perspective in Case #24.
Erin’s story resonates with me on so many levels. The fact that she
recognized her “handler” and felt an odd affection for her reminds me of
my maternal feelings toward Betty. When Erin reached out for comfort, her
handler was there to hold Erin’s hand when she needed comforting. Erin’s
story of moving through a solid wall was almost identical to my April 16,
2019 event where I went through my own ceiling.
 Erin, as a trained and licensed therapist, recognizes the psychological
and emotional dilemma of choosing whether to suppress these events, or
accept them as fact.
It’s interesting that she can recall the extraterrestrial maternity ward.
This is a memory you’d think ET would have screened to save her the
trauma. As I’ve said before, “We remember what we’re allowed to
remember.” In hindsight, this memory may have been an act of kindness
because it allowed Erin to process what was happening to her and her body.
 Case #30
Rita and Richard’s Childhood Encounter
Orchard Park, New York
Dear Terry,
I grew up in Orchard Park, NY, a wealthy suburb of Buffalo with a
population of under 3,500. Everyone knew everyone; it was a safe and
bucolic environment for kids. Orchard Park had a lot of wooded areas,
orchards, meadows, etc. throughout the town.
The second house my family owned was built in a new development
on Henning Drive. It was a beautiful place with a couple miles of forests
behind the house. We lived there from when I was four or five-years-old,
until about 1974 when I was 10, and my brother Richard was 13.
The two of us spent many a day in the little forest behind our home.
It was our playground. We spent hours in those woods doing all the fun stuff
kids our age loved to do. We ran, built forts, swung on huge vines and
smoked our first cigarette.
My cousins lived in a neighborhood about a half mile away from us.
It was adjoined to our development by back roads that were only trafficked
by the residents who lived there. My favorite grandmother lived about two
miles away, close to the center of town. We rode our bikes or walked to our
cousins’ or Grandma’s house all the time, coming home only when called
for dinner. There were miles and miles of fields and forests behind our
cousins’ house too. It was a second playground.
I was the youngest in the family. I had two brothers, Richard and
Arnold. They were three and four years older than me, respectively. My
parents and my brothers were pragmatic to a fault. If they couldn’t
personally touch, smell or taste something, it didn’t exist. Esoteric things
like ghosts and UFOs did not exist for them. For Richard and I that would
change, at least on one night.
In the Henning Drive home, I had a lovely bedroom. I recall that I
slept on my stomach. For as long as I can remember while living in that
house I would every so often wake in the middle of the night. My back
would be arched, and I felt a sensation like someone had run something up
my spine. It almost tickled in the way, like someone ran their finger up your
foot or tickled your sides. It caused me to stay in an arched position as well
as in a state of temporary paralysis. I can’t tell how long it lasted. I sensed
a presence in my room and somehow, I knew it was not human. It was the
cause of my paralysis. I couldn’t roll over or sit up to see what was there. I
could only lie on my stomach and search the room with just my limited
peripheral vision. I came to dread bedtime; always afraid it would happen
again. I knew there was someone or something scary in my room.
I would have Dad check under my bed and in my closet to help allay
my fears so I could get to sleep. Dad still remembers me asking him to do
that for me, to help me feel safe enough to close my eyes. I’m told I would
sleepwalk and talk in my sleep at times too. There were two windows in my
bedroom that faced our backyard and the forest. At times I sensed someone,
or something was staring at me from one of my windows at night.
Around 1973 or 1974, I had what I thought was a very vivid dream
one night. It was a dream that never faded from memory, as most dreams
do. In it, I was drawn to my bedroom window facing our neighbor’s yard. It
was the same window that I believed they used to watch me at night. I saw a
saucer-like craft with a bright white light from underneath descend into the
neighbor’s yard. I walked into my brother Richard’s bedroom and saw him
standing at his window staring at the same descending craft. Without a
word spoken between us, we climbed out of his window onto the roof of the
enclosed sun porch below. Together, we walked through the grass toward
this craft as it was still descending. I clearly recall a lot of bright white light
shining underneath and within the craft. We watched as it came to stop
about four feet above the grass and a door opened as we approached. While
we stood in front of the craft neither of us felt the slightest bit of fear. In
fact, we felt euphoric, nearly jubilant. It felt like a reunion. We felt like we
were getting together with old friends. That was the last thing I remember
about that “dream.” When I try to remember what happened next there’s
nothing but a blank slate.
The next morning, I bolted into my brother’s bedroom and screamed
excitedly, “You won’t believe the dream I had last night!” I told him all the
details of what happened in my “dream.” Richard was shocked and
exclaimed, “No way, I had the same dream!” I think we were too young and
possibly too influenced in some way that kept us from processing what
really happened. Rationalizing, we just chalked it up to being a coincidence
that we had the same dream, and then locked that memory away and never
spoke about it again until we were in our 20s.
Right after my brother and I had our “dream,” there was a perfectly
circular area burned into my neighbor’s lawn approximately 15–20 feet in
diameter. God I wish I had thought to photograph it. My neighbor called my
mom over to see it. He and my mom were both avid gardeners. He told
Mom he had no idea what could have caused it. In the weeks afterward he
would complain that nothing would grow there. It was just a bare patch of
dirt. My mother would later corroborate that fact when we were together
discussing our experience. Then we realized it was not a dream.
I still have no conscious memory of what happened after we
approached the craft. I hope to find out through hypnotherapy in the
coming months. After all these years I still need to know exactly what
happened to us that night.
In 1974 we moved to a larger house, about a mile away from our
Henning Drive home. I don’t recall having anymore UFO experiences at
our new house. I never again woke up in the middle of the night to a
presence in my bedroom. I suspect our new house was not conducive to a
visit or maybe they had everything they needed from us already, and/or
maybe they just tracked us from afar.
I had several incidents where odd wounds on my skin would show
up out of the blue. For instance, I had a bulbous cyst under my left ear
which was the size of a BB from an air rifle. I eventually had it removed in
my late 40s, but the surgeon failed to biopsy it. It was simply discarded, so
I’ll never know if there was a tracking device embedded inside it. But I
suspect there was something embedded in it to track me or monitor me
somehow.
Also, once as a kid, I felt something sticking out of the top of my
head. I kept picking at it and finally was able to grab it with the tips of my
fingernails and pulled out what looked like a 1.5-inch-long thorn. I regret
not saving it, but the thought never crossed my mind. As an adult, there
have been times where I woke up and there would be a small spot of blood
on my white pillowcase. I would diligently check my face and head, inside
my ears, mouth, nostrils and feeling all over my scalp but I could never find
a trace of residual blood. It made no sense.
When I was in college at University of Rochester, my parents moved
to the Southwest. They divorced, and my mom moved to Albuquerque, NM
with her second husband. My dad moved to El Paso, TX with his new wife.
Mom thought she was sparing me from the sadness of leaving my home, so
she insisted I not come home from college while she packed up the house.
Her good intentions failed. I ended up having recurring dreams for the next
decade that I went back and bought the old home, so that my family could
be together again.
A few years later, my brothers eventually moved to NM too. During
Christmas break of my second or third year in college, I flew out to visit my
mom. She asked me to go through all my boxes that she had moved from our
house in Orchard Park so I could keep what I wanted. They rest we’d use
for a garage sale and donate the leftovers. While going through my
childhood toys, jewelry boxes and such, I came across a piece of orange
construction paper I had saved. Amazingly, I dated it and drew an image of
the UFO landing in my neighbors backyard. I was stunned to see it again. I
had completely forgotten it. I had no conscious memory of ever drawing it.
But the instant I saw it, memories of what happened in my childhood came
flooding back into my mind. It’s important to know I was never a sci-fi buff.
I had no interest in science either. My passion was in the area of fine arts. I
embraced drawing, painting, writing, and sports.
Something else I used to do when we lived in the Henning Drive
house, at night I would sometimes take a blanket to the backyard and lay it
on the grass. I’d lie there in peace and stare up at the moon, trying not to
blink to keep it in focus, looking for the slightest movement on its surface. I
was sure there was life on the moon, despite hearing in the media that it
was barren and supposedly no life could possibly exist, given the harsh
conditions.
To this day, I have a fascination with the night sky. I love to gaze at
the stars and constellations, keeping an eye out for any anomalies. Before
the memories of the encounter my brother and I shared resurfaced, I bought
glow-in-the-dark stars and constellations and stuck them to the ceiling of
my first apartment bedroom. Somehow this was very comforting to view at
night.
It might have been that trip to Mom’s in NM when I found my UFO
drawing that spurred the whole family conversation about the “dream” that
Richard and I shared. There was also the issue of the strange, burned area
in my neighbor’s backyard. My mom witnessed it and remembered it well.
No one questioned what happened that night. Odd that it wasn’t discussed
in depth as my family was pragmatic and we all knew this to be fact.
Years later my brother told me about a camping trip he made with
his wife and daughter to Elephant Butte, NM. The campground was situated
around a large water reservoir where people could boat and swim. After
Richard’s wife and daughter went to sleep in the camper, Richard sat on the
tailgate of his truck and enjoyed a drink. He told me a UFO hovered in
front of him for some time. But he never said a word about what may have
happened after that. Rich always partied and eventually he slid into chronic
alcoholism. Sadly, the disease progressed until he died of a brain aneurism
when he was just 53 years old. I don’t know if his alien encounters
contributed to his drinking, but I would like to know.
I was living in Philadelphia right after college when these memories
resurfaced. I read practically every book Whitley Strieber and Budd
Hopkins ever wrote about UFOs and ET encounters. I wrote to Budd and
laid out all the odd things that happened to me that couldn’t be explained as
anything other than alien encounters. Surprisingly, Budd wrote me back
and said he thought I may have been abducted. He validated my suspicions
and invited me to meet with him and a colleague who used hypnosis to
recover repressed memories.
 Budd explained that through hypnosis, I might recall what really
happened that night. I could possibly recover that missing piece of the
events past the point where my memory abruptly ends. I might finally know
what happened after my brother and I were standing in front of the UFO in
our neighbor’s backyard.
I tried a hypnosis session but could never quite get “under.” It may
have been a trust issue with his hypnotist. I tried; I just couldn’t do it. In
retrospect, I don’t think I was ready. I was also working on a lot of other
issues that were turning my world upside down. Perhaps unconsciously I
knew I couldn’t handle uncovering a possibly terrifying extraterrestrial
encounter at that point in my life. I shelved it for the next three decades.
Over the last 10 years, I’ve spoken with a few trusted friends and
colleagues who’ve also experienced encounters like mine. It’s not as rare as
many people think. Among other things, I discovered that people who’ve
experienced an abduction tend to also be very intuitive. I don’t know if
that’s true across the board, but it would be interesting to find out.
I’m considering working with a hypnotherapist to help uncover my
unconscious memories of what happened when my brother and I
approached that craft in our neighbor’s backyard. To this day my memory
abruptly ends as I reach the craft. I also need to know what happened to me
at the hands of the entities that entered my bedroom all those nights. I am
hoping it may shed light on my brother’s issues too. I want to know if
“they” were the cause of his struggles and contributed to his untimely
demise. I miss him. Lastly, I need to know if the issues still plaguing me
today are a result of my encounters. Hopefully, uncovering the truth will
allow me to heal and grow.
 ANALYSIS
I chose this case for last because it succinctly states all the commonalities in
so many cases. They are:
A childhood experience involving aliens and a UFO.
Bedroom childhood visitations.
Repressed memories.
Inexplicable wounds discovered upon waking.
Reluctance to openly discuss the issue between family
members. In this case there where multiple witnesses including
Rita, her brother Richard, their mother and a neighbor.
Physical evidence burned into the neighbor’s yard. Rita’s
mother and her neighbor were both “gardeners” but never
investigated the mysterious circular burns that manifested
immediately following Rita and Richard’s “shared dream.”
One of the witnesses, Rita’s brother, was plagued by substance
abuse, likely due to his inability to fully process and integrate
his experience at age 13 or before.
 EPILOGUE
First, thank you so much for reading my book. If you’d like to get into
contact with me regarding any topic or to share your story, I would really
appreciate hearing from you. You can contact me at:
lovelace.landpope@gmail.com.
I promise your anonymity will be preserved. I am not a therapist and
can offer little by way of answers, but I promise to reply to every email I
receive.
My parting message is aimed at those of you who have ever
contemplated writing a book about their life and experiences, paranormal or
otherwise. My advice is to write and accept responsibility for the effort and
not concern yourself with the outcome.
Gone are the days of laboring to send submissions to various
publishing houses and waiting for a response and hoping for the best only to
be rejected. We’ve all heard the stories of great books being rejected by a
hundred publishers before finally being accepted. Amazon may not be
Simon and Schuster, but it’s a forum, a platform that will accept your book,
post it, and give you a voice. But success is usually not that easy. It usually
requires hard work to market your book. It’s a competitive world. Fail or
succeed, all you can do is your best and just write.
In recent years the level of consciousness with regard to paranormal
phenomenon has been growing. Increasing numbers of people are
identifying experiences regarded as anomalous and most are without
explanation. This leads not only to questions but also to a need for further
support of some kind. This support should be based on the individual’s
experience and reaction to the phenomenon. This is why OPUS has been
organized; OPUS…The Organization for Paranormal Understanding and
Support. The mission of OPUS is to educate and support people having
unusual /anomalous personal experiences. Such experiences may include
extraordinary states of consciousness, spiritual or parapsychological
phenomenon, close encounters with non-human entities, and/or UFO
activity. The sometimes disturbing, difficult-to-believe, or spiritual nature of
anomalous experiences might lead an individual to seek professional help,
but because these experiences often fall outside the realm of what is
considered “normal,” there is often a lack of professionals willing or able to
work with these issues. OPUS has recognized the need for a clearinghouse
where an experiencer can receive assistance in locating and choosing a
professional who is knowledgeable about a particular experience
in question.
 When appropriate, OPUS refers experiencers to physicians, licensed
mental health practitioners, consultants, investigators, and alternative health
assistants. OPUS also refers to support groups of all kinds where
experiencers can share feelings and concerns without fear of ridicule or
embarrassment, while learning to understand, bridge, and integrate what
happened to them into daily life.
Recently, in addition to our Zoom, and face-to-face support group,
OPUS has created an international “on-line” support group which can only
be accessed by the members and is available 24/7. For UFO matters, OPUS
networks with many like-minded groups and organizations such as Yvonne
Smith and CERO (Close Encounter Research Organization), Dr. Leo
Sprinkle and ACCET (Academy of Clinical Close Encounters Therapists,
Inc), Barbara Lamb, MS, and previously with the late Dr. John
Mack (JEMI) and Budd Hopkins (Intruder Foundation). For psychic issues,
we refer to Lloyd Auerbach of the Paranormal Network and for Kundalini,
to the Kundalini Support Network and Kundalini Awakening Now. For
spiritual emergencies, we refer to June Steiner PhD and the Spiritual
Emergence Network. Co-founded in 1994 by Les Velez and Dr. Eugene
Lipson we seek to understand and support people having paranormal
experiences. OPUS, through its educational services and position of
neutrality, provides a safe and caring meeting place for people and groups
with the intention of working together to further our overall knowledge in
these areas and better support people to integrate their anomalous
experiences into everyday life. You can read more about this on our
Experiencer Support page.
OPUS is a non-profit tax-exempt corporation formed for the public
good and is recognized by the I.R.S. under section 501(c) 3. Its activities
are guided by an executive council around which is created the larger
network of volunteers, mental and medical practitioners, and experts in
various fields. Please contribute whatever you can by sending your tax
deductible check to the mailing address listed and donate through PayPal.
Volunteers are welcome and encouraged to participate. OPUS can be found
at http://opusnetwork.org where the website provides information on
clinical discussions and contact information. Our snail mail address 2701 I
Street, Sacramento California 95816
 A white box
over roof at high speed. October 2019. Property of Terry Lovelace.

Implanted device discovered 2012, above right knee.

X-ray property of Terry Lovelace
Rotating globe over landscape, September 2018. Property of Terry Lovelace.
Unmarked military helicopter followed Terry from Methodist Hospital to the VA Clinic and home,
April 16, 2019. Property of Terry Lovelace.

Unmarked helicopter and straw hat-shaped UFO in pursuit.

Property of Terry Lovelace.
 Rotating crystal-like structure, June 2019. Property of Terry Lovelace.

Saucer photographed over author’s home April 29, 2019. Note the sun on top,
reflective surface and underside in shadow. Property of Terry Lovelace.