Part 1: Into The Fringe...True Story of Alien Abduction

Into The Fringe

By Karla Turner

A NOTE TO THE READER

All of the people in this account are real. Because of the nature of the events they experienced, however, several people involved have chosen to be identified by pseudonym or by first name only .Whenever a pseudonym is used, it will be noted at that name's first appearance in the story.

INTRODUCTION

In December 1987, Casey (a pseudonym) Turner was a successful computer consultant in a large southwestern city. He had a happy second marriage, good health, professional respect, intelligence, and a kind, good-humored nature. At the same time, David Trayne (pseudonym), a bright science student at the local university, was living on five acres of a 35-acre area on the edge of the city. He had a roommate, James (pseudonym), a girlfriend, Megan (pseudonym), also a science student, and three dogs.

Today, almost three years later, it would seem that things are still much the same for Casey and David, but I know better. Casey is my husband, David my son, and Megan is now our daughter-in-law. Together, we have all struggled to understand an astonishing phenomenon that revealed itself in our lives. It has altered our whole reference of reality in ways we could never have imagined.

We discovered that we were victims of abductions by some alien force. We learned that this force, this alien presence, had in fact been a part of our lives for many years. And through sharing our experiences, and seeking answers and help from others who had also encountered these beings, we learned to survive with our sanity intact and our perspective on life immeasurably expanded.

Stories of humans abducted, examined, and crossbred by alien beings of unknown origin are nothing new, not since Budd Hopkins's, Whitley Strieber's, and most recently, the media's interest in the subject. But that interest itself, a serious interest, is new. There hasn't been so much discussion on the air and in print about UFOs and ETs since the 1950s. And although UFO activity never ceased in the past forty-five years, it certainly has changed, most noticeably since 1981.

Undreamed-of numbers of people have discovered that they, too, have encountered this alien presence. Abduction activity affects all types and ages of people, and for the victims there is no shelter and no one to offer any real help. They are victims of affronts which no official power— political, spiritual, or social—admits to be real.

When we discovered this phenomenon in our lives, I began keeping a journal of events. At first it was only of Casey's experiences, but it soon expanded to cover mine and those of David, as well as of Megan and James. Awareness and involvement in the phenomenon, it seems, was spreading.

What follows is an integrated account of our experiences, taken from the journal entries from May 1988 to the summer of 1989. Many of these events were consciously experienced and remembered. But other occurrences were blocked from memory and known only from the evidence of marks on our bodies, episodes of "missing time," or strange phenomena in our homes. In several instances, hypnotic regression was used to uncover more about the blocked episodes, although many of our experiences have yet to be explored in this way.

This account also includes information from television reports, from books and other research documents, and from the stories of new people who came into our lives because of this phenomenon. I have not limited our story, as has been done in other abduction accounts, to only that information I judge to be believable, or palatable, or conforming to some theoretical explanation of my own choosing. Instead, this is the whole story of our first year after the discovery of alien intrusion, with all our fears, doubts, trials, and successes.

The information in this book is very personal, yet I believe its focus is of great, immense importance. We are in the midst of a reality-challenging mystery, and although I once said that this story couldn't be written until it was over, we no longer have the luxury of waiting. Like some species-wide recurrent nightmare, it may never be over. Or the mystery might all be made clear tomorrow, with revelations that mark the end of the world as we know it.

The people in this book are victims. They are also my family and friends, both old and new, and it matters very much to me what happens to us. It should matter to everyone else, too, because our story is proof that no family, no child or friend or mate, is safe from intrusion and abduction. The experiences of our small group, in fact, are being repeated in thousands of homes right now.

Finally, the things we've experienced prove that our global reality is not what we once thought. This phenomenon continues to spread, and, no matter what the actual nature of its cause, the world will change irrevocably. For us, it already has changed, and we can't help but fear to discover the direction it portends. —K.T.

CHAPTER 1

In the spring of 1988, our world ended. Life went on, but everything we had always known about reality—our trusted perceptions of ourselves, of the present and the past, of the nature of time and space—were destroyed. The end of one's reality is truly the end of a world. Another world follows, of course, but exile from the first one is permanent. We were thrust into new territory, a place of missing-time episodes, of UFOs and un-human beings and all sorts of bizarre phenomena that wouldn't go away. Yet we hardly noticed its beginning, and later, when it became clear that something strange was occurring, we had no idea that the very fabric of reality was about to change for my husband, Casey, and myself, as well as for our family and friends.

This is the story of how we came to this new reality. It is an account of the experiences that erupted in our lives, of our entrance into that other world of altered realities we "sane" people merrily deride or ignore. In the beginning, we kept these things to ourselves, out of fear and confusion, but now we realize the story should be told, for two very good reasons. First, what happened to us is not unique. It is occurring all over the world, yet until now such an account, involving a cluster of people, has never been presented in its entirety. What follows here is the complete truth, with nothing omitted or added to make the story more believable or more fantastic. Second, the implications of our experiences are global, in fact cosmic, and they point to a very disturbing future.

If our world has truly changed, so has yours, for we occupy the same world. Please don't assume that my friends and I were unbalanced or fanatics of some sort, given to extreme beliefs, when this all began. Instead, we were generally open minded about most things, which I'm sure would have included the existence of aliens if the subject had ever come up. But it didn't, at least for me, until quite inexplicably while teaching a freshman course in argument and logic I did something I'd never done before in my eight years as a university instructor: I brought up the subject of UFOs in class, as part of an assignment.

UFOs were one of three topics, actually, including the Loch Ness monster and Bigfoot, and my students were asked to make an objective evaluation of the evidence pertaining to one of these phenomena. I chose these three because I assumed the evidence would be weak and inconclusive when examined from a clear-thinking, insightful, educated point of view. In truth, however, I had never really looked at the evidence with more than a passing curiosity.

But in reading these research papers, I became familiar with titles of available books on these subjects. Perhaps that's why I suddenly decided to buy a paperback I'd seen for months at the mall bookstore, one which had never interested me before: Communion, by Whitley Strieber, a bizarre account purporting to be factual, about his experiences with some sort of alien entities, from some undetermined source. I read the book skeptically, yet was intrigued by his emotive story of intrusion, terror, and the groping for understanding.

In late April I was on my way to the West Coast for a few days, leaving Casey alone at home. Before I left, my son, David, borrowed Strieber's book and took it to his house. At the airport I looked for something to read on the flight and, remembering that Strieber had mentioned Budd Hopkins as a researcher into UFO phenomena, I bought Missing Time, Hopkins's account of several abduction experiences.

In California I read the book late at night, with very strong reactions. For one thing, I wondered how on earth Hopkins and Strieber could get away with claims that their books were factual, since the material—strange alien beings, small and gray and clone-like in their actions—was so obviously impossible. Hapless humans abducted, medically examined, then released with little or no memory of such events? Who were they trying to kid? I also remember thinking how glad I was that these stories were not true. How, I wondered, could you ever live in a world where such things could happen?

It was hard enough, I thought, to cope with the real world, even for the sanest of us. Casey and I, for instance, were financially solid and very happy in our marriage. Yet for several months, we had been attending separate counseling sessions in an effort to find out why we'd developed physical symptoms of stress. For me, it was the onset of TMJ,' with all its painful clenching of the teeth and jaws, and for Casey it was a variety of things. He was usually a calm, centered person, but since Christmas he had grown increasingly tense and short-tempered. His eyesight worsened, he had frequent headaches and stomachaches, and he suffered from tingling, numbness and pain that ran from his hip all the way down his left leg. Counseling helped us deal with the apparent problems in our lives, but the stress didn't disappear as promised. In my therapy, hypnosis had been used, so I became familiar with a relaxation technique involved in achieving a trance state. Since I'd been unsuccessful in finding the source of my stress with the first therapist, I began seeing a second counselor, Dr. Riley (pseudonym), who helped me work on consciously relieving the symptoms through mental relaxation.

I was also keeping notes on my dreams during this time, again as part of my therapy. I'd studied Jungian theory and found that these ideas deepened my insight into the psyche. At the time, I believed that explanations for all human behavior, including the experience of visions, lay in the archetypal structure of the human mind. Examining my dreams gave me entrance into the nature of my own psyche, and looking back now, I can see in those dreams the presence of a looming shadow.

A brief chronology of events shows how rapidly this new subject surfaced in my life, which until then had been completely free of extraterrestrial interests. In mid-April I assigned UFOs as a possible research topic in class. On April 21, I dreamed of seeing my husband and a group of his friends sitting happily together in a round environment, either in a round room or at a round booth, or both. His friends were all males in black attire, and I somehow knew they were vampires. On the twenty-second, I dreamed that a worldwide disaster or catastrophe had occurred, and my son was missing along with some of his friends. On the twenty-fourth, I began reading Communion. I asked my husband if he'd ever seen a UFO, and he said he hadn't. I replied that I hadn't, either, yet I remembered seeing a puzzling light zigzagging high in the Oklahoma sky in 1959 or 1960.

On April 25, I had two significant dreams. In the first, I went from dimestore to dimestore with my husband, and in each one I saw a doll in a cage. The dolls became more and more lifelike, until in the last store the doll was a miniature living little girl. She cried and reproached me as her mother, for leaving her there so long. I also dreamed of seeing a UFO land. I went toward it in great excitement, but the UFO suddenly exploded, and I knew that the government was responsible. The explosion somehow set off a land rush for Canada. Awake, I did not recall ever having dreamed about UFOs before. On the twenty-seventh, I bought Missing Time and read it in California.

It may seem a long way from UFOs and aliens to the vampires, catastrophes, and caged living dolls that appeared in my dreams, but I've learned that each of these images is directly relevant. Not so obviously, perhaps, but very significantly, and that's what makes me believe the dreams were in some way foreshadowing the events yet to unfold.

And I'm aware that UFO scoffers reading this account will say that the books were the sources of everything that followed. But that is not, from the distance and experience of the past three years, how I interpret it now. Instead of these books causing all the turmoil that was to follow, I believe I was drawn to them because of the discoveries I would soon have to confront. The alien phenomenon forced itself into my consciousness and directed me to the subject, to the books, as a means of preparation. I was being made ready, I feel certain, to deal with what was looming ahead.

May 1988

When I returned from my trip to California, Casey was suffering from back pains, the numbness in his left leg and foot which had recurred for several months, a headache and an upset stomach. So on May 2, after dinner, I offered to show him the relaxation hypnosis technique I'd learned in therapy, hoping he could relieve these symptoms. He lay down on the couch and I began to lead him into a trance state. It was the first time I'd ever helped hypnotize anyone but myself, but he was a good subject. Before long I'd taken him through some of the tests my therapist had used to prove to me I was really hypnotized: one arm floating like a feather, for instance, while the other hand weighs heavily into the chair.

When I saw that Casey was clearly in a trance, I decided to imitate my own therapist, in hopes of helping Casey uncover the problems that must be contributing to his stress. First I asked him to look back over his life and see if any particular event or person seemed especially important. And Casey responded easily, scanning back to recall mostly fond memories. He talked about his parents, his childhood, and the wonderful times he spent with his grandparents. But no particular problem came to his mind.

So I tried another of the therapist's tactics. "Why don't you ask your unconscious to communicate with you?" I suggested. “Ask if it will reveal to you anything that might be disturbing or significant."

Casey was silent a moment, and then he nodded. "Yes," he answered, "it says it will talk to me." Sitting back, then, I expected to hear any number of things—friction at work, mixed feelings about his children, or, more likely, I thought, unresolved emotions left over from his first marriage.

My expectations were blown away, however, as Casey spoke. First, he saw himself in his father's 1940 model Ford, with the windshield and dashboard bathed in such a blinding light that his eyes hurt. He was less than two years old, standing in the front seat as his father drove, and he recalled a dark afternoon storm before the light flooded in. He saw his father at the wheel, unmoving, as if frozen in place, before the memory jumped to the drive home through the hills around Grass Valley, California, near the Nevada border. Although the scene was clear enough, he didn't know why it had presented itself to him.

Then Casey again asked for subconscious help to uncover anything significant or disturbing that was being suppressed and causing his painful symptoms. But the next image he received was of a wall, a long, curving gray wall marked with strange symbols, and he couldn't see beyond it. I used a technique to help clarify his vision, directing him to imagine a thick curtain and to open it very slightly at first and peek through. He envisioned the curtain and mentally pulled it apart, and then he suddenly jumped in fright, literally levitating horizontally off the couch with a great start.

"What is it?" I asked anxiously, wondering if I'd strayed into something neither of us could deal with.

"A face!" he told me, still obviously terrified, as he described a strange countenance, grayish-white and deeply wrinkled, with an O-shaped open mouth and two huge, circular, black, staring eyes.

Just then the phone rang, and I quickly tried to relax Casey long enough to let me answer it. I picked up the receiver, said "Hello," and then heard the most unusual sounds I'd ever heard over the phone. Someone or something was talking to me in a rather thin, erratic, rapid voice, but I could understand nothing. The talking didn't sound as if it came from a machine, but it was nothing like a human voice, either. Surprised, I listened for perhaps twenty seconds and then repeated my "Hello." Abruptly the talking stopped, and all I heard was a faint static background. This lasted for another few seconds, and then the line went completely dead.

Puzzled, but too concerned about my husband to think about the call, I hung up and rushed back to Casey and asked him to continue his description.

"His face looks sort of like putty," he said, "and it's so wrinkled and old-looking." He felt that someone was holding him, lifting him to see this face up close. "I don't want to go to him," he continued. "I still see the wall, it's transparent, and there are some symbols on it."

He talked about seeing a black sky, with pinpoint stars, and then he gasped, shaken again, and described what could only be considered a spacecraft. "It's so big!" he kept saying, and it was giving off an orange glow.

After having read Communion and Missing Time, I didn't want to hear about alien faces and flying saucers, especially from my own very sane husband. I was upset by Casey's descriptions, and all I could think to do was bring him out of the trance immediately. But he was still agitated, trying to describe what he'd seen in better detail, and finally he drew pictures of the face and the orange craft. When I looked at the face he'd drawn, I too was terrified and repelled, so much so that I simply couldn't stand to be in the same room with it. And I didn't understand why it upset me so much, for it was not identical to the gray-faced aliens discussed in the books I'd read—books, by the way, that Casey hadn't seen.

At first I thought that Casey had somehow, perhaps telepathically, picked up on the material I'd read. Not that I'm a big believer in telepathy, but I was reaching for some understandable explanation. When I thought back through the hypnosis, however, I saw that Casey had described events and scenes different from those in Hopkins's and Strieber's books. If he were really reading my thoughts, I reasoned, his descriptions should have matched more of the details. Casey had told me of a blinding light, a paneled, curving wall with symbols, the enormous orange spacecraft, and the wrinkled, dark-eyed alien face. Yet these things weren't familiar from my reading.

Furthermore, it didn't seem likely that Casey had simply invented these images, because his emotional responses had been genuine and intense, surprising him as much as me. Yet it seemed just too coincidental that I would have suddenly read those books, with no previous interest in UFOs, and then would hear my own husband talking about such things, with such conviction. The only thing I felt sure of was that I hadn't intentionally influenced him, during hypnosis, to describe the UFO or the alien face. All I had done was ask him to consult his subconscious mind and see if it would show him the cause of his stressful symptoms.

Casey and I were both quite shaken by his descriptions. I slept poorly that night, and in the morning I was still so frightened that it was hard to leave my bedroom. That picture, I knew, was still in the living room, and I dreaded going in there. So, although I'd only seen Dr. Riley twice, early that morning I phoned him, asking if he would talk to my husband and try to sort out the reality behind the things he'd seen. I didn't believe Casey had actually ever seen such a face or spaceship. Yet both our reactions were so strong that I wanted reassurance of another more logical and acceptable explanation.

The therapist refused to talk to Casey. Instead, he said he wanted to see me and deal with my strange fears, but I insisted that it was my husband who needed looking after! We needed to know that his memories stemmed from a movie he'd once seen, perhaps, or from a forgotten nightmare, and we wanted someone in authority to tell us that. "Won't you talk to him for a minute?" I asked repeatedly. The therapist lost patience with my insistence.

After warning me again that I was the one in need of help, he ended the conversation on a sarcastic note. "I can tell you this," he concluded vehemently. "Whatever it was that your husband recalled, it certainly wasn't flying saucers and little green men!"

I desperately wanted to believe him. Images from the books I'd just read kept running through my mind, though, and I began to think that perhaps such tales weren't impossible. We needed a hypnotist, but the only one I knew refused to help. So two days later, our intense curiosity won out. We turned on the tape recorder to keep a record of what might follow and put Casey into a trance again. This time we were looking for something specific: the origin of the images he'd first recalled.

The story that unfolded was not a repeat of what I'd read by Strieber or Hopkins, so I felt confident that Casey wasn't subconsciously picking up his material from me. But that's all I felt confident about. Here was my husband of almost ten years, a man of caution and intelligence and great analytical ability, telling me about two different childhood encounters with nonhuman beings.

We began by focusing on the creature he'd drawn on May 2. He brought up the image and told me, "I saw a strange eye. It's close. It goes from left to right and it's big and close and dark and open, just looking like a big deer's eye, not a human eye, just big." Throughout much of this session, I noticed that Casey spoke in a more childlike manner than usual, as if he were recalling these events from the child's perspective.

I asked, "What color is the eye?"

"The outside is like dirty white," he told me. "outside, the skin around the eye, like thick paper. The eye, it's black or brown. Close to my face, about two inches away."

"Can you see who the eye belongs to?" I questioned.

"I know," Casey nodded.

"Can you tell me?"

"It belongs to, uh," he hesitated, "I don't know if it's real or not. It's the man I drew." And then he saw another head, bald and more human-colored.

"This one," he said, "it's very bulbous, like a dolphin."

I tried to elicit more details, but Casey was unable to see much more of the scene. So I instructed him to become more tranquil and to focus his mental vision.

"It's hard to see," he admitted. "It's hard to look at, to bring into focus."

"Is that because you don't want to look?" I asked, "or because you can't?"

" 'Cause I'm not supposed to," he replied. And then he said he couldn't tell where he was, that he felt like he was moving between two incidents: the scene on the large craft, and a different memory he'd told me recently, of being in a strange school.

"I feel almost like I'm going back and forth between the other time," he said, "and looking through the wall, and the school is very, very real.

I walk through the halls. The janitor just left."

"Are you able to see the janitor?" I asked.

“No, but I know he left. He was nice. I remember him saying it was time to go. And so time to go. Yes, I remember that. He said it was time to go. And so I'm looking for my aunt and mother."

"Where's home?" I questioned.

"Dallas."

"All right," I said. "So, now do you know how old you are?"

"I'm five," he answered. "Before I was in school."

I asked Casey to move ahead with his recollection, and he told me that everyone was gone, the school was empty, and he wondered where his mother was.

"I go back to the room," he said.

"Do you know what you're doing in this room?" I asked.

"I think I've been, I don't know if I was studying," he replied. "I can't remember. It's real comfortable. So nice I don't want to leave. But I stayed too long. And outside the sky is green and orange. That sounds weird. It's green and orange and white. Like the sun's going down through thick clouds. But there's no clouds. It doesn't feel right, like normal clouds. It's not clouds."

After a few minutes of trying without much success to learn more about this scene, we moved on to his memory of being in the 1940 Ford and seeing the bright light flood into the car. Once again, he saw himself and his father driving down the rural road, with storm clouds whirling in the sky.

"The light comes straight down," he said, recalling the event as if it were happening again.

"Oh! No! It came at us! The light hit the dash. Boy, it's extremely bright, it was almost so bright it went through the car."

"What does your father do?" I wanted to know. "Can you tell that?"

"Oh, my God, yes!" he replied.

"Is the car still moving?"

"It seems like it's not. No, it's not moving at all."

"Is your father moving?"

"He doesn't seem to be," Casey said.

"The car is stopped."

"Can you see anything out around you?" I wondered.

"I don't believe that I see this," he murmured. "Yeah. There's somebody coming to get us. But they're okay, I'm not scared, they're not moving fast."

"What do they look like?" I asked. "How many are there?"

"Four," he told me. "Uh-oh. I see this, and I don't know if I'm really seeing it or not. They're just coming. It's like they beckon."

Casey said they took him from the car, carried him away, and then he experienced a strange backward sort of movement. But I interrupted the flow of events and asked him for a better description of the beings who took him away. And this time, the description somewhat matched that of the typical gray alien. Their faces were "cartoon like," he said, "and they're wearing cover-like things."

But it was their eyes that most fascinated him. "They're just big, real pretty circles. Very smooth and don't blink. The light's so bright it hurts their eyes, so they cover their eyes from the light."

He described their skin as some sort of dirty white covering, which he felt as he was carried by one of the beings to a small "saucer shaped” craft resting on the roadside. And he told of going to the huge orange ship and encountering the Old One, the being whose face he'd seen two evenings earlier. Casey describe deep fissures in the Old One's "putty-like skin," vertical wrinkles, and black eyes. "He has the darkest eyes," he said, "like he knows all, and sees so much, knows so much, and he doesn't care."

"Does that Old One look like the other four beings?" I puzzled. "Or is it one of the four?"

"No, this is the Old One," he insisted. "Those were young ones, They're not the same. This one does not have a covering on its face. It's the Old One I saw last time."

Casey remembered some kind of physical examination, and as he relived the experience, he became very agitated. He'd just begun to feel hungry on the ship, "a feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach," he explained, and then he was suddenly talking very rapidly.

"There's a there's a light! And there's a, uh! Uh! A thing that looks like a rearview mirror, but it's not, it's thick, and it's got a plate glass, shiny glass or cover, and it's, it's coming at me. And then there's that other thing, that looks like . . . metal . . . teardrop-shaped. And over that teardrop there's two dots, two silver dots. They don't have heads, like screws, they're just dots. It touches here," he gestured, pointing to his stomach.

Finally, he remembered a strange sense of backward movement as he was returned to the car, where his father was still waiting, frozen, clutching the steering wheel. Before ending the session, I asked one last question. "Can you ask your unconscious if you're familiar with the Old One? Is this the only time, can your unconscious tell you if this is the only time?"

"It says no," Casey replied, "no, it's not the only time. It says I know him."

Intrigued by his answer, yet reluctant to delve any further into the experiences without some expert guidance, I helped Casey return to a normal state of consciousness.

For the next week, it was all we could think about, and I continued to feel afraid when I was alone at times. After Casey's revelations under hypnosis, I certainly didn't want to put him in a trance again myself, yet we both wanted to know how much reality his memories had. I was concerned about Casey, sometimes wondering if I should doubt his mental grip, yet knowing deep down that he wasn't the sort to fantasize such things, much less to fabricate them deliberately.

Casey had always been an earnest, honest, intelligent, practical person. He'd excelled in high school in everything from science to music, and when he enlisted in the military, the Army put him to work as a linguist in a branch of military intelligence. The assignment took him overseas where he traveled extensively. After the service, Casey and his first wife eventually divorced. She remarried and moved with her new husband and Casey's two children to another state. Casey finished college with a computer science degree and within five years established himself as a successful consultant. His work demanded expertise, reliability, and confidentiality, and he was recognized as one of the best. Professionally or personally, no one could accuse Casey of being a liar, a joker, or unstable.

Yet the memory of the face and the ship wouldn't go away. And during that week, other things, other memories began popping into his mind, especially an incident in California. In 1971, when Casey's son was about two years old, there were poltergeist activities in their house and an earthquake that apparently only Casey experienced. It was at this time that his son began talking about a "black man" who appeared through the wall in his bedroom. When Casey tried to find out more about this being, his son replied that the black man talked to him, but he refused to say what they discussed.

We both felt that we needed to find some sort of "expert" on UFOs and alien beings, if there were such a thing, but we had no idea where to look. Finally, I noticed a listing of a UFO research organization in Hopkins's book, and I called the international director, hoping he could direct us to some local person for help. Through him, we contacted a metropolitan chapter of a loosely related organization, Metroplex Mutual UFO Network (MUFON), and arranged to meet with a few of the members later in May.

The date seemed impossibly far away, considering our states of mind. One night I dreamed of seeing a house with its roof shaking, bouncing like a lid on a boiling pot, and I understood this was a sign that UFOs were coming. And then, a few nights later, I had my own bizarre experience, this time fully awake. On and off all night I woke up hearing strange sounds in the house, but I was too apprehensive to get up and see about them. There were bumps and clicks unlike the usual creaking house sounds we were familiar with. At one point I felt almost sure that someone was in the house, but I was too frightened to open my eyes.

Then I heard several people, in the corner of our bedroom near the door, speaking to me. It sounded like one voice, but it seemed to come from the whole group. I realized that the voice had been talking for a while, although I couldn't remember it, and then I clearly heard it say, "This is 'eliomi' (or 'elianni'?), the longing for that you've asked for." I was terrified, clutching tightly to Casey's arm, and then the voice was gone.

Casey, meanwhile, was rediscovering more old memories that had always seemed odd. He remembered once when he was thirteen, waking up to see a strange woman, dark-eyed with white wispy hair, approach him in unfamiliar surroundings. She got on top of him and engaged in sex, yet it was not at all erotic for Casey. He never told anyone of the experience and finally dismissed it as a dream. He also recalled being frightened one night while out parking with his fiancee, hearing pounding footsteps approaching the car. He had told me of this incident years ago, in fact, how they immediately started the car and tore out of the deserted area to go home, but when they arrived it was almost two hours later than it should have been.

And one other thing, a memory much more recent, came to mind. Casey reminded me of something he'd seen the past December right in our own town. Driving home, he glanced toward downtown and saw a strange, spherical metallic object stationary above the courthouse. He said when he arrived home, he parked and walked up the hill less than a block away to get a better look at the object, which he could tell was not a balloon. He walked around and stared at it for five or ten minutes, but when he turned to go back down the hill, he was shocked to see that the sky had grown very dark, as if time had passed that he wasn't aware of.

I remembered the incident then, that he'd told me about seeing the sphere, and that I had helped him look through the Sunday papers to find any news item that could explain what it was. Our town was sometimes used as a filming location for movies, and we thought the sphere might have been a movie prop. But there wasn't a mention of such a thing, so we both forgot all about it. And not once did either of us think of it as a UFO. Casey did, however, sense some relationship between the thing he saw and a deep, straight scar on the back of his leg that he found a few days later. He recalled accidentally touching it and being instantly angry about it, wondering how he could have gotten such a cut without knowing it.

When the evening finally came for our meeting with the UFO research group members, we were both anxious and apprehensive. We drove into the city, about forty miles away, and met several gracious and interesting people. I didn't understand all of the questions they had, but they seemed to know quite a bit about UFOs and even about alien abductions, so we opened up to them. And, although it was only Casey who seemed to be involved in this strangeness, I told them about a few odd things in my own life, even though I didn't think they were relevant.

But they insisted that I talk about any unusual events or recurrent dreams I'd had, and I related an early-childhood nightmare that happened several times. All I could remember was a tall, insect like being standing next to me, holding my hand, and telling me it was my mother. But more interesting was an experience I'd had in 1980, something that I'd always treasured as a genuine vision, since I had no other explanation for it.

Returning from a neighbor's and walking into my backyard, I was suddenly hit by a strange feeling, a sort of electric, shimmery feeling, and I began to see colors and movement around everything in the yard. I walked on and then saw four people standing side by side beneath a large tree. I thought of them as people because they were about my size—five feet tall—and had the usual appendages, but their appearance was actually like a shadow. They seemed gray and featureless, yet somehow I knew there were two males and two females. They greeted me warmly and told me they were my ancestors, that I carried all of their memories and wisdom in my body. I laughed at that, but they assured me that there were ways I could tap into that knowledge and use it.

I was coming home to prepare dinner, and since I was a notoriously insecure cook, I asked them why I was such a disaster in the kitchen. After all, I said, surely one of my ancestors was a good cook, so why couldn't I use that knowledge myself? At that point they began to direct me in the preparation of the meal, at least the two males did. While I was cooking, the two females stood close behind me, talking quite rapidly to some part of my mind other than my consciousness, but I couldn't understand what they were telling me. When I asked, the males said that I shouldn't worry about it, they were only giving me certain “instructions."

The entire incident lasted about forty minutes, and then I was aware that the ancestors were no longer with me. When Casey and David came home that evening, I excitedly told them both about the vision I'd had, and Casey noticed that I seemed to recall very little detail about the forty minutes.

We told the UFO group about the various memories as well as what Casey had related during hypnosis, and then we asked to be put in touch with a knowledgeable hypnotist. To our surprise, however, no one in the group came up with a name. So our one hope for help came to nothing that night, and we drove back home feeling as lost as ever. And, although Casey didn't tell me about it until the second time it happened, he noticed that we were followed for over twenty miles by a white Chevy. It pulled out of the neighborhood when we left, about 12:30 A.M., and stayed with us until we reached the outskirts of our own suburbs several towns and almost forty miles away.

Our contact with the MUFON group paid off a week later, with the news that their June speaker was a hypnotist and UFO researcher whom we could meet. At this point our spirits lifted a bit, and when Casey's parents came to visit, we decided to question them about the time Casey remembered being taken from the car. To our surprise, his father did recall a trip when Casey was a year old, through the foothills of the Sierras.

At the time, Casey's grandfather ran a restaurant where his mother and father helped out. It was a holiday weekend, and the great number of customers had depleted the steak supply, so his father took Casey and went to a couple of other towns to buy more meat.

"Was there anything unusual about the trip?" Casey asked.

"Not really," his father replied.

"Well, you were gone an awfully long time," Casey's mother interjected.

"Why?" Casey asked. "Did you have to stop anywhere other than the meat markets?"

"Yes," his father answered, "but only for a few minutes. There was a tree down across the road, I think."

"What happened there? Did you have to move it, or detour, or what?'' Casey probed.

"No, I didn't move it," his father said. "Some men came out of the woods and took it away."

Casey's father was a gregarious, helpful person who would have volunteered to help anyone in trouble, so it seemed odd that he wasn't involved in removing the blocking tree.

"What did you do, then?"

"I just sat in the car, and they moved the tree," he replied. "It only took a few minutes."

"But we were pretty late getting back to the restaurant?" Casey asked, hoping to prompt some further memory.

"You sure were," his mother answered. "I was really getting worried about you by the time you got back."

It was the first time Casey had heard this story yet the details—the location, Casey's age, his mother's absence, the missing time—all fit with his recollections while under hypnosis. His father's confirmation that such a trip had really happened somehow made things even harder for Casey and me. All along we were still hoping that the strange memories had no basis in reality, for we just couldn't accept the existence of space ships and little green (or, in this case, gray) men. Yet we were more anxious than ever to meet the investigator, a woman named Barbara Bartholic, from Oklahoma.

CHAPTER 2

June 1988

At the MUFON meeting, we introduced ourselves briefly to Barbara and sat back to listen to the talk, intrigued by her information yet still skeptical. She began with accounts of multiple UFO sightings throughout northern Oklahoma, witnessed by hundreds of people including local law enforcement officers and increasing dramatically since 1987. In that same period, she said, many people had come to her telling of their abduction experiences. She mentioned the crossbreeding experiments and sometimes painful physical exams, none of which I wanted to hear. After the session, though, we went with Barbara back to her hotel to discuss the possibility of working with her.

And the more we talked, the more we liked her. A wife and mother in her late forties, she was completely unpretentious and very warm, humorous, and knowledgeable. Her UFO research began almost a decade earlier when she assisted one of the most respected scientific “names'' in the field, Dr. Jacques Vallee, in cattle mutilation research. Dr. Vallee had done important computer work for NASA's space program, and his investigations into the UFO phenomenon resulted in such books as Passport to Magonia, Dimensions, and, most recently, Confrontations. He was the model, in fact, for the French scientist in the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Barbara's work with abductees started first with the help of a qualified hypnotherapist, but when the number of cases exploded, the therapist taught her his technique and she continued on her own. Her serious dedication to the research was very clear, and she took no payment for the hours she devoted to each case. We talked late into the night, and finally when it was arranged that we'd visit her in a few weeks, we took our leave, at 2:15 A.M.

About halfway home, while discussing the meeting with Barbara, Casey suddenly changed the subject. "Do you see that white car behind us?" he asked, peering into the rearview mirror.

"Yeah," I said, glancing back. A white American model was in the near distance, but I couldn't believe it was really following us, as Casey insisted. "How can you be so sure?" I countered.

"I saw it in the parking lot of the hotel," he replied. "It pulled out when we did, and it's been on our tail ever since. I've tried changing lanes and changing speeds, but it stays right there."

"That's crazy," I told him. "Why would anybody want to follow us?"

"I don't know," Casey answered, "but this is the second time it's happened. Once might have been a coincidence, but not twice."

Then he told me about the first white car, the night we met with the UFO group, and we both began to worry about what we had gotten ourselves into. Two months before, our lives were normal and the world was a familiar and comfortable place. Yet here we were, being followed in the middle of the night, having spent the evening actually considering the existence of alien beings, and the absurd possibility that these beings had somehow touched our lives.

Our pasts, we now feared, held some mysterious and frightening secrets. Was it better, we wondered, to leave those secrets buried? Our lives had been good, and these new, unsettling developments were very unwelcome. We didn't realize, at that time, just how deeply and irrevocably they would change our world, yet we couldn't help but fear what was coming. Our instincts told us to be conservative and protective, to keep this new knowledge to ourselves, and so we did. That meant, however, that inevitably we began to withdraw from our close friends. They loved us, we knew, but how could we expect them to accept such outrageous, fantastic stories? At this point, we still weren't sure we believed them ourselves. So the prudent, sensible thing to do was to keep silent, at least until we knew much more about what had happened.

But pulling on our emotions in the other direction was a strong need for answers. We felt angry, as if our lives had been broken into and robbed of some very precious innocence. We wanted an explanation, maybe even an apology, for our forced encounters with these beings, so we decided to find out everything we could about our dimly remembered experiences. For Casey, especially, this was important, since he had always known that strange events had happened to him, without remembering enough detail to know what any of these events really comprised. He was like a man with partial amnesia, who cannot feel complete with such perplexing gaps in his memory. So, in spite of our fears, we decided to explore this phenomenon, in our own lives and in whatever research material we could find. In our concern for the past, however, it never occurred to us that the same strange events might start up again in the future.

Once our research began, we found a great deal of ambiguity in the UFO-ET phenomenon, stemming mainly from the nature of the evidence. Eyewitness accounts, which make up the bulk of UFO material, are ultimately unverifiable, to most people's thinking, no matter how many witnesses confirm each other's story. Sure, they may all have seen something at the same time, but given the brevity of the usual sighting and the distances involved, accurate descriptions must be very rare. Photos can be faked, and so, for that matter, can video. Physical traces are admittedly evidence of something, but the "something" itself isn't there to identify reliably. And there's always the chance of deliberate deception. So what is one to make of the tons of material in the book stores claiming to deliver factual accounts of UFO and alien activity?

It would have been much easier to dismiss the whole bizarre notion if I didn't have someone I loved and trusted telling me similar things about his own life. But I still couldn't seriously accept Casey's memories as factual, and I'm not certain that he could, at that time, either. We were involved in something so strange that we tended to treat it like a fiction, as if we'd just discovered we were actors in a movie we didn't realize was being made. We knew, of course, that something was going on, but we held to the idea that his memories were symbolic, not actual. And as we left to visit Barbara late in June, we both hoped that regression would uncover the hidden truth about Casey's experiences, a truth that had nothing to do with UFOs.

Soon after our arrival, Barbara and Casey began their first session. She kept him in a trance state for several hours, patiently encouraging him to dig deeper into his stored memories. Before they started, Casey told Barbara about a few of the odd things he'd been recalling, as well as the events he'd discovered in the earlier regression with me. So she directed his thoughts to these memory cues, and I listened in rather shocked attention to the incredible story he unfolded.

The first strange memory they explored was of a "waking dream" Casey had as a preschool child. In the "dream," he was taken to a sort of school, and he recalled at one point feeling very abandoned and afraid. Under hypnosis, he now recalled being in a school environment with the Old One and another unidentified being, and of feeling that he was being tested in some way.

"It feels like I'm there to learn something, I know I learned something. I feel something in my heart, and yet at the same time I feel like I'm—and that's silly," he interrupted himself, "because I'm so young—but I feel like I'm teaching. I don't know how I could. Something is being learned from me," he said, "and at the same time I'm being given feelings that are much bigger than I am, that go well beyond, go far beyond me."

Barbara asked Casey if he'd ever seen the Old One before, so Casey once again went through the abduction experience when he was a year old which he'd first related to me. He described the small craft again. "It's quite solid," he said, "and it's just a dull, not very spectacular piece of work. It's sitting there and I can see it, and it's standing on about three legs, or four."

"Please be more specific," Barbara requested. "Is it on three legs or four legs?''

"I can't, I'm sorry," Casey replied. "I just remember that as a kid. My mind's just so interested in what I'm seeing. It's the people that are coming to get me. They're little, and yes, they do have . . . I don't know if you've ever seen them, they are quite diminutive. The people aren't very big. I mean, I'm just a little kid, and they're picking me up, and they feel small. Like maybe an eight-year-old child. And they pick me up, and I feel through the fabric they're thin. I feel like I'm being held by somebody that doesn't really know how to hold people."

I noticed that this time, telling Barbara about it, he showed much less emotion than before, as if he'd come to terms with the incident in some way. He was able to view the whole thing with clearer vision, also, so Barbara elicited much more information than I had. And then she asked him, once again, if he'd ever seen the Old One or any of the shorter "cartoon like" beings before this abduction experience.

"Yes," he replied, and then in a bewildered voice he began telling of seeing himself as a ball of golden light and of watching a group of beings "make" him. "They got me ready to be born. They're excited. I'm watching what they make. I feel like I'm watching them make me. I feel like they wanted me to be born, like I was their thing there with them before I was, with somebody. They're workers, they're not makers. And I'm watching them work. And after I was born, they watched, and they came, and they took me back there again."

"Can you describe the process that was taking place?" Barbara wanted to know.

"What I see when you ask me that," he explained, "is a series of very intricate red and white patterns. They are interlocked, and they are being fixed. One of the people is pushing these patterns around with their fingers. It's like a box or panel, like a computer terminal with totally different keys. And it feels like they're moving things around, chemicals, I'm having to say, speculation, because what I see is red and white patterns, lines interconnecting. They're adjusting these lines, they're moving them around, pushing them to different levels. And I don't know what that means. It feels like it's very important."

"What happens after that?" Barbara asked.

"It's like instead of watching," he replied, "I'm inside."

"Inside of what? Can you give me a description?"

"I'm inside of Mother," Casey said. "You can see the light in the daytime, it's pink and yellow, it's living."

After this surprising revelation, Barbara questioned him about why he was "made" by these beings and then born. "Are you receiving directions or instructions?" she asked.

"Feels like I'm making the decision myself," Casey responded. "I make the decisions. It's time. My feeling is that it's a difficult decision to make, but that, knowing I really change, knowing I will not be myself, that I elected to do it. I wish to be . . . solid. To feel more than just inside, to feel outside, too, to feel the outside world, to have it affect me. And so I made the decision to be born."

"Were there any instructors," Barbara probed, "any others above you who gave you a choice to be born? Who gauged this movement for you?"

"An agreement," he told her, "just an agreement."

“And who did you make the agreement with?''

"I'm getting into an area that's almost incomprehensible, without sounding strange," he admitted. "But it's like, there is reason, there is purpose, and I have to do it and want to do it, and it's time to do it, and I can, and I go."

When pressed about the worker beings he'd watched, Casey said that they were in effect carrying out instructions from a higher authority. "There was another source," he explained, "and we all know that the source is the instrument of this. They are under the control of that Old One. The Old One makes the thought, and they 'do.' The Old One sees, and they see."

Barbara asked, then, if Casey considered the Old One to be synonymous with the ultimate Creator, and he said no.

"The Old One is an instrument, a vessel that contains the wisdom and the art and the mind and the knowledge and the experience. And knows its future and knows its past, and it's sad and not sad, and happy and not happy."

By the time they finished with Casey's pre-birth recollections, I was truly disturbed. Casey normally shied away from metaphysical ideas, yet what he'd just described was far beyond the merely metaphysical. It was crazy. My mind was almost numb, but there was still more to hear.

The last incident that Barbara focused on was the sighting of the metallic sphere in December 1987. Once again, Casey told of seeing the object from his car, parking at home and walking up the hill, and then watching the sphere above the courthouse. But this time he recalled much, much more.

"Tell me what is happening now," Barbara directed.

"I don't understand," he said. "I feel like I'm seeing myself being brave and going into a beam of light. I'm watching it. It's just like everything narrows into a very tight beam. And I disappear into that. And that doesn't make sense. I wish I could see."

"What are you experiencing around you," Barbara asked, "what are you aware of?

"Oh!" he said, startled. "There's a big eye. I just saw it again."

"What is the source of the big eye?"

"It's like a lamp, like a big lamp," he replied. "It just goes through everything, you know? It just washes you with something. Washes everything."

"Can you give me a description? How does this lamp wash you?"

“No, well, it's very trying. This whole feeling at this time is real trying."

"What do you mean, 'trying'?" Barbara questioned.

"I don't want to be here," Casey answered. "Wherever this is. Feel like I'm in a small, cramped place. Not like a coffin or anything like that, but just in a small . . . it feels claustrophobic, the room."

"Can you look around and describe it to me?"

"Oh, I'll try, Barbara," he said, becoming agitated. "I'm so upset about being here that I don't want to look. These don't feel, it doesn't feel like the other feelings that I've had. It feels grubbier and dirtier and mechanistic more than spiritual, or loving." "

Tell me your feelings. What are you experiencing?" "Feel like I'm on my back, with my legs pushed up to my chin. Feels like I'm just balled up in a gray cloud on my back. It feels small and dank. Like a cellar but not a cellar. It's not wet, but it smells yucky. Closed quarters, like an old gym, old locker room. It feels cluttered, it feels real cluttered, busier. It doesn't feel smooth and expansive, like a big ship does. And I don't even know if I'm in a ship. I can't tell, it just feels like I'm in a room and there's all these small scatterings. I mean, it's got walls. Feel like I'm in a room with walls and laying on my back, and I'm being pushed here and shoved there, and . . . I'm really shutting my mind now to what's going on up there."

"Are you alone?" Barbara continued patiently.

"No," he admitted, "there's somebody doing this stuff, but I don't know him."

"Can you tell how many? Is there one or many?"

"There's more than one," Casey said, "but I can't tell you how many. I'm the only 'person' that I feel here, but I could be wrong. It's just, I'm pissed off."

"Are these the same beings that you have known before?" Barbara asked.

"No, doesn't feel like the same."

"Do they have you with your permission?" Barbara pressed him.

"No."

“What could be done to prevent this from happening? Is there any recourse?"

"I refused to go this time," Casey said. "I don't know what more I could do next time."

"You refused, and yet they'd take you, right?"

"Yes, and they cut me," he told her. "They lifted up my, when my leg was lifted up, they cut me. They wanted something. They might have made me do something, and they wanted to see something happen, or they wanted something. They didn't tell me, they won't tell me. I don't know, I don't like that."

"Can you tell me why they're doing this to you?" Barbara asked. "Do you know?"

"Yes, I think so," he answered. "It sounds too unbelievable, but it seems that they must have pieces of us . . . so that we can stay alive. They need pieces of me so that there is a way to continue. They need something so they can repair, so they can make, so that they correct and fix. And I shouldn't be angry, but it makes me angry when they take me away and don't let me know. I'm old enough now. I know I'm old enough and I care enough. And I don't understand why. And that makes me mad."

When Casey was brought back to full consciousness and questioned, he said the memories seemed very real, and I could hear the amazement in his voice as he went back over the experiences. I was anything but calm, understandably, and equally amazed, but I still couldn't let myself believe that these things had actually, factually, occurred.

Not to my husband, not in my reality. I was frantically searching for psychological explanations and coming up empty as we went to bed, and Casey was very quiet. On the trip to Oklahoma we had discussed the possibility that actual contact with UFOs and aliens—whatever they really were—might have happened to him in the past, telling ourselves we could surely learn to live with that knowledge, now that it was all over. But December 1987 was far too recent for comfort, edging much too close to our present lives.

A second regression took place the following evening, Saturday, after we spent the day visiting with two of Barbara's friends and Jack Lee (pseudonym), a guest of hers who was a counselor from another state. Barbara and her husband lived in one house, but they owned the house immediately to their left, where Jack, the other guest, was staying. Casey and I were staying in a third house they owned, directly across the street from Jack.

Casey went into trance easily this time and proved to be much more clear-sighted and responsive than he'd been the night before. The first incident to which Barbara directed him was a day in Kansas, 1960, when he'd remembered having a bad pain in his nose, for no apparent reason. Barbara asked him to describe the setting and the situation.

"It was when I was about, in the sixth grade," he began, "so I was thirteen. And some boys have just told us, told me and my friend that they saw a UFO land at the top of the field that's across the street from my house. And I think that they're silly, that . . . couldn't happen, but I want to go see it. We used to play there, it's a big field. It was summertime. And I was scared, because I didn't know what it meant. I thought they knew what they were talking about. I can see it.

"It really was there, Barbara," he continued. "I remember that I was terrified to go over there, across the street from my house. The field was like a city block. It was a real long block, must've covered ten acres or more. I remember, I'm trying to see why that hurt my nose. I remember telling my mother that I thought I broke my nose. But I didn't have a fight, but it sure hurts. Hurts inside. It shouldn't hurt. Feels big.

"I remember Bill and I went to explore, then that's all I remember, except that my nose hurts. It felt real, real swollen around the bridge of my nose, at the top. Near the eyes. It feels like I've been hit! Except we didn't have a fight."

"Tell me again what you see when you go to look," Barbara requested, hoping to learn more detail.

"God, there really is something over there, you know it," he said. "Oh, it makes me tingle all over! Ah, yeah, I know there's something there, there really is. I can't, I'm not supposed to see that, Barbara, I'm not supposed to see that. I'm really not supposed to see anything there."

"What are you experiencing?"

"Tugging," Casey said uneasily. "Bill's going, too, and I, it feels like I've got to go, too. I feel like I'm stumbling, I'm falling, and then . . . I ' m real tired, and my nose hurts."

When Barbara led him back over these memories and helped him clarify his vision, Casey told of encountering three beings whom at first he thought of as strange children. They took him and his friend Bill into a landed craft where he was placed on a table. Quite clearly reliving the pain, he told of some sort of instrument being pushed up his nostril and feeling a sharp "popping" sensation as the instrument penetrated a membrane into his brain. I listened, utterly shaken, and felt terrified for the first time that Casey was telling the literal truth. The pain in his face was real.

The next memory explored also dealt with Kansas, and once again Bill was involved. While spending the night at Bill's house, Casey recalled looking out a bedroom window for some reason. Then he found himself back aboard the same ship where he'd had the nasal examination. This time, as he lay on the table, after having been made to drink a cinnamon-smelling liquid, he saw a white-haired woman walking over to him. He said she seemed gentle and perhaps caring. She got on top of him, initiating sex, and when it was over she left. Casey saw that the Old One was in the room, watching.

“Did he watch while she was on top of you?'' Barbara interrupted.

"Yeah."

"Did he seem to enjoy watching you?"

"No."

“Why was he watching?'' Barbara pressed.

"Because the Old One is like my teacher, my master," Casey tried to explain.

"I see that you like your Old One, that you have great depth of feeling for your Old One," Barbara mused. "Is he a part of you?"

"I don't feel like a relation," Casey disagreed. "I feel like a pupil."

“Do you have any idea why they selected you?l'

"No, but they're excited," he said, referring to his experience with the woman, “they like it. They seem to be darn certain that I'm the one they want. Certainly don't leave me alone."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It just seems like they've bothered me, bothered, busied themselves by keeping track of me for such a long time,'' he told her.

Quite a long time, apparently, for the next exploration was of a memory from 1966. Visiting his fiancee that December, Casey took her parking on a remote, newly widened road outside the city. Their night was quickly interrupted, however, by ominous loud footsteps coming toward their car, so they sped away. But when they arrived home, almost two hours had inexplicably disappeared, and they were in trouble with his fiance's parents for being so late. With Barbara's help, Casey was able to discover much more that happened that night.

"Well, the lights aren't right," he began, "with the radio on there's a little light on the radio, and all the other lights are off. And then it seems like, I have not been able to see any of this experience since it happened, ever, once. It was terribly frightening."

“Was your fiance scared, too?'' Barbara asked.

"Yeah, she was real scared, too. Because what happened, what I can remember happening, was we're touching each other. Then the car is flooded with a feeling of immobility, and it seems like confusion. And something comes out, watching. . . . "

"Are you still embracing her?"

"No, not, not at all," he replied, visibly frightened. "I feel like I've got to run, I want to get out of the car and run. I get out of the car! We both get out of the car. I have to get out. Feels like I was told, compelled to get out of the car and walk to the front of the car. And I do. I can feel the dirt beneath my feet. I can feel the warmth of the engine, and I can see the front of my car. Down the road there is in the darkness, from the darkness there's something coming at us from the front."

"Are you able to move while you're standing there?" Barbara inquired.

"No."

"Is she able to move?"

"No."

"What do you see coming?" Barbara kept questioning him.

"Darkness," he told her, "dark figures. Four."

"Do you recognize them?"

"No," he said, "I don't recognize these. These seem to be taller and dark all over. And they're really scary."

"How tall are they?" she probed. "They seem to be almost up to my chin," Casey indicated. "Almost five feet tall, but they're so thin and black. Covered in black clothing. I can't see their faces. It's so dark I can't see."

"How does she react?" Barbara asked, referring to the fiancee. "Can you talk to one another?"

"No, but I feel like she just wants to run like a rabbit. We're pulled, held still. We're just held still in front of the car. It's tiring. My heart's just going ninety miles an hour. I feel hot."

"What are they doing? Are you being touched or communicated with?"

"No, it feels like I'm being leered at, doesn't feel like I'm being studied." Casey's face showed deep concern and fear. "It doesn't feel like the same kind of feeling I have when the little ones are around, or the Old One. It seems like a different group. It seems like they're more interested in something else."

"What are they interested in?"

"They're interested in my fiancee," Casey replied. "They're not interested in me. Not these people. And they take her. She goes with them. And I'm just stuck. Just frozen."

"Can you tell where they take her?"

"I don't know," he said, "but I don't like it."

Casey showed strong, frightened emotions as he recalled that night, standing paralyzed by his car. When his fiancee returned, much later, he said, they got back into the car, heard the loud footsteps, and drove away in a panic. Yet neither of them was aware that almost two hours had passed, and they recalled nothing of the thin black beings or the woman's abduction.

The regression was running late into the evening, but Barbara asked Casey once again to look at the December 1987 abduction. His recall had been so vivid, she hoped that he might offer more information. In the previous session, Casey seemed to think he'd been taken into an unfamiliar room, by a different group of beings. But this time as he looked at the experience, it was more recognizable.

"It's the same one that, when I was a child, but it's now smaller, I'm bigger," he said. "And it's just busier, these people are so busy. They're in a hurry."

"Then they were the same people that were with you when you were young?" Barbara clarified.

"Yeah. It feels, it has the same light, the same feel about it. It's the same area, it feels like I'm in the same place again. But this time, they're just there to say, 'Casey, you, are . . . you've got to remember, you got to know yourself. Remember!'"

He became very agitated, and Barbara brought him out of the trance, calming him. But the emotions were overwhelming, and Casey couldn't help crying in relief. So much had been kept hidden for so long, and now he felt he'd recovered great pieces of his past. He sat up a long time after the session, describing details of the incidents—the cinnamon scented liquid, for instance, and the pale yellow, slitted "cat eyes" of the thin, black ones in 1966—but he was no longer agitated. There was a real sense of relief and certainty about him that gave away his state of mind: I could see that Casey now believed these things had truly happened to him, just as he'd recalled them.

I was shaking, unable to hold a cup or even a cigarette, the shaking was so intense. I had an irrational desire for Casey to suddenly burst out laughing, to deny that he'd been telling the truth, but it wasn't going to happen that way, and I knew it.

Barbara was exhausted and went home shortly before 2 A.M., but Casey and I were still far too agitated to sleep. That night I experienced real terror for the first time—Casey's memories were utterly terrifying if they were true, and I felt they were now—and I wasn't about to let Jack, the counselor who was visiting Barbara that weekend, go to his guest house and leave us alone. He had been resting in another part of the house during Casey's session with Barbara, and when he finally insisted on going back to his own quarters, I asked if we could accompany him, and he agreed. We went upstairs to his bedroom in the house across the street and-talked, telling Jack about the regression, which he hadn't heard.

Going back over the story, I was still frightened, but at least the shakes had stopped. And Jack was a good listener. He was a large, friendly man ten years our senior, and, like Casey, a former member of military intelligence. Since his retirement, two things had developed for Jack: a career in private counseling and a terminal heart condition, which he faced with calm acceptance and an assurance of a rewarding hereafter. I found his presence comforting, and even though I was much calmer myself, I was still too afraid to leave the room alone, even to go to the bathroom.

And then, about 3 A.M., something happened. A moment before, I would rather have died than been left alone, yet now I was suddenly compelled to go outside.

"I can't stay in here anymore," I told them, getting up from my seat and pacing. "I've got to get out, right now!"

Casey looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "It's the middle of the night, Karla," he objected. "What on earth would you do out there?''

"I don't know," I admitted, "I just need to be outside, really bad."

"Come on back and relax," Jack said, but I was already hurrying down the stairs. Both of them jumped up and followed after I burst through the front door, out into the darkness.

Jack and Casey caught up with me in the middle of the street, and I just stood there, feeling silly. They both asked me why I had rushed out, but I had no explanation, only that I couldn't resist the urge. We were looking around, up through the trees at the nighttime sky, and within a few minutes, maybe two or three, I noticed they were both staring up toward the east.

Then Jack pointed, in silence. I looked up and saw a bright white light flash once, and my heart sank. “It's got to be a firefly," I whispered to myself, but then it flashed a second brilliant time, larger than a tower beacon, in a different location, and I felt as if my heart stopped beating. This is what it feels like to die, I remember thinking, but I kept watching the light. It flashed on and off in a leisurely zigzagging fashion, moving around to the north, and then it stopped moving.

"I think we've got something here," Jack said fearfully, staring up at the stationary light.

We watched in silence for a few moments, and then the light began to change. Instead of a single bright white light, we now saw changing colors of white, red, and green. The light grew perceptibly larger, until the colored lights appeared to make up, or be attached to, a horizontal row. It finally dawned on me that the light was growing larger because it was coming closer and closer to us, and I panicked. I turned to run back inside, but in my last glimpse I saw a dark pie-pan shape beneath the row of lights. It was a craft of some sort, coming straight down towards us, and all I could think of was to run indoors and hide. Jack was right behind me, but Casey stayed outside a few moments longer and then hurried inside, torn between wanting to comfort me and wanting to stay and watch. He, too, had made out the pie-pan shape beneath the row of lights and the dull reflection they cast on the dark body of the craft.

If I had been shaky before, I was near hysteria now, and we all three huddled closely together in the living room, waiting for whatever might be coming next. Every sudden noise made me jump in fright, and the men were visibly upset and anxious, too. My pulse was racing, as was Jack's, and we hoped the strain wouldn't cause him any harm, given his serious heart condition.

His own thoughts, however, were of a very different nature. For a while he said nothing, and then when he spoke there was a different sound in his voice, a quaver of uncertainty.

"I thought I had it all figured out," he said, slowly shaking his head. "I mean, I thought I knew what life was all about. And all those things I've studied, I even thought I knew what to expect after death. But now," he paused, "now I think that I don't know anything.".

It was an utterly humbling realization, and we shared it with Jack. The craft with brilliant colored lights had truly been in the sky over our heads, which in the flash of a moment turned our universe into an entirely different place than it had been-before. But as the minutes slowly passed without any further incident, we began to calm down, discussing the craft and wondering what it was.

Comparing notes to make sure we'd all seen the same thing, we realized the craft had certainly not been a conventional airplane. The sighting occurred at a few minutes past 3 A.M., there had been absolutely no sound associated with it, and the lights were all wrong, we knew, having watched planes overhead from our home as they came into the large metropolitan airport nearby. Besides, what sort of plane can zigzag at 45-degree angles as the initial large white light had done?

When we finally went to bed, each of us knew we'd seen a UFO which, coming just after Casey's second, pain-filled regression, seemed a clear confirmation of the reality of his recollections. Neither Jack nor I slept that night, although Casey drifted off eventually, exhausted by the emotions he'd been through, and it was a long time after that before I again enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep.

next

https://exploringrealhistory.blogspot.com/2021/03/part-2-into-fringetrue-story-of-alien.html

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