Part 3 The Keepers An Alien Message for the Human Race ... Abandoned Home ...Trying to Lose Myself ... "The Boss Wants to See You" ... Family History

The Keepers 

An Alien Message 

for the Human Race 

Jim Sparks

Chapter 8

Abandoned Home

I was falling into a deep depression. My hair had grown quite long, and I wasn’t showering. My fingernails were long and dirty. I was drinking a great deal of alcohol. One evening I sat in my easy chair with a fifth of Smirnoff Vodka, drinking straight out of the bottle. My right hand gripped the neck of the bottle and my left hand held a.357 Magnum cocked and ready to shoot, as my right forefinger massaged the trigger. I was going to shoot anything and everything resembling aliens — even holograms. 

Part way into the bottle a loud thump sounded on the roof. I was certain a small scout ship had landed on my roof. I waited, feeling my hackles rise and perspiration growing on my forehead and underarms. Then I heard shuffling footsteps in the attic and then another noise. It sounded as though those things were moving my boxes around up there. I tried to pinpoint the exact origin of those sounds and tracked them with the muzzle of the gun. My finger tightened on the trigger. My heart was pounding and I was sweating like a racehorse. I closed my eyes — but didn’t shoot. “No, not yet,” I thought. “Wait until they come into the living room.” 

Moments later, the waiting seemed unbearable. “Why don’t you freaks walk through the walls like you usually do?” 

A few seconds later two of the aliens walked from the hallway into my living room, their big eyes shining. They looked so odd as they entered my living room, like curious children. They examined my belongings, played with the lamps, walked into knick-knacks like clods,  and knocked things over. One of them was moving the ashes around in the fireplace. The other kept staring at the TV. 

Trigger cocked and barrel pointed at the back of his bulbous head, I took a large gulp of vodka, began to squeeze the trigger, and yelled, “Pretty pathetic! You walk through walls and travel the universe, but you can’t figure out how to turn on the TV! I’m going to kill you!” But even through the alcoholic haze, I heard what they had recently told me, “WE KNOW YOU ARE NOT A KILLER.” 

The sentence sounded through my head, and I knew they had been right. I lowered the gun. The creatures stayed in the house until daybreak. When daylight came they were gone. 

If the Visitors, or whatever you want to call them, want to get you — there is nowhere to hide. In 1989, I thought there was no hope, no help at all. As those things whisked me away from that hotel room, I didn’t know if I was going to be able to survive, at least as my full self. However, I did survive. Whether as my full self, I don’t know. Maybe I lost something in these experiences, maybe I’ve gained something. I just knew the whole while that I had to understand what was going on! 

In the years that followed, even stranger things happened, and I became more and more convinced of the absolute reality of what was happening to me, that I was being instructed by the aliens for a reason. It took me a long time to understand that, but I learned. I also learned that I wasn’t alone. 

In 1994, I took a step that would change my life and put my contact with these other beings in a totally different perspective. In that year, I found real help. 

Believe me, Houston, was not a good source of compassion for someone who claimed the things I did. Neither, for that matter, was North Carolina. Both are pretty much set in their ways, and those ways are generally either secular or religious. So, professionals wanted me to take prescription drugs and talk about my mother, while religious therapists wanted to throw holy water on me and pray that my demons would be cast out. 

I’ll get to what happened between ‘90 and ‘94 soon, I promise, because those years contain much of what I learned from the aliens, about what I was supposed to do and say as I went out and spoke to people about them.

One of the best things I did was move back to the Ft. Myers Beach area. My family probably did think I was more than one card short of a full deck, but they were caring and supportive, and I’d decided that South Florida was where I should be. 

I guess that South Florida is a lot more free-thinking about things, since it’s a mixture of people from around the world. In any case, two significant things happened as soon as I moved back. 

Number one, I started to hear more about the whole UFO abductee phenomenon. Call me unattached to media, if you like, but I didn’t get much of that in Houston! In South Florida, however, there’s a lot more talk of such things. Maybe the Visitors work there more, or more likely, people are willing to talk more about it. 

In any case, soon enough I learned that there were others who had had abduction experiences. I was still pretty mentally disturbed about the whole situation, and so it took me a while to get up the nerve — being at my wits’ end was an incentive. 

In any case, the news filtered down to me: In Florida there was something called the Southwest Florida Abductee Support Group. 

The founder and leader was a man named Tim Wilson. I called Tim, nervously. I was used to dealing with people who regarded me as an escapee from the loony bin. This seemed to be my last hope for understanding, and I do confess I was perspiring somewhat, and my hand shook a little as I rang him on the telephone February 24, 1994. 

Tim was wonderful. He listened patiently and asked just the right questions. 

“Look,” he said. “I know this has been rough on you. You need to talk about it. I want to assure you, you’re not the only one who’s had these kinds of mind-breaking experiences, and believe it or not it really helps to share and compare notes and support others as you are supported. Most of  all, it’s great to listen — and to be listened to — without judgment. We have a meeting the last Saturday of every month, which means there’s one this Saturday evening. Why don’t you come? I, for one, would love to hear your fascinating story.” 

At first I was elated. Yes, I would be there! Tim Wilson’s family owned a motel, which was the site of the monthly meeting. 

After my agreement, however, I was worried. 

I began to think of some of the things that had been happening in recent years. Most prominent were the experiences I had had with men who would come to my home in Houston, after my talk of aliens and abduction, and explicitly tell me to be quiet. Then I would see them following me. Suffice it to say, it had a two-edged effect. For one thing, it made me realize that others took me seriously, even if only “Men in Black.” But it also made me quite paranoid about others who considered abductions serious business. Perhaps this was one of the reasons I hadn’t worked as hard as I might to seek out this kind of people. 

I got into the car and made the trip to the meeting. Oddly enough, I lived only a mile from the address that Tim had given me, so it wasn’t hard to get there physically that Saturday night. Still, I was upset and hesitant as I drove, and I tried to let the beauty of the scenery absorb some of my anxiety. 

Southwest Florida has a unique mixture of foliage and wildlife, particularly the birds and trees. It’s one of the few places where you’ll find coconut trees, pine trees and orange trees growing together in a clump. Still, the closer I got to the motel, the more uncomfortable I became. 

I’d been used to ridicule, but I didn’t think I could take any more. Was that what was in store? Or worse, was this some sort of plot — reel in the UFO experiencers, track them, get their stories, and then control them through these groups? These and far wilder thoughts crossed my head, like, “Were these the aliens themselves in disguise... testing me?” 

The motel was nice — one of those cottage-style motels, tucked into a relaxed, wooded setting. When I pulled into the macadam parking lot, I noticed the sign immediately: 

THE MEETING 

                                         ------------------>

I followed the arrow below the words to an open door past which I could see people. I half-expected wild-eyed lunatics, but they looked absolutely normal — the sort of folks you’d see in a middle-class mall somewhere. 

A guy stood up. 

“Hi. I’m Tim Wilson.” 

Just a guy. No antennas. No ray gun. 

“Hi. I’m Jim,” I said. 

Tim introduced me around. Tonight we had present a nurse, a warehouse manager, a geriatric care-giver, and a wide range of individuals in different vocations — and all just people — normal people. 

“We usually have about twenty people at these meetings,” said Tim. “It’s a smaller group tonight.” 

“There is just one rule here,” Tim explained. “To attend these meetings, you have to have had alien-abductee experiences.” 

It didn’t take long to realize that Tim was intelligent and friendly. He was a person who went out of his way to make others feel comfortable, and the way he dealt with everyone in that room showed me that he was firmly committed to helping people involved in this phenomenon. He too was a victim, and he made no secret of that fact. Tim had a calming effect on me, and I was glad that I had come. 

A few people spoke. They had anxiety, a sense of some kind of abuse, psychological disturbances, and maybe a few vague notions and images, sounds and smells, but no one recalled their abductions as vividly as I did. I almost envied them. 

When it was my turn to speak, my relaxation crumbled. My chest began to tighten and my heart raced. This wasn’t just an ordinary fear of speaking in front of a group. I’d felt that before, and I knew the difference. No, this was a feeling that was much more familiar. I knew then that as I shared my story, I would relive the trauma. 

But these were good people, and I knew that they would do their best to understand. I told them a short version of my experiences, and although it wasn’t easy, neither was it as difficult as I feared. 

Later, it became much easier, and I became a regular attendee at the meetings. Tim Wilson, bless him, also met with me regularly. We hashed out my experiences, and he helped me interpret them. 

Through Tim and the others, I got to know about people like Budd Hopkins, John Mack, and others who worked with people who had experienced alien abductions. I still felt that I shouldn’t read about this subject for fear that it would mar my personal understanding and detailed recall of the events in which I had participated. Now, though, through the group I could actually learn more, and I did not feel as though my interpretations would be tainted. 

I discovered I had similarities with the group of people, but there were also big differences. I remembered. 

I remembered just about everything. 

I remembered, for instance, being pulled from that hotel room in downtown Houston and set back into that awful room to face an experience I never would — never could — forget. 

“H.” 

That was the problem letter. 

That was the letter that hung me up, — the alien version of the letter “H.” I just couldn’t get the stroke down right. 

I paused and looked up. The two workers were standing there, placidly staring at me as usual. 

“Can’t do it. Sorry. Maybe I could use some help.” 

Suddenly my arm and hand felt like a long glove that someone had slipped their fingers into. My right forefinger began to move on its own, drawing out each stroke of their symbol perfectly. Amidst my fright at being controlled, I also felt astonishment. 

“Thanks,” I said. 

After going through the paces before, I had gotten tired, and I appreciated this new kind of attitude toward me. 

“What are you creatures that you can do something like that?” 

The energy they radiated was not a bluff. I knew they were going to give me a truthful answer. 

“WE ARE STAR PEOPLE.” 

“Okay. So you say, but what exactly is that supposed to mean? Star people. Like, you’re from another star. Okay. But people? Look, humans are people. And you’re not human, certainly.” 

They had no response to that. 

But I’d been thinking about something else, and as long as they seemed to be listening to me, I figured I might as well let go with it. 

“Okay. So you’re from another star. Which means you get back and forth in some sort of starship. So, if I wanted to go with you — you know, travel the universe — would you take me?” 

“YES.” 

Much time passed in thought because I knew they meant what they said. 

“If I didn’t like it — would you bring me back home?” 

“NO.” 

Clearly, they could do what they wanted with me at any time. They’d proven that. Nonetheless, I sensed that they were telling the truth. They would take me away if I requested it, for whatever reason. They were actually responding and listening to me, and I found their offer intriguing. Then I began thinking, “No more hot dogs, hamburgers, steaks and, Oh my God, no beer!” Plus the smell of cut grass that gave me a warm feeling. 

I contemplated this for a moment, then said, “I love the Earth, and as much as I’d like to go, I’d better pass for now, but just for now.” 

As I ponder the first years of my interaction with the aliens, I can’t help but consider that, somewhere between the fear and the pain and the disoriented feelings, there were good moments. This was one. I felt a real  sense of two-way communication here, and although I turned down that trip, I might just take them up on it some day. 

After this interchange, there was no time lost on getting me back to letters. 

As before the words LUST and POWER appeared, and next to each word was a symbol for new letters I had just learned. There was no fight left in me. I decided to go along with their agenda. However, instead of picking LUST as before, I chose POWER. I briefly lost consciousness. When I awoke, I found three items before me — a ball, a cube, and a pyramid. Each was the size of a large marble. 

Then on the table screen a letter appeared. With my right forefinger I drew one of the new symbols that I had learned. Instantly the ball began to roll slowly across the table. I noticed right away that it would move to the rhythm and direction of my forefinger. When I moved my finger to the left, right, up or down, the ball would roll accordingly. In order to keep the ball’s momentum going, and to control its direction, letters and symbols would intermittently appear on the table screen. These were there for me to duplicate. If I copied them wrongly, the ball would stop. On the other hand, if I duplicated the symbols correctly, I then had more power or control. 

I don’t think this was an experiment. They were teaching me something. 

After I felt I had mastered the ball’s movement, I telepathically heard the word THINK and at the same time it appeared on the table screen. “Think?” I thought to myself. Then I said aloud, “What do you want me to do, use psychokinesis to control the ball’s movement by thought?” 

“YES.” 

I stared at the ball. I concentrated. To my surprise the ball slowly began rolling back and forth. When it became what I’d have to call a mental struggle to move the ball, a previously learned symbol would appear, so that when I drew it or duplicated it, I would have more control or power over the ball’s movement — mental control. 

After mastering this assisted mental ability, I began to concentrate my efforts on the cube. This was a much more difficult task because the only way it would move was end over end or by sliding. This took much more effort than just rolling a ball. As before, the more efficiently I traced out those previously learned symbols, the easier it was to mentally turn the cube end over end. In fact, from time to time it would slide across rather quickly, completely out of my control. 

I then worked with the pyramid, which was extremely difficult. I got the hang of it, though. 

“This review isn’t about power, is it? You’re teaching me how to use an elementary form of your thought-activated technology! That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” 

No response. 

“Isn’t it?” I demanded. 

I got no response, but I kept asking the question because, for the most part, the aliens don’t like to answer direct questions. They answer in riddles. But I can somehow tease the truth out, and I can feel whether they’re telling me the truth or not. 

I never did get a response. Then or ever. 

What I got was unconsciousness. When I came to, I found myself nose to bedspread on that downtown Houston hotel bed. 

It took me a few moments to reorient myself. But as soon as normal reality kicked in, my previous urge and inclination returned. I wanted to get away from those things. 

Maybe getting away from Houston, totally, would do the trick. They hadn’t found me in North Carolina. Maybe if I were away from this vicinity, I’d be safe. 

At that point, I no longer cared about my marriage, business or my personal well being. All I wanted was for them to go away and leave me alone. 

There was another thought in my head, though, that upset me even more. In some odd way, despite the fear, and the crazed feelings — all this  was getting interesting. Mental powers to move things. Telepathy! Aliens! An offer to tour across the universe.... 

That was too much. I don’t know why I was feeling this way. I just had to point my car in a direction and drive, drive, drive. 

Weariness eventually took over on my highway journey. I found a small town off an exit, and I turned into the first available motel. 

It was well past dawn, and I knew I looked rather rough. The hotel owner looked quite leery of me, but I had plenty of money and flashed some credit cards as well. 

The motel room was small and dingy. I was drained. 

I did have the smarts to get some breakfast. I hadn’t been able to keep much down, but I needed something. I went to the vending machines, got a candy bar and soda and brought them back to my room. I sat on the bed, flipped on the TV and managed to get the candy and soda down. 

A little revived, I shook my head and began to think a little more clearly. 

How had they been able to find me in those hotel rooms? 

Well, they had advanced technology. More advanced than ours, certainly. What was comparable? 

The only science courses I took were in high school, but I watched enough TV to know that homing devices can be attached to animals, to track them in the wild. Was something like that happening to me? 

I started to mull this over, energized by the sugar I’d consumed. One thing I had noticed about the aftermath of each abduction was that I’d always return with a variety of cuts and marks on my hands. 

Implants? 

For all my squawking about remembering so much, I sure don’t remember watching them put anything in like this, but later, when I got to know more about the phenomenon from experts, I learned that this is indeed what happens. 

Musing on this, I watched a movie on the television. It put me to sleep, fortunately, because sleep was just what I needed. 

When I awoke it was dark again. I felt queasy and lost, and I struggled to turn over and look at my digital clock. No digital clock. Not at home.... The shred of memories pieced themselves back together again, and I realized I was in that seedy, nameless motel room, and the TV and lights were off. 

But I had left them on! 

I felt a presence. With a gasp I flopped over. There on the other side of the bed was a transparent image of a stick man with large round eyes. Immediately, this faded away, replaced by a symbol I did not recognize. 

A mumble passed through my lips: “Time for medical procedures.” 

“Okay,” I thought. “Where did that come from?” 

I felt frightened, but simultaneously that urge to sleep passed over me. I slumped back down into the motel bed and was gone. 

I had the sensation of travel....  

Acceleration.... 

I woke up, expecting to be in my usual situation — bench, screens, letters, and symbols. Instead, I was flat on my back. 

I lay on a hard, cold surface that I could feel through my paralyzed body. The only thing I could move were my eyelids, and that wasn’t easy. When I pried my lids open, I could see a white glowing ceiling. The light in this room was a soft white, which seemed to be emanating from everywhere. 

Something was missing here.... 

Then I got it. What the hell? This was the most upsetting position to be in yet, and I wasn’t scared. 

Metal clanged. It sounded sort of like silverware rattling around in a tray. I knew I was on board the same craft I’d been on before, but somewhere altogether different. 

Something murmured in my head. I could hear talk — telepathic talk, only it wasn’t that one Voice. There were, rather, Voices. 

It was a struggle to make out what was going on, but I managed to make out three or four aliens standing near my head. They seemed to be conversing telepathically with another group of aliens who were standing by my feet. I couldn’t tell if they were workers or supervisors, because I could only make out skinny torsos and arms. It must have been a mix of both. At that point I did not sense the strong energies I’d felt before from the supervisors. 

How come I could understand their communications? Had I started learning their language? Or was this telepathy not in language as such, but in concepts which translated in my head to English because of what they’d drilled into me? 

In any case, I could understand what they were talking about, and I didn’t care for it. 

They were talking about extracting semen from my body. 

Chapter 9

Trying to Lose Myself

Later, of course, when I met other alien abductees, and heard researchers, and other counselors speak — I allowed myself to hear what others had experienced. I heard about alien surgical procedures, anal probes, and alien reproductive experimentation, or “abuse” as the case may be. However, I have no memory of anything like that before this experience of mine. At that point, as far as I knew, the aliens only wanted to kidnap me, terrorize me, and make me learn their language. 

You can understand how this talk of semen extraction was a shock and an upset. It was bad enough that these strange-looking gnomes wanted to fiddle with my gray matter, but my privates? As they buzzed telepathically in that group around me, they were discussing whether my semen should be extracted artificially or naturally. By inference, I got the gist — should I be milked, or aroused and manipulated. This is definitely something you don’t normally talk about in public — according to my upbringing, anyway. But I want to get everything down here. I feel I owe it to myself and to the world of my fellow human beings. 

After my shock, I started wondering how they expected to extract anything from me naturally. How could I be aroused under these circumstances? As I lay there, I tried to speak vocally with no success, so I tried to move my mental muscles and speak telepathically. I pretty much told them that I thought what they had planned seemed unlikely. “Look, for one thing I couldn’t do it with you standing there and staring!” They stopped speaking and turned to me. 

“THAT’S NOT A PROBLEM,” they said in my head. Immediately, I was blinded, and I got angry. 

“Do you bastards think that just because I can’t see you, that will make a difference?” I got no response. All I could do was lie there. Again, the telepathic buzz: 

“WE WILL DO IT NATURALLY AND ARTIFICIALLY.” 

What could they mean by that? Again, that clanging.... Several pairs of hands grasped my right shoulder and waist. They turned me onto my left side — and gently at that. I’ll never forget as long as I live what that felt like — those hands grasping me. The fingers were strong and bony, and although they were not rough, they were certainly not human. 

I lay on my side for awhile, when suddenly my sight was restored. In front of me was a metal table, like a gurney, with some sort of gadget on its surface. One of the aliens was pushing it towards me, so I strained to see what this machine could possibly be. A supervisor arrived, complete with powerful, emanating energy, which impacted me tremendously, blurring my vision. 

Things were cloudy for a moment, but when they cleared I realized there was something beside me, or rather, someone — a woman. She was lying on her side and she wore no clothing. Her back faced me, and she was curved as gracefully as a cello. She was on a table beside me. I could still add two and two, so I knew what she was there for. She turned over. She was blonde with blue eyes and she was quite beautiful. It all seemed academic, though, as I couldn’t move any limbs, and certainly not the one they wanted to work. I told them I knew what they wanted, but I couldn’t perform — sorry, no way. 

Then one of the supervisors came forward with some sort of dark metallic or plastic rod. He touched my testicles with it. I felt a tingly electric warmth pass through my groin. Almost instantly, to my astonishment, my penis became erect. 

Two workers pushed her on me. I felt no womanly warmth or comfort. Everything was mechanical, as I was forced to mate with her. Within five seconds, they got what they wanted. 

As they pulled me away, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the smooth lines of this woman seemed squarish now. She was decidedly less organic. I sensed that “she” wasn’t really a woman at all, but rather a machine — some kind of apparatus that the aliens used to extract semen. Using their skill of illusion, of masking and “screen imaging” they’d been able to trick my senses enough for their purposes. There’s more to this process, I found out quickly enough, than their simply taking semen. 

I’m sorry to say that this experience was only the first of many times that I “donated” sperm in this manner, and there was never much joy or pleasure in the process, believe me. This first time, I lost my sight again and I just lay there, enraged, feeling used and manipulated. 

Then acceleration. 

I was back in the hotel room. I could see, but it took a few moments for the paralysis to wear off. Dawn was breaking and the TV and lights were still off. As I lay there, troubled and exhausted, I thought about all of this. 

Pardon me if I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here, but I think this topic is important enough to elucidate now. During many reward sessions, the workers and supervisors from time to time would bathe me in sexual energy. I believe that this energy also rewarded the workers in some way. It’s hard enough making clear how unusual these cultures are. However, it seems pleasure is still important in these advanced races. 

On many reward sessions I had the choice between what I term “Power” and ‘Lust.” Sometimes “power” would be the privilege of playing with the aliens’ thought-activated technology. At times I could obtain any sexual fantasy I wanted, which would then appear in hologram form, just hanging in the air as the aliens looked on. Around this hologram, different (previously learned) symbols would appear. 

As I traced each symbol with my right forefinger, stressing direction, motion, feeling or sounding it out in my mind, the sexual hologram slowly became more vivid. As each symbol was traced to perfection, the hologram took on depth and color. As I proceeded, it would take on motion. At this point, the workers and often the supervisors would mentally aid me in the process. When this occurred, I experienced ecstasy beyond compare. 

I must say it was rather odd. There was never any physical contact. My whole body, though, at these points was in euphoria. The aliens would then somehow capture this sexual energy and pass it around. They would add to it and take from it. They would create symbol patterns. Each time it came back to me, the whole experience was amplified. At times I would pass it to the hologram, which seemed to take on its very own life.This was a truly amazing experience, and I suspect that I don’t have the necessary vocabulary and command of words to express what happened to me, but I wonder if anyone truly does. 

Peripheral phenomena also occurred — disturbance of electronic items like the TV, lights, even my dining room light. One time, a few weeks before, I had left the dining room light on. I could see the switch from the couch in the living room. It wasn’t an on-off switch, but rather one of those dial-operated rheostats that adjusts the level of illumination.

After waking up from a deep sleep in the middle of the night, just before one of my abduction experiences, I sat up. The light in the dining room was fading. I looked at the switch and noted that it was turning on its own. The switch was being twisted to the off position by some invisible force. 

As I mentioned, there’s some sort of electromagnetic field associated with what the aliens do, and it affects electronics in the vicinity. I’m convinced also that there’s a residue on me that interacts with electronics, and I was wondering how much that affected the TV and lights there in that motel room. Later, of course, I found that other abductees reported the same kind of thing going on in their waking lives. 

When I regained my motor functions, I felt defeated. I sat up, slumped and just ran my hands through my hair despairingly. I might as well just go home, I thought. It was no good trying to hide — at least here in Texas. Texas — that was where they’d been taking me, so I’d go to North Carolina, of course. I had not been abducted even once from there! Yes, I’d spend some time in North Carolina. I was just together enough to be able to figure this out, and I knew I needed some kind of relief. Everything was still emotionally turbulent, and I needed space. The notion of escaping to North Carolina gave me fresh hope. 

I needed to go home first, to talk with Teresa, despite my urge to just hop a plane immediately. When I got home, she wasn’t there, and I felt relieved. I guess I really didn’t want to face her. I dashed off a quick letter: “I know you don’t understand,” I wrote, “and perhaps you think I’m crazy, but I have to do what I have to do. So I’m going to North Carolina for a while. Try not to worry, and I’ll call you tonight. I love you.” I gathered up some extra clothes and left for the airport. 

When I arrived in North Carolina, I notified my friends Jim and Peggy. After renting a car, I checked into the hotel where I usually stayed. I was still pretty rattled. I left my suitcase in my room and headed for the small restaurant-lounge area. The whiskey was a pleasant amber color — a good Kentucky whiskey — and I listened to the ice tinkle as the bartender poured the jiggers into the clean, clear glass. 

It smelled and tasted strong, and I finished half of it in a gulp. My hand was shaking. Slowly, it stopped shaking. I finished the drink, and ordered another one. Two whiskeys blended into three. Three slid into four. After some nice mellow music from the jukebox, and five or six drinks, I was thinking I had no friends. I had nothing but the booze. Things became kind of jumbled, and I remember thinking “I’m falling fast,” before I actually managed to pick my butt off that bar stool and haul it to my room. I fell onto the bed and passed out. 

In the morning, my head spun and ached, and my mouth was sour and grim. The hungover face that stared at me from the mirror didn’t look like Jim Sparks at all, but two aspirins, a hot shower and a leisurely shave made me feel physically better and happy. Yes, happy. I had not been abducted during the night! 

I went down and ordered breakfast — sunny side-up eggs, Carolina bacon and Virginia ham, along with hotcakes and juice, toast and hashbrowns, with some green peppers in them, and sweet milky coffee. This was the first solid meal I’d eaten in months. I felt groggy afterwards, despite the coffee, and I had nothing planned, so I thought I’d just relax a little more. I ended up napping most of the day, and it was a good nap, because I don’t remember waking up in fear once. 

Later I woke up and watched some TV. As evening rolled along, though, anxiety teased its way up my spine. “Well, so far I’m okay,” I thought. But I remembered that I’d felt absolutely no anxiety after that first drink, so I figured I’d try that again. 

As I’d left a nice tip the night before, the bartender was very friendly and quite generous with the whiskey. Most of the way into my first one, some of the fog lifted, and I felt as though I had a space in which to try and sort this all out. Alien creatures? Come on, Jim! But I couldn’t deny it. It was all just as real as the rest of my life. I went over it all from the dream-state of the first encounter to the stark reality of the most recent event. I drank more. As the booze swam through my head and numbed my concerns, it seemed to be my only true friend.  

Finally, when I felt up to it, after I had enough drinks under my belt, I got around to calling Teresa. Pleased was not the word of the day. Nonetheless, she did not give me a hard time and told me to take care of myself. 

“What were these things doing?” I asked myself. “Why me? This was the strangest form of contact.... Why not go to the President or someone else and make them learn? Why not come out and show yourselves?” 

There are speculations and possible answers to all of these out there in the respected community of scientists and psychiatrists who think about these things. In that motel, with the help of Dr. Jack Daniels, I was coming up with a few of my own. 

I was thinking, “It can’t be just me! This must be happening somewhere else, and there has to be a logical reason for it.” 

I sure wasn’t handling all this well. To tell you the truth, I’m glad I was drinking while I was reflecting on all this, because although I knew that behavior was wrong and it went against my grain, it kind of kept my mind from breaking. I was certainly no drunk, and it was the only comfort I had. 

Aliens! It’s one thing for an average guy like me to go see “Star Wars” or “E.T.” or play “Space Invaders.” It’s quite another to meet the otherworldly and bizarre, to confront something from far beyond the confines of our safe reality, face to face. No — mind to mind. 

You know, since I’ve gotten to know some of the people who are brave enough to not only confront this concept, but to also seek it out — those brave souls who work hard to bring out the truth from the past, from now — for tomorrow — folks in MUFON, writers like Whitley Strieber, Jacque Vallée, Stanton Friedman, and many more who actually accept that we are being visited — the more I agree with what they say about why authorities who know about this, who have evidence of alien contact aren’t coming out with it. 

Here’s the truth, the bald reality that I was facing there in that hotel, floating in a cushion of booze: It’s too much! 

The concept is hard enough to deal with, but the actual experience itself is simply mind bending. The average person can’t deal with it. How well do you think you’d deal with something like this happening to you? Do you think that the people in your community, church, synagogue, or whatever, would believe you if you claimed that little people were shuttling you off to learn their alphabet, to test and play with you? I don’t think so. 

And I think that anyone who’s in charge knows this. In retrospect I realize why all this is shadowy and secret with the military, the government, and the people who actually could prove all this is happening. I don’t think average folks could take this. 

They’d do about as well as I was doing then in that hotel room, quaking and quivering. I don’t think regular people are ready for the kind of dissociation all this brings, and the reality that we are not in charge. Societal boundaries could crumble; people might not function; things could fall apart. 

Mind you, as the years have progressed since the advent of the atomic age, and ideas such as star travel and alien life have started to get out, general society has been adjusting. But look at what happened to me! A modern businessman in the late 20th Century, successful, well adjusted — look at what happened to me. What would happen to you? Believe me, our minds and our lives are more fragile than you think. 

So this is why it’s taking a while to disseminate this knowledge, this truth. In my heart of hearts, maybe even then, scared out of my mind and drinking a lot, I realized that I was part of something huge. 

Now I think that there’s a strong possibility that everything’s about to change on a worldwide basis. I believe that fairly soon, things will be so different that we can’t totally comprehend now how different. 

I believe from my experience that the world is being geared up for direct contact — contact that no one in high places is going to be able to deny. Contact that will be just so definitive that nothing will ever be the same again. 

How well you pay heed to my story, how well you let this assimilate in you, could well be an important factor in your survival, in your coping... in your understanding. That’s one of the messages I have here for everyone, so listen closely. 

Believe me, you don’t want to grab a bottle of Jack Daniels and head for a North Carolina hotel! 

I discovered it did no good to hide my head in the sands of whiskey in another state, because it turned out I wasn’t safe in North Carolina either. 

The Visitors knew exactly where I was, and eventually, they came and got me.

Chapter 10

"The Boss Wants to See You"

You know the part in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” where James Stewart is falling? Twirling, whirling, grabbing for a hold, terrified? 

That’s kind of what it feels like to be “pulled” during the acceleration process. It’s this carnival ride you want to shun; it’s a kind of falling up into insanity. 

One moment, I was woozy and boozy in North Carolina, numb and feeling safe, the next I was transported from my room onto that ship again. 

Right down onto that same seat. Right in front of that same screen. This time, there was not even the hoot of an owl to get me prepared. 

There, of course, to either side of the screen were Mutt and Jeff — the two alien drones, skinny and almond-eyed. I don’t know what they did, but the alcohol got kicked out of me. I was stone-cold sober, there in that grim room. 

I immediately launched into my lesson, as though nothing had changed, and started to learn more as though my mind were some kind of machine that they’d just turned on. 

During this drinking period, there were times when they would wait hours for me to sober up, all night long if need be, and get me just before dawn. However, this was also when the time dilation effect truly reared its head.  

Sometimes they would take me and let me sober up in the cell before beginning my lesson. Ten hours would pass in the learning chamber, but only two would have passed when I was returned to bed. These creatures are not only able to traverse dimensions, but distort time as well. 

After the lesson, I guess I was sort of expecting — maybe even looking forward to — the reward part. They had me pretty well trained by that time. 

Instead, on the screen before me flashed pages upon pages of text. Not alien text, mind you. Paragraphs upon paragraphs in quite legible and understandable American English. Maybe twenty pages worth, I’d estimate. 

I began to read. It didn’t take long to realize that I was reading a story about the life of a close friend of mine. I was enthralled. The text described intimate details of his life I’d not known. It began with his name, where he was born, where he went to school, his childhood likes and dislikes, his teenage years and so on. I read page after page right through to the present. 

The story didn’t stop there, though. It continued into my friend’s future, as though it had already happened — nothing Earth-shattering, mind you, just trivial minutiae of his daily life. 

I was pretty amazed, but I was even more stunned with what happened next. 

After I had read all the pages, two more pages appeared on the wall screen to the right of the pages I’d just read. These were not in English, but in the alien language I was learning. The stunning fact was that I could comprehend what the alien symbols said. 

“Wow!” I couldn’t help but shout. “WOW!” 

Moreover, this alien text described the exact same information I’d just read about my friend in English. Instead of twenty pages, though, it took only half a page of alien script. Then another page appeared. 

This page had the alien alphabet in what seemed like a shorthand version. For example, it showed the letter “A,” then next to it the alien’s version of “A,” then next to that a shorthand version of the letter “A.”

Then another page appeared with one single symbol on it about the size of a fifty-cent piece. After looking at this symbol, I almost fainted with amazement. This one single small symbol that I could read in a matter of a few seconds, housed twenty pages of detailed information in English. 

Incredible! Thinking back on it, it seems impossible. I don’t know quite how it works, but it does. Were there other aspects of this language that I had not picked up on yet? Dimensional quirks and symbologies? Depths and intonations only telepathic mental processing could properly decode? I honestly don’t know. All I knew was what it must feel like to a kid when he not only learns to read, but when the words fall away and a magical story appears in his head. 

A Voice sounded in my head, “YOU WILL LEARN THIS.” 

“You mean you want me to learn the short version of your alphabet?” 

“YES.” 

“Why?” 

I got no response. 

“WHY!” I demanded. 

I guess by then, the conditioning kind of let loose. Up until then, I was just absorbed in the experience. However, I’d had enough freedom in North Carolina to regain some of my mental independence. The true me, a rebel at heart, got into the game. “Why? Why me! I demand an answer, you bastards!” 

My mouth froze. They’d paralyzed it. 

For all the good it would do! 

“Why me? Why me? Why me!” I screamed the outrage again, blasting with my mind. Yeah, sure, they could lock up my mouth, but hell if they could shut down my mind. They’d have to kill me first! I was furious! 

And I knew they could hear me, because they read my mind — and I think I was learning telepathy as well.  

“Why me? Why me?” I tapped my right forefinger hard and loud on the table screen and continued my mental scream. Suddenly, the two alien drones morphed into large American-style cops. No riot gear, just your garden-variety blue uniforms, polished shoes, cap and scowl, all-American police officers. I don’t know what they’re thinking when they do this. Tapping into my sense of authority? Are they trying to manipulate and control me with my cultural conditioning? It was almost laughable, about as subtle as a sledgehammer in an egg house. 

So these alien cops were glaring at me, and I could hear one of them bore into my brain with a telepathic command, a constant repetition of “NO.” I’ve always tried to be a law-abiding citizen, and I do respect officers of the law. Clearly, though, these were nothing of the sort, not really. I honestly wished they were! I’d ask them to arrest the damned supervisor for kidnapping! 

“You don’t scare me!” I glared right back. Again a morphing, this time into a couple of military policemen of the nasty, ham-shouldered Marine persuasion, complete with generic crewcuts. I shook my head. “That doesn’t scare me.” I think I even managed a chuckle. Again the images wavered, then transformed, this time into two fully dressed Army generals laden with medals. 

“Bullshit!” I blasted at them with my mind. I just kept on tapping that finger, and thinking, “Why me? Why me?” Every few seconds, I thought, “Hey, you bozos! I’m just going to keep on tapping and asking ‘Why me?’ until you answer!” 

Nothing. Mexican standoff. This didn’t last too long, though, because very soon indeed I felt an overbearing mental presence swarm into the room. The thing almost smelled of power, of swelling symphonic music, of a mighty and dominant presence. You get that feeling sometimes with strong, charismatic individuals, and I certainly recognized the telltale signs of this thing. 

It was the supervisor. I didn’t see him right away, but I sure could feel him. I could sense him staring down at my head and I thought, “Damn! You are powerful!” I could feel him probing through my mind. I stopped the tapping.  

“WRITE YOUR QUESTION OUT THE WAY WE TAUGHT YOU. ONLY THEN WILL WE ANSWER.” 

I wanted that answer. I wanted that answer very badly. Still, there was a part of me that wanted to resist. I could feel my mouth loosen. I could speak again, and speak I did: 

“Now let me make sure I understand this. If I were to write the question in the style you taught me, you’ll answer my question?” I got no response, yet I could sense his strong presence lurking over me in an overbearing, demanding fashion. 

“Okay,” I thought. “Someone’s got to give. I’ll try it.” I placed my finger on the screen. I framed my question in my head. I allowed my finger to move. To my astonishment it began to write out my question. 

“WHY ME?” Only it didn’t come out like that. It came out in alien hieroglyphics. I recovered and made my demand again. 

“Okay. There it is. You promised to answer my question.” 

They answered the question, all right, but not in the way I had expected.

Chapter 11

Family History

I’m afraid the aliens’ answer to that fateful question left me with even more questions. 

Why me? 

Why had these creatures from some other star system, or some other dimension, at least from somewhere else far beyond my comprehension, zeroed in on Jim Sparks? Why had they focused in on an ordinary real estate dealer for their obscure and, quite frankly, bizarre purposes? 

I guess that’s what I meant when I said, “Why me?” and I suspect that unless you’re a NASA official or George Noory, King of Nighttime Radio, you’d be asking that question of aliens as well, if you’d found yourself in my position. 

I had a burning need to know, though, even sitting there, uprooted from my North Carolina booze binge. I guess that question was the overriding thing in my mind. 

The aliens did not answer the question with language or telepathy, writing or anything symbolic.

I’ll describe what happened next in the best detail I can remember, so you can draw your own conclusions. 

“Tell me!” I demanded again. “Answer my question, like you promised. I’ve written it out, just like you wanted.” 

Now imagine you’re sitting there with me and right out in front of you is empty space — air and alienness, fortunately breathable and temperate enough for survival. This air just kind of frizzles and grows opaque. Then it lights up, with a black border. I guess you can imagine what it’s like when you’re watching something like this in a movie or on television and you’re thinking — cool — these are some great special effects! But when you’re actually there, believe me, it’s nothing like anything cinematic. 

It’s like a portal opened up in that room, a large passageway into somewhere else. 

A holographic scene appeared, complete with full motion about three or four feet in front of me. It was rich in detail, complete with dimension and color. Yet there was no sound and the scene was faintly transparent. 

It looked like a World War II scene. I say that because it was definitely a war scene, with humans in military uniform. Why do I say WWII? 

Well, I may not have had any media exposure to extraterrestrials, but I have seen pictures of Nazis before. 

These Nazi officers wore dark uniforms, and there were soldiers posted at the doors of a room. The group, I came to see, was not merely Germans — there were men in Italian uniforms as well. Maps and clipboards were strewn across the table, along with cups of coffee and espresso, and these officers were talking and pointing. The Italians were speaking animatedly with lots of gestures.

I sat there in that alien room, staring at this scene suspended in the middle of the room, and a slow shiver went up my back. 

This scene was hauntingly familiar. I felt déjà vu stronger than I’d ever felt it before. It was definitely as if I’d been in this place before. 

As I studied it carefully, I could almost taste the espresso and smell the stale, male sweat from those uniforms. My gaze fixed on one of the Italian officers and electricity ran up and down my back. 

Cripes! This guy looked like me! 

“No way!” I thought, but as I studied him closer as he argued with a Nazi commander, I couldn’t help but see that chin, that nose — those dark eyes and eyebrows — they were formed just like mine! The hair was even curly in just the way mine is, only shorter. He was my height, my weight, and the way he was wagging that finger and using his arms was just like me! 

I wondered what my captors were trying to say with all this? As you know, I’m from Italian stock, but why were they sticking me in a World War II scene? 

Surely this couldn’t be an actual historical scene. It had to be some kind of visual trick, just like that morphing of the drones into human cops. Still, as I watched this military meeting, I couldn’t help but have strange emotions indeed. World War II? These were some of the darkest days of the 20th Century! While looking at my image working with the Nazis, thinking about all the death and destruction, I started feeling implicated somehow. I started feeling guilt and shame for being a part of the human race that would inflict that kind of horror. 

I had to forcibly remind myself that there was no direct involvement on my part. I was born years after the end of WWII, right? Why was I being shown a guy in a uniform that looked like me? 

This suspended scene dissolved, to be replaced by another scene fading into view — the gates of a factory. 

Surrounding them were the ornate hallmarks of Victorian masonry. Beyond the gates I saw smoke stacks and a dark grim haze of clouds. A group of men in long coats and hats stood outside this factory, talking to one another. A horse and buggy trotted past. The scene tightened in focus and the viewpoint moved in closer. From what little I know of historical costume, I’d say that the scene was placed in about the mid-nineteenth century. Again, although the scene was vibrantly colorful, and I could almost smell that smoke. There was a translucency about the image, and I could vaguely make out the details of the corner of the room through it. 

Why a Victorian factory? 

Again my eyes were drawn to a figure in the scene. It was a man, again, who looked like me, only dressed in a black suit, a shiny black top hat and mutton chop whiskers! He had a bluff and proprietary sense about him. I sensed that he was the owner of the factory. 

Yes, this guy looked like me, I thought, but he sure wasn’t me! 

More quickly this time, as though realizing somehow I was getting a grip on what was happening here, this scene faded and another took its place. The new scene depicted a small village on a green hillside, which was a pleasant place along a seashore. Gulls swooped on a breeze. From the style of the houses in the village and the total lack of technology, my best guess was that this time period was around the 15th or 16th century. The scene swerved, and I noticed a man and a woman in a field, working a crop with crude farm tools. 

Again, there was a familiarity to the looks of the man, although nothing as similar as that World War II scene.

I had another question. Rather than go through the rigmarole of vocally or even mentally requesting an answer, I just went straight to the screen. Again, I got a thrill as my fingers seemed to know the proper characters to express my question. 

“Have you been following my physical family line?” I wrote. 

As soon as I finished scribbling this out, I got an answer. 

“YES. LOOK.” 

As the village scene faded away, another scene appeared, this one depicting the interior of a medieval inn. Men and women surrounded a large, roughly built wooden table drinking what looked like wine from pewter goblets. I’m no history expert, but the time period seemed earlier than that village scene, perhaps anywhere from the 6th to the 12th century. And yep, there at the table was a guy that had a resemblance to me.  

Or at least I felt a kinship to him. Maybe these resemblances were more of a visual translation of a sense of genetic kinship, or maybe this was the way the aliens were highlighting individuals in these scenes. I find this to be a more logical explanation. 

The guy that looked like me was wearing some kind of cloth or leather hat, which was slightly pointed and drooped to the side. He was drinking lots of wine and laughing. 

I can’t tell you how bizarre this was. I couldn’t help but laugh, and it felt good to have laughter come out of my unparalyzed mouth. Our shared laughter sounded odd, echoing in that alien room, but it was a human sound, and I cherished it. 

The medieval scene disappeared, to be replaced by another. I saw buildings, white buildings with classical lines. Buildings of a city on a series of hills. I knew it was early Rome! 

The scene shifted to one of columns, steps and beautiful statues. 

This scene seemed to be of the Roman senate. A large hall or reception area was populated by about twenty men wearing togas or white robes of other sorts. Some were standing, and some were sitting side by side on multi-leveled benches or bleachers. These men seemed to be having a debate of some sort, and from their facial expressions I could tell the topic was important. 

I examined the men’s faces, and sure enough, there was a guy that looked like me. He was just sitting and listening to others speak. 

I shook my head and then put my forefinger down to the screen. Again, in the written alien script I wrote out my question: 

“Have you really followed my family line that far back?” 

“LOOK.” 

When these Star People communicate, they don’t waste words. 

Another scene took the place of the Roman senate. This time I saw an African savannah with patches of trees. I could almost feel the heat, and smell the stink. The scene pushed in to focus on a group of apelike creatures, and as the picture cleared I could see they were actually closer to humans than apes. 

Thank God none of them looked like me! Just because I didn’t see a temperamental Italian didn’t mean I didn’t get the message. 

My anger flared. 

“Bullshit!” I shouted. “Bullshit! You guys are trying to tell me that you had something to do with human evolution?” 

I got no response. 

I was so pissed, though, I sure didn’t feel like writing out the question. I just sat there and stewed. 

They seemed to sense my rage, and they left me alone for a little bit. I was clear-headed but angry. 

Then, instead of answering any questions, they made their presentation again, though this time in written form, in their language. I watched it and found that, again, I could comprehend it, and it all underlined their message: 

“WE’VE BEEN AROUND FOR A WHILE. WE’VE BEEN WORKING ON YOUR PERSONAL FAMILY LINE. WE KNOW YOU WELL. HUMANS ARE OURS.” 

Then acceleration, and I was whooshed back to North Carolina.

next-124s

The Watchers in the Lincoln

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