Intersection of Midwich and Innsmouth (2).

Though I cannot say that I have ever personally seen an aura, it does appear to explain the “vibes” that I feel from people and what feels like a subtle energy around all our bodies. It feels like a radiation of some sort, like an energy or light which I am blind to but can “feel” in a way I can best describe as a sort of hybridization of the typical tactile and kinesthetic sensations.

Different people feel different and the same people don’t always feel the same, but they have unique patterns and perhaps even omnipresent individual and group “signatures” beneath it all. I think of it this way: sometimes you can feel someone staring at you from the back of the head, so you can feel foreign energy. Sometimes, however, you can feel precisely who and what is staring at the back of your head: your mother, your dog, an alien, perhaps. General, group, and individual patterns therefore seem to exist in the experience of energy.

You can feel people leaching energy from you, and you feel utterly drained for some time after escaping their presence. Others feel like a psychic furnace, an irradiating sun charging all those who surround them. I can feel the energy of others as it pulls back from my own or as our energies reach out and mingle, resonate and coalesce. Through that energy I feel emotions, more rarely thoughts and images, that I feel certain are not my own. While I feel energy around their bodies, it becomes incredibly more intense through eye contact, almost as if serving as direct interface to an individual’s working memory.

During high school, I could not help but feel that at least to some degree I could tell who were abductees. I even began making a list of people from school that I suspected were having encounters. Despite this inner sense of certainty, I didn’t know why, so tried to find some unlikely common element they all shared. Eventually it came down to the fact that their energy had (at varying intensities) the same characteristic “feel” of the aliens and they even carried some physical characteristics I associated with the creatures.

There was, for instance, Maddox. With his skinny, tall frame and his stringy, light brown hair stretching down passed his long, bony, almost reptile-looking face and intense eyes, yes, he could come across as intimidating. Maddox always seemed strange, but he was also a polite and reasonably-cheerful fellow.

It was during high school that he underwent his grim metamorphosis, one that seemed abrupt and dramatic to me, as if somebody had just suddenly flipped a switch inside of him. Whatever the trigger was, he seemed to transform mentally, emotionally, and even physically he seemed different somehow. He had shaved his head, gotten tattoos. He seemed dark, lost, cold and angry and had isolated himself from his former friends.

One day I remembered him sitting motionless in the art room, arms crossed, staring with remarkable intensity into oblivion as if it were his master. Through word of mouth during high school, there was the pieced-together story that he had taken a drug at some party, which I believe was LSD, and that his friends had turned on him rather than helped him out. There was no way for me to know, because I had never known the guy personally.

It was not until high school, I believe, that I learned that a girl I lusted after was in fact his long-term, on-and-off girlfriend. Her name was Hazel, and she was slender with beautiful, dark eyes and long, brown hair. She, too, had that feel about her. It had tended to steer me away from such people, but with her there was also the desire to plow into her, so-to-speak, for she was strange, beautiful, insatiable — and with me, that only resulted in additional anxiety. It took me forever to talk with her at all, and about every day in the school library I had the chance to talk with her alone, one on one. She always looked near the bookcase that held all the paranormal material — my section — but the tension was high and paralysis always set in.

Then one day I’d gone to the very back of the library, where the Occult section was, and I noticed her quietly walking back there as well. I found her looking at the books right around the Occult section. Damned if I can remember how, exactly, but I ended up talking with her.

Life is full of let-downs. She was not one of them. She was all that I had hoped she would be, which essentially comes down to intelligent, mysterious, dark and damned interesting. She told me she loved reading these books about serial killers — books that were located a few shelves down from my section on the paranormal. Somehow that made me all the more curious about her on multiple levels.

Eventually, I managed to bring up my relatively-recently acquired obsession with the paranormal and asked her if she had ever seen a ghost or anything of that nature. “I’ve seen aliens,” is how she responds, and I didn’t know if I wanted to run away screaming or bury myself in her then and there. While insisting they were actual events and describing them as real, she nonetheless referred to those childhood encounters she had as dreams.

This was the first time I’d ever met anyone else who claimed to have had experiences with them, and I was blown away. Not only was she dark, mysterious and beautiful, but she’d seen `them’.

I couldn’t cough up the courage to talk to her again, though, let alone go so far as to make a move on her. As the years went by, I’d occasionally receive updates on Hazel, as my mother worked with her mother for a time. Mom explained the lady as Hazel had explained her, namely as so incredibly Christian that it bordered on the psychotic. Hazel and Maddox had apparently run off together out of state for a time, but eventually returned and, the last I heard, had broken up.

Though I did not immediately see a connection with the alien-vibes I first sensed from some people in high school and the telepathic child with the Cheshire Cat grin I had encountered, it would begin to set in some four months after the telepathic toddler, on April 7th, 2002.

On my way to meet up with Channing, I had stopped to get gas and cigarettes. As soon as I walked inside the door I met with a pair of vivid blue, piercing eyes staring at me. The eyes belonged to the skinny, bald-headed guy leaning beside the register behind the counter. It was Maddox. I had seen him but once, in passing, since I had graduated high school half a decade back, but we had not spoken.

After a pause for processing, I said his name in a manner as cliché-sounding as anyone who’s bumped into a fellow ex-high school classmate nearly five years after graduation. In a poor attempt to be polite, he returned by confirming he remembered my name as well.

He only lightened up when I shifted into customer mode and asked for a carton of Marlboro Reds. My plan was to ask him about his girlfriend before exiting, but I opened up my wallet to find it empty. Apologizing, I asked him to wait a moment and went to the ATM a pace or two behind me, got money, turned around and he was gone. Some girl had taken his place, and he was nowhere to be seen.

The day following my encounter with Maddox, on April 8, I was back sitting in the same dining room I had seen that kid in, perhaps even the same booth. I was sitting across from Tess, just another girl I had failed to develop a relationship with. We had finally had one successful date — a double date with our coworker, Angela, and her boyfriend — but she had ended up going out with some other kid shortly thereafter. She wanted to exchange writing and comment on each other’s work, and this time instead of poetry I’d given her some writings on my strange experiences. I felt certain she hadn’t read them, and to be honest I really didn’t give a shit.

As her and I spoke, I found myself a bit distracted when this family of four came in. There was a curly-haired brunette lady who I presumed to be the mother; a tall, dark-haired man who’s face I never saw, and two kids. There was a younger one who had blond hair and blue eyes and looked rather frail-looking. His head was kind of big, too. The other was older with dark hair. The mother sat down in the booth behind my friend – booth number five – with the frail boy between her and the wall. Across from her and back-to-back with my friend was the tall man. Across from the blond haired kid and tall man sat the dark-haired boy.

It was the blond that first caught my attention. He was a cute little kid with bright blue eyes, but something about him made me uneasy. Though I was quick to attribute it to paranoia, for a few moments I watched him closely just to be sure. As I was scrutinizing, both kids stood up at one, leaned towards one another from across their table and placed themselves forehead to forehead, like playful bucks locked in a duel, staring dead into one another’s eyes. The mother lightly backhanded the blond kid and told them both to stop.

My attention slipped back to Tess, who was still talking. I had absolutely no fucking clue what the hell she had been saying, and even what she was saying at present seemed to be empty words lost in a jumble. I was getting really, really uncomfortable, and I had no idea why. It all seemed very odd. Somehow, something just didn’t feel right.

Then I looked back up over her shoulder. The dark-haired kid seemed to sense my eyes on him, and he suddenly turned around and looked dead at me and have me a Cheshire Cat grin. When I meet his eyes his pupils grow large, darker-than-dark, and it suddenly it feels as if I’m violently dragged forward and right into them. It’s like we’re in this foggy bubble where we’re only eyes and mind, and only him and I exist, and the rest of the world grows blurred and distorted. It was definitely visual — he looked magnified, abstract and surreal, and I could still see that Cheshire grin, wide and cartoon-like. It certainly wasn’t limited to image, though. It was as if our eye contact had merged us mentally, fused us. I felt as though I was in his mind, or that he was in mine, or that we now shared a mind.

I looked away. It took me a few seconds or so of staring at the table in front of me to realize just what the hell had happened. I knew I wasn’t sleeping, so I couldn’t be dreaming. I wasn’t on drugs. Tess was still talking, but when she looked up at me she did a double-take and then stopped dead in her tracks. I imagine the look on my face must have been about as fucked up as I was feeling. She studied me another moment before asking what was wrong.

Looking at her, staring deep into her eyes, I found that nothing happened. If this was in my head, I wondered, wouldn’t looking into her eyes do the same thing?I looked back at the kid, thinking this might have been something I’d imagined — half hoping, as a matter of fact, that it had truly been something that I’d imagined. Then it all happened again. He goes into my head, grinning again, almost as if he’s a fucking cartoon. If I focused at all, I feared I might be locked there forever; that I might be trapped there and the rest of reality might fade away.

He looks away. While I’m sitting there pale as a ghost and freaking out, he’s sitting there amused. It’s almost as if he thought it was funny that he could do this. He leaned over the table again and whispered to the blond haired kid. Then he turns back to me and does it again, grinning that wide and freaky Cheshire cat grin, eyes as big and black as universes.

For the next few weeks, I began to wonder if all abductees were to some degree alien in terms of psychology, and if the creatures were slowly genetically manipulating us throughout the generations. Maddox, Hazel and I were an earlier generation and these kids I was suddenly encountering we’re simply the most recent upgrade. Still, it terrified me to think their might be adults like them walking around with telepathic abilities just as potent. From the back kitchen, I would look out into the dining room and look at the people ordering at the counter, wondering if some of them may be alien minds in human bodies.

Any hope that I might be overreacting died on May 18th. I woke up late and was in the process of pouring myself a cup of coffee when the phone rang. As my father went to reach for it, I told him, “Tell them I know,” figuring it was work calling. I wasn’t late for work, but it’s rigid routine for me to go their four hours early every day and sit around, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and write. When I’m not there at least three hours early, they usually call and wake me up.

In response, my father handed me the phone. It wasn’t work. It was Melanie, a friend who I had drifted from during high school, and who had spent the last several years desperately trying to rekindle a friendship with me. I’d accepted that we had changed. I’d flipped out during high school and began seeing little aliens and having out-of-body experiences — I knew I’d be too weird for her now, and I was significantly different than how I’d been when she knew me. I didn’t want to live in the past and try to be who I was, and she seemed to expect that of me, so I had kept my distance.

“Did you hear about Maddox and Hazel?”

“No. What?”

“They’re dead.”

It was the way she said it — with not a hint of apparent sorrow. She almost seemed happy to tell me the news. She said it in the same tone she used to use when she called those frigid winters during high school to announce to me we had a snow day.

My father dropped the newspaper down on the counter in front of me just at that moment, as if to confirm her words, and their yearbook photos stared back at me from the front page.

After they had both graduated, they ran away together out of state, only to return a year or two later. They broke up and, after he became obsessive, irrational and abusive, often stalking her, she moved out of state again to distance from him. Apparently she had begun dating someone else; a kid from high school. Maddox kept coming back to her, though, trying to get her to take him back, but she refused. Things had gotten so extreme she had been talking to people at the store where she worked about getting a restraining order against him.

When police arrived the first time that morning in response to a call, they knocked on the door, leaving shortly thereafter when no one answered. After they were gone, a neighbor from across the hall then saw Maddox leaving the apartment. He was covered in blood. When he saw her he lifted a finger to his lips, went “shhh,” and left.

When the police returned, they found her purse outside the door. Inside, they found a trail of blood leading from the living room to the bedroom and bathroom, where they found her body. Beaten with a pair of brass knuckles they found nearby. Stabbed with the chards of a broken mirror. They had enough evidence to bring Maddox in for questioning, but they never got the chance. A hiker found his body in a secluded area in a park nearby my parent’s house, where he had put the barrel of a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I didn’t feel right going to either of their funerals, and scary things began to run through my head. It took me awhile to sit down and seriously consider the implications of it all.


Intersection of Midwich and Innsmouth (1).

When he approached my booth in the crowded dining room, it only took me a moment to remember him. We had met back when we had worked together at the other fast food place, a mere gas station away from this one. He had taken a look at my notebook and seemed to like what he read. Based on that he lent me his Slipknot CD, which he seemed to feel I would like.

He disappeared before I got the chance to return it. I had met him and last saw him back in 1999. It was now December 15, 2001.

I found that though he was a nice kid, he could come on really strong and it was really easy to trigger his anger. Inside he seemed so intense, so loud it drowned out any thoughts of his that might help him override the impulse. He became absorbed in his anger, it saturated him. Every verbal exchange with him felt like walking through a mine field.

Later I learned that he had spent some time in a mental institution. This had been on more than one occasion due to violence against himself and, if I remember correctly, others as well. I chose my words, my body language and even my tone of voice around him very carefully. In that vein I brought up the CD and told him I still had it, and I could bring it to work sometime if he wanted to swing by. Angry at first, when he realized I actually remembered and gave a damn he quickly cooled off. He told me to keep it.

He asked me if I was on break, but I confessed to him I hadn’t even started yet. I usually spent my free time sitting here, at a booth in the lobby, where I read, wrote, smoked my cigarettes and fed off the free refills of coffee.

As I looked at him across the table now, I couldn’t ignore how the side of his face would twitch every few seconds. He had not had that before. Cautiously, I asked him about it, only to learn that he had ended up in an institution again, where they had restrained him with shackles, as he described, and proceeded to subject him to electroshock therapy.

I was amazed to discover they still practiced electroshock therapy. At this point I would have thought we would have learned that its appropriate to jump cars, but you just keep the cables off the fucking people.

After a short discussion, he told me he had to go, explaining that he was here with some friend of his, some older guy with a small child, selling tickets for his band, or someone’s band. He asked if I was interested. I didn’t have much sincere interest, though instead of just telling him that I found myself lying to him in the attempts to be nice, giving him the false line about not having the money on me.

Though disappointed and clearly suspicious of my line, he accepted it. He returned shortly thereafter from his attempt to sell tickets, grim due to lack of sales, and we bid each other farewell. That, it seemed, was the end of that, so I went back down to writing in my notebook.

Not long after returning to my writing, however, I was jolted out of it by the sound of something hitting the far end of my booth. Startled and curious, I looked up to find a dome of blond hair poking out from just beyond the end of the table.

It was the upper hemisphere of a toddler’s head. One hand of his was grabbing a hold of the end of the table; in the other, he held his cup with the sippy-top. He was looking dead at me, and instead of meeting his eyes I just sort of laughed under my breath, turned my head back down, placed the pen to the page and continued my writing.

My eyes didn’t even reach my notebook before I heard it again. Looking back up, I immediately locked eyes with the kid and found myself imprisoned there. The gateways to my mind were being held hostage.

My peripheral vision was suddenly enshrouded in this dark, blurry overcast. While the eyes at the end of the tunnel shared the shadowy opaqueness, it was also possessed with a hyper-vivid quality. This sense of pressure built in my head, as if energy from his eyes were literally pushing into my mind, as if breaking and entering the mind and scanning and downloading personal files. A virtual form of search and seizure or, in this case, a telepathic analogue.

After a moment, he seemed satisfied and strangely amused, looking at me in a creepy way, as if he knew a “dark secret,” as I had later phrased it, that somehow connected him and I. The edges of his lips then curled slowly upward to an unnatural height, almost as if this surreal Cheshire Cat grin belonged somewhere in the twilight betwixt reality and cartoon.

Soon he walked away slowly with who I presume to be my ex-coworkers friend holding his hand, but my line of sight was still ensnared by his eyes. He held me in his ocular tractor beam until he was out of my line of sight, at which time I felt him release my mind from his psychic grip.

Sinking down into the booth, I was cold and trembling, heart pumping wildly beneath gooseflesh. My eyes felt a strange, widened sort of pain, and it felt as if I could still feel the residual feeling of him being inside my head. I tried to look intensely out into nowhere, to “stare” the feeling out of me as if I were trying to flush out the psychic lines or something.

It felt like mental rape, and as an added bonus, this experience was not at all foreign to me. The only difference in this case was that this was not some strange, presumably alien creature kidnapping me from my bedroom at night, but rather what by all outward appearances seemed like an ordinary human toddler in the dining room of the fast food joint where I worked.

Aside from a short poem I wrote in my notebook about it that day, I would not find the strength to reflect on it to the most minimal degree until the dream I had on the second of January.

In the dream, I was in this dark-lit restaurant I liked to hang out in, writing and watching people. I suddenly took notice of this waitress in the dining room, standing by the drink bar to the left of the counter. Though attractive, she seemed distant, even drugged, operating as if she were in some zombie-like, somnambulistic state. Instantly I recalled having seen her before, unable at first to recall from where but then realizing that I had met her while I was in the altered state of consciousness typical of an abduction episode. The altered state had endured, however, as her and I had sat down in a booth in this very restaurant and had spoken with one another on our experiences. It was there that she had given me a box, inside of which there were computer discs and what she described as pictures, which I had taken to be illustrations of her encounters.

Having finally remembered, I looked behind the counter, where I met eyes with a fat man. My sense was that he was of high authority, and I searched myself wondering if he played any role in the abduction. That, I believe, is when the fuzzy memory came to me.

In some hotel room, I am lying on the bed as an argument is going on between the girl, the fat man and I. Due to something said or done in that room, I was sure there was another girl involved, though not necessarily in a sexual way.

Sensing suspicion in his gaze, I casually looked away from the fat man, doing my best to seem calm and casual while trying to hide my face in a way that would appear incidental. The last thing I desired was for him to know that I was onto something, that I had gained awareness of my secret relations with this girl.

Upon leaving the restaurant and going home, I went to the downstairs computer, where I thought I had put the box that the girl had given me when we met up in the restaurant, shortly before the memories disappeared behind a wall of amnesia. The box was indeed there, seemingly confirming my memory. Inside the box were the discs as well as some tiny red folders or envelopes within which there were pictures, as she had mentioned. Rather than illustrations from her encounters, however, they were instead nudie pictures of her.

It bothered me that I had forgotten all about this, that I had not gotten back to her or so much as opened the box. There was also evidence that someone had opened the box and gone through it, and I feared that it had been my parents.

I left the family room in the back of the house, where the computer was, for the dining room, where I spoke with a man who seemed to be an authority in some way. Unlike the fat man, he was on my side, however. In some way I knew this man was me, despite the fact that I talked with him as if he was some separate entity standing by support beam in the dining room.

As we are talking, the fat man walks into the dining room from the direction of the living room, where I had been at the computer. Suddenly, I become frightened at the prospect of the fat man seeing me talking to my secret twin, but he is suddenly and simply not there anymore. Now my only hope was that the fat man would not recognize me as he passed through.

He did, and began to talk to me, specifically regarding some reference to a claim I had evidently made to him in the hotel room about being in the Army. As I put on my Army boots, I told him that it was rough for me. There were some things, top secret things, that I could not talk about, so I preferred keeping altogether silent about the matter.

Suddenly, the dream shifts scenes and I find myself in entirely different surroundings. I am uncertain as to whether this was a scene directly following the last or a memory within the dream akin to the one of the hotel room. Regardless, I am either in the back of a bus, a train car or van without windows, sitting in a seat typical of those vehicles. Directly behind me, in the very last seat, there was a girl sitting alone.

As we began talking, it occurred to me that there was already some secret bond between us, that there was more going on between us than I was aware of. She was aware of it, too, and she was keeping that secret from me. It suddenly struck me that this may very well be “the other girl involved” that had been spoken of in that hazy scene in the hotel room.

Regardless, I found her incredibly likable and fascinating, so was eager to comply when she suggested we exchange emails and requested mine directly. At the same time, however, the fact that she had an email surprised and confused me to no end, as if I felt she could not belong to the world in which that would be possible.

I found myself asking her if she was an abductee, to which she responded, “Not exactly.” Then I asked her if she was a hybrid, though I caught the same kind of ambiguity from her in response, I don’t believe she answered. Finally, I just openly asked her who or what she was. She explained that she wanted to tell me but she couldn’t, or that she was certain I would be incapable of understanding it.

It was at that moment that I finally let her entire face sink in. Even in retrospect, she seems so real. She wore a black winter’s hat over her blond hair, and she had very deep, sweet, blue eyes. They were also very sad, and I felt certain that they were sad for me.

After I awoke, the dream continued to fascinate me, and the themes it held that resonated with the encounter with the strange child in December made me wonder if it was merely a hallucinatory expression of the same underlying unconscious aspect. In the dream, the blond-haired girl’s request for us to exchange emails constituted a desire for communication, an indirect channel for keeping in touch, so perhaps this suggested a sub-personality in my unconscious wanted to engage in dialogue.

In the spirit of experiment, I utilized some techniques procured from Jung & the Alchemical Imagination by Jeffrey Raff, a book based on Jungian alchemy, in the attempts to conjure her in my mind and hold a dialogue with her under meditation on January 17th.

This only resulted in me falling asleep, but in the twilight between waking and sleeping I heard a distinct voice in my head. In retrospect, what bothered me about the voice was that it almost seemed like an external interception. It announced, “We’re going to have a problem here.”

When I awoke the next morning, I remembered having turned off my alarm clock three hours before and lying back down to think about something in particular, something I considered extremely important and which, of course, I could now no longer recall.

As my mind was not providing answers, I turned to rampant Internet searching, where I came upon “Indigo Eyes,” an article written by Mark Andrews that described a strange experience he had in the Spring of 1994. After an initial encounter with a blond-haired boy of roughly two years of age, the eyes of which delivered to him a “psychic jolt,” he encountered what seemed to be the same child on two subsequent occasions, each time accompanied by a different mother. The eyes of the child, or the children, he described as being almost cartoon-like, with an iris he described as looking like an indigo-colored pancake resting on a white paper plate.

From there, my internet searching brought me for the first time to the subject of what some had come to call the Indigo Children. There were, in fact, many such titles ascribed to children and adults regarded as somehow “special” or “strange” such as children of the blue ray, starseeds, wanderers, crystal and rainbow children. On the whole their descriptions seem to resonate with the Indigo, however.

The idea first came from Nancy Anne Tappe. She has the neurological condition known as synesthesia, in which sensory (and perhaps extrasensory) wires get crossed, leading to bizarre, consistent and highly individualized means of sensory experience. This can manifest in many different forms: hearing colors, seeing taste. In the case of Tappe, it manifested itself as an alleged capacity to see an “electromagnetic energy field” or aura around all living things in the form of a spectral field of colors.

For the most part, this field of colors is in a constant state of flux, changing in correspondence to an individual’s emotions, thoughts and physical health. The only exception was a single color in every individual aura that persists from womb to tomb, and it is this that she calls a person‘s “life color.” Early in life she noted that life colors appeared to be associated with similar personality characteristics.

All the details were condensed into her 1982 book, Understanding Your Life Through Color. In that book she recounts how she originally distinguished only eleven colors, but began to notice a new color in newborns in the late 1960s which she identified as indigo. Over time she came to identify four types of Indigo, which she refers to as Humanists, Artists, Conceptualists, and Catalysts, and believes that their joint purpose is to globalize humanity.

The concept of the indigo was fleshed out further and popularized by Jan Tober and Lee Carroll with the 1998 publication of their book, The Indigo Children: The New Kids Have Arrived. Their argument is that those who have worked with children have been noticing an increasing number of children displaying distinct psychological and behavioral patterns, and that these are the children who bear the indigo auras. In addition to having larger-than-average or intense eyes, they are often described as being telepathic, and new age circles regard the indigo color to be associated with the third eye chakra.

They are generally described as independent, sensitive, hyper-cognitive, weird kids with a strong sense of entitlement and purpose.

At roughly the time she met Nancy in the 1970s, Tober claims, she began having strange dreams where children would approach her, tell her who they were and why they were arriving. Upon awakening, she would find herself drawn to particular infants or toddlers with peculiar eyes and “old souls” — an experience that echoed my own too closely for comfort. Certainly the experience of Mark Andrews as well, who had been kind enough to answer my email. He reported that he was a schoolteacher, and while he had not bumped into that child again, he has noticed a change in younger generations in school.

Their resistance to strict, absolute authority systems and the use of fear- and guilt-based manipulation and discipline tends to cause issues with social adaptation, specifically with the school systems. This has led them to be diagnosed with disorders such as ADHD, ADD, OCD and treated with prescription pharmaceuticals that serve to wedge these square pegs into their assigned round holes.

Mainstream regards the “indigo” label as an irresponsible and dangerous new age belief propagating with the help of the Forer Effect — which is to say that the qualities allegedly characterizing the children are in fact so vague that they could with little effort be used to describe nearly anyone. Further, they assert that the Indigo label only serves to exacerbate mental disorders by placing quasi-religious value on them rather then having them properly diagnosed and treated. Many of the children in the school shootings and similar crimes were diagnosed and being treated with medication at the time of their given crime, however, and despite that they became front page news.

In her aforementioned book, Tober interviews Tappe, who first identified the children. “These young children — every one of them I’ve seen this far who kill their schoolmates or parents — have been Indigos,” Tappe explains. Others have gone further to note the correspondences between the characteristics of psychopaths and those attributed to the Indigo.

In a book published two years before The Indigo Children, and it is the 1997 publication of David Jacobs’ The Threat. There he transcribes the 1994 hypnosis session of Allison Reed (pages 246-250.) Along with fellow abductees, she was brought into a room where they were made to watch a “media presentation” on a large screen. It is a colorful, sunny, springtime scene that takes place in a park where numerous families are having picnics and the children are playing.

Though the aliens told her to try and distinguish the true humans from the “creations” of the aliens within the scene as a whole and then in individual families, but she finds it impossible. After this, the screen seems to pause and one by one certain individuals turn their head to look toward the screen and turn black and white. These are the alien’s creations. The scene them goes back to color and the scenery becomes alive again. “There’s only one way to tell,” her transcript records, “and that is that energy field around them but unless you can see it, you’ll never know.” The aliens also informed her that those that were capable of detecting the energy field and elected to cause problems would be dealt with.

What I found amidst some more searching on the internet was the film Village of the Damned, originally made in 1960, then remade in 1995 and based on the 1957 book The Midwich Cuckoos by John Wyndham. I had vaguely recalled hearing of the films, never the book, but the online descriptions gave me the chills. I eventually watched the movies and their sequels and bought the book.

In the story, the military is called in when it is discovered that the British village of Midwich, Winshire has evidently been enshrouded in an invisible dome some two miles in diameter. Any living being that breaches the dome’s parameter immediately becomes unconscious, though after being pulled back out again they appear to be fine. Even more curious: at the center of this massive half-bubble force field eye-in-the-sky military photos detected an unidentified silver object.

Come the following day, the object is gone, the dome is gone and save for a collective gap in memory, the village of Midwich seems back to normal.

Death comes to this illusion of normalcy some months later when the women of the village all find themselves pregnant with the “dayout” as the date of conception. Ultimately 30 girls and 31 boys are born from these women, all with pale skin, golden eyes, advanced telepathic capabilities and, to top it off, the same fucking birthday.

Other abnormal qualities of the children become clear as they grow, not least of which is the accelerated rate at which they do so. Perhaps the most peculiar, however, is their powerful telepathic abilities, which allow them to read the minds and even control the behavior of others. In addition, they seem to group up into two distinct telepathically-mediated “hive minds” — one for the boys, one for the girls.

The cuckoo reference in the book’s title is drawn from the tendency of the now-extinct bird to lay eggs in the nest of other bird species in hopes that the unwitting targeted foster mother will take them in as her own flesh and blood or in the very least adopt them. Adoption, as it turns out, was not the typical response for cuckoos of the Midwich variety. The military discovers that this had occurred in several other places, on each occasion with the children being killed at some point.

Apparently aware of the danger, the Children utilize their telepathic capabilities to make those who harm them kill themselves or one another, eventually requesting safe migration to an isolated area by the military. One man who had been teaching the children and gained their trust learned he had a fatal heart condition and killed himself along with the children like a faithful suicide bomber in the war against alien toddlers.

As I continued researching into the whole Indigo notion, I began getting an uneasy feeling. One of the very first fragments of memory to surface during high school had to do with the topic of auras, as I would later learn them to be called. It was also the very first recollection I had of a female and my seemingly alien Teacher, Nimi.

Leaning over the bunk of my loft bed, I looked out my bedroom window and communicated mind-to-mind with her on the other side of the glass. There she explained how there is an energy or light that exists around all forms of life in the universe. There was also some discussion about the significance of the colors in general, and though I do not remember specifics, I have vague recollections of seeing a rainbow, or some form of the visible light spectrum.

She went on to explain how her light was green while my light was a certain shade of blue. We had a discussion about my color and what seemed to be some confusion with respect to its classification. What that had been all about was a question that gnawed at me for years. Then I learned that though indigo was once accepted as part of the color spectrum, it has since fallen out of favor among many modern color scientists, who have dropped the “I” from the ROYGBIV mnemonic and now divide indigo between its neighbors, blue and violet. This may explain the classification problem.

A friend of mine with whom I meditated during high school was of the opinion that auras differed not just between people, but in the same person depending on his mental and emotional state at any given moment. He believed in no life color. Despite this, at least two times while under meditation and trying to see, in his mind’s eye, the colors of people’s auras, a friend of mine has described my aura as dark blue with streaks of red in it. A dark blue with a mix of red, it would seem, is a good description of the color indigo. On the second occasion he had evidently forgotten what he told me on the first, though repeated the same description.

From Elsewhere, To Nowhere.

During high school, and some time after I had sifted through those seeming past life memories, I had gone to the mall. Whether I was with my friends or parents at the time I do not recall, but I had wandered into a bookstore and did my usual browsing of the paranormal section. That is where I picked up a book I had neither read nor heard of before, a book by Scott Mandelker entitled, From Elsewhere: Being E.T. in America.

By that time I had developed a particular distaste for the more hokey or cheesy literature on the subjects of UFOs and paranormal, as exposure of the subject in such a manner only served the agenda of those who would prefer to cast out the baby with the bath water of new age nonsense it was left to marinate in. Despite this, I picked it up and brushed through the pages randomly once or twice, reading a random passage. Perhaps the first I read made adrenaline flood my system, as the particular account described a planet with the same desert setting I had seen in my memories. In fear, I shut the book, put it back on the shelf and avoided it like the plague if I ever came across it somewhere else. To this day I have yet to read it, as a matter of fact, and considering the amount it goes for online, it may be some time until I do.

On those pages are there recollections akin to my own, or does this serve as merely another example of false hope in finding someone with whom I can truly identify at this level? Would any story inside that book truly resonate with my memories of that world?

My sense has always been that the planet looked like Saturn, most likely because this planet was of a tan color and had similar rings. Most of the surface of the planet seemed to be a desert, a vast wasteland of sand, rock formations and the occasional isolated, creepy, leafless tree. Here and there it was pockmarked by lush oases that were basically small, isolated jungles of phosphorescent vegetation. There were also sparse signs of civilization on the surface as well, various structures such as buildings and the terrible “death machines” that prowled the sands, though what these machines were or did that made them so threatening I cannot recall.

Most of the civilization lived underground, however, in subterranean cities and tunnels. One reason may have been the constant threats from the sky. In my playtime as a kid, a constant worry of the duo as they ventured across their desert world were the rocks that occasionally fell from the sky. That was not their only threat, either. In one memory in the desert area, I remember hiding and looking from a short distance at a sedimentary rock formation of some kind. I watched some small creature scurry across the ground and another creature, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, attacking it. I cannot recall what the prey looked like. The predator had the body of a fuzzball with long, spider-like legs, and it was quick and precise. I watched as in one swift movement it pounced on and wrapped its legs around its prey. I also recall a strange memory of an elephant-and-anteater like creature with a long, flexible, narrow trunk and an otherwise bloated or pudgy appearance. The one I saw was presumably dead, however, so perhaps that has some bearing on the seeming “rolls of fat” appearance of the creature’s skin.

So perhaps it could be that the civilization had to relocate underground when their planet began being pelted by meteorites and asteroids and the Daddy Long-Leg psycho-pompoms and anteater-elephant creatures roamed free on the surface. Perhaps the “death machines” were tanks of some kind, keeping people off the surface, or warring against some other faction. All of that could potentially make sense, but other things seem inconsistent or too coincidental to be true. despite my impression that the planet had rings akin to Saturn, I never recall seeing those rings in the sky, which one would think should stand out. conveniently it would appear, judging from the memories, that I could see just as I do with my present eyes, though it did seem both broader and crystal clear, and surprisingly so even during my memories in the darkness. Nonetheless, how likely is it that an extraterrestrial civilization would have eyes that express vision to consciousness in the way and within the range with which we, as humans, are familiar? Does convergent evolution extend throughout the cosmos?

Speaking of convergence: do my memories of this dead world converge with the memories of anyone else, then, for whatever reason? Seemingly so. The theme of a desert locale and associations with it being the home of the Grays has surfaced in material by Whitley Strieber, David Jacobs, Karla Turner and others. In his book, The Threat, David Jacobs remarks that “[m]any abductees have reported being in desert-like terrain. Although the meaning of these settings is unclear, there are indications that such terrain may be a home environment for the aliens.” He then provides portions of the transcripts from the hypnosis session of “Susan Steiner” (pages 51-52), who seems to be describing another planet:

“The sky is like reddish. There’s like cloud formations that are sort of hanging in the air very low, like very, they’re not like cumulus clouds. They’re more feathery type clouds. And they’re like all different colors. Like multicolored and they’re hanging in the air, almost like cotton candy or angel’s hair. It looks sort of like angel’s hair hanging there in the air. It’s just like all over the place. There’s like three, looks like there’s three suns in the sky. One of them has like little, like smaller things sort of like … I don’t know what you would call them but like rotating around one of the suns. The other two don’t have that, the other two are just plain. We start walking out into this […] hard sand. It’s not like beach sand, it’s like harder than that.”

There is again a mention of a desert world in Karla Turner’s book Taken, where she speaks of an abductee she calls Angie:

“In February 1989, she had another abduction in which she was called a ‘Chosen One’ and was also shown a scene familiar from other abductee reports. One of the aliens touched her forehead, she said, and ‘a series of graphic images exploded’ in her mind. She saw ‘a reddish-gold desert planet with two setting suns,’ a ‘galaxy,’ a ‘blood-red moon and a fiery orange sun exploding,’ and an ‘underground city’ before she blacked out. When she regained consciousness, an alien told her their home was ‘Cassiopeia in the heavens’ but that they had made a home for themselves on Earth before humans were created. After this, Angie passed out again and was returned home.”

In his book Confirmation, Whitley Strieber provides snippets from the letters many have sent to him describing their own bizarre experiences. On page 149, he cites an experience that sounds somewhat familiar:

“I was standing in the middle of a red plain. The ground beneath my feet was dust… like what I imagine moon dust would be like. There were no rocks, no chunks of anything. I appeared to be in the middle of a street. There were large, tan buildings running up and down this street, in all sort of strange configurations. They were not elaborate at all — just very angular. On the whole, they looked like Spanish missions, if those missions had been designed by Salvador Dali. They were made of some crenulated metallic material that on first glance looked like adobe. The sky above my head was white. Not bright white or cloudy white — it was more like the sky glowed, like it had some innate property of light. On the street were dozens of ‘gray’ creatures. They appeared to be gliding back and fourth up and down the street. They gave off this feeling that I was sort of distasteful to them. I felt big and dirty and ugly.”

As I browsed through Albert Rosales compilation of humanoid sighting reports for 1989 on, I came across an interesting case that occurred in Mezhriybaza, Uzbekistan. On the fitting night of October 31, UFOFORUM in Russia reported that:

“A local bookkeeper, X. Saidov, spotted a large dazzling object descending towards the ground. After the object landed, a tall robot-like being wearing a silvery suit emerged from the object. Terrified, Saidov is unable to move and apparently loses consciousness. Waking up later, he finds himself in a desert like location standing among the sands. He could see hills and pyramids around him. He sees a man and woman exit one of the pyramids, but he remained paralyzed and felt the ground under him become soft. He soon lost consciousness again. Later he found himself standing next to his car close to the village.”

In her first book, Into the Fringe (pages 102-103) Karla Turner provides another reference to a desert world as she describes speaking with her son, David, who had experienced an apparent recollection of two scenes super-imposed over one another. One of these images depicted a sandstorm on a world that was entirely desert, and the sky seemed hardly distinguishable, for “the only way I could tell the sky from the ground was that the sky was a lighter shade of tan.” The second image depicted “an outside area at night, pitch-black. But I could see something in front of me. It looked like a fifteen-foot-tall tree trunk or irregular column, and it was covered with thick, dark brown fur” and that though he “could see some sort of appendage near the top of the column”, he was clueless as to its nature.

As Karla Turner noted in that same book, this experience bears an uncanny resemblance to an incident described in chapter 26 of Whitley Strieber’s 1989 novel, Majestic, which is a fictional account based on the Roswell story. In the novel, Nick Duke, a Baltimore reporter, investigates a lead given to him by Wilfred Stone, an ex-director of the CIA. In the chapter in question, the character of Wilfred Stone describes what to him was a strange and confusing experience in which he seemed to have found himself on a planet which appeared like Saturn in which he was “standing in a desert. It was strewn with sharp black boulders that shone dully in the weak light.” He described “the grit underfoot” and how “the air was crackling dry and the sky was brown.” He felt as if he were some unthinking animal as he ran across the world. He described two suns, one that was just setting as the scene began, leaving him in darkness, and the other, red sun rising in the midst of his encounter with what appeared to be a gigantic mantis. It was the furry tree trunk description that resonated with David’s mental image, and David seemed to be describing the insect’s legs.

The description of the planet looking like Saturn echoes my feelings; after all, my memories of a desert world is what inspired me to get that mural of Saturn on my wall when I was in junior high. The large insect theme at least resonates with my recollections to some degree. Yet is this all just coincidence?

If so, it would appear to extend beyond anecdotal reports from others considering the recently discovery concerning what are known as “land planets.”

The habitable or “Goldilocks” zone is the area around a given star that will neither be too hot nor too cold for a planet’s surface to potentially hold liquid water and therefore perhaps some form of extraterrestrial life. The habitable zone is dependent not just on the stage of the star but also on the type of planet. Aqua planets such as our earth have more surface water than land, suffering a rampant greenhouse effect if they orbit too close and going ice-9 if their orbit strays too far. Land planets are essentially the polar opposite of aqua planets, as they are composed of vast desert landscapes pot-marked here and there with oases, but void of any semblance of an ocean. One would assume that life would be primarily subterranean, as there may be relatively abundant water beneath the surface, and perhaps otherwise isolated to the oases forming from the springs that bleed through the desert skin.

Additional differences between aqua and land planets were presented in the 2011 paper “Habitable Zone Limits for Dry Planets,” written by Yutaka Abe, Ayako Abe-Ouchi, Norman H. Sleep, and Kevin J. Zahnle and published in the magazine Astrobiology. Their research suggests that if a land planet and an aqua planet orbited the same star, the habitable zone for the land planet would be roughly three times larger, enabling it to be both closer and farther away from the star and still sustain life. This would mean that life-bearing planets such as our own might be relatively rare, with land planets in all likelihood standing as the more common celestial nest for budding life in the cosmos.

Of course, this notion of land planets or desert worlds being fertile for life all really constitutes an educated guess in the end, albeit one heavy on the education. In any case, its interesting, and in no fashion do I for a moment think this means the entire alien landscape in my memory is indeed an accurate depiction of past events I was privy to in one form or another and not some unconsciously-generated fantasy I became emotionally ensnared in.

Still, it could all make sense as a fantasy. In my own case, perhaps the alter takes the form of an alien in response to constantly having to face and fight with my deeply-rooted feeling that I somehow simply did not belong anywhere. Perhaps this sense of “alienation” is also why while alone as a child I played with my hands and pretended they were two aliens meandering about their planet’s surface. Perhaps the alien personality took root in the rich history of the dead alien desert world that served as a backdrop to my private childhood playtime. Perhaps the personality sincerely believes that history is true, that this history is its own. Perhaps the purpose it serves is to give me an explanation for my sense of isolation. It has relevance, I feel, that this explanation has been regarded with tremendous fear and horror for me since I was sixteen (and if the memories are not false memories, as far back as six). If the purpose of the alter was to offer explanations that would produce psychological comfort, it undoubtedly failed.

There is no doubt that Saturn, named after the Roman god of agriculture, has a good deal of cultural associations that would make it an optimal choice for my unconscious in the creation of spontaneous fantasies. Saturn is thought to be characterized by coldness, dryness, time, constriction, law, karma, fate, judgment, structure and death. It is also associated with the father, specifically the darker issues associated with him if he is not outright tyrannical, and the Goblin Man, if not a true alien but rather a symbol, would very likely be a manifestation for (clearly unconscious) darker issues with my actual father. In any case, the symbolic usage here as a whole would seem to bear a tight cohesion in terms of meaning if one is to regard it as hallucinatory.

The issue remains, however: as a fantasy, it does not seem altogether appealing to my inner eye, as I have a general distaste for the kind of laziness that goes on in popular fiction writing. To offer a relevant example, there is the tendency for sci-fi writers to fashion entire planets composed of one specific appearance and season in contrast to, for instance, our own planet which is composed of deserts, tropics, the arctic tundra, and all varying types of environment. On occasion they show signs of differing weather patterns, but not so much in terms of seasons or varying types of climate. We imagine Yoda living in a swamp-world, we imagine waterworlds and, often enough, desert worlds. Tatooine of Star Wars, known to my young self quite well, and Arrakis of Frank Herbert’s Dune series, which I have never read, though a friend gave me the book some years ago and it still rests amongst the others on my shelves. Nor have I ever seen the movie, in my recollection. There are quite a few movies using desert worlds, in fact, and I intended to watch some of them to see if they contained elements from my memories. The idea, of course, was to come across a movie that depicted the scenes I so vividly recalled and prove to myself that I wasn’t even original in my pseudo-delusions. To the small degree in which I have actualized this intention, I have found nothing in comparison to my memories. So do my notions of a desert world not just constitute an active, unconsciously-generated fantasy, but one borne of a significant lack of creativity?

Fish Out of Water.

During a flashback I experienced when I was sixteen, I remembered an evening in which I awoke from a dream of a creature I called the Goblin Man. While holding my mother’s hand in a crowd of people, we see him bolt into the crowd and lose sight of him as everywhere goes frantic. I see a guy running through the crowd in a green-and-yellow costume, and for some stupid reason wonder if its him. Then the real Goblin Man appears and takes me from my mother’s hand, giving me a piggyback ride and telling me that its okay for him to take me away because he was my real daddy.

When I awoke from that dream, I found the Goblin Man standing at my bedside. I ran to my mother’s room to find security. She let me sleep beside her, insisting it was all a bad dream. This hope she planted in me diminished considerably when I watched, through my mother’s open doorway, as the creature booked it from my room, passed her open door and down the hall, where the bathroom and my sisters’ room was located. The aforementioned hope literally died in the light of the dawning morning. Still awake beside my sleeping mother, I open my eyes and lift my head to find the Goblin Man now standing at the foot of my parent’s bed.

Among my countless anomalous experiences involving these creatures this theme of confusing parentage carries on and grows. It played a role in another spontaneous recollection that came to me sometime after the flashbacks. As this was the incident where I began keeping dated logs, I know this memory came back to me on February 25, 1995.

The memory opens with me standing just outside my parent’s closed bedroom door, pushing it open as if my mother just told me to come in. When I push it open sufficiently to walk inside, the room is dimly lit, as if it is morning. Despite everything being in its place, so to speak, something about the scene seemed artificial. It almost seemed like I was walking through the single frame of a space-time film. There was an ominous, permeating silence, an eerie stillness to the whole scene, and as I stepped towards the bed I could no longer deny my deep sense that this was all somehow a set-up. Before me on the bed is presumably my mother, though she is concealing herself beneath the sheets. The form beneath the sheets is small, however, and certainly nothing like that of my mother.

I suddenly feel like Little Red Riding Hood approaching her alleged grandmother, all the while knowing it’s really the wolf, and the feeling does not go away. Though we proceed to have a conversation with each other, the terror in me grows the more I pay attention not only to where this conversation is being pushed but the manner in which the conversation is taking place. It is less like I hear my mother’s voice than it is that I just know what she is saying, and when I do put my might into focusing on the voice it sounds absolutely wrong. It’s high-pitched and frighteningly inhuman. In addition, our conversation seems somehow manipulated, like a veiled interrogation, unerringly driven by her to something preconceived. I dodged her questions and pressed my own, such as why she seemed to be hiding beneath the sheets. My anger at this attempted manipulation finally grew to the point where it overpowered my fear. Finally, I began screaming that it was not my mother, demanding it show its face. Conveniently, all fades to black.

For some reason they have frequently done this throughout my experiences with them, the last incident having occurred roughly a year ago. They seem capable through what can only be described as telepathy of not only conveying thought in the manner of an inner voice, but also imagery and other sensory parallels. These come in the forms of hallucinations or mental imagery. They can produce hallucinations on your waking sensory field, thereby making you see things that aren’t there, stop you from seeing things that are there, and can also make you see things that are there as something other than what they are. They can make it so that you see them as black dogs, white cats, or perhaps a huge owl or a seven-foot-tall Smokey the Bear.

With respect to mental imagery, this can come in the form of a single still-frame, a slide-show, or mental movie. These images seem to come in certain levels of absorbency, with the lowest being the experience of a mental image from another as a mental image, and the most extreme case being a realistic lucid dream setting in which you share this space with one another. When using the low-absorbency mental images they will often use them in combination, nearly always complimenting them with an inner-voiceover, making it sort of documentary-style. As implied by both my flashbacks of that evening, when these creatures weave their lucid dreams you take to be real, they can also use them as false “screen” memories to cover for the amnesia they also induce and confusing any surfacing memories of the actual event. They seem capable of producing imagery through eye contact or mere close physical proximity and, in one experience of mine, a “lucid dream” was accomplished through ramming a sturdy metallic rod into my ear.

Any way you slice it, it sounds like a form of telepathic warfare in which the strategy of “divide and conquer” is applied to the single individual. Keep a person battling themselves inside over what’s real or not real and they will have little time, energy, and of course be lacking the necessary prerequisite of certain belief in the enemy in question to have any hope of being a significant any nuisance to the spooky powers that be doin’ the dividin’.

The incident with the creature in my mother’s room is the only instance I have recalled in which I called them out on their telepathic illusions and aggressively stood up to them, unfortunately, and I do not recall the outcome. Just as in the case of my Goblin Man flashback, there was only my mother and myself in the room, and the dim morning glow about the room was identical to how the room looked when I saw the Goblin Man at the very end of the flashback. I wondered if he had somehow used that scene as a model for this one.

There was one more use of this telepathic dreaming that seemed to be aimed at confusing parentage. Around the time I remembered the incident involving the creature under the covers I also recalled a single image from some memory or dream from my childhood. I’m on the floor in my room staring at the open doorway to my old room, where stands, shoulder-to-shoulder, who are presumably my mother and father. Their faces look wrong, however, or at least appeared so due to the interference of their large, glowing eyes.

Which brings me to what for me constitutes a far more disturbing matter, namely why they would wish to confuse me in this area to begin with. Part of me wonders if they do this out of an interest in what parental bonds do and how they function. There is, for instance, the matter of that oil-painting-style still frame of the Goblin Man giving me a piggyback ride that came to my mind towards the end of the flashback. This I cannot help but associate with “Mother and Child,” an oil painting by Gari Melchers that, it seems to me, inspired that portion of the dream-scenario. A copy of the painting hung above my parent’s bed from the time I was young, and though I somehow found it dark and eerie, it was also comforting. Perhaps my association here is no mistake, either. Clearly having access to my memories and associations, perhaps the Goblin Man utilized that style of imagery in an attempt to inspire the same kind of parent-child bond I had always felt was depicted so elegantly in that painting. Maybe when I ran to my mother for security after awakening to find the Goblin Man standing beside my bed, they elected to study the maternal angle as well.

Rather than using parental bonds as study, they used it as a means of manipulation. The Goblin Man’s attempt to justify taking me away by claiming to be my father, for instance, or the creature under the covers trying to glean information from me by pretending to be my mother, no doubt because they presumed I found security and trust in her. If the themes in these experiences weren’t expanded upon in others, I would be perfectly happy with concluding that this was all there was to the matter. Unfortunately, the paternal theme played out in a more complete manner in an incredibly vivid, haunting dream that I had prior to the two flashbacks, and perhaps while I was still in junior high school.

One late night or early morning, I recall waking up from that seemingly endless dream and going downstairs, where my father was preparing to go to work. In my groggy state I made an attempt to convey to him the power of this dream, though only found myself frustrated at my inability to articulate much about it at all. The dream was more eerie in terms of mood and emotions, while the imagery, however frighteningly lifelike, was just as necessary but ultimately secondary to its rich emotional context. To make matters worse, the dream was quickly going retrograde, fading from my conscious grasp. It angered me that I could not convey what little I managed to momentarily hold on to. I remember drinking water by the sink, looking groggily down at the counter and trying to find any string of words that might capture something still lingering within conscious reach.

In my mind’s eye I examined the remaining image from the dream. While the image was technically in motion and it remained for an enduring period, neither the frame nor what it framed changed much, so it was not much of a scene in that respect. There was only a close-up of his face, and it was in the darkest conceivable night during a violent downpour. Still, you could make out his black, leathery face, and while I remember no thunder, I do recall seeing the face in an odd highlight, perhaps caused by flashes of lightning. As you strive to capture all you can of his features through these brief windows of illumination you find that his face vaguely resembles the mask of Batman. In comparison the creature’s face looked far more inhuman, however, and in retrospect the face looked more than slightly like the tall, black vinyl creature in Tool’s Prison Sex video. The way he crouched atop that building like a predator, looking out into the distance beyond the frame in the rampant downpour as if some guardian, one could easily mistake him for a gargoyle.

In the end, all I managed to tell my father was the overarching message of the dream, which once out of my mouth struck me as being essentially accurate but grossly insufficient. In the dream, I learned that my real father was this strange creature like the Batman. In the dream, a profound fear and confusion emerged in me not only out of the discovery that my real father was some Batman-like creature, but the logical extension of that fact, the daunting implication: as his son, I was somehow also somehow such a creature. Though groggy, it seemed to me as if the tone in which I asked him had confused him, as if I had unintentionally delivered my words in such a way that it was presented not as a description of a dream but rather as an accusation I wanted him to respond to.

Perhaps a response did come through him after all, though the specific source was in the dreams generated by his unconscious mind. The message from his shadow was then passed along to me. As is the case of many people, for some reason, my father occasionally tells me of his dreams. At some point late in high school, I recall him describing a vivid dream which, upon asking him some time after, he appeared to have entirely forgotten. In my recollection, his dream dealt with our family in some hallway. Along with the family was someone who he called “the dark man,” who wore a trench coat and fedora. His face could not be seen. A young boy was running around playfully, who my father seemed to think was me, and whom the dark man proclaimed to be the devil’s child.

So to summarize: the child of Goblin Man, who was depicted in the dream-scenario, at one point, as a man in a superhero costume. The child of a Batman-like creature. Now a child of the Devil, who is certainly the equivalent of a comic book supervillain for some people, a superhero to others. So why this theme of being a son to a dark, inhuman superhero? Was the flashback a glimpse into the source material for my dream, and perhaps my father’s as well, or would it be rational to look upon the flashback as a dream as well?

Regardless as to whether the flashback was a root experience giving rise to two dreams, why did I call him a goblin? My mother told me once that I always spoke, evidently through play, that I was being chased by goblins, and I particularly remember imagining them following us in our car as we drove, trying to catch up with us by quickly building a tunnel underground parallel with us.

The only place I remember being subjected to the concept of a goblin was through a superhero, meaningfully enough. I knew the Green Goblin to be the arch nemesis of Spiderman, and both characters I knew not through the medium of the comic books, but through the boob tube during the Saturday morning cartoons. On our Atari 2600, I also remember playing a Spiderman game. As Spiderman, you would slowly crawl up a building with your web. The obstacles he faced on his way to the top I fail to recall, but as the top of the building Spiderman met with the Green Goblin, who was riding his “goblin glider” back and fourth in the air. I could never get passed him, and in the end he always made me fall off the building and die. Beyond that, there aren’t many associations with the character.

If the flashback is the root experience, the nonhuman superhero theme makes perfect sense. These creatures are clearly not human and with their display of telepathy, psychokinesis and advanced technology, imagining them as being of superhero or supervillain status isn’t really a far cry from the truth of the matter at all. The incident with the creature under the sheets pretending to be my mother I felt to be attacking my intelligence, as they were trying to trick me and doing such a shoddy job of it. If this was all a dream they had put in my head, couldn’t they make the form under the sheets look convincingly human, in the very least, and perhaps come up with a reasonable explanation as to why she couldn’t show her face?

The Goblin Man’s claim attacked my sense of identity, my sense of belonging to the family and species I had taken to be my own. Yet it left me in limbo, as they had not revealed my true identity or family but left me with the knowledge that I was in both, of both, but belonged to neither. I belonged nowhere and I was utterly alone.

If this was all an illusion, if the flashback was nothing more than a hallucinatory fiction emerging during a psychotic break, this makes the “alien” theme an obvious unconscious choice. I have felt that I don’t belong my entire life, and it has not dissipated as I have aged, but to the absolute contrary. Perhaps the feeling of not belonging emerged in me and had no seeming cause or explanation, so my unconscious whipped up a fictitious narrative to give that sense of out-of-placement a well-needed context and origin.

The fact that in being both human and alien I would also be just as alien to the aliens seems unnecessarily redundant to me, however. In addition, given my reactions to this unconscious choice of origin it seems unlikely that providing a sense of comfort was a primary objective. The notion terrified me and, I feel ill to confess, still terrifies me as I write this. Not only because some intergalactic pact might support visitation rights for the father, thereby providing legal justification for abductions, either, but because of the aforementioned implications.

As if the whole alien ordeal was not enough, other events began happening in real-time and drifting back to consciousness in memory that were not mundane or carried by the air of what we regard as sanity by any means. This led me to conclude that either our most educated assumptions about the nature of ourselves and the universe were flawed in what I took for some pretty fucking vital areas or my madness, ever-relentless, simply accepted no bounds. Relevant here are my apparent recollection of events that occurred in previous lifetimes. Later, after I had struggled with the puzzle pieces, attempting to order them into their distinct lifetimes and their correct sequence, I felt I had distinguished three distinct lifetimes aside from my present one and possibility two more. The most recent was the life of a man I have come to call Sam, born in Little Rock, Arkansas in the 1940s or 50s and dying in the mid-to-late 70s while working at a toy store in a mall in Florida, perhaps Miami, where he lived for a time in his vehicle in the large parking lot. Previous to that I recall being a man who, given some of the memories, I presume to be an orphan, born and raised for a time in Tennessee or Kentucky and eventually making his way to California or a closely neighboring state while still a pre-teen. Eventually he became a Catholic priest who seems to have met his demise at an old age by means of a gunshot wound to the head.

The third and most distant group of memories bear the basic qualities of the other two, which is to say that I recalled the memories directly and also recalled instances in my own childhood in which I had recalled them. The first scene I had seen countless times as a child, crisp and vivid in my mind’s eye. The light is a little brighter than twilight, perhaps, and from a position up high, perhaps on a mountain or large dune, I look far out across a desert and see, atop a dune in the distance, three to four vehicles congregating. Despite the fact that I see them from far away, the discovery of their presence invokes a tremendous fear.

What I saw in the distance may or may not have been what I knew as either a “war machine” or “death machine,” which I have a single memory of. In the scene I recalled, the light is dim, like a dark twilight, and I am standing beside a gigantic wheel that towers over my head, part of this massive machine. It has four to six wheels, I believe, and is in some ways akin to a tank. The metal is silver and it is shaped like half of an arrowhead, the longest side down.

In another scene, I am now on flat ground, looking at the side of a large jagged rock with many layers of sediment. It is dark and the area looks gray and dusty. Some creature scurries across the ground, and then a spider-like creature that looks more or less like a pom-pom with long, spindly legs leaps after it, pounces on it and wraps its legs around it in a lightning-speed predatory maneuver, sending a cloud of dust up from the ground. I have visions of creepy, leafless, dead-looking trees either alone or in patches across the wasteland as well as visions of a lush rainforest teeming with plant life that took on neon colors of a phosphorescent quality, both, and especially the last, appearing very out of place with the rest of the desert world.

During meditation or on the bridge of sleep, I would receive other brief images of this world. I had brief visions of lit, three-windowed domes peeking up out of the desert surface. In another image, I saw a three-pronged structure akin to a crystalline castle amidst an otherwise desolate wasteland. An image similar to the three-pronged castle, though it seemed to be a logo, was accompanied by a voice on another occasion on the bridge of sleep which said the single word, “Conduit.” I had images of underground caverns with rooms that served as artificial habitats, full of plant and animal life.

In tandem with these direct memories of this environment there are memories of my playtime as a child, in which I used this world as a setting for my fantasies. As far back as I could remember I’d play Hock and Noodle at night when I was in bed and supposed to be asleep. Rather than using toys, my props for this dynamic duo were solely my hands. I’d hold all my fingers horizontal and press my thumb to my index finger to simulate their mouth when they spoke; when they walked, I would withdraw my thumb and last two fingers into my palm and use my middle and index finger as their legs. To simulate these spider-like creatures, I would put my hand spread palm-downwards and my thumb and fingers acted as the crawling legs. I’d also press my thumb to my index finger or to my middle finger with the rest of my fingers spread to represent two other specific types of enemies, though I do not recall the actual mental images these particular enemies were associated with.

Often I’d use a tissue box as a prop for their vehicle and together these two would venture out across their sickly, desolate, desert world. I liked it best when I had my light brown blanket on my bed, as that was close to the color of the surface of their world. Though no memory of mine specifically indicates it, I have the burning sense that the civilization had long ago retreated into underground tunnels and subterranean cities, preferring to live predominantly below the surface in order to protect themselves from the dangers on the planet above. During playtime, I would often imagine rocks falling from space onto the surface of their world, something that seemed to be a frequent occurrence. I’ve also always felt that this has been connected with a recurring theme in dreams I’ve had over the years in which various end-of-the-world scenarios have played out. In those dreams, my instinct has always been to get as far beneath the ground as possible, be it through the sewer systems or elaborate, subterranean structures.

Though perhaps I wouldn’t be talking about Hock and Noodle at all, perhaps they and their world would have faded from my memory entirely if it had not been embedded into my mind due to the nature of their last adventure. It was less than a year after I’d first put on my leg braces when I went back to the doctors so they could check out how I had been developing. To meet this end they would place me in the CAT scanner. On the table I went, and it guided my frantic self deeper into the doughnut-shaped lips of the machine and into it’s huge, tube-shaped belly, where I would have to remain for three to four hours.

As I was drawn inside, my face reddened and I cried and screamed. I didn’t understand what was going on, what this machine was doing or what was going to happen, but my mother and the doctors said that I would be fine, that I just needed to lay perfectly still and everything would be all right. They tried to get me to relax by talking to me and reassuring me again and again. Once inside, I calmed a bit, though I was still considerably restless. Eventually fear gave way to boredom and I began playing Hock and Noodle. Hands dancing all around the belly of the CAT scanner. Imagining how those doctors must have felt after looking at those X-ray images after four hours and finding freeze-frame Kodak moments of the bones of my hands as they walked across my belly and mouthed words to one another — well, it makes me shudder. Hearing him was frightening enough.

At first it was just a commotion below my feet; I could barely hear it and wondered if maybe I was just imagining things, but then I heard those frightening screams of anger, that high-grade cussing, that shouting back and fourth between what was undoubtedly the doctor and my mother. I wondered what was going on. When I heard my mother shouting my name, she did not sound very pleased at all, that was quite evident. She told me viciously that I had better not budge. Not a twitch. This time, I didn’t move a damned muscle. I remained in there for another four hours, and the embarrassment over that whole episode was a profound one. It ended my playtime with Hock and Noodle, but it served to solidify them and their world in my memory.

It was after I got the braces taken off and while I was still in kindergarten that my eyes fell onto, into the eyes of one who I felt a strange kindship that seemed associated with the memories of that dead world. She was petite and brown-eyed with long brown hair that looked strangely exotic to me. However frail, she seemed to be a furnace of energy, and she battled the world with a beaming smile. There was something dark and vast in her, it felt to me, something rich, and in some way, shape or form I felt as if we came from the same place, that we both felt similarly out of place here. I don’t ever recall talking to her, and it would not at all surprise me if that is only because I never really uttered a damned word to her in the first place. Even then, evidently, I was deathly shy of approaching beautiful girls.

Despite that fact, I was overcome with joy and violent surges of anxiety when I received an invitation to her birthday party. Her apartment was in the apartment complex catty-cornered across the street from our house, so the night of the party my father walked me over. When we came into the place, it was like a drunken college party of shaved, drunken orangutans. There was no booze, however, and these were toddlers, and nearly everyone in both kindergarten classes, by the looks of it. It suddenly made sense how I had come to be invited. I existed. Looking out across the living room, I saw kids running up the stairs. She was upstairs, the birthday girl, hiding in her room. Both my father and I wanted to leave, and he asked if I wanted to go up and say happy birthday to her. I did want to, but I was afraid, and I somehow got the sense that she didn’t like being the center of attention anyway.

So my father and I slowly walked home in the dark, and I remember liking just walking beside him, with no one else around. It always felt good to be around him. I remembered thinking about my sense of isolation, and a conversation I must have recently had with my father. It was an evening when I was “camping out” on the floor in my room — basically just sleeping on the floor with blankets and pillows, which is something my sisters and I found exciting when we were younger for some reason. Earlier in the day my mother, upon learning of the report cards of my sister and I, had joked about how she should be doing so much worse than me in school due to her cerebral palsy and that the school must have mistakenly swapped our grades. When my father had come in to kiss me goodnight, I remember asking him if he thought there may have been a similar mix-up and it could be me, and not my sister, who had cerebral palsy. This question seemed to sadden him, and when he asked why I would ask such a thing, I tried to explain how I felt different from everyone around me, and though I could not articulate what this difference was, it had to do with my brain. My sister’s condition was my only real default assumption.

At this point, walking home beside him, I felt that the difference was in fact something else, that it had some other cause, that if it included genetics it must also go deeper than that, past the marrow and to the soul. Part of what drew me to that girl, I felt, was that she was different in a way similar if not identical to how I was different. Her and I, somehow and in some way, had come from the same place and I felt some sort of kinship. In my mind, her image, her vibe, her “feel” is associated with the most beautiful images. A bird’s eye view of a vast desert landscape enshrouded in darkness, an image of a planet that looked like Saturn, of distant-seeming areas of the cosmos where I seemed to be just a swimmer in space, taking in from all angles the community of stars, asteroids, nebulae. These images shared this feeling that seemed to extend far beyond what I understood or felt from others with respect to religiosity; it was a union of my essence with beauty that swept me far beyond the usual conceptualized limitations of the self, that truly connected with the mystery around and within myself. It was a numinous cosmic saturation. This feeling was also associated with the imagery and experience of coursing through space at such a speed that stars seemed to stretch and bleed into one another, as if I was on some voyage into sectors of existence where few if any had ever ventured.

These images as well as the girl are also associated with a bizarre experience that happened to me when I was older, I believe. I remember awakening in a strange, well-lit and sterile-feeling room on a hard table and walking towards the huge, floor-to-ceiling window on the far wall. As I came up towards the glass, the beauty that had drawn me there blossomed completely in my discovery that this was not a glorious night sky I was looking at, but the seeming depths of space. There was no ground. Stars were all around me and earth was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t disturb me at all, strangely. Staring out that window, I felt so strong a connection, so intense was empathic feedback, that there was no question I belonged to the cosmos. Certainty surged in that moment that it was not that I did not belong in the universe, or even the earth, but perhaps merely this specific time and place, these particular cultural circumstances.

Even after the girl moved at the end of the year, I found that I still thought of Hock and Noodle and their world from time to time. Years later, after we had moved into our new house and my parents wanted to re-paint my room, I decided I wanted to change the color of the room from blue to brown, and my mother said I could also get a wall paper mural on one wall. When I was at the store looking through the choice of murals, I was absolutely drawn to the image of the planet Saturn, which I always imagined the desolate home of Hock and Noodle to look like.

Regardless, after I saw that Saturn mural, I didn’t want to look at any of the other images; I persisted this was the one I wanted. Though I would not dare say it, the image of Saturn brought back strange feelings of longing, almost an aching homesickness, of the dark world I left behind with my childhood playtime. That mural remained on my wall far passed my teenage years, and it took me some time to recall the associations that had prompted me to get it.

If the aliens can create lifelike memories, they could certainly create false memories of a previous lifetime as an alien. In an incident I feel must be some extremely-well executed telepathic imaging on behalf of the creatures, they again cease their attempts to attack my identity from the maternal or paternal angle, boldly stepping fourth and drive a dagger into the heart of it, go for the bull’s-eye.

I find myself standing on the stool we always had in the bathroom when I was a kid, looking into the mirror above the sink. Soon enough I find myself transfixed on my reflection, certain that something about my appearance is unusual but utterly unable, at first, of putting my finger on what it is. As I’m drawn into studying my reflection more closely, however, I suddenly realize that the problem resides with my eyes. Despite sincere efforts to prove to myself that I must be mistaken, the reflection clearly show my eyes appearing to grow larger and more slanted. The process begins slow, so slow at first that I could not first determine what was happening, but the shape-shifting effect was steadily increasing in speed. As continue ballooning, slanting up along my face, my mouth hangs open in disbelief. Though I wouldn’t have known this at that age, my eyes were distinctly of a shape, and increasingly growing to the size and position of the eyes of the typical Gray beings. Soon I discover that I cannot blink, shifting my awe and horror from the reflection to my actual face. No longer can I pretend this is merely my reflection. Slowly, I reach up a hand, watching the reflection, and cautiously allow my fingers to touch the surface of one eye. It feels rubbery and slick. The sensation is incredibly real.

Reflecting on it now, it makes me think of a three-link chain of associated scenes in the original Star Wars trilogy. There is a moment towards the end of Return of the Jedi, where Luke has successfully beaten the shit out of his cyborg father and looks down at the hand he cut off of pops. He then looks down at his own black leather gloved mechanical hand. He makes the connection. Back in the second film, Darth Vader hacks off Luke’s hand with his saber and then drops the news on him that he, Darth Vader, is Luke’s father, and Luke was a bit dramatic in his reaction. It was also in The Empire Strikes Back that he had the experience under the guidance of Yoda back on Degahbah. Back in that swamp, Luke had been made to walk through a cave of twisting vines in the darkness and ultimately forced to battle an illusion of his father, Darth Vader. He cuts off the head of the heavy-breather with his trusty light saber. The head falls, rolls, and comes to a sort of rest on the ground. There the mask of the helmet explodes, revealing Luke’s own face behind the mask. You are the son of a monster, and as a consequence you are part monster yourself.

Perhaps the Goblin Man circumstance is my life’s own manifestation of the same underlying archetype — fed to it, perhaps, not in the Jungian sense but rather through becoming very familiar with the Star Wars trilogy itself. In my version, I see the eyeless Goblin Man, who pronounces he is my real father. Then upon staring into the mirror I find my own eyes growing into the ones he had lacked. You are the son of an alien, so as a consequence you are part alien yourself.

I cannot help but feel another incident is related to the memory of the mirror, one that took place amidst the “play therapy” sessions I recall being run through by any number of the psychologists and social workers my mother took me to when I was young. At that time, I do remember that it was a young, attractive and friendly woman who, in the comfort of her office, ran me through a test known as the Thematic Apperception Test. Basically, the patient is shown a picture and is supposed to weave a story around it, explaining not only what is happening in the image but what happened up to that point and following it. Since the patient needs to draw off of their own personal beliefs, thoughts and emotions in order to construct the fantasy, it conveys personal information without the patient being aware of it. The image she handed to me depicted a person standing alone in a room staring into a mirror. I described how the person saw their face slowly changing, and how the reflection ultimately transformed into a large fish which stepped through the glass and chased the person around the room.

In either dreams or spontaneous fantasies, looking into mirrors would seem to imply we are taking an honest and direct look at ourselves in order to see who or what we really are. Before we had mirrors, the most likely place we glimpsed our reflections was on the surface of some body of water. We went there to drink and bathe, glimpsing through the surface, along with our reflection, the fish that inhabit the world beneath the fluid skin. With that association between mirrors and water’s skin in mind, my reflection transforming into a fish and stepping beyond the glass would seem to suggest the notion of “a fish out of water.’ By this time in my childhood, for all I know, I may have already been able to draw off of my eye experience with the bathroom mirror as well, which would make this TAT image particularly alluring and projection-friendly. As I watched my eyes undergoing their transformation, after all, I was unable to blink, much as the case appears to be with fish.

When our ancestors went to the water, they did not only glimpse down at the fish swimming in the fluid world of reflection, however, any more than we do today, however relegated it is to a so-called “sport.” No, we hunt them. We fish for fish. Bait fish. Net fish. Spear fish. By whatever means, one barges in through that reflective surface into their world and chases after them, aiming to abduct them from their world, perhaps fillet them, maybe just throw them back. The tides, one could say, are merely turned in my fantasy, where the fish instead bursts through the surface into my world and chases me around. Here, the fish out of water, the reflection now out of my control, hunts me down, and I run from it as I am terrified of it.

Perhaps then, at least at some level, I felt there was a part of me that came from another world and that it didn’t operate under my control and could step in at any time. If so, it was certainly buried deep in me, only to be unearthed perhaps a decade later on the eerie morning of Tuesday, August 22, 1995, only a few days after school had begun. That morning was a rather fitting end to the months of unrelenting, mind-wracking chaos that had led up to it in the last several months, and no doubt this would have been even more the case if I were able to remember clearly everything that had transpired.

Instead, I awoke that surreal morning to find myself scooping coffee grounds out of the can and putting it into the filter of the coffee machine. This is not in itself an unusual occurrence at all; it was only shortly after the memories started trickling in that I had been a thoroughly-caffeinated insomniac. This was my morning routine. The issue was that I had become aware of doing this only in the process of doing so, with little initial recollection of any of the events that preceded it, which was a considerably unusual experience. As soon as I asked myself why I was here doing this, however, I remembered, and I also remembered how this works. The sensation. There was a sort of breach between one state of consciousness and the other where you forgot entirely for a moment and then could successfully look back for a short time as memories rapidly went retrograde. I seemed to know precisely how it worked, as if I had gone through the experience a thousand times before. I immediately stopped what I was doing. I bolted up the stairs, across the hallway and into my room, grabbed the nearest notebook and pen and, kneeling beside my bed and using it as a table, I struggled to get out the general highlights of a long night seemingly out of this world before it all faded from my mental grasp.

In my confused notes that morning I wrote that they had been there last night, that I had not been asleep at all, and that throughout the experience I was unable to think straight or function appropriately. I had also experienced a series of what I described as “terrible” and “odd dreams” and “astral projections,” the specifics of which I could not recall, save for the fact that they had to do with my cousin. There had been some discussion, at least, about her being in trouble and then helped. Though I did not write it that morning, I know I had been walking out from the forest at the side of my house in a stressed manner not too long ago, someone walking beside me as I walked towards the house. This was perhaps right before I came into the house, began my morning routine and suffered the breach in consciousness. Then there came the flood of memory that immediately began its retrograde erasure.
Most disturbing to me of all is that I wrote that for at least part of the time that I was with them I was in an alternate state of consciousness in which I became aware that I was “one of them” underneath it all, that this deeper alien personality hid its identity behind the masque of the everyday personality.

At the bedside, pen in hand, I felt the last of it go, and the memories were gone. When nothing else was forthcoming from my memory, I wrote that I was scared of them, and frightened at the thought that humanity was at the mercy of these alien forces, these creatures, who I knew were here to “fulfill their own agenda,” specifics unfortunately not offered. What bothered me most of all, however, was that it suggested that I was a masque, a shell, a costume for some alien consciousness. It made it sound as if I was the alter, and he was the host. It made it sound like there was some sort of supervillain inside me and I was his secret identity.