I have recently had a very complicated and, to me, interesting series of events happen in my life that, I believe, relate to something that has been happening to me since I was a child, and which drew me back to San Antonio in the first place.
I would characterize this as a period of heightened awareness, or contact with other levels of reality. Some of it has been really beneficial. For example, about a week after the sequence of experiences was initiated, I woke up one night to find a person standing in our bedroom. After an initial moment of terror, I had the powerful impression that this was Anne?s mother. As she died when Anne was seven, I?ve never met her. She said three words to me: ?Mustang, 1966, fire.? Then she disappeared.
The next morning, I described the woman to Anne, but she didn?t think it sounded like her mother. I puzzled over the words. We?ve been slowly restoring a 1966 Mustang, with the idea of eventually giving it to our son, who loves old cars. I puzzled over why a ghost would say those words to me. Finally, I input them into Google or Yahoo, and was horrified at what I found. It was a story from 1999 called ?1966 Mustang a Classic Danger.? Sixty Minutes II had reported that the car is a death trap that can explode in a rear-end collision. As I had one when I was young, I already know that it?s not very stable on the road, especially in wet weather. I took this as a very important message and I intend to heed it.
But the central part of the ‘communication’ involves going to a certain house, which I believe I have been unconsciously struggling to remember for many years. I call it the Capture House because it seems to me to be a sort of knot in space- time that a normal person, using normal facilities, cannot really navigate.
I have uploaded to our subscriber section the first chapter of an unpublished novel of mine called Wonderland, which is entitled ?The Capture House.? I wrote this about two years ago, and I believe it to be a buried memory of an actual structure, or type of structure, that I have entered on occasion, and which I have just entered here a few days ago.
This whole sequence of events started about three weeks ago. Anne was having difficulty sleeping. She was tossing and turning. Suddenly, she was surprised to hear me say, in a calm and normal-sounding voice, ?Please stop flouncing. I?m communicating with the visitors.?
I have no memory of saying these words, but I do have a memory of there being something wrapped around my ankle on that night, and of having a very intense conversation with someone. What the conversation was about I do not know? or, not consciously. But, of course I do know. I know very well. It?s probably why I am sitting here at my desk at three o?clock in the morning writing this instead of sleeping.
From that day to this, I think that I have been involved in this ‘communication.’ The warning about the car, all of the material about the capture house–in fact, everything that I am going to relate in this journal entry–are part of it.
I think that my experience of the Capture House goes back to childhood, and that it is the foundation of all of my life at the edge of reality, and that I am presently in the process of rediscovering it, and perhaps learning how to link my lives in different realities so that I can have a single, integrated set of memories that includes everything that I have done and known in the years of my life.
It was shortly after this communication that I had the experience with the ghost warning about the car, and then that Brian Vike, the Canadian UFO researcher and ?Cynthia,? the woman who had the abduction in British Columbia came into my life. Then, just as I was getting Cynthia in touch with the brilliant and deeply compassionate psychologist Constance Clear, who has helped so many abductees, was in a horrible motorcycle accident and nearly killed. Indeed, as I am writing this, she remains, three weeks later, still in ICU, and her survival is in question. (There is no evidence of foul play. She lost control of her motorcycle on a curve.)
Then my sister, who has been slowly recovering over the past year and a half from a devastating stroke, suddenly said to me on the way to dinner one evening, ?Do you remember the time you disappeared off the boat??
I did not remember any such event, but she related it thusly: Our father had taken us out onto the Gulf of Mexico in a chartered fishing boat. Onboard were the three of us and the operator of the small boat, which sounds like about a thirty foot motorboat with a small cabin, a typical small fishing charter operated out of Port Aransas, Texas, where we used to go quite frequently.
I was nine and my sister was eleven, as she remembers it. We were perhaps twenty miles out when she discovered that I was no longer present on the boat. There was no question about it: the boat was small, and there was no place for me to hide. Horrified, she told my father that I was gone, only to find that both he and the operator simply ignored her! She rushed around on the boat looking for me and calling overboard, but they would not stop and they would not acknowledge her in any way.
The next thing she knew, I was back. She doesn?t remember me saying anything about it, and neither did our father, so she, also, stopped talking about it. In fact, it has taken nearly fifty years for her to mention the incident again. I have written elsewhere about another strange incident in the Gulf, but this doesn?t appear to be the same thing.
If it was indeed during the summer of my ninth year, it was at the beginning of the most intense Secret School period.
There has always been a subtle connection between me and my sister involving this stuff. I?ve sensed at times that she was involved in the Secret School, but she has no memories of it, only of mother and dad having the screens on my windows nailed shut to keep me from going out in the night, and a few other odd things. I do remember her being with me, though.
There then came an incident, last Thursday night (October 2nd) when I again arrived home from taking her to dinner and Anne asked me where I had been for so long. I was shocked to realize that it was full night?a quarter to nine, in fact. I had taken her to dinner, then stopped at the drugstore, then taken her home. There was still light in the sky when I left her off, which would have made it no later than about seven forty-five. Sunset was at 7:19 and Civil Twilight ended at 7:42. The trip between our two houses takes about fifteen minutes.
Even if I left her place at eight, it would not have taken me forty-five minutes to get home. So, what happened?
That night, I felt very happy. When I went to bed, I found myself wanting to listen to a compilation tape that I had made back around 1982. It was a very special tape for me. I had last listened to it before going to sleep on the night of December 26, 1985. I hadn?t realized it until I put it in the player, but I have never listened to it since. It has been among my tapes for eighteen years without being touched.
The next morning, quite incredibly, I also discovered a tape that has been lost for ten years. This is the complete version of my second hypnosis tape, made on March 5, 1986. All the copies I had were ones that I had erased parts of, out of embarrassment. How the tape got into that drawer, I cannot say.
The next morning, I remembered saying to somebody, ?This is quite a place. You?d never know it from the outside.? I still have no idea who I said that to, but I said it during that half hour or so of missing time. I think that I said it in what I am calling a capture house, a place that people who are entangled in the close encounter experience are drawn to from time to time. My thought is that I went to such a place on that night, and that it appears to be an ordinary house, and that it stands somewhere between my house and my sister?s place.
I think that we have been there before, the two of us, last Christmas. On that occasion, I went to pick her up for a family party, and arrived at the party with half an hour of missing time. Again, I felt very happy, but I had the distinct feeling that we had been somewhere very strange. She remembered nothing, but in the state she was in then, still very diminished by the stroke, there was no way even to ask her.
In my second book about close encounters, Transformation, I described finding myself in what appeared to be an ordinary house during one of my experiences in Upstate New York. I even made quite an extensive search of the area looking for the house, but I was never able to find it, even though I remembered its setting.
This current house, though, I suspect has been in my life for many years, and perhaps I have come back here, in part, to find it. A very long time ago, I remember being taken from my day camp by one of the teachers, to a house that was nearby. I was taken alone, in her car, not the camp?s station wagon. At the time, I would have been four or five.
I remember the interior of the house quite well. It had just been built, and there was a rock wall that separated the foyer from the living room, with a planter near the wall.
She took me in and gave me a demi-tasse of very sweet coffee, and encouraged me to eat the sugar out of the bottom, which I did, of course, with relish. A few minutes later, she left me alone in the living room. Then there was a man standing in the front doorway. I instantly did not like him. I tried to leave, but he blocked my way. I was being raised in a house full of servants, and I perceived the teacher to be a sort of servant, and assumed that he was one, too. So I told him to get out of my way, that I was to be taken home immediately. He continued to block the door.
I got scared then, and ran off into the house to find my teacher, whom I trusted implicitly. I went down an hall and around a corner and there she was?lying on a bed bound and gagged, with an expression of terrible fear in her eyes. Then the man was there, and he picked me up and I remember nothing more.
I think that the two visits that I have made recently are to the same house. I think that they represent an attempt on the part of my mind to regain access to memories that I very much need to address, about my early childhood.
I came to know the man I met that afternoon well. He was our teacher at a terrible school that I have worked for years to discover more about. Recently, the Central Intelligence Agency released another 18,000 declassified documents about its mind control experiments, which included an attempt to induce multiple personalities in two 19 year old girls.
Before the 1973 Congressional investigation that led to the disclosure of the CIA?s notorious MK-ULTRA mind control project, DCIA Richard Helms destroyed thousands of documents. My belief is that what he destroyed was documentary evidence of such experiments being performed on much younger children.
I suspect that what happened to me back in 1948 or 49 probably involved dosing me with some sort of drug, which was in the coffee. Back in those days, the notorious Nazi murderer Dr. Hubertus Strughold was operating the new ?aerospace medicine? project at Randolph Air Force Base. I have many memories of being taken by the same man who attacked me in the house to classes at that base, which I have written about before. I note that Dr. Strughold was familiar with the use of hallucinogens, from experiments using Mescaline that he had conducted in the concentration camps.
My belief is that something was discovered in those camps about children. Specifically, that children, if placed under enough stress, could be induced by drugs and trained to literally enter another dimension?a ?brane world? as recently discussed in our insight section as part of a larger discussion about humanity being possibly embedded in a larger galactic civilization.
I think that this was done to me, and that the disappearance that my sister remembers represents an occasion when I went, or was drawn, into this other reality.
Wonderland is a novel about going back and forth between realities, and the Capture House chapter up in the subscriber section is, I believe, an accurate description of how it feels to do it.
In order to drive from where my sister lives now to my house, I have to pass right by where the front gate of the day camp used to be. I think that I am returning to the house where I originally encountered Dr. Krause.
But what am I finding there? Is it still what it was then, a sort of waystation between the worlds, or are its present residents simply being bemused by the occasional odd appearances of a rather fusty looking guy who knocks on their door and tells them that they?ve ?got quite a place??
I know the general area where the house must be. I think that my sister and I have moved where we have moved so that it will be between us, and there will be opportunities to visit it, which we are now doing. God knows, that would be an explanation for the grim place she moved to when she came back to San Antonio, and to which she has returned now that she has left nursing care.
I will make a search for the Capture House, beginning with a reconstruction of the neighborhoods and streets as they were in 1949. Somewhere along one of those streets, I hope to find some answers to the questions raised by my haunted life, and the memories that I and many others, I believe, deserve to recover, that I fear were fed into Richard Helms?s shredder in 1973.
My belief now is that whatever I found out the back door of the Capture House, was what I have come to call ‘the visitors.’ I do not believe that we have, or even can have, language that adequately describes this phenomenon. I suppose that it’s as accurate to call them aliens as it is to claim that they are hallucinations, but grossly inaccurate to maintain that they have no existence independent of our minds.
I think that one of the psychologists I have worked with was right when she said that they had rescued me from this soul- crushing program that I was in as a child. The program thrust me into their world, and they responded by taking a fierce sort of pity on a terrified child. Somebody was using me, and I assume, others, to explore this other world. No doubt, after I disappeared from the boat or any number of other odd incidents in my childhood, I was eagerly ‘debriefed’ by these people.
The Capture House was where it started, and perhaps it to this day a stationhouse for travellers between the worlds. If you want to find out what it was like to be a little child and not be able to get out of it, read that chapter I have posted. I think that my mind, in writing that fiction, went right back to the actual experience of moving between realities, and drew some very deep and secret memories to the surface.
I’m always getting people asking me not to write fiction. But it is through the fiction that I can gain access to the memories of the reality I have lived. My fiction, I think, contains a secret history of a secret life, and, when it is all written, will be a map, if read with objectivity and knowledge, for journeyers between the worlds.
There will be more of those. For, as venial and badly motivated as they probably were, the people who terrorized children into escaping through the veil between the worlds, also opened up a new frontier for humanity.
NOTE: This Journal entry, previously published on our old site, will have any links removed.
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