by Wm. Barnard
“Well, uh, basically pretty normal except, I don’t know, I think I’ve been more emotional at times, maybe a little more irritable,” I said, trying to recall any other noticeable changes.
“Any nausea?”
“Only before the encounter.”
“That’s good. How about your sleep?”
“Well, you know I haven’t really thought about that, but now that you mention it, just in the past week I haven’t felt that rested after sleeping all night. The first couple of days I was going on full adrenaline, but maybe it’s all catching up to me and that’s why I have been so irritable. The last couple of nights I’ve dreamed The Ancestors were trying to contact me.”
“Hmm… have you been in contact with the aliens since you left the ranch?”
“No, I haven’t tried, but I was planning on seeing if I could re-establish some contact soon.”
“Do you mean telepathically?”
“Yes, hold on a second,” I said loudly as hip hop music blared from a teenager’s car pulling into the parking spot in front of the phone. The music died when he shut off the engine and the young man shuffled inside.
“Mr. Miller, I have done research in these kinds of encounters for over twenty years. And there are certain patterns of side effects that tend to occur which you may want to keep a record of. I also highly recommend starting a journal and keeping it bed side so you can track what you saw in your dreams right after you wake up. You may find that they are actually contacting you while you are in a subconscious state.”
“Thanks, that’s good advice.”
“Mr. Miller, off the record so to speak, many of us who work at NASA were positive it would only be a matter of time before we established this kind of contact with aliens. There are certain government officials who are in the know about extraterrestrials and the message you wrote about was actually one they have been aware of for a long time. As you can imagine, this message threatens many of those who hold dear to their fragile sense of power, which is why I am sure these aliens have never made an effort to contact them. While I’m not calling you as an official representative of NASA, I just wanted to let you know that you do have supporters over here.”
“That’s good to hear. It’s definitely comforting to talk to others who believe you and know you’re not crazy.”
“That’s one of the reasons I called. At the same time, you have to know that our public stance will be the standard,” Alex’s tone became robotic, “We cannot confirm nor deny this phenomenon at this point in time. Our team of specialists will thoroughly investigate these claims, but it is likely to take many months before we are able to distinguish the facts and reach a conclusion.”
“Yeah, well, I had already expected that kind of rhetoric.”
“You have one remaining minute on your phone card,” a female voice interrupted.
“Well, my card is almost up.”
“Okay. Do me a favor and follow up in a month or two to let me know how things are going. Shoot me an email at alexyelle-at-gmail-dot-com. I certainly want to be able to add your journal entries into my data.”
“That’s easy to remember so I’ll reply back to you when I get the chance. And thanks for the support.”
“Not a problem, take care.”
Hanging up the phone, I hustled to grab a cab at the street corner. A gentleman who had been reading a newspaper from a bus bench stood up abruptly and started walking down the street parallel to me. Sensing he might be following me, I delayed my trip back to the hotel by taking a left down the next block, stopping into a coffee shop to see if he would come across the street. One minute later, he briskly entered through the front door. Turning my gaze quickly back to the register, I ordered coffee before jostling right past him to the exit as he read the menu on the wall.
Heading to the trolley train back to my hotel, I spotted him again the moment I reached the station. With the newspaper tucked under his arm, he never looked my way, but once the cherry red train came to a stop, he hurriedly stepped onto the same car I did.
Now sitting on opposite sides of the car facing me, he again unfolded the paper, pretending to read. Dressed casually in sunglasses, shorts and a striped polo shirt, his golfer’s ensemble didn’t give me a hint if he was indeed a government agent. For a brief moment I actually contemplated going over to sit next to him and turn the tables by following him. Instead, when the train came to my stop, I quickly stepped off in attempts to throw him off my trail and, with a bit of luck, to keep “them” from knowing where I was staying, if that was even a secret.
I wandered in the opposite direction of my hotel and entered a Marriott a couple of blocks down. Rushing into the lobby, I hopped into an empty elevator, went up three stories where I got off and ran down the hall to the staircase. Several housekeepers became alarmed as I entered their broiling laundry room where industrial sized washers and dryers banged out the musical harmony of a drunken punk band. Acting like a confused guest, I asked in Spanish for the exit and the women merely pointed down another hallway.
Finally locating the entrance to the loading dock, I nodded to a teenaged dish washer sitting on a crate with a smoldering cigarette drooping from his lips. Ignoring his stare, I jumped down a small set of stairs and ran through a parking garage before coming out on a back alley that led to my hotel. Before entering the poolside door of the Hilton, I looked around one last time to see if I could spot anyone following me, but felt confident that I had lost my trailer.
Relieved to be in my room, I collapsed onto the soft comforter atop my bed. I knew certain agencies would want to grill me, but I could only guess at their motives. Obviously helpless about the whole matter, I realized that I would just have to get used to being under surveillance. I couldn’t think of a better time than to try to contact my Guardian Ancestor so I sat up, folded my legs into the lotus position, and tried to clear my head.
“Ancestor, please help me. I want to know who is following me and why?” I uttered. Straining to hear an answer, I felt intensely uncomfortable from sitting in this awkward position, and I lay back on my pillow.
I then distinctly heard a soothing voice say, “Zach, we have heard your prayer and have come to help. You will soon have your own personal vehicle to share our message of hope with those who will listen. Others will encourage you and your faith will continue to grow as they share their stories, providing more proof to the world of our existence. Rejoice, for the time is at hand.”
When I opened my eyes, I instantly thought about grabbing my notebook. Rummaging for my pen, I began to wonder if I had been awake or in a dream state while talking with my ancestor. What did it matter: his message came back to memory as soon as my hand clutched the pen. While his words didn’t really address the issue of those who might be following me, I still found them reassuring and would recognize later how they actually inspired my future plans.
CHAPTER 10
After my last contact, I became eager to share the intricate details of the encounter at Bill Hunter’s property with those who wanted to know more and my agent booked a series of talk shows across the country. Most of the programs were devoted entirely to me and provided a great format to discuss the story. However, one particular show in New York caught me completely off guard as no one had informed me that we would be hearing the testimony of another guest. I had noticed the middle-aged man waiting nervously in the green room, but we didn’t speak before the broadcast.
Like the other programs, the producers of the Maurice Coleman Show re-broadcasted the video clips of that night at the ranch while I recapped the highlights of the event and answered questions from the host.
I sensed that people were still in awe of seeing the footage so I followed up by saying, “Let me conclude that while I know viewing intergalactic space craft and extraterrestrials can overwhelm the senses, I certainly don’t want people to lose sight of what’s really important here. Their message is about us. With the help and guidance of our Ancestors, we can all
change the course of history and finally become a unified planet, a unified people.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically as my part of the interview finished and host Maurice Coleman smiled at me before swiveling back in his chair towards the crowd. Up on the two mammoth-sized TV screens to each side of us, his face took on a very pensive look as the camera closed in on him, and his voice grew increasingly serious.
“Our next guest has also had an alien encounter, but his story starkly contrasts with Mr. Miller’s. I was personally taken aback when I heard his story and I warn those viewers at home, there are parts of this story that are extremely graphic, so you may want any small children who are watching to leave the room. Now, please welcome Richard Summerlane.”
After hearing the host’s warning about the man’s account, the audience clapped politely, but now looked more rigid.
“Welcome to the show, Richard. Please sit down and share your story with us,” Maurice said as he guided the new guest to sit down in a chair between us.
Sitting down slowly, Richard’s eyes darted back and forth while his forehead had worked up a sweat before the intense studio lights even hit him. Casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a plaid button down shirt, he looked like your “average Joe.”
Hesitating before he spoke, he clutched his hands to help keep them from trembling.
“Well, like you said, my story is much different from Mr. Miller’s here. I didn’t even tell anyone about it for several years until after I had seen a psychologist,” he said in a deep, Bostonian accent. “It’s caused me a great deal of distress and I actually ended up losing my job over it. My wife and I got separated, but right now we are working on getting back together.”
“Please, start at the beginning,” Maurice said, adjusting his suit coat before crossing his legs.
“I had gone on a fishing trip by myself one weekend up to the Adirondacks. And after going to sleep in the bed of my truck, I awoke to find several aliens standing around my truck just staring at me. They looked kinda similar to the ones Mr. Miller here talked about, except I never heard them say anything. The next thing I know I’m inside their spaceship where they laid me down on a white table. They started examining me with all kinds of instruments and then, uh…” Richard turned his head down to stare at the floor and rapidly tapped his right foot.
Uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, Maurice gently asked Richard, “How do you know this wasn’t just a dream?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure about anything when I woke up the next morning. For several years, I guess I tried to convince myself that it was an extremely bad nightmare, but it continued to traumatize me to the point where I started having problems sleeping, and concentrating at work. I finally broke down and went to a shrink. He’s the first person I told about it, and he suggested I get hypnotized. During those sessions I found out that it wasn’t a dream at all. It actually did happen to me and I had been trying to block it out all these years.”
“Well, it’s very courageous of you to come here today and share this painful memory with us. I understand that you’ve brought a video that documented the meeting with the hypnotist.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. Why don’t we take a look over at one of the big monitors at this session that took place last fall at the Cambridge Psychiatric Hospital,” Maurice said, spinning his chair around so he could view the screen.
The studio lights dimmed and the video revealed Richard lying on his back across a long, black couch, already in a mesmerized state and answering questions. While we could only see the dark outline of the hypnotist’s head, his voice came through clearly as he attempted to elicit responses from his patient.
“After they put you on the white table, what did they do to you?”
Richard’s body shivered on the couch as he recounted the next part of the story.
“They took off my clothes and started sticking metal objects into my ears and mouth. My arms and legs were clamped down so I couldn’t move. They brought out this white hose and put it on my…” he paused. Embarrassed, he bit his lip before continuing. “Well, um, they attached it to me and started taking samples. It was the most painful thing I have ever experienced.”
“Richard, why do you think they did this to you?” the hypnotist continued.
“They’re beasts!” Tears began to streak his reddened face while we could clearly hear the hypnotist scribbling notes on a clipboard. The video clip faded as the studio lights returned to their normal level and the camera immediately switched back to the three of us.
Maurice paused several seconds for dramatic effect before asking Richard in a hushed tone, “Now, more than a year later, do you have any idea why these aliens treated you this way while the ones Mr. Miller encountered acted benevolent and offered help?”
He shrugged his shoulders before tightly gripping the arm of his chair. “No. I’m still as confused as ever. I completely believe Mr. Miller’s account. I mean, obviously his story is far more believable, with all the photographic proof and everything. To tell you the truth, my story just still feels like a bad dream, but it really did happen.”
Maurice then shifted in his chair, putting his hands together where the tips of his fingers slightly touched his chin and turned his attention to me. “Well, Mr. Miller, do you have any insight as to why Mr. Summerlane’s encounter was so extremely different than yours, and do you feel like it somehow sheds a dubious light on the intentions of the aliens you reported on?”
“Well, I have to say that I’m dumbfounded at hearing his story. I can’t say with certainty what happened to him, but I’ve heard that hypnotist don’t always evoke events that actually occurred. To answer the second part of your question, I can only say from what I experienced, that I saw nothing but goodwill from The Ancestors. I believe the entire world will soon view them in the same light.”
RETREATING TO MY HOTEL ROOM after the show, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Summerlane’s alien encounter. While Richard’s story didn’t appear fabricated and was admittedly disconcerting, what I had said to the host Maurice was true: I could only rely on what I knew to be factual and had seen with my own eyes. Despite Richard’s strange account, I prayed others would still see that The Ancestors did indeed offer us all hope.
The next morning I enjoyed French toast in bed courtesy of room service and reading the New York Times. As expected, there was an article about my appearance from the previous day on Maurice’s show. After finishing the story, I pushed my half-finished food aside. Reading Summerlane’s account had caused unsettling questions to arise and killed my appetite.
I tossed the paper to the floor and shuffled out of bed, heading over to the coffee maker on my dresser. A lone spoon next to my cell phone began rattling and alerted me the phone had been left on vibrate.
“Hello?” I said, wondering if I had picked up the phone, too, late.
“Zach, it’s Bill,” he said in his distinct, deep voice.
“Hey, where are you calling me from?”
“From home.”
“On your home line?” I gasped.
“No, no. I have a prepay phone. This thing is disposable.”
“Whew. That’s good. I was pretty certain that I’ve been followed since I came back from the ranch, but I’ve been recently getting even more paranoid about it. My friend Johnny said earlier this week that someone had broken into my house, and went through all my stuff. And the other day in Chicago, I know for a fact that someone opened up my bags in my hotel room. It’s been kinda weird, too, where I always notice a certain member of the audience who I get the feeling is not really there to see the show, but you know, just there to observe me.”
“I’m sure your instincts are right,” he said.
“Yeah?” I said slightly puzzled when Bill didn’t try to subdue my paranoid state.
“Certain governmental departments are interested in your activities, but you have nothing to hide. You’re telling a story, not tryi
ng to keep a secret.”
“You’re right,” I said, hoping that someone was tapping my phone line to hear this. “I’m not trying to hide anything.”
“Zach, the reason I’m calling you is because I saw you on the Maurice Coleman Show yesterday and I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“That was bizarre, huh?”
“I was planning on telling you this, but since you were already on information overload, I figured I would wait. Now I don’t know if this guy Richard’s story is true, but this much I do know. There are evil ancestors. When you hear people talk about demons and evil spirits, this is who they’re really talking about. These few ancestors have gone astray and are actually behind many of the problems we hear about.”
“That definitely would explain some things.”
“They have been battling with our Ancestors for thousands of years, but I assure you they will soon be defeated. When you hear people attribute evil to The Ancestors, understand why they see it that way—there are indeed wicked ones.”
“My sister and her friend actually told me they thought Shanda and the other ancestors were demons masquerading as aliens. But now I can see how they could be confused.”
“Exactly. I told you, Zach. We must practice patience and compassion with people. It takes time for us to change our way of thinking.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” I said, now gazing into a mirror mounted over the dresser.
“I hope that kind of clears things up for you.”
“It does. I appreciate you calling because I plan on sharing this information on the rest of the shows I go on.”
“Well, I knew this would be the right time to share that with you. I will catch up with you later.”
When I hung up, I still remained perplexed about some things, but felt confident that additional pieces of the puzzle would come together and eventually everything would make more sense.
