The Mothman Prophecies

by John A. Keel

  All of the madness of this period came together in a single case revolving around a young woman whom I shall call Shirley. She lived in Seaford, Long Island, a town that enjoyed a brief moment of fame several years ago when it became the center of a widely publicized poltergeist case. Shirley and her husband were separated and she lived alone with her small child.

  At 3 P.M. on the afternoon of September 26, she heard a loud humming sound outside her house, which was in an isolated, wooded area. She looked out the window and saw a silver disc-shaped object hovering about one hundred feet in the air. It seemed to be perfectly smooth with no visible windows or doors. While she was staring at it her doorbell rang. When she answered she found “an Indian woman” standing there. This woman was about five foot nine inches, dark-skinned “but not Negro,” dressed in a long gray gown that reached her feet and was made from some shimmering material.

  “Hello, Pat,” the woman said.

  “You must have the wrong house, my name isn’t Pat,” Shirley replied. Unknown to Shirley, Pat was another of my long list of silent contactees.

  “I’m sorry … I meant Shirley,” the woman corrected herself, a reassuring grin fixed on her dark, pointed face. “Could I have some salt? I must take a pill.”

  Shirley thought this was very peculiar. She had no idea that another contactee was involved in a game which required her to buy large quantities of salt, transport it to Mount Misery, and leave it in a field for the space people in the belief that salt was an essential part of their diet.

  She went and got a box of salt and handed it to the woman who took a large handful and swallowed it. Then she thanked Shirley and walked away into the bushes. There was a loud humming sound, louder than before, and Shirley saw the silver disc rise up and shoot off into the sky. An hour or so later Shirley had an attack of nausea.

  When I interviewed her I found her to be a sweet, if somewhat homely, young lady, not very bright, and certainly not imaginative enough to manufacture the things that were to happen later.

  A lonely woman living in a lonely place, separated from her husband, perfect fodder for the games the nonpeople loved to play.

  Her birthday was September 6.

  Following that first visit, Shirley repeatedly heard a baby crying when her own child was sleeping peacefully. The woman returned on September 30, asking for more salt. She identified herself as Cloe (the name of a character in one of my uncelebrated novels) and warned Shirley to lock all her doors and windows that night This time no UFO was visible.

  Later that evening, Jaye P. Paro phoned me to tell me that she had just had a narrow escape. While she was walking along a road near Mount Misery, a black Cadillac had roared out of the darkness and come within inches of running her down. All its lights were out and it disappeared quickly into the darkness. She was very upset.

  Shortly after Jaye hung up, Shirley called in a very nervous state. A large black car was parked outside her house, she said, and two men completely dressed in black, with broad-brimmed black hats and turtleneck sweaters, were setting up a camera. At first she thought they were priests.

  “They’re taking pictures of my house!” she exclaimed. “Now why would anyone want to do that? At night yet!”

  The camera they were using had a large bright red light attached to it.

  “Don’t look at that light,” I advised sternly.

  “Do you think I should call the police?”

  “I’m afraid taking a picture is no crime. They’d probably laugh at you.”

  “They’re getting back in the car. You know, its headlights are out. I don’t know how they can see. They’re driving off.”

  While I was talking to Shirley, Mary Hyre was trying to call me from West Virginia. She finally called Dan Drasin and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as my line was free. I called her back and she told me she had just had a frightening encounter with a black Cadillac. While she was walking down the deserted Main Street (the sidewalks roll up about 7 P.M.), a car driven “by a very large man” pulled away from the curb and slowly followed her. She walked to her own car and the Cadillac slowly went around a corner. She got into her car and went looking for the stranger.

  “I was heading out to Route 62 when I saw it again,” she said. “It headed straight for me. I pulled over as far as I could and it almost ran right into me. It was the same car … but now there were three men in it. I could see that one of them was wearing glasses … like those sunglasses that wrap around your head. I’ve never seen any of them in Point Pleasant before. What do you suppose they were trying to prove?”

  “I think they were trying to prove something to me, Mary,” I answered slowly. “I’m sure they didn’t mean you any harm.”

  As I replaced the receiver I thought to myself: they’re doing it, they’re turning this old boy into a raving paranoiac.

  The phone rang again. I picked it up wearily.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep.

  17:

  “Even the Bedouins Hate Their Telephone Company”*

  I.

  Every phone call from Ivan Sanderson in New Jersey was an adventure in electronic lunacy. Weird whistles, static, beeps, and loud clicks like an extension being slammed down, haunted his line. Often we were cut off suddenly in the middle of a conversation. Sanderson’s involvement in UFOs was strictly periphery. He was primarily a biologist and zoologist and earned a good part of his living writing animal encyclopedias. A tall, thin, handsome Britisher in his mid-fifties, Ivan was an electrifying personality. In his younger days he was familiar to television viewers as the animal expert on the old Garry Moore show, and even had his own program on NBC for a number of years.

  In 1967, Ivan was under a great strain. Alma, his wife of thirty years, was terminally ill. Like all authors, he had constant financial problems. That summer he was feeling ill. Once he took to his bed and sweated profusely for forty-eight hours. And he confided to me that he had suffered a two-day siege with the cosmic clap,* the symptoms disappearing as suddenly and mysteriously as they began.

  One day Jane called me with a message for “the man with skinny arms who wears dresses.” Very few people knew that Ivan lounged around his farm in a skirtlike garment popular in Indonesia. The message suggested that he should take a certain kind of vitamin supplement. I passed this on to him and a few days later he called to tell me that he felt “100 percent better” as soon as he started the vitamin regimen.

  That fall a woman connected with the air force and the Colorado University UFO project arranged to spend a weekend on Ivan’s farm to go through his UFO files, which extended all the way back to the 1940s. She drove up from Washington, D.C., and when she arrived at his out-of-the-way farm on a narrow back road she was excited and nervous. While driving up the New Jersey turnpike she became aware of a panel truck following her. When she turned off the turnpike onto the country roads that would take her to Ivan’s, the truck turned off and continued to follow her.

  She stopped at a gas station and the truck pulled in behind her. The driver got out and approached her. He appeared very normal, she said, but his coveralls were very neatly pressed and his shoes were highly shined.

  “I’ve been watching your tires,” he told her. “I think there’s a bad lump on one of your rear tires.”

  She looked but could see nothing wrong. The gas station attendant came out and the man got back into his truck and drove off. The lady continued her drive, following Ivan’s complicated instructions—his farm was not easy to find—until she came to a small restaurant and decided to stop for a snack. The moment she stepped out of her car the man in coveralls reappeared.

  “I’d really better have a look at that tire,” he announced. Before she could protest, he crawled under the rear of her car. After fussing underneath the vehicle for two or three minutes he crawled back out.

  “I guess it will be okay,” he told her. “Where are you going?”

  “Not far from here,” she answered. Unnerved, she decided to
forego the snack, jumped back into her car, and continued on to Ivan’s.

  As soon as Ivan heard the story he picked up his phone and called me. I snapped on my tape recorder and suggested that he should go out and look under the woman’s car while I talked to her about the incident. She outlined the story to me, then Ivan came back on the line very excited.

  “Listen, Keel,” he began breathlessly. “There’s some stuff on the bottom of her gas tank. Three big globs of it, placed in a very neat triangle, all equal distances apart.”

  When he described the “globs” to me a chill ran down my spine. He seemed to be describing a material I had handled in basic training when the army was hopelessly trying to turn me into a trained killer.

  “It sounds like plastic explosive to me, Ivan,” I declared. “Maybe you’d better call the police.”

  Ivan did just that. The police came out and carried away the substance. It proved to be an ordinary, harmless, puttylike material. The woman, who had a phenomenal memory, was able to recall the sign on the side of the truck which named an appliance company and a nearby town. But a police check failed to find any such company in that town.

  The strangest part of this episode was my tape recording of our conversation that afternoon. We had an excellent connection with none of the usual interference. Ivan’s voice on the tape came through loud and clear. But each time the woman spoke to me on the same phone and same line there was heavy static on the tape drowning out her voice completely! Yet we did not hear any static at all while we were talking.

  Later Ivan theorized that the putty had been used to hold wires forming the antenna to a small electronic homing device. The man in the panel truck had gone to elaborate lengths to remove the device, Ivan speculated.

  After this incident I began to have more problems with recording phone conversations. Whenever a contactee or mystery voice would call, the tape would just contain static. I switched to another, better recorder but the problem persisted. Even portions of conversations with Mary Hyre were drowned in static when she was discussing some of the more mysterious events in Point Pleasant. Somebody was not only able to manipulate my phone but also my tape recorder!*

  II.

  After many freakish phone conversations and exchanges of letters to nonexistent addresses, I had a definite date for the big December “EM effect.” It was scheduled for December 15. By this time Mr. Apol had assumed a definite personality. He was as real to me as Cold was to Derenberger, although I would never meet him. I studied his psychology, his quick temper, his mischievous sense of humor. I argued with him on the phone, sometimes for two or three hours at a stretch. And I felt sorry for him. It became apparent that he really did not know who or what he was. He was a prisoner of our time frame. He often confused the past with the future. I gathered that he and all his fellow entities found themselves transported backward and forward in time involuntarily, playing out their little games because they were programed to do so, living—or existing—only so long as they could feed off the energy and minds of mediums and contactees. I could ask him any kind of obscure question and receive an instant and accurate answer, perhaps because my own mind was being tapped just like my telephone. Where was my mother’s father born? Cameron Mills, New York, of course. Where had I misplaced my stopwatch? Look in the shoebox in the upper right-hand corner of the bedroom closet (it was there).

  On the weekend of October 7–8, 1967, my phone stopped ringing. My contactees and their friends did not call. The sudden silence was unnerving. But on Monday the ninth, they all began to check in, and they all told me identical stories. They recalled nothing except brief glimpses of some kind of hospital. Shirley said she went to sleep Thursday night and did not wake up again until Monday morning. Her baby was in his crib, happy and well cared for. Nothing in her house was disturbed. She mentioned that her feet were sore and her legs ached as if she had done a lot of walking. All she could remember was visiting a large structure made of red glass. Jane, too, remembered a red-glass building filled with strange beings in white coats, like doctors, who were examining lines of earth people, all of whom moved like robots apparently in a drugged state.

  Beneath all the hallucinatory nonsense I could now perceive the roots of many of the ufological legends. A surprising number of contactees were orphans and through them the whole “hybrid” concept was launched. They were told that their parentage was a cross between terrestrial and extraterrestrial, that slowly more and more earthly women were being impregnated by spacemen and eventually the whole planet would be populated with a hybrid race. Some of the games I was involved in were obviously designed to convince me of the reality of this crossbreeding experiment. But I knew it was just an updated version of the biblical begatting theme when the “sons of God went into the daughters of men.”

  I noted that as soon as my attitude toward a game changed, the entities switched to a new game. My pregnant contactees suddenly became unpregnant.

  I was more concerned with squeezing accurate predictions for the future out of my mysterious friends. The dollar, I was told, would soon be devalued. (It wasn’t devalued until years later.) Red China would be admitted to the United Nations (correct, but it seemed very unlikely in 1967). Robert Kennedy should “stay out of hotels”(?). Man should not attempt to go to the moon (they were apoplectic over our space program). I would soon be moving to a new apartment on the ground floor of a building north of the United Nations. (This also seemed very unlikely in 1967, but a year later I did find a ground-floor apartment in upper Manhattan and moved.)

  In addition to the continuing warnings about the December power blackout, the entities now began to tell me about a terrible forthcoming disaster on the Ohio River. Many people would die, they said. They implied that one of the factories along the Ohio would blow up. On November 3, 1967, I wrote to Mary Hyre and told her: “I have reason to suspect there may soon be a disaster in the Point Pleasant area which will not be related to the UFO mystery. A plant along the river may either blow up or burn down. Possibly the navy installation in Pt. Pleasant will be the center of such a disaster. A lot of people may be hurt.… Don’t even hint to anybody anything about this.”

  (The naval installation was a fenced-in area in Point Pleasant, facing the river and tightly guarded. The men who worked there were sworn to secrecy, but during my first visit it only took me a few days to find out what was going on there. I am not going to reveal any national secrets here, but my private conclusion was that some admiral in the Pentagon should get his ass kicked for wasting the taxpayers’ money … and for putting this type of installation in a populated area.)

  Meanwhile the Public Broadcasting Laboratories was having second thoughts about Dan Drasin’s UFO special. After nearly a year of work, and several trips to UFO flap areas, the program was suddenly canceled. History repeated itself in 1973 when Fred Freed, an award-winning producer, began work on a white paper documentary for NBC News. Ralph Blum and a team of technicians were in Mississippi interviewing Hickson and Parker when they suddenly received word that the program was being canceled because NBC needed the money and personnel to cover the Arab-Israeli War.

  I had other problems. I was going through one of my broke periods and owed the staggering sum of four hundred dollars in back taxes. The IRS sent a representative around to see me every single week. Once, two different IRS men turned up in the same week. (They were not MIB … but were definitely from the IRS.) One seedy little character was so obnoxious and insulting that I actually grabbed him by the collar and physically threw him out of the apartment. Another let slip a remark about a movie deal I was working on (it eventually fell through) which no one, not even my friends, knew about. The only way he could have known about it was through listening to my telephone conversations.

  Was the IRS tapping my phone for a lousy four hundred dollars? Was I on somebody’s “Enemies” list?

  I was complaining to the telephone company about my many crank calls and telephone interference, so I as
ked them to run a check and see if my phone was being tapped. A few days later my friendly telephone representative called me back.

  “You were right, Mr. Keel,” she said. “Somebody is definitely tapped into your phone.”

  I switched on my tape recorder and asked her to repeat the statement, which she did. Then I asked her to put it in writing, but she hedged there.

  “Do you have any idea who’s tapping it?” I asked.

  “We can’t tell that. All we know is there’s a drop in the voltage that indicates that someone is hooked up to it.”

  She promised to turn the matter over to a “Special Agent” for investigation. Nothing ever came of that, either.

  When I woke up on July 3, 1967, my line was dead. I went down to the basement of my apartment building to call the phone company on a pay phone. As I walked along the basement corridor I saw the door to the telephone room, which was normally locked, was wide open and a man in coveralls was there surrounded by the jumble of wires from the hundreds of phones in the building. I told him my phone was dead and he only shrugged.

  “You’ll have to call the main office,” was his not very helpful advice.

  My service did not resume for another twenty-four hours.

  Although all my contactee calls were incoming, my phone bills started to skyrocket that summer. I was out of the city and away from my phone for two or three weeks at a time, but when I returned I would find a phone bill for $150–$200 waiting.

  And that was just the beginning.

  III.

  A reporter on the Daily American in West Frankfort, Illinois, picked up his phone on February 17, 1967, and heard a weird echo chamber voice which instructed him to be at a certain pond at 3:15 A.M. the following Sunday. The reporter motioned to his co-workers and they picked up extensions to listen in. The voice immediately said, “Tell them to put down their phones.” Electronic sounds beeped and whistled behind the hollow speaker. “Bring no one with you.”