Communion

FIVE

I rage to know

what beings like me, stymied by death

and leached by wonder, hug those campfires

night allows,

aching to know the fate of us all,

wallflowers in a waltz of stars.

-DIANE ACKERMAN,

"Lady Faustus"

ALLIANCE OF THE LOST

Recollections of My Family

Trapped in the Dark

From the beginning, I had been disturbed that my wife and son might have been involved in this. At the least, they had suffered with me through my upheavals. At the worst, they were as entangled as I am. Our son has been preserved from almost all conversation about it and from direct experience of my personal trauma. Even before I knew exactly what was happening to me, my first concern was to leave his happy childhood intact.

When I realized that my memories fitted in with material described in Science and the UFOs, I did not cell Anne. I didn't tell anybody. As I have said, my initial impulse was to hide everything, and when I could not do that I sought professional help through Budd Hopkins. I told Anne nothing and our son less than nothing.

Thus when Anne was first hypnotized to aid her in recalling the nights of October 4 and December 26, she was aware only that something very unusual seemed to have happened on those dates. I did not keep it all from her out of some desire to preserve her the purity of hypnotic recall. I kept it from her because there was a possibility, however remote, that visitors had been around us in the night.

Thus the "visitor hypothesis" had been discussed by us only in general terms. Only after her first hypnosis, which took place on March 13, 1986, did I indicate that I felt there might have been some nonhuman presence involved in our lives. On the evening of March 15, she was treated to the spectacular 179 witness of the little girl at our country house. It is a testament to Anne's courage chat she remained there that night.

It is also true, though, that Anne has a very active mind, and she was far too curious to simply retreat. Once she understood that something might be happening, our familiar teamwork system began to function, and she took over the intellectual direction of our study, bringing to it her own creative and open mind, as well as her steadfast insistence that all speculation proceed from known facts.

Before hypnosis Anne had a vague memory of me warning her of fire on the night of October 4, of hearing an explosion and our son calling out to me. Neither of us can understand why she did not respond to the warning, in view of the explosion. She had no memories at all of the night of December 26.

There were also some prior memories. The previous March I had told her that I "flew around the room" one night. I remembered this as a vivid dream. But flying dreams aren't unusual, not even faintly pathological. They are generally associated by psychiatrists with hidden desires to escape stress. In 1982 we had the experience of the white thing, which was dealt with to detail in Anne's hypnosis.

On March 13, 1986, Anne was hypnotized by Dr. Robert Naiman. We chose a psychiatrist other than Don Klein so that there could be no possibility of his questions taking on some sort of unnoticed direction because of what he already knew.

I felt that there was a real chance here to find some answers, and I wanted to do everything possible to encourage that outcome. Anne and I are a very deep, total marriage. If something was really happening to me, then she had to know. She would have some involvement. If she had reported nothing, then to me it would have indicated that mine was an essentially psychological experience — perhaps shared in some unusual ways, but essentially psychological. Thus the visitor hypothesis would no longer have been among the more likely ones. I think that I would then have concluded that a hitherto undiscovered mental process with a definite physical effect was probably operating.

Bob Naiman had worked before with people who have had this experience, and took the same healthy and supportive stance that Don Klein did.

Budd Hopkins was present at Anne's session. Questions asked by him are identified with his name. All other questions were asked by Dr. Naiman.

Despite all the progress I had made in dealing with this experience, I must admit that Anne's hypnosis disturbed me all over again. It was clear that she was not specifically expecting or seeking anything. And yet something was there, and in a way that subtly implied that it has had a profound effect not only on her memories but even on her role in our life together.

Her hypnosis does not reveal a person trying to concoct a story, but rather one trying hard to avoid remembering something she has been cold in the strongest terms to forget. She was compliant all right, but not with the hypnotist. She complied, it appears, with something else that issued previous. stronger suggestions. And they overpowered the hypnotist's efforts for a very obvious reason. My wife appears to have been made to believe that my mental health depends on her not remembering, on her providing me with a safe haven in ordinary reality when I need one.

I suspect that she is right to believe this. Even under hypnosis she protected this role, which is probably essential not only to my mental health but to that of the whole family.

The regression began with her memories of the night of July 30, 1985. She did not know it at the time, but there was some evidence in one of our son's school journals that an event.

involving her might have taken place on that night, when she and he were in the country and I was away on business. Rather than suggest to her in any way that we thought this might be the case, Dr. Naiman began with that night without telling her why.

Hypnosis

JULY 30, OCTOBER 4, AND DECEMBER 26, 1985

SESSION DATES: March 13, March 21, 1986

SUBJECT: Anne Strieber

PSYCHIATRIST: Robert Naiman, MD

Dr. Naiman: "First we want to concentrate on July thirtieth, 1985. You were with your son?"

"Yeah."

"You were in the country then?"

"Yeah."

"Who was there?"

"A lot of workmen came that day, so I wouldn't be too lonely because I didn't have the car. Whitley took the car to go to the city. The workmen were going to be there, so I wouldn't be too lonely. I believe I bicycled to the store. I went to the store. I remember thinking how am I going to go to the store. I wouldn't want to drive anyway but I've got my bicycle and I can leave my son because the workmen are there. And I did. We wanted something to make some treat or something. We wanted some snacks or something."

"He wanted some snacks?"

"And I did too. I remember it was going to be lonely putting him to bed that night and it was. I don't remember anything strange."

"Was it unusual for you to be there alone with him?"

"Yes, because we always all drive up together and I can't drive very well, and I wouldn't want to drive so I'm never alone there with just our son overnight."

"I want you to concentrate on coming back from the grocery store with the treats."

"Yeah."

"When was that?"

"It was afternoon. Late afternoon. About four or three, I think, because the workmen were there but they were leaving."

"What are they working on?"

"Building the pool on the deck."

"And they left around four, and n was just you and your son?"

"Yeah."

"And then what?"

"I don't remember what we had for dinner. but it would have been something fairly simple. I might have baked something, but I don't remember. I think I went to get some chocolate chips, and we made cookies. It must have been earlier in the day because I might have given some cookies to the workmen. I think we did. Maybe that was another time, but it could have been that time. I remember we did that once. And that's the kind of thing I would have gone to get. I wouldn't have had any chocolate chips, and I think that's what I went to get. I wanted to get a paper and I wanted-yes, I remember that. And I said, 'Why should I wait when I have a bicycle?"'

"So you and your son had dinner together. the two of you?"

"Yeah."

"What time would that be?'

"Six or so. [Sounds perplexed.] I don't remember dinner. Were we invited somewhere? I don't think so"

"And what time would you be putting him to bed?"

"Around eight. Seven-thirty."

"Something you were not looking forward to?"

"Well, it's hard being all alone all day with a .kid and I'm tired at night. and I'm not usually the one who puts him to bed. And I'm not as good at reading stories as Whitley is, and I don't look forward when Whitley's gone to putting him to bed."

"But it went all right?"

"Yeah . . . I don't remember. No . . . I couldn't have watched TV because we had no TV reception. But we had the VCR. I don't think I had a movie to watch. I don't remember. I remember Whitley came back and it was earlier than I thought."

"When was that?"

"The next day."

"Do you remember anything that night, when you were sleeping alone?"

"No — I — well, no."

"Did your son call you during the night?"

"I don't think so."

"You slept your usual sound sleep?"

"I think so. But it's lonely going to sleep in the country alone at night. I might have heard some noises. It seems like maybe I did, but they weren't any thing because I had the doors locked."

"And you have a burglar-alarm system?"

"Yeah."

"Do you often hear steps . . . sounds?"

"Not steps . . . I doubt if it was steps. You don't always hear sounds. It was pretty quiet. Not noisy."

"All right, so let me give you one more minute to concentrate. I want you to concentrate as hard as you can because you have this very special brand of concentration ability right now, this capacity to concentrate. I want you to just concentrate on that night from sundown on."

"Funny. I remember the afternoon but I don't remember the night. I don't remember after the workmen left. [Long pause.]"

"All right, we won't put any more tame in on that right now. But it's very possible that after I take you out of the trance, between now and the end of the weekend something will come to you about the thirtieth. And if it does, try very hard to remember. If something passes through your mind."

"Yes." (Nothing ever did. She was left with a memory that just stops right before dinner and doesn't start again until I returned the next morning. What happened in between was completely blank, as if powerfully blocked. Her earlier memories of that Say are perfectly normal.)

"Because of this procedure we are going through now, we may be loosening up some memories that will not emerge until you're out of the trance. So be alert."

"Yes."

"Now let's go to the night of October the fourth. As I understand it. you and Whitley were there and your son was there and you had guests, Jacques and his woman friend."

"Annie."

"Everybody's going to bed. You've had a good tame, a good meal, and a lot of good wine and conversation. Is that true?"

"Well, we went to a restaurant."

"Next day we had fun because Jacques went swimming, and the water was very cold."

"Let's go back to that night of October fourth. You've said good night to your guests and your son is already asleep, of course —"

"We got home late. We didn't get finished at the restaurant until about nine. They had been there before but they slept on the couch. This was the first time they saw the guest room. It didn't have a bed in it before. So dark you couldn't see anything very well though. Everybody just came home and got our beds ready and put on our pajamas. Because we were all tired. I don't think we talked much that night."

"Yes?"

"We left later than usual or — I don't remember. I think that's why we ate out. There was no time to buy groceries. So we must have left later than usual, for some reason."

"This was a Friday evening?"

"Yeah."

"So you said good night to everyone. And you and Whitley went upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Just give me to the best of your recollection what happened that night, concentrating as hard as you can."

"[Long pause.] It wasn't a peaceful eight, but don't remember why. [Pause. Seems distressed.]"

"What are you thinking of right now?"

"Well, I don't know."

"Because you just screwed up your face and clenched your eyes."

"It seems like there was a lot going on, but I don't remember. I — I — remember when Whitley thought the roof was on fire. I don't remember that. But I remember it was like a culmination of a lot of other — it was like — it was surprising, because it was like a culmination of a lot of other activity. I don't — I don't — seems like it was late and not dark but I don't remember that, and it's not clear. But it doesn't seem like it was dark enough.

"Usually it's so dark. It's all dark. And so restful and quiet, but I don't get that feeling about it. I get the feeling that Whitley was up all night, and it was this thing and that thing and finally it was the roof. It was something else other than the roof on fire. There was something about the stove for another reason."

"What's going through your mind now?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Concentrate hard."

"I just see a light. I mean, it's not dark. You know, it's not dark."

"Yet when you came back from the restaurant you were struck by how dark it was."

"Did I say that?"

"Yes."

"I remember the house was dark, because we couldn't see. I remember thinking they can't see the guest room very well and they'd never seen it before. Of course they could have turned on the light. It was very dark outside. I don't believe we turned on many lights. We Just went to bed. We were all very tired and we all just wanted to go to bed. The thought flitted through my mind, you know, as the hostess, should we drink something or sit and talk, but we all just wanted to go to bed."

"What time was it?"

"I think it was about nine."

"When you came back from the restaurant?"

"You were very tired. You get tired earlier out there. It's funny. Restful. Affects everybody. Never stay up late."

"I don't know what the calendar says, but I get the sense that there was a new moon that night. Very little moonlight." (Dr. Naiman had not been told that there was a heavy fog all night and it was inky black due to the lack of reflected light in this sparsely populated area. The moon was waning and past the half. It rose about 10:30 and set in the pre dawn hours.)

"No."

"No what?"

"I — it — I don't know. It seems like there was a light."

"Tell me about it."

"No. I don't think there was. I think I just think there was. I mean — it's just that I have my eyes closed and it's not dark. It's light."

"You're back on that night, October fourth?"

"Well, I'm trying to be. I'm there and we go to bed. I remember when we're in the restaurant more clearly. Then we walk to the parking lot and the car s cold. Very cold. It's dark, but the restaurant's illuminated outside. It does seem to be a dark night yes it does. But the restaurant has lights aiming at it, so maybe the contrast . . . but it seems like a very black and inky night. But a clear night? Stars? I don't think it was gray and cloudy because when it's cloudy it seems light. But when it's clear you can see the dark night and you can see the stars. But. I don't —"

"Let's go back to your being in bed. It was some time after nine o'clock that night."

"It was odd being in bed with people in the house because you feel like you can't talk loudly. Out house is not very soundproof."

"What?"

"Our house isn't very soundproof."

"So you had to be quiet —"

"You feel like if you bounce around in bed they can hear you and they can hear you talk so you kind of whisper and feel self-conscious. .and it was odd to think of so than v people in the house because usually there's just my son down there and it's very empty . . . in the kitchen . . . you feel like it's empty and it was so full. The house was full, you know."

"Did that give you a feeling of security?"

"No. It was just different."

"But you do remember lying in bed with Whit and whispering?"

"Vaguely. Not very clearly. I don't remember much about that."

"Were you comfortable in bed?"

"Well, we were kind of — yeah, we're always comfortable in bed "

"On a night in October, it must be pretty chill up there "

"October? No. November. It's December."

"No. October fourth we're talking about."

"October?"

"It was October that Jacques and Annie —"

"So it was. I think it was December. Because remember snow. But it didn't snow in October "

"It didn't?"

"It's not likely. I remember snow." (Either she has confused the October and December experiences, or she has a vague memory of the chilly fog.) "I remember it was very cold."

"Do you remember the kind of clothes you were wearing when you went to the restaurant?"

"No. But they'd be casual clothes. Maybe they'd be my daytime clothes. A skirt . . . I might not have changed clothes."

"I'm interested in exploring how cold you were. Were you wearing enough clothes?"

"I might not have been, because I often leave my country clothes up there. It's always cold in that house, because you have to get the fire up. I would have been cold, but I turned on the electric mattress pad and got warm."

"How did your body feel that night?"

"Well, I think it was cold and got warm. Our room was very warm when Whitley woke me up."

"In the middle of the night or the morning?"

"Oh, it was during the middle of the night. Yeah."

"Tell me about that."

"Whitley'd been talking about the chimney lately. Feeling it. And he thought the roof was on fire. But I didn't see how the roof could be on fire because there were no flames and there was no light." (I woke her up the first time when I was awakened by the light that passed by the windows. By the time she was aroused, it had reduced to a small glow in the front yard.)

"If the roof's on fire you'd see the roof all lit up. He saw a light that I didn't see."

"Did he tell you about the light when he woke up?"

"Well, he said . . . I don't remember how he did but I had the impression that he saw flames or light. Not flames. It didn't make sense to me."

"Is it possible you didn't open your eyes?"

"Yeah."

"'That's possible?"

"Yeah."

"Yet you do make some references to a light that night."

"That feeling is gone now. But I don't remember it as a restful night."

"You know. Budd is here of course. And you don't mind if he asks some questions?"

"No."

Budd Hopkins: "Did you have any dreams that night?"

"Don't remember."

Budd Hopkins: "You said it had been a restless night. Because of dreams?"

"Let me think. I don't think Whitley was there very much. He was gone. You know, he goes sometimes at night. He goes and works. Or he just goes."

"Where did he go that night?"

"Downstairs."

"You have an impression of Whit being away from the bed?"

"Yes. It's lonely, you know. I wish he wouldn't do that."

"Was it after he said the roof's on fire?"

"I think it was before too He went out, then he came back again. He just was doing things all night."

"It certainly was not a night of sound, deep sleep for you, was it?"

"Well, it doesn't seem to be but I don't remember anything. But it has to be really."

"Did you hear your son?"

" Yes! "

"You heard that?"

"Oh, yes, he sounded so frightened. Really scared."

"Is that very common?"

"He gets nightmares sometimes. But he sounded especially frightened. I remember he sounded really terrified. So frightened. More frightened than usual."

"He screamed, eh?"

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes! It's painful to hear." (Nobody else remembered him screaming, only calling for me.)

"Is that something that in a normal night's ht's sleep you might sleep through without hearing?"

"Oh, no, no! Whitley usually hears him first, but I always hear him."

"You didn't sleep that soundly?"

"Oh, no. I heard it."

"I know you heard it. But I want to know if you heard it —"

"Oh, no. I heard it. Some nights I might not, but usually I hear it. This you couldn't miss. I mean. it was so loud."

"Did he say words?"

"Well, he did but I don't remember what they were. He was really scared. Something really scared him. I thought maybe something was happening to him. because it was like something was happening to him. I thought somebody was doing something to in. It was :r different kind of scream."

"Why didn't you go to him?"

"Because Whitley was already on his way . But I remember feeling very uneasy. I wanted to go too. but I felt I shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I thought there was something Whitley would — It had to do with him. He was supposed to go."

"He was supposed to go?"

"He was supposed to go. I wasn't supposed to, but I wanted to go."

"It must have been difficult staying in bed."

"It was, because I wondered what had happened."

"When did you find out what had happened?"

"I don't remember. I don't remember."

"What did happen?"

"I do remember he was gone for a long time. He didn't come back. Sometimes he goes and sleeps down there when our son has a nightmare. Or sleeps in our son's room in the apartment. I remember feeling very lonely that he didn't come back, and I didn't think it was fair to be left like that. It was very lonely and scary. It made me uneasy. He kept going, you know. He kept going." (I never sleep with our son.) Budd Hopkins: "When your son kept crying?"

"Whitley kept going. Kept leaving."

Budd Hopkins: "I want you to do something. You're lying very, very quiet. Relaxed, just as you were that night. I want you to concentrate on what you can see and feel and hear. If you can see something through your eyelids. Feel your body, your shoulder, your legs. Feel relaxed."

"I don't feel relaxed. I'm not relaxed. I can't feel relaxed if I wasn't relaxed. I mean, it wasn't relaxing. No, it wasn't relaxing at all. There was too much going on, you know. It was—'

Budd Hopkins: "Was there in the room, or did Jacques and Annie —"

"No, they weren't in on it. There was something going on. I wanted to know what was going on. It looked-things were going on and I wanted to know what was going on! There was lots of things going on and I couldn't figure out what was going on!"

"Why didn't you get up and go see?"

"I couldn't, because I wouldn't. I — Was I afraid to, or wasn't supposed to? I wasn't supposed to. It was like your mother said to you, 'You have to stay here.' even if you don't — you're dying to get out and see what's going on, but you know because you've been told."

(Her identification of the directing force feminine is fascinating.)

"You were trained to do that?"

"Well, we're all trained to do that from childhood."

Budd Hopkins: "Who told you that?"

"Nobody told me! I just had to do it."

"Is this something Whitley told you?"

"No. He's just left. No."

"Have an impulse to turn on a light?"

"Oh, no. No. I wasn't supposed to see."

"Who said so?"

"No one said so. I just knew it."

"You weren't supposed posed to see?"

"No, and I just knew it. That's what worried me, because I wasn't supposed to know but my son was so afraid. And Whitley was saving things like ''the rood' is on fire,' and I wasn't supposed to do anything. It's like somebody says, 'Well, the car is crashing but don't do anything'!"

"Strange orders."

"Well, they weren't orders. You see, they weren't. They weren't orders, no."

Budd Hopkins: "Anne, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to — with your eyes closed and very relaxed —"

"I'm not relaxed."

"As relaxed as you can be. I want you to have a little dream. A fantasy. About what all that activity was. What's happening?"

"All right."

"Somehow Whitley's involved. Your boy is involved."

"I'm not involved!"

"Well, you'll dream about it. Tell us about what you remember."

"Whitley's supposed to go. They came for Whitley."

"I'm sorry?"

"They came for Whitley and he's supposed to go. But I'm not supposed to go."

"Who came?"

"Nobody that I know of. He just has a feeling that he's supposed to. And it's like when someone's going off to war or something, they're supposed to go and you're supposed to stay home."

"Now, there has been a shift, though. Because in the early part of the evening when you thought Whitley was out of bed — you say he often goes downstairs and writes."

"Not in the country. Because he writes upstairs in the country. He doesn't write in the country very often. You have to turn on the overhead light to write in the country. No. I just mean at home to the apartment, he gets up. I find out that he's done a lot of things at night. Or I kind of sense it."

"In the city"

"Yeah."

"So his being out of bed that night —"

"No, it wasn't usual for the country, actually. He stays in bed in the country. He really does. And that's why I think he gets more rest there. Because he goes to bed and stays and there's no place to go, there's nothing to write, nothing to tempt him, and I'm the one who gets up early and reads m the country. He even sleeps late."

Budd Hopkins: "Why do you think Jacques and Annie don't get up? They heard screaming from your son. Weren't they concerned?"

"I think they did get up, didn't they?" (No. Neither of them testified that they got up, and both of them were awake enough to remember their own movements and that of the other.)

"Did you hear them?"

"I think I remember hearing . . . Annie speaking to him. I think Annie went to him first. And I remember feeling . . , feeling jealous that I couldn't go. I'm his mother. It wasn't right. It made me look bad. It made me look like I didn't care." (Annie Gottlieb did not leave her room, and did not speak to our son.)

Budd Hopkins: "When you hear him calling, do you feel your legs tensing?"

"Yes! Usually Whitley goes but this one sounded bad and I wanted to go. It sounded different and I wanted to go too. Wha — I thought there was something in there?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's like there was a friend or something. It's just a memory." (Afterward, she said that this referred to our bedroom, that she thought she had seen "a friend." She would not elaborate. When questioned again about it two weeks later she had nothing to add at all.)

"What was restraining you?"

"I didn't feel restrained. I just felt like I wasn't supposed to go."

Budd Hopkins: "Have you obeyed other things like that in your life?"

"I wonder if I have."

"Is it a familiar feeling?"

"No . . . no . . . But I used to always do it, you know."

"Do what?"

"If there was choice, I'd do it. Because if you do it at least you've done it, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"I just mean that I don't think I was a person who didn't do thins. That's not true."

"So this is a variant."

"It's not though, because Whitley's the one that gets up at night."

"OK, so can we shift now to morning?"

"I don't remember it specifically. I don't. I'm trying to remember. I don't remember what we had for breakfast. I remember going swimming. Wanting to see if Jacques could do it. It was cold. I couldn't do it. Or did I? I don't think I even tried. I put on my bathing suit but I couldn't even get my feet in. I felt bad because Whitley got in. But nobody but Jacques got in. Not even Whitley got in. If he did it was only for a short period. Annie did, I thought just to stay even with Jacques because she's smaller than I am. We all wanted to see if Jacques could; it's kind of a joke."

"You don't remember what you had for breakfast. Do you remember the atmosphere around the table?"

"It was pleasant, I think. Pleasant."

"How was your son?"

"I don't remember. He was fine."

"All right. Is there anything else you want to say about that October fourth night. October fifth morning."

"Well, I found it funny when I woke up that the roof wasn't burned."

"You found it funny that the roof wasn't burned?"

"Yeah. 'Cause I thought it was gonna be."

Budd Hopkins: "What about the bang?"

"Maybe that's why it seemed so active that night."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it was noisy."

"What kind of noises?"

"[Long pause.] Don't remember."

"Can you describe them in any ways

"Just our son. Seems like there were a lot of noises, you know. Doesn't seem like it was a quiet night. I bet the impression — it wasn't a quiet night. I get the impression that someone was there but it wasn't Jacques and Annie, because they were in their room and they stayed in their room. But — and then I remember Annie comforting our boy . . . it was a woman. . . . I thought it was Annie. It was Annie."

"You recognized her voice?"

"Yeah. I think I did. I think I did. Oh, I just get the impression ... it's general and vague ... my memory is just no good. But I get the vague impression that they were in there like a cocoon. Locked in that room."

"Jacques and Annie?"

"Yeah."

"How did that happen?"

"Well, it's just because they were. It's like they couldn't get out, you know."

"You think they were paralyzed or something?"

"Well, I just knew they were in there. And they just weren't going to come out. And it was kind of odd because one of the things about sleeping upstairs is that you think the people who are downstairs might get up and walk around and you might hear them and they would hear you, but I 'knew that wasn't going to be the case. The feeling is very vague. I just remember feeling that. That they weren't going to come out. They shut the door and they weren't going to come out. I remember the morning, I came down and the door was still shut and I thought, Oh, they're still in there and I wonder if they can't come out, or if they will come out. I knew they still had to be in there, but it was almost as if they weren't."

Budd Hopkins: "Do you feel, at this point, that she was talking —"

"She was trying to comfort him."

Budd Hopkins: "So she did come out."

"Yeah, if it was Annie. It must have been Annie."

Budd Hopkins: "Did you hear words?"

"I think I did, but vaguely, like 'What's the matter?' I'm not that sure, though. I just remember it vaguely. But I remember thinking that everybody else got there first."

"I want to jump ahead to December twenty-sixth of 1985. What do you remember of that day, as you concentrate very hard."

"Day after .. . I don't remember anything."

"Think hard. Who was there?"

"Just us."

"The three of you."

"Oh, yeah."

"That was the day of the owl?"

"Well, that's what I'm told. I remember the owl. I remember Whitley talking about a crystal, too."

"About a what?"

"A crystal in the sky. But that was before the owl."

"What does that mean, a crystal in the sky?"

"A bright crystal in the sky."

"Did you see it?"

"Oh, no."

"Why do you say 'Oh, no' as if —?"

"Whitley saw a lot of things that I didn't see at that time."

"Did you look for it?"

"Oh, no. Because I knew it wasn't real."

"How did you know it wasn't real? Whitley's a fairly down-to-earth guy —"

"No, he isn't."

"He's not?"

"No. Because there couldn't be a crystal in the sky. He said it had a point that touched the earth."

"It didn't surprise you hearing Whitley, that he sees things like that?"

"No."

"It's an old story?"

"No, not like that. No."

"Why didn't it surprise you?"

"Well — I guess I dust thought he'd explain it later. Whitley, you know, said he'd flown around the room. What do you say to something like that?"

"When was that?"

"Oh, he was saying that last year."

"You'll think Whitley should go to a psychiatrist?"

"No.

"No?"

"No. Because he — I think he can deal with these problems."

Budd Hopkins: "Back to that night. It was so restless —"

"It was like a party. [Nervous laughter.] There are lots of things going on here now. It was like a party and not being invited."

Budd Hopkins: "A fun party?"

"Oh, no."

"What kind of party was it?"

"Well, you know, Jacques and Annie weren't invited either. It was all going on downstairs. And I had to wait for them to come back." (Because this question about the night of October fourth was asked during hypnotic regression to December twenty-sixth, she is now confused about events on the two dates, and it is not possible to tell whether she means that things were going on downstairs on the fourth or the twenty-sixth.) "It was like your mother says, 'No, you can't go. You have to wait for us to come upstairs."'

Budd Hopkins: "What I wanted to ask is, do you think that feeling may have ever happened to you before?"

"What feeling?"

"That feeling that there's something going on that you're not allowed to see, some kind of activity like that at night."

"Well, I've often felt that there are things going on with Whitley that I wasn't supposed to know. I'm supposed to kind of help him afterwards to deal with it. That's my role. But I can't stop them, you know. He just has to."

"Do you think these are things that come out of Whitley's head?"

"No, I don't think he has hallucinations, no. But I think they come to him because of his head. He has a very unique head."

Budd Hopkins: "Anne, I'd like to ask you — there was a night on LaGuardia Place."

"On LaGuardia Place, yes."

Budd Hopkins: "That something thumped you."

"Oh, the white thing."

Budd Hopkins: "You have a sense of what that was?"

"Oh, yes!"

Budd Hopkins: "Tell us what that was."

"Like a sharp jab in the stomach, right here. [ Points to area dust below ribs, in center of abdomen.] And it was like four fingers, not just one finger. It was — oof! It was like a joke. But then who would do that? And once and disappear, you know. Woke me right up."

"Did you open your eyes?"

"I don't think so. But I sat up. It woke me up. My son woke up and had a nightmare at the same time and said something poked him in the stomach. And then Whitley — I don't remember when it was, it was the next morning or whatever — and he said something poked him in the stomach. He said he saw a little white thing and our son said he saw a little white thing and the baby-sitter said she saw a little white thing."

Budd Hopkins: "'Try to make a guess about what that little white thing would look like."

"A little ghost. A little white ghost with little feet and kind of running around and getting out of your way quickly. When it pokes you, you know. The baby-sitter said she thought it was some boys with sheets over their heads, but it didn't look like that." (On reading this description of "little feet" in our apartment m 1982. I was reminded of Annie Gottlieb's memory of "scampering" in our country house in 1985. At the time of her hypnosis my wife was unaware of Annie's testimony.)

Budd Hopkins: "Didn't look like what?"

"No, it had a kind of square head and it's white .... I can't see it, Budd. That's just how I imagine it would look."

Budd Hopkins: "Did it have folds?"

"No. Just kind of glowing. Just so you could see it. Otherwise how could you see it in the dark?"

Budd Hopkins: "Did it have any color?"

"No, white."

Budd Hopkins: "Does it speak to you in some way or another?"

"No."

Budd Hopkins: "What do you think it's doing?"

"I don't know. It seems to be kind of a joke, you know."

Budd Hopkins: "It had arms and legs?"

"Yeah."

Budd Hopkins: "Fingers?"

"Yeah. Don't think it had toes, though. Kind of pointed feet. But it was like it wasn't wearing anything but it was, because you didn't see any seams or clothing or anything, but a wasn't naked, you know. Little pointed feet."

Budd Hopkins: "How tall was it?"

"Oh, about as tall as a four-year-old. It had little pointed feet."

Budd Hopkins: "Do you think he was in there, to your knowledge, more than once?"

"What do you mean?"

Budd Hopkins: "Did you see it more than once?"

"No, I was just poked once. Trying to remember if I ever saw him before. Back in my childhood. You know something. Now wait a minute. [Pause.] I think I did. But g don't remember where. You know. I had a very lonely childhood. I was always alone, but I wasn't, I don't think, really. But I didn't have imaginary friends. I didn't believe in that. I wonder if he's in that room. The room glows. I wasn't afraid of the little white thing."

Budd Hopkins: "When you were on LaGuardia Place?"

"I thought it was interesting that he would actually show himself to the baby-sitter. [Laughs.] I thought that was very mischievous of him."

Budd Hopkins: "Anything threatening about him?"

"No." (She apparently does not remember screaming when she was awakened by the prodding. But I remember it as the only nightmare she has ever had.) Budd Hopkins: "Frightening?"

"No."

Budd Hopkins: "A cute, lovable, little —"

"Well, not really, no. Because, you know, he's invading your privacy — he should stay away. Mind his own business. Just felt, now that I think of it — I didn't feel it at the time-but now that I think of it, it seems familiar. And I feel like I knew him when I was a kid, you know, because — but I don't remember anything at all. But I don't think that's true. I don't think it's true. It's just now that I think of him I feel a familiarity coming over me except I really don't. think it was true. No."

She was then brought out of the trance, after making a continent under hypnosis that she thought her memories had been "taken out," an assertion chat the hypnotist assured her would not be true in the future.

Subsequent to this hypnosis Anne felt disturbed that her memory seemed to blank at crucial moments. After hypnosis she did not recall her comment about seeing the light behind her eyelids. When questioned about this, she said she was very unsure about it. Maybe the light she was referring to was simply that in Dr. Naiman's office. She decided to attempt hypnosis again, and a week later was hypnotized by Dr. Naiman, who still had not been informed of the results of my sessions.

Before this hypnosis, Anne was talkative and her memory was excellent. During hypnosis it was found that she was still incapable of remembering much about the crucial nights, except that she had a powerful image that the screaming she had heard was me, not our son.

She also saw my face as I screamed, and was terrified by the idea that something could frighten me that much. The elusive female presence that is referred to in the first session acquires a more specific existence this time.

Unfortunately, during discussions about her first session I inadvertently let slip that I thought I had been screaming on the night of October 4. Even though her memory may thus have been tainted, her recollection of this is so vivid in the transcript that it may also be that it really happened.

As most of the session was taken up in a futile effort to dislodge memories that either are not present or cannot emerge, I will transcribe only the relevant part of the material. Prior to hypnosis Anne and Dr. Naiman spoke about her reasons for returning.

"I couldn't remember very many things experientially like you were there. I only remembered one or two things in the whole hour and a half as an experience, the way you think of a real memory . . ."

"Just addressing myself to the tape that is rolling, this is the twenty-first of March, .1 86, and Anne is here answering . my questions on her reflections about her last visit here, which was a week ago today, and that's what she's been talking about. How about the hypnosis, do you have any feeling about that?"

"Well, I found two things. One is, I don't know how very deep I was into it because I did find it very hard to bring up pictures in my mind. But that's I suppose for other people to determine, or myself to determine with more experience. Number two, the wonderful thing about hypnosis, the reason that it gives you a good feeling, is that the barrier that is always there when you are talking to other people — even about very mundane things about which you have no secrets — is lifted, and you feel that you're being very honest, not in a way that someone's going to make you say something you don't want to say, didn't get that feeling — but you feel a sense of freedom, that you can really be honest. It's very refreshing because you feel that you just have to think about what you want to answer, not how the other person is going to perceive it."

"How come you're back in here today?"

"I think because this is my, project as well as Whitley's, and I don't think-I think we have to try once more before I get let in on things . . . and it was kind of odd, I thought, because the things I did remember were not to me very clear memories at all, and I almost feel that they seized upon them. If I have a faint thought that it looks a little light behind my eyelids, but I don't know if it's because this is a white room or because I'm remembering it was light then . . . it was so vague .... I feel kind of bad when people try and be very fair ... I just don't think.. ."

"One of your last comments was, 'Now I can go home and hear Whitley's tapes.'"

"But I decided not to. I went home and talked to Whitley about it and at that point we decided not to."

"I see. And at that point you had nut vet decided to came back here today."

"Well, I figured if I didn't listen to them I would come back, but I said to Whitley, 'What do you think? I think perhaps I ought to do this again before I listen to the tapes,' and Whitley said yeah. "

"But you initiated this?"

"Oh, yes. I'm here voluntarily. If I had said, 'No. I'm through with this,' I wouldn't be here."

"How do you feel about this?"

"It's interesting."

Budd Hopkins: "A basic ground rule today: Don't worry about saying anything you think Whitley or I may want you to say."

"Or I may want me to say."

"Don't worry about it. Don't try to decide if it fits or doesn't fit."

"I'm not worried about that. What I'm worried about is more unconscious motivations. Consciously I'm not going to do that."

Budd Hopkins: "Try not to censor, not to judge, is what I mean."

Dr. Naiman: "Not only will we not hold you responsible for your unconscious motivations, we welcome them. Just let your unconscious run free. There's nothing wrong with that. We want those associations. You look kind of puzzled."

"You mean if unconsciously inside I say, 'Darn it, everybody else saw light, I really want to see light —'"

"That's not so unconscious! That's very conscious! That's what was operating last week."

"That's like if there was an auto accident and everybody else got the number of the car and you didn't. You feel like a jerk."

(She was then put into a trance. For a time she reflected on a dream of a big, beautiful Victorian house on a grassy hill. It soon became evident that this was no symbol for a flying disk but rather for our family life.)

"OK, are we ready to leave that dream now, of that white Victorian house?"

"Yes "

"OK. if it's agreeable to you while you're to this trance. I'm going to change places with Budd and he'll take over questioning.

"Yes."

(All questions that follow were asked by Budd Hopkins. There were further questions about the "little white thing," which elicited the opinion that she did not remember it from her childhood after all.

Hopkins, moving to the night when the white thing had appeared in our apartment, tried to get her to describe any feelings she might have had about it.)

"I thought it was very odd that it had revealed itself, because if it had just poked Whitley it would have been just one of those odd things that Whitley says, and I'd say. 'Well, it was just an experience he had.' But since it poked me and our son, it kind of gave him away, and I thought it was odd of him to do that. With poking all of us . . . he revealed himself. Even appearing on the fire escape to the sitter, we wouldn't have tied that in. We'd have thought she'd gone crazy. Or that it was a prowler, and we would have been worried. Even that wouldn't have done it. Even if our son had seen it too. I wouldn't have believed it. I would have thought he'd just been influenced. Except that he was poked .... If he hadn't been poked, if he'd just said he saw something like Casper the Friendly Ghost, which is what he said, well; you'd just think it was a dream. Even if child and father had the same dream — well, sometimes they have a kind of ESP together, and they always have had. So even that's interesting, but it's not something you can go much further with. It really interested me that it would give itself away like it did "

"Take a few minutes and think through a dialogue, an imaginary dialogue — questions you might ask, answers you might get. What Whitley or your son might am . . . "

"I can't imagine talking to it. It doesn't seem like something that would talk. I mean, I can't — it just doesn't seem like something that would talk. They aren't capable of talking. I dust can't imagine that. l dust wouldn't even think of asking it anything. I don't get the feeling it wants to talk, and I don't get the feeling that it can talk, or that if it could it would necessarily want to communicate. I don't think it does."

"Just one last question about it, since we know he came there, and was seen several times.... Do you ever have any feelings that he was there any other time, any inkling, any sense of another time you felt he was there?"

"No. I know Whitley does because he sees things out of the corner of his eye. That's why I think n made a mistake poking me. Because that gave it a kind of reality testing. Then appearing to the babysitter gave it further reality testing. It's almost like he was making a mistake there, wasn't thinking through his plans well enough."

"What do you think his plans were?"

"Well, that I don't know. Seemed impish to me, to poke people and run."

"So, we'll move on to something else. I want to go to the October fourth night again. And this is a strange night, and you've had glimmerings of things and half-memories. Describe hearing your son crying. I want you to take a few minutes and hear that sound, as if you were in bed that night, hearing the sounds, listen for the sounds . . . any words, what kind of voice..."

"I don't know if he said 'Mommy, Mommy' or 'Daddy, Daddy.' It seems like he screamed. It seems like he called me, but everybody says he called Whitley. Screaming, though. [Long pause. Becomes visibly tense. Gasps.] Well, I don't want to say it because I feel it's been influenced and I don't want to say it."

"Don't worry. Say what you feel."

"Well, I know Whitley told me it was him screaming. He told me that. Now, when I take that thought into my mind. and then I think about the screams. I can hear Whitley screaming. It's very hard, because Whitley's not the one who's supposed to scream. He's supposed to protect us. But I can hear him screaming. I can see his face, very frightened. Terrified. His eyes widen and get very white. Just so frightened. I don't know — is that real or not? Because maybe my imagination is doing that."

"Don't worry about that."

"If he was screaming it would be so unusual. He's always so calm. But he does get frightened. He gets very frightened sometimes."

"The way you describe his voice, his face —"

"Oh! I can picture it! I'm trying to remember when I would have seen it. I just hear the voice of a woman . . . he's so frightened . . . and I think at the same time he would have been a bit ashamed of himself. because whatever he saw, he would have been frightened for us, not just for himself. But he was so frightened that he had to feel mostly frightened for himself."

"Did he seem very far away from you when he screamed?"

"No. because I can see his face. No, not far away

"Was he in the room?"

"That I don't know at all. I don't picture any room."

"Can you remember another time he screamed like that?"

"Well, I'm trying to picture if there ever was a time. There've been some times when he's seemed frightened, but I don't think there's ever been a time when he screamed. You know, it's frightening to see a man scream, because men don't scream. Maybe they should or could, but they don't. So it's an experience you don't have. You never feel a man scream. I think most men don't even know if they could scream."

"Why is he screaming?"

"[Whispers.] I don't know. [Long silence.] It's fading away now. I was trying to think about that time, what I remember about it."

"You said you heard a woman's voice? Annie?"

"Mumbling in a soothing way

"Mumbling?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember words?"

"I don't remember them. Maybe it was the tone of voice that made them sound soothing. Saying like, 'That's OK, don't be afraid.'"

"Did it sound like Annie's voice?"

"It was deeper. She has kind of a highish voice. [Long pause.] I get the feeling of ignorance being a kind of protection for me."

"Tell us what you're feeling now. Anne."

"I feel like I don't want to say anything. I don't know why that is. Usually I say a lot of things. [Long pause.]"

"I want you to say what you feel. Can I ask you another question?"

"Yes. If you ask a question, I might actually talk."

'In all of this, can you tell how Anne relates to all this?"

"I know my role, and it's rather a tiresome role, but — born with a certain personality, you can't fight it. I'm the one who's not informed, except through Whitley. I'm the one who responds emotionally. I know if it feels right. Whitley doesn't have any talent for that at all. Sometimes he can't feel the most obvious things."

"Do you feel your roles have been chosen? Did you choose these roles?"

"I feel they're inevitable roles."

"Because of the person you are?"

"Yes. I also feel that they're roles not only because of who you are but who you're with, and therefore you plan certain parts. according to who you're dealing with."

"I want you to take a few minutes and think over all of this, your role, your son's, Whitley's, the little white thing, Whitley's screaming . . . mull over these images and think, what is central, what is marginal, what does it mean?"

"A feeling that Whitley was vulnerable. That's a rather frightening feeling. I would rather not know about these things that make Whitley vulnerable."

"Anything else, Anne?"

"No."

She was then brought out of the trance.

"Whitley's supposed to go. They came for Whitley."

I listened to the recording of Anne's first hypnosis on March 17, 1986, the Monday after the "confirming" encounter in the country. I hadn't listened to it on the previous Friday because she told me she hadn't remembered anything much. And indeed, on careful questioning, that was her perception.

I asked her, "What do you mean, 'Whitley's supposed to go'?"

"Well, that's what I said."

"Do you see me go?"

"No. But I hear it. There's a lot of noise sometimes. I keep my eyes closed."

"But don't you worry?"

"No. You're always there in the morning."

Fortunately, by the time I did listen to the tape I had become so used to being shocked that I did not really react too badly. I didn't end up stalking the streets or sitting in my office staring into space.

But her testimony had a powerful effect on me. It was by no means a "typical abduction scenario" that could have been drawn from subconscious memories of things she had read in the paper over the years. It was unlike other testimony — and thus was almost certainly taken not from her cultural background but from her actual memories and perceptions.

Hers was probably the moat remarkable element yet to be introduced into this account.

This was because there seemed to be so much unconscious process implied by her testimony.

It really did appear that she had performed a function she had been trained to do. And then there was that enigmatic female presence. In my own hypnosis I remembered it making some sort of noises to me when it was beside the bed on the night of October 4. Anne remembered this too. Despite the slip about my screaming she had no reason to identify that presence at the bedside, or to add that it was saying something while the screaming took place.

The temptation was, of course, to say that the visitor hypothesis was now so compelling it must be true. Testimony like hers, supportive in a totally unique manner, suggested very powerfully that there was some sort of design behind our experience. They had been taking me for reasons of their own and Anne had somehow been programmed to rehabilitate me by regrounding me in life.

However, it seemed to me that a rigorously objective approach still might prove more productive than surrender to a specific view.

But how to remain objective? I was being exposed to this. I was disappearing into the night. I had remembered probes going into my brain. My wife had painted a picture of me as a sort of soldier of the night, vulnerable and helpless.

One could state a few things with certainty, if one was careful. Something happened to me and possibly to my son. Its source and nature were unknown. but there was a strong suggestion that it included some sort of physical component external to and independent of us. This could be anything from some sort of sensitivity as yet unknown to fluctuations in the earth's magnetic field to actual visitors. Another thing that could be stated was that my wife had been aware that something was happening, and she responded by preserving her own neutrality — maybe she had been trained to do this and maybe not. It could also be that she was doing it out of an instinct to help her husband. The support she had provided may have been her own invention, rather than the outcome of training or suggestion from the visitors.

Could she herself have been the woman — or the source of the female being — who at once gave me those insights on the night of October 4 and comforted me in my anguish?

Who were the old gods, really? Perhaps we gave them to ourselves. When unconscious was joined to unconscious, maybe this was one possible outcome.

In general, Anne's memories were clear until it came to anything that might have related to the visitors. At that point she became unable to remember. This was most forcefully illustrated early in the transcript when she was recalling her day alone with our son on July 30.

We have questioned him very gently about this matter, and have discovered a wealth of information, which I will deal with in a separate section. Before Anne's hypnosis I found two short essays he had written for his school Journal over the course of the fall, both of which could easily be descriptions of events relating to the visitors — or they could simply be the work of an imaginative little boy. And yet even the drawings of the "monsters" accompanying the stories suggest the large, slanted eyes of the visitors.

As both stories concern only him and his mother, we decided that they might refer to July 30. Since the three of us are almost never separated, it was easy to pinpoint that particular date. I had gone to Philadelphia to appear on a National Public Radio program. I spent the night at the Harley in New York and returned to the country on the morning of the thirty-first.

I found everything totally normal, and my wife and son perfectly happy.

Were it not for our son's two essays and all these other strange occurrences, we never would have even guessed that something might have happened that day. Before her hypnosis, nobody told Anne that she would be asked about it, nor was any allusion made about why.

She was unaware of the essays in the journal, which we had prevented her from seeing.

She remembered her day clearly until she reached the evening. Then she seemed to think that the two of them might have been invited somewhere. Then she went almost totally blank.

Both of our son's essays refer to her fainting when the monster appeared.

Interestingly, she remembered watching "TV" at some point. I remember more than once watching a screen, such as the gray one I was put in front of when I was twelve.

Hypnosis then proceeded to a regression about the night of October 4. Neither hypnotist nor subject knew much about the events of that night, as is clear from their initial mutual confusion.

Frankly, Anne's totally unprompted allusions to a vague and powerful and very definitely female presence have been one of the things that has left me with long thoughts. I have gone to her and watched her in peaceful sleep, and wondered what it all might mean.

When she was first asked by Dr. Naiman what she remembered about the night of the fourth, she evidenced obvious distress, screwing up her face and clenching her eyes as if shrinking from a painful sight or noise. And yet when he asked her what she was thinking of, she promptly replied that she didn't know. A little persistence on his part brought a strangely conflicted memory of a night of activity that went on around her but in which she was not allowed to participate. At first she clearly remembered that the night was uncomfortably light, although she later denied this memory. As Dr. Naiman had not been apprised of the importance of the light, he made no special effort to draw information about it out of her, thus leaving both her memories and her denial intact. This also means that there were probably no hidden cues that she should recall the light more clearly.

After the session, she was asked what had made her say that the night seemed too light. "I had a vague memory of my eves closed and my eyelids all lit up as if the light was on in the room. But it was very vague."

She was asked why she repeated so many variants on the theme that it wasn't a peaceful night. Despite reinforcement during hypnosis that she would shake some of these memories free afterward, she was not able to do so. She said, "I feel like I'm a piece of spaghetti with you on one end pulling and them on the other end refusing to let go."

She finally closed this section of her regression with, "I just see a light. I mean, it's not dark. You know, it's not dark."

Later in the regression she began to make references to the house being full, as if there were something "different" about it, to use her word. We often have houseguests in the country, and the presence of Jacques and Annie was nothing unusual. Was she trying to indicate that somebody else was present in the house? The transcript was not suggestive enough on this point to be sure, but during both sessions she indicated that a woman was present. There was also that cryptic reference to "a friend" being in our bedroom, a reference that was never expanded upon.

When asked who this friend might be, she said she just had the feeling that somebody was there. Why friend, though, why not simply person?

"It was somebody we knew. An old friend."

"Jacques or Annie?"

"No. Somebody else."

"Can you picture them?"

"No. It's just what I felt."

Then there was the matter of who screamed. We carried out experiments at the house to find out Just how clearly a voice from our son's room coup be heard in our bedroom above.

Screams could be heard easily. But loud talking was much less audible. and it would not have been possible that soft words of comfort could have been heard over screaming, even given our sparse soundproofing.

However, if the screaming was actually much closer to Anne, the words of comfort would also have been audible — especially if they were intended for us both and the screaming was muffled by some unknown effect.

There followed the first of the allusions that supported the notion that I ought to revise my understanding of my life. "I don't think Whitley was there very much. He was gone. You know, he goes sometimes at night. He goes and works. Or he just goes."

I don't remember going, though. I never work in the middle of the night. Once I'm in bed, I generally stay there all night unless I hear our son. And that happens no more than two or three times in a year.

While Anne's hidden role seemed to be that of passive supporter, her own life role is very different. It was clearly revealed by a statement she made before the second session, when Dr. Naiman asked her if her presence in his office was voluntary. "If I had said, No, I'm not going through with this,' I wouldn't be here." She is as independent a person as I know, a committed feminist who is politically and socially as active as she cares to be. Except when it comes to this. In this matter; she is passive, which is in itself awfully strange.

As the intensity of the experience built, Anne became uneasy with her role. "Things were going on and I wanted to know what was going on!" Her tone became forceful, almost angry.

When asked why she didn't simply go and see, she repeated that she wasn't supposed to.

Supporting this came the first of a number of what she feels are references to a female authority: "It was like your mother said to you, 'You have to stay here.'"

Anne's hypnosis strongly suggested that I'm taken all the time. And mine as well implied more than the two recent occasions. When she was being hypnotized Anne had no idea at all that I remembered more than two occasions when something. strange happened. So why did she say "friend," as if a familiar individual were present, and why did she assert that I go "all the time"?

When Dr. Naiman and Budd Hopkins moved to the events of December 26, there was a flavor of what it must be like living with all these strange secrets when she made reference to my talking about the crystal in the sky. I remember the image clearly, and I remember being nonplussed when I spoke of it, because even at the time it seemed like a sort of falsehood — something I needed to say in order to put some deep uneasiness to rest.

She said frankly that she did not consider me a "down-to-earth guy." I'm glad of that; after all that appears to have been happening, she would have to be incredibly imperceptive to think that I was down to earth. Dr. Naiman, quite naturally, asked her if she thought I should go to a psychiatrist. Her reply was interesting: "No. Because he — I think he can deal with these problems."

What? I'm seeing things, claiming to fly around rooms, and my practical, no-nonsense wife doesn't think I should see a psychiatrist? Perhaps she knew that there would be no point, because on the level she would not directly address, she was aware that these are the side effects of real experience.

I will recount briefly the incident of "flying around the room." In March or April 1985 I was lying in bed in the country house, reading a book, when I suddenly had the feeling that somebody was in the room. I was confused, because the room seemed empty. It seemed almost as if there were somebody here who was able to remain just at the corner of my eye.

The next thing I knew, I floated right out of the bed. I did not tell Anne that I saw a swirling, dizzying jumble of trees, house, and moon right after that. It just seemed too odd, so I contented myself with saying that I had seemed to float around the room. Flying dreams are not unusual, but dreams that vivid that take place when you are reading, not apparently asleep, are awfully hard to accept, which was why I mentioned it to her. I needed to talk about it. And there she was, ready to play her assigned role. Instead of asking if I thought A like to see a doctor, she just laughed and continued to act as if everything were totally normal, which was enormously reassuring, and I soon forgot the incident.

Anne's regression became a little confused at this point, because Budd Hopkins made the suggestion, "Back to that night," without specifying which night.

She thinks she then confused the nights. "It was like a party. There are lots of thins going on here now." When — October 4 or December 26? She does not remember, although she states that Jacques and Annie weren't invited, so that may mean the twenty-sixth, when they weren't there.

Yet again there was reference to the mysterious female authority figure: "It's like your mother says. 'No, you can't go.'"

Finally she volunteered that she's often felt that there are things "going on" with me that she wasn't "supposed" to know. She then revealed a definite role: "I'm supposed to kind of help him afterwards to deal with it. That's my role. But I can't stop them. you know. He just has to."

She was then specifically asked if I have hallucinations. Her reply was that I do not have hallucinations, but "they come to him because of his head."

She then related her perceptions of the "little white thing" that invaded our apartment in the Village. What it was we will probably never know, and I cannot even guess its purpose.

On listening, to the tape of her hypnosis, Anne felt that something seemed to be missing, and found it odd that she had remembered so little about the crucial periods of time-or so she thought. It appears, on careful analysis, that she remembered a great deal.

There was another reference to "the voice of a woman." She also admits that it was not Annie Gottlieb's voice, although not by saying so directly. "It was deeper. [Annie] has kind of a highish voice."

There is another possible explanation for Anne's testimony. It could be an expression of faith for a man she deeply loves and de sires to protect even from the toils of madness by a subtle act of confirmation, really a hidden communion, an indirect sharing — of an experience she did not have enough information about to confirm in convincing detail.

One night in April she talked in her sleep. I had thought to call this book Body Terror because of the extreme physical sensation of fear I had felt on December 26. Suddenly she said in a strange basso profundo voice: "The book must not frighten people. You should call it Communion, because that's what it's about." I looked over at her intending to say why I thought my title was better, and saw that she was totally asleep. Then I realized where I have heard that voice before.

I went to my wife and looked down at her sleeping form, my mind full of question and wonder.

Our Son

We have been careful to preserve our child from the faintest suggestion that he might be dealing with something outside of normal experience. We have told him that he has had some scary dreams. Oddly enough, he seems to take this notion to be a sort of adult fantasy. His own descriptions of what he remembers are completely straightforward, and he doesn't characterize them as scary.

While he is more than willing to call them dreams if we want him to, he seems equally comfortable with the idea that they are memories. This exactly parallels my own perception: The material has the taste of real memory, and yet it is so strange that it also seems like a dream.

I have asked my son to describe any strange dreams he recalls. He has never been hypnotized and he won't be until he can decide for himself if he wishes to do it. No matter what the source, this material can be very disturbing indeed under hypnosis and it is certainly not the business of a parent to assault a child's mind by such experimentation.

Here are some of my son's dreams, in his own words.

"Well, I was dreaming that I was on a boat with Ezra [a friend of his] and someone was attacking and we were about to dive off and I was in the middle of the air when I switched to this dream where I was in the hospital in the future where they were trying to cure some kind of disease. I'm not sure what it was. And I was taken out of my bed and onto a cot and out on the porch."

"Who took you out of your bed and onto the cot?"

"Some kind of doctor."

"What did he look like?"

"Oh, he was a very short and fat man with glasses that came out pointed upward like that. [Gestures as if eyes have a pronounced slant.] And he always has a big fake smile on him. [Smiles from ear to ear with his mouth closed.] He kind of kept it there except when he was asleep."

"How did you know he was asleep?"

"Well, he had — well, that's because he worked in the night and slept in the day "

"What did his eyes look like?"

"He was wearing regular glasses. His eyes were a kind of greenish-blue color. Dark. The only two faces he had was this. [Again demonstrates smile.] And then a small one when he was sleeping. [Makes an O.]"

"Mouth open?"

"Yeah."

"When his mouth was opened, it was round?"

"Yeah. Puckered. Big puckered."

"Did you see him when he wasn't smiling?"

"Yeah, when he was doing the operation on me." "What kind of operation?"

"Well, it was kind of like a test."

"What did he do?"

"It was a disease on my arm."

"He did something to your arm?"

"No, wait. He kept your nose cold like when you eat a lot of ice cream."

"Did it hurt?"

"No, not really."

"You say you were examined on the porch. What do you mean by that?"

"Well, they took me onto the porch. There was no way to get me into an operation room because of all the moving equipment. And then by the porch light I mean kind of like the outside lights at the country house. You know at the country house there's that porch light?"

"Yeah."

"That's the light that was on. Then they took special lights and examined my nose and took X rays and stuff." (This last statement could easily be a buried memory of a babyhood injury to his nose. which involved an X ray to determine whether it was broken. But this memory seems to be mixed in with other material of a totally different nature.)

"What kind of lights?"

"Some were blue lights and they would look through the front of it and the blue light would make them see through me without an X ray."

"And there was an orange light that was supposed to see not my bones but the inside skin and what was happening. Instead of having X rays and stuff, they had lights. They had big lights. Green lights."

"Ever remember a dream where a monster came in the house and Mommy fainted? What's that from?"

"That's one of my journal stories."

"Yeah. Why'd you make that one up for your journals Do you know?"

"I don't know Not really. I remember it vaguely. Because I wrote that one along time ago." (Early Call. It watt now March.) "It was free journal story period and I couldn't think of anything. I was tossing and turning in my desk truing to think of something. And then suddenly that dream just popped in my head "

"What was it like, that dream?'

"I was in a — I didn't explain it totally on the journal. It was in a cornfield, my mommy and me, and I was chewing on a piece of corn and my mom was telling fairy tales. And then suddenly this big, big — about let's say from the lobby of this building up to the top — hovered over us. It was colored orange, green, had blue feet." (Orange and green are colors associated with lights on the flying disk that has been seen in our area.)

"It was a thing, like an animal or a creature?"

"It wasn't like anything. It was just this big, massive thing. It had these big bumps all over it that were blue and its feet were orange —"

"Do you suppose you were seeing something flying over- you that was blue and orange and green, and you were confused as to what it was?"

"It was like it was flying. Kind of."

At this point I felt that I had made a mistake with me last question, in that it was so heavily weighted with suggestion. I concluded our conversation by reassuring my son that he'd had some really neat dreams that were very interesting to hear about.

He then went about his afternoon business, reading Tin-Tin and making a St. Patrick's Day card for his grandmother.

I sat in my chair, haunted by what my son had said. Most particularly, I thought of the incident in the cornfield. I will relate a dream I had had shortly before we spoke.

The three of us were together in the English countryside to my dream. We had rented a cottage. The inside of the cottage was identical to our cabin. I was confused, because Anne and our son were not there and it was already the evening. I was sitting up in bed when I got a call on the phone. I remember saving to the caller. "No, it's all right, they're full staving out all night." On some level I was full of fear. but on another I seem to have accepted their disappearance by justifying it to myself

In the middle of the night there was a knock at the front door. I opened it to find my son in the company of a group of "rescue workers," ordinary men and women with deep, soft, and loving faces. My son was naked except for a dark blue cap that one of them had put on his head. He was moving strangely, as if he had no control over his own muscles. His eves looked as if he were in some sort of trance. I gathered him in my arms, because they told me that touch and hugging would bring him back to normal. Then I looked around for my wife.

They shook their heads sadly, and the care and love radiating from their eyes was such that I was not bereaved but reassured that she would be back soon.

Then I was abruptly transported to another place. I was given to understand that Anne and our son had been found here, hiding. It was a cornfield. just like our son's dream.

At bedtime that night he wanted to talk more about dreams. I did not record our conversation, but he complained of two things. The first one was that when he started to go to sleep, his whole body would tingle and he would feel as if his hair were standing on end. A voice would then ask him about his day. how he felt, and "private things" which he did not wish to discuss with me.

He also complained that he saw a skeleton looking at him when he was trying to relax.

The conversation went as follows:

"A skeleton?"

"Yes, and it keeps staring at me like it was right in front of my face and it won't go away "

"What does it look like?"

"Well, its — oh. It's not a skeleton, it's one of the thin ones that stood around behind the doctors."

"What thin ones?"

"You know, the thin ones that are always saying 'We won't hurt you'? Them. It's not a skeleton, it's one of the thin ants."

The appearance of these people has never been discussed with my son at all, not by anybody, and vet his description of short ones and taller, thin ones is not only consistent with my own observations, it is consistent with the experiences of many of the other people who have encountered the visitors.

He had bought a book of haiku at the Strand used-book store that afternoon, a book entitled A Net of Fireflies. I did not tell him that I had bought the same edition when I was twenty and living with my grandmother, and derived immense pleasure and comfort from it.

He wanted us to read haiku to one another. I read:

With tender impact on the icy air,

The peach-buds burst: their silken petals flare.

He smiled his huge smile and commented, "That was really a lot of pictures for so little words." Then he read:

Without a sound the white camellia fell

To sound the darkness of the deep stone well.

Afterward he said, "Dad, you know, we like the haiku and all the beautiful words. But the thin ones, it's like they are the haiku. Inside, they are haiku."

That night a father staved a long time with his child, wondering about the soft fire of communion that might be hidden between the breaths of his life.