DENNIS WHITNEY

Dennis Whitney is an ET Experiencer, Ufologist, writer, columnist, and speaker on all things extra-terrestrial, as well as the 2012 Ascension into the 5th Dimension. He has spoken on radio shows all over the country, and has written for numerous forms of media around the world, including X-Times Magazine in Italy, The Ufologist in Australia, UFO
Magazine here in the states, and has hosted an online column on UFOs and the paranormal for the Australian news website www.Australia.to

Beginning in 2005, Dennis began to undergo a series of close encounter episodes with those he (now) believes to be from the Sirius Star System, as members of the Galactic Federation of Light. He has experienced numerous occasions of ‘missing time’, resulting in an instantaneous jump of several hundred miles down the highway, in the blink of an eye. And, through his connection to ET Sculptor,
Cynthia Crawford (www.etsculptor.com ), he also believes what is taking place during these moments away’ are reunions with his star family, as well as discussions involving his own mission here on this planet, at this time. Evidence of all such activity can be supported by his many, many hundreds of photos captured where ever he travels or moves to!

Dennis has also encountered the attention of what are known as ‘Men in Black’. A personal case study of these events, that revolve around his first major sighting in Northern California, is documented in an article titled, “UFOs: Physical, Dimensional, or Holographic”, which is also a follow up to a piece titled “World Chaos and Our Rise into the 5th Dimension”. A piece written, in fact, the morning after his
apparent Awakening had begun, with a sudden knowledge of how the universe seemed to work, with information he’d never understood, or known before! The article, to him, felt very…’channeled’ in its form.

These articles can be searched online, as well as through UFO Casebook, and the magazines noted at the top. On the issue of implants, Dennis has also awoken to the tell-tale surgical cuts, the finger-tip bruises, the glimpses of beings, and the ‘bead’ behind his ear. And, after one such contact experience, has been ‘scanned’ by an amber beam of light from an (unseen) cloaked craft before him in Palm Springs.

In 2009, Dennis’ own Spirit Guides brought him to the Southwest area of the United States, which oddly,
happens to be a place of historical UFO presence and relevance, as well as being positioned under one
of the many Stargates, now dotted around our planet, for reasons we can only speculate about.

In 2010, Dennis found himself in the midst of chaos, and in the cross-hairs of a much darker agenda, when he happened to disclose an internal, and damning document, relating to the events of the Gulf Oil Spill, for which he has also been very outspoken. These events consisted of implied threats, a
heightened, black helicopter presence over his home, and an entire library of suddenly ‘missing’ UFO emails, caused him to re-evaluate his true purpose at this critical time in our planet’s, and human history, and he elected to step away from all speaking and writing of the subject, essentially going
‘underground’ to devote his time to the ‘New World’ at hand, and the colossal changes humanity now faces, and to be there for others in a much more physical sense.

Today, he assists those who are racing to catch up, and to understand, if not already Awakened, themselves. He devotes the remaining portion of his time to sustainable living, speaking about ‘The 2012 Shift’ now underway, and growing a large, community garden in the Four Corners area of the desert Southwest. He focuses now on the positive changes we face, and educating others about the Awakening
process, and the extraordinary days ahead, as old paradigms begin to crumble, and a new, 5th dimensional existence unfolds!


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 From another site:

  So now, as I ponder just why it is I’m so ‘lucky’ to have a constant presence around me, I think back to two more incidents that may suggest this is something much deeper than happenstance. I have also discussed this on several occasions with Jim Sparks, a noted and very credible abductee, with over 90% recollection of his experiences.
 
While in Palm Springs, in 2006, I was ‘scanned’ (for lack of a better term), by something unseen, while getting up at 3am to grab a glass of water. I was looking out the patio window on the third floor, as the downtown area slept. Earlier in the evening, while with my family, we watched several craft rise above the San Jacinto Mountains, bobble around a bit, then descend one at a time, behind the peak after about 45 minutes. One first, followed by the next. I guess they saw what they wanted to see in the valley below, and called it a night. This would have been directly in my line of site, from the patio. 

This is the same spot I was standing at 3am, when a vertical, bronze/amber beam, about a foot wide, reaching from floor to ceiling, passing steadily from the back wall to my left, over my body, and across the right side until it disappeared. I was stunned. I stood frozen in that moment. I saw NOTHING in the air, the town was silent, and there was absolutely no traffic or aircraft whatsoever. Absolute silence, in the dead of night. Then it happened again! Almost in a steady, rhythmic and rotational cycle, like that of a lighthouse beacon, the beam crossed over my body in a smooth, fluid motion. I was ready the third time, if it happened again, and it did. With my left side to the back wall, and my right side aimed toward the balcony, I actually watched it start on one wall, move across, and as I looked directly across the patio to the mountains, it passed over my body again. Not a single source of light in the air, or on the ground, or anywhere from which this could have generated. This was the final pass. There may have been only 10-15 seconds between passes. Just three times. I thought then, as I do now, that something or someone may have activated something in me, to begin my ‘awakening’. It was from this point on that my total immersion into the field of the paranormal REALLY began. Elk Grove was the first major catalyst to my interest, but this led me deeper into my study. This had some meaning. How could it not? And why the interest in me? 

And finally, the most invasive, in-your-face event took place, about one year ago (prior to the SFO drone event). I had the most vivid UFO dream one night. We all have them, don’t we? But this was very different. The morning after this powerful dream, which felt so very, very real, left me feeling somehow different. I then found a half inch incision (?) on my right knee. No scab. Just a bright red, blade-fine cut, with no soreness, and which disappeared almost entirely by the following day. But this was not a scratch. It truly looked like a scalpel cut. I’ve never seen anything like it, with all the cuts and bruises I’ve had in my life. And, this would be the same morning I find a very small ‘bead’ of some sort behind my left ear. It moves slightly to the touch, and inflames at times. I can feel it now. In fairness, it’s never been tested, though I have my curiosity. I also now get a steady, deliberate tone that lasts 10-15 seconds at a time, almost daily, and only from that ear. Not piercing, but obvious when it takes place. It doesn’t fade, and cannot be attributed to some medical explanation of ringing in the ears, that I know of. It turns on, then off, like a switch. And always for the same, short length of time. This bead itself, very much matches the description given by Whitley Streiber, whom I have never met, but admire his forthright attitude in speaking what he knows.

ALTERNATIVE THREE

How many have heard of Alternative Three in the present day?  When it happened it was a huge mystery - and still is. I am going to bring you up to date by this article written by Bill Nelson.
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Prior to 1979 and the airing of the original Alternative Three documentary by Spectra Television, I had already gathered much of the material in this book and knew that there was more going on in space than the public was being told.

The hour-long TV show, devised by David Ambrose and Christopher Miles; written by Ambrose and produced by Miles was a shocker because it maintained that the US and Russia, presumably England as well, had been working together in space for many years before the historic Apollo shots to the moon

I first viewed the film as rebroadcast by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation several months after the original showing via BBC in Great Britain.  It was at this point that I realized that I was not alone in my belief that a gigantic conspiracy among the nations of this planet existed and that a determined attempt to save some portion of Homo Sapiens from extinction actually was in progress.

Had the program been just another speculative science-fiction effort I would have been pleased that other writers had enough perception and imagination to come up with a plausible hypothesis based on facts that for the most part are common knowledge.

Instead, I was dumbfounded, because the hour-long vehicle for Alternative Three was not science-fiction theater, but Science Report, a 60-minute documentary aired frequently dealing only with orthodox scientific subjects.  Even to think of the producers of Science Report coming on with a science-fiction or Orson Welles Mars-scare-type-of presentation was as ridiculous as Walter Cronkite narrating J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” as historic fact.

Alternative Three was presented as a straight-forward documentary that I believed then to be factual and know now to be revelation of only part of the truth as known to the producers at Anglia Television.


For those of you who did not see the show a brief rundown on what it portrayed is necessary.

It began with the narrator, a familiar figure to watchers of Science Report, saying that as originally conceived the program was to examine the causes behind Great Britian’s “Brain Drain,” the exodus of many scientifically trained persons to other parts of the world.

He stated that the original purpose was defeated because of the “difficulty of obtaining information” of the scientists who had gone elsewhere.  He cited as an example one Dr. Ann Clark, a scientist who had been interviewed shortly before her departure for the then planned “Brain Drain” documentary.  In the interview, Dr. Clark was reticent to talk and said little other than that she had decided to leave England for another position.

Some weeks later, her expensive rented car was found parked at Heathrow Airport, where presumably Dr. Clark left it to take a plane to another country, but all efforts to find out which plane and to where, failed.

The disappearances of two other scientists, Robert Patterson and Brien Pendlebury were also described.  In the case of Pendlebury, he supposedly had gone to Australia to work and his parents had received letters and photographs from him.  However, when a former school chum, vacationing in Australia, attempted to locate him at the address he had been using no one there had ever heard of him.

In all, Anglia Television researchers discovered that at least 5 top scientists apparently disappeared without a trace.  Between 1963 and 1975, the year hat Dr. Clark vanished, more than four million persons had left Great Britain, about one-third of them from the professional and managerial levels of British Society. (Editor’s Note:  In the last years over 85 scientists have come up missing in addition to the 25 missing in GB. Purple Urial)

Something sinister was going on and the producers were certain that the vanishing scientists were not reappearing behind the Iron Curtain.  Where were they going?  With little material to go on, the “Brain Drain” was shelved.

Meanwhile, a separate drama was unfolding.  Dr. William Valentine, a noted British scientist returned to England from the United States where he had been working with NASA.  With him he brought a computer tape that was to play a prominent part in the Alternative Three program which was later to be produced.

Dr. Valentine died in a car crash while motoring from his home to London.  His death was written off by the press as an accident, although there was some question at the time as to why the press photographers were only allowed to take one photograph, at a distance, of the wrecked vehicle.

As reconstructed later from interviews with a newspaper editor and Dr. Valentine’s widow, his death became highly suspicious.

It was learned that on the day of his death he had received a call from an American associate in the US that agitated him considerably.  From his home he called the newspaper editor and

told him that he was coming to London that night with very important information and had to see him as quickly as he could get to London.

Dr. Valentine then gave his wife a parcel, addressed to the same individual that he had called, and convinced her that it had to be mailed that day; a request with which she complied.

Dr. Valentine died before he could keep his rendezvous.  The editor received what turned out to be a computer tape. When put on a computer, however, it was a meaningless garble of sound and image.

Some time later, the TV studio received a call from an individual who identified himself as an American just arrived in England.  He told the producers that he knew why Valentine had been killed and said that he would meet with the them and tell them why.

The meeting of a reporter and the American “agent” was captured on TV tape and the brief conversation recorded by hidden microphone.  The agent said that it was too dangerous to talk in public and that the reporter and his cameraman were to come to a certain address in London the following morning, then he ran off, seemingly in a panic.

On the following morning the camera man and reporter arrived at the house as instructed and knocked on the door. The door was opened by a young woman who at first refused to let them in.  But British reporters are not too easily dissuaded and despite protests they got in, with a camera recording all of this.

At the head of the stairs, the crew went into what appeared to be a bedroom where in the camera lights, a much bedraggled and almost incoherent ‘agent” was lying on a bed.  As they came into the room, he started swearing at them, shouting at them to get the “hell out of here and leave me alone.”  He struck the camera man and the crew retreated.  The man seemed to have been drugged and severely beaten.

When the crew returned the next day, they found the house deserted without a clue as to where the couple had gone.

With Dr. Valentine now in the mystery, the producers followed the leads so far uncovered and interviewed Mrs. Valentine (Lady Valentine) and through her they located the newspaper editor and the mysterious tape.  They had no better results with the tape.  It had been what seemed to be “space garbage.”

The leads petered out, then later they were contacted by the woman who had opened the door for the camera crew.  She told them that “Harry” had given her something that would unlock the key to the Valentine tape.  They met with her and obtained a printed circuit board and the instructions, relayed through her, ‘that this thing’ would fit in a specific type of computer.  Research revealed that this was the type of computer used at NASA.  Further research revealed that there was in England a similar computer and the studio obtained permission to use it.

As recorded in the documentary, the tape turned out to be a recording of TV camera coverage from an unmanned space probe sent to Mars.

For about 10 minutes, documentary viewers saw the landscape of Mars reeling by beneath the probe, red rolling hills, with some greenery and moon-like craters.  In the background, as recorded on this NASA tape are the voices of scientists commenting on what they were seeing as the probe visual was being recorded.

At the end of the probe tape, the vehicle settled to the surface of Mars, one of its tripod legs showing in the foreground.  As the probe settles to earth and the leg digs into the soil, something big, like a six-foot-long earthworm, wiggles away from the contact, pushing up the earth for its passage.

And in the background one of the original viewers is heard to comment, “My God, this is the biggest thing since the coming of Christ, there’s life on Mars.”

The producers including this tape is their reawakened documentary are faced with a dilemma.  How can this be Mars, when the tape showed no craters and all of the pictures released previously by NASA showed hundreds of craters very similar to those found on the moon.  Their conclusion was that instead of releasing the real pictures of Mars, NASA had released previously unreleased photos taken from the Apollo missions.

This possibility is given some credence by an American manufacturer of space hardware who adds the comment that when he saw the purported “Mars photos” the first time, he wondered why they had been shot with a narrow angle lens rather than with the wide angle lens usually associated with the Ranger missions.

(And the reader at this point is thinking to himself, “hmmm, this chapter is pretty nebulous, why doesn’t he use names, full names?”)

It’s a good question and I’ll take this opportunity to answer it.  Bear in mind that I saw this documentary some time ago and CBC, which makes recordings of everything it airs, somehow didn’t tape this particular documentary.

I taped it on an ordinary tape recorder and jealously guarded the tape because I wanted the information ti contained for this book, which I was then in the process of writing.

At the time, I was living with my father, now deceased, in an apartment in Niagara Falls.  We had in the neighborhood, apparently, a burglar with a weird taste in loot.  He made several raids on my apartment and one in my car.  Let me tell you what he took.

First of all, he took my Adamski and Frank Edwards book,three different copies of “Alternative Three (oh, yes, it was made into a book which cannot be purchased in the good old USA, although it is possible to find one in Canada.)  And he took my tape of Alternative Three.  He left the tape recorder.

He later stole my briefcase from my car with a flock of UFO pictures and notes in it and ignored an expensive flashlight on the seat beside it and two cans of Quaker State motor oil.

Believe, if you like, that I’m an absent-minded writer who somehow managed to misplace all this stuff if it makes you feel better, but in any event, at this point I am going entirely on memory, okay

Where were we, ah yes, the moon.

The moon, as you probably know, is marked off in longitude and latitude as is the earth, although with one side facing us all the time we only see about one-fourth of the total surface.

Anyway, the producers, using a photo of the near side, scattered flags all over it to designate points at which manned and unmanned craft had landed.  Then flipping the moon over to a photo taken of the backside of the moon they showed where eight vehicles had landed behind the moon.  And there, was a tiny cluster of flags in one spot the size of a dime.  Interesting, no?

What is this documentary telling us? It’s stating the major powers, or perhaps we should call it the “Tri-Lateral Commission,” had been placing men and materials on the moon for lo these many years -- a base camp from which to supply those who have gone to the red planet.

With this premise in mind, the producers track down Dr. Karl Gerstein, a renowned scientist and one who attended a 1968 conclave of scientists in the US called to discuss the question “where do we go when the surface of this planet becomes too hostile to support life as we know it, mainly because of gases building up in the ionosphere to produce a dangerous “greenhouse affect?”

After several attempts, the reporters badger him into telling what transpired at this hush-hush meeting.

He tells them that the scientists had discussed three possibilities, going underground, building domed cities or blowing holes in the gaseous buildup to allow the planet to radiate off excessive heat. But the first two are really one and the same, so another contact is made with Gerstein  to learn what the third alternative to survival was and at last, visibly agitated, he tells them, “Alternative Three is to leave the planet.”

The showing of this documentary brought instant noise form Parliament and under pressure, the Anglia Television released a statement saying that “Alternative Three” was a gag, another Orson Welles special.

But as we shall see,this annoyed the creators of the documentary no end, so they turned out a book by the same title, containing much more information, adding at the end that they were going to label the book “speculative” rather than “news” because of pressure to do so from members of Parliament.

An American astronaut, now deceased, interviewed for the documentary stated at one point, “What are you doing to me?  Do you want to get me killed like Valentine?”  In another part, he states, “Hell, the Apollo shots were window dressing.  They don’t need a Saturn rocket to put a man and a bicycle on the moon.”

And I know they don’t.
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If you can find this book buy it, it is much more informative than this short article.  I once did a long report on it with names, professions and dates of disappearance.  I gave it to a friend and I don’t know what he did with it. - P. Urial

ERIC PEARL, THE HEALER

Why Me?

If I were sitting on a cloud scouring the planet for just the right person upon whom I could bestow one of the rarest and most sought-after gifts in the Universe, I don’t know whether I would have reached through the etherium, pointed my finger through the vast multitudes of people – the shepherds, the shopkeepers, the righteous and the self-righteous – and said “Him! That’s the one. Give it to him.”
Now maybe it didn’t happen quite that way, but that’s the way it feels. Except when it doesn’t. I mean, except when someone else comes up with an entirely different and convincingly plausible explanation. “Oh, no,” some well-meaning person may exclaim, incredulous at my obvious lack of understanding of how the Universe works, “you’ve clearly done this before in your past lives.” Now what I want to know is this: how is it that they’re so privy to my past lives when I’m still trying to figure this one out?
I mean, let’s be real. I’d spent twelve years building one of the, if not the largest chiropractic practices in Los Angeles. I had three homes, a Mercedes, two dogs and two cats. All would have seemed perfect if I hadn’t mishandled my money and my alcohol sufficiently as to bring my six-year relationship to an end, an event that left me virtually unable to put one foot in front of the other for three days. Prozac helped that. It helped that a lot.
Six months later I’m visiting Venice Beach, California with my assistant, who insists that I get my cards read by a reader on the beach. “I don’t want to get my cards read by some reader on the beach,” I responded with absolute conviction. If a reader were all that wonderful, people would come to her; she wouldn’t be dragging a card table, tablecloth, chairs and accouterments to an overcrowded beach sidewalk where she could proceed to flag down unsuspecting tourists to foist her version of their futures upon them, expecting them to pay for the privilege.
“I met her at a party and told her we’d be here. I’d be very embarrassed if we didn’t get a reading, ” she responded on a dime, adding that the woman has both $20 and $10 dollar readings. One look into my assistant’s eyes told me that further protest would prove useless. “Fine,” I grumbled, reaching for a ten-dollar bill, knowing that was fully half the money we had left to spend on lunch. I marched dutifully over to the woman, sat down in her folding chair, gave her ten dollars and thought about how hungry I was already.
In exchange for my money, I received a very nice yet unremarkable present-time reading and enjoyed being called “Bubelah” by this endearing Jewish gypsy. Almost as an afterthought she said to me, “There’s very special work that I do through the use of axiatonal lines. It reconnects your body’s meridian lines to the grid lines on the planet that connect us to the stars and other planets.” She told me that she was able to do this work and that, as a healer, it was something that I needed. She also told me I could read about it in a book called The Book of Knowledge: The Keys of Enoch. It sounded quite interesting so I asked the question: “How much?” She said, “Three hundred thirty three dollars.” I said, “No, thank you.”
This is the kind of stuff you’re warned about on evening news shows. I can hear the news blurb now, “Jewish gypsy on Venice Beach takes $333 from unsuspecting chiropractor.” My picture with the word “Sucker” under it flashes across the screen. ” … convinces doctor to pay her an additional $150 a month for life to burn candles for his protection.” I feel humiliated for even having considered it. So, my assistant and I left and creatively went about constructing a ten-dollar lunch for two.
You’d think this would have been the end of it, but the mind works in mysterious ways. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I found myself taking the last few minutes of a lunch break to go to the Bodhi Tree Bookstore attempting to quickly read through Chapter 3.1.7. of The Book of Knowledge: The Keys of Enoch. This chapter discusses these axiatonal lines. The biggest lesson that day was that if ever a book were created that could not be quickly read through, this was that book. But I had read enough. This was going to haunt me until I gave in. I cracked open my cookie jar.
The work is done in two days, two days apart. Day one, I gave her my money, lay there on her table and listened to my mind jabber, ‘This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t believe I gave $333 to a perfect stranger so she could draw lines on my body with her fingertips.’ As I lie there thinking of all the good uses this money could’ve been put toward, a sudden surge of insight came over me as I heard myself think, ‘Well, you’ve already gave her the money. You may as well cut the negative chatter and be open to receiving whatever there is to receive.’ So I lay there quietly, ready and open. I experienced nothing. Absolutely nothing. I, however, seemed to be the only person in the room who knew that. But I paid for both sessions, and therefore I was coming back on Sunday for part two. The strangest thing happened that night, however. About an hour after I’d gone to sleep, the lamp next to my bed – a lamp that I’d had for ten years – turned itself on, and I woke up to the very real sensation that there were people in my home. I searched the house with my Doberman, a carving knife and a can of pepper spray but found no one. I went back to bed with the most uncanny feeling that I was not alone, that I was being watched.
To the eye, day two started out pretty much the same as day one. However, it soon became apparent that it was to be anything but. My legs didn’t want to stay still. They had that “crazy leg” feeling that strikes every once in a blue moon in the middle of the night. Soon that sensation took over the rest of my body, interspersed with almost unbearable chills. It was all I could do to lie still on the table. Much as I wanted to jump up and down and shake the sensation out of every cell in my body, I didn’t dare move. Why? Because I paid my $333 and I was going to get my money’s worth out of this. That’s why. Soon it was over. It was an oppressively hot August day and we were in a non-air-conditioned apartment.  I was chilled near frozen, my teeth chattering as this woman rushed to wrap me in a blanket where I remained for five minutes until my body temperature returned to normal.
I was now different. I don’t understand what happened, nor could I possibly attempt to explain it, yet I was no longer the person I was four days before. I drifted into my car, which somehow knew the way home.
I don’t remember the rest of that day. I couldn’t tell you for certain if the rest of the day even took place. All I do know is that the following morning found me at work. And the odyssey begins.
It had been my practice to have my patients lie on the table with their eyes closed for 30 to 60 seconds following their adjustments to relax, and to allow their adjustments to set. On this particular Monday, seven of my patients, some who had been with me for almost twelve years, and one who was seeing me for a first visit, chose this day to ask me if I had been walking around the table as they lay there. Some asked if anyone else had come into the room because it felt as if several people were standing or walking around the table. Three said it felt as if people were running around the table, and two sheepishly confided that it seemed as if people were flying around the table.
I’d been a chiropractor for about twelve years and no one had ever expressed anything like this before. Now seven people had said this to me on the same day. Something was up. Interspersed between my patients, I was fielding other observations from my employees: “You look so different! Your voice sounds so different! What happened to you over the weekend?” I certainly wasn’t going to tell them. “Oh, nothing," I replied, wondering myself what exactly had taken place over the weekend.
My patients were reporting that they could feel where my hands were before I touched them. They could feel my hands when they were inches to feet away from their bodies. It became a game to see how accurately they could locate my hands. Yet it became more than a game as people started receiving healings. At first the healings seemed minor: aches, pains and the like. As patients would come in ostensibly for chiropractic, I would adjust them, then tell them to close their eyes and lie there until I told them to open them again. While their eyes were closed, I would pass my hands over the patients for a moment or two. When they got up and the pain was gone, they asked me what I had done. “Nothing. And don’t tell anyone,” became my standard reply. This directive was about as effective as Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” approach to drugs.
Soon people were coming in from all over for these healings and I had no idea what was going on. Sure, I checked in regularly with the woman who had reconnected me via the axiatonal lines. “It must have come from something that was already in you. Maybe it had to do with your mother’s near death experience at the time of your birth,” she said, adding “I don’t know of anyone who ever responded like this. It’s fascinating.” Fascinating. Apparently, fascinating meant that I was on my own.

A quest arises.

November finds me in the office of a world-renowned psychic.

Out of breath, lost, and 30 minutes late (as usual), I rush in, plop down on his chair and pretend not to notice “the glare”. You know, that look mastered by the anally retentive, terminally prompt; the one that causes you to flash back on every lecture you’ve ever received about being on time and to simultaneously question your value as a human being based upon the perceived enormity of this single, yet questionable, flaw. I was certain that on his days off he was petitioning Congress to bring back the use of the word tardy in the public school system. This reading was shot, I was sure.
He spread his cards in a very businesslike fashion, carefully not showing a hint of warmth or compassion on his face. He looked at the cards, then looked me straight in the eyes with a slightly quizzical expression or a scowl and asked, “What is it that you do?” Now, I don’t know about you, but at $100 an hour, I was thinking, ‘You’re the psychic. You tell me.’ I refrained from verbalizing my thoughts. “I’m a chiropractor,” I said matter-of-factly, being careful not to give out too much information that might color my reading. (I didn’t even tell him my last name when I scheduled the appointment.) “Oh, no. It’s much more than that,” he said. “Something comes out through your hands and people receive healings. You will be on television,” he continued, “and people will be coming from all over the country to see you.” This was the last thing that I had expected to hear from this man. Then he told me I would be writing books. “Let me tell you something,” I shot back with a knowing smile, “if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I won’t be writing any books.”
Books and I never got along. By this point in my life I had maybe read two books, and one of them I was still coloring. But life was to bring more changes. Psychics, healers, and channelers found me. From all over the country they would come, telling me that they were told in their meditations to work on me – and refusing any monetary compensation in return. My love affair with alcohol cooled down to a casual friendship: one and a half glasses of wine with dinner, occasionally. No one was more surprised than I.
The strangest was yet to come: My addiction to television came to an abrupt halt. It was replaced by, dare I say it, books. I couldn’t read enough: Eastern philosophy, life after death, channeled information, and even UFO experiences. I looked at, listened to and read everything, everywhere.
At night, I would lie down to go to sleep, and my legs would vibrate. My hands felt as if they were constantly “on”. The bones of my skull would also vibrate and my ears would buzz. Later on, tones would come to me, and on rare occasion what sounded like voices in choir.
That’s it. I’ve lost my sanity. I was certain now. Everyone knows that when you lose your sanity, you start hearing voices. Mine were singing. In choir yet. I couldn’t have had a little light humming, a faint vocalist or even a small chorale group. No, I get a whole choir.
And what about my patients? They were seeing colors: beautiful, exquisite blues, greens, purples, golds and white. And although they were able to recognize these colors, they told me that they had never seen these particular manifestations before. Their beauty is beyond that which we know. I am told by my patients who are in television and film that not only do these colors not exist as we know color here on earth, but even using all their sources and technologies that we have today, it would not be possible to reproduce them.
And, yes, patients saw angels. Now angels are a popular thing to experience, so in the beginning I didn’t pay that much attention to the angel stories until people began describing the same stories: the same angels, the same messages, the same names. We’re not talking common angel names like Michael or Ariel, neither are we talking Moses or Buddha, although a lot of people do say that they see Jesus. We’re talking names like Parsillia and George. George appears to children and others who might be unnerved by the thought of seeing an angel. You see, George appears first as a small multi-colored parrot. Then, as it is regularly explained to me, suddenly he isn’t a parrot at all, suddenly he just becomes your friend. George has been known to appear to people later during times of stress.
The first person to see George was an 11-year-old girl named Jamie. She and her mother flew in from New Jersey because she had scoliosis of the spine, quite noticeably disfiguring the body of this unusually bright and otherwise very attractive girl. When Jamie came out of her session, she said to her mother and me, “I just saw this tiny little multicolored parrot. And he told me his name was George. And then he wasn’t a parrot at all. He wasn’t even a life-form.” Life form: now there’s a word for an eleven year-old. “Then, he just became my friend.”
Within the next two to three months, several George sightings were reported to me by other patients, none of whom knew of George, because, as with all of the angels, I keep the names and descriptions in confidence so as not to influence other people’s experiences. (Even in this writing I’ve changed the names of George and Parsillia to protect the purely innocent.)
Jamie’s spine was mostly, though not completely, corrected by her third session, after which she returned to New Jersey. I’ve spoken with her several times since. She appears to be doing fine. And, every once in a while, she still hears from George.
Parsillia, on the other hand, comes with specific messages. First, she often lets you know that you will be healed. Following that, she tells you that, if you are healed, you are to go on television and “spread the word”. I guess she would be called our Angel of Public Relations.
The first person to see Parsillia was a woman from Oregon named Michele. Michele had seen me during an NBC interview on one of my earlier talk show appearances. At the time she weighed all of 87 pounds. She had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and fibromyalgia. She had no appetite and it hurt her just to swallow. She was unable to get up from a chair to make it into the bathroom by herself. To make her pain somewhat bearable, she would have to be carried from her bed and placed under a hot running shower up to four times each night. If she took her children on a one-hour drive to visit her mother, she would have to stay there, in bed, for three days before she was able to make the drive home. She was obviously unable to hold down a full time job. And her six-year-old would have to make dinner for his three year-old brother: peanut butter sandwiches.
Michele, like most of my patients, had never seen an angel or heard voices before. It took her three days before she was able to get the angel’s name. Parsillia told her that she would be healed and that she was to spread the word via television. Approximately one year later, she was a guest along with me on a different talk show. She was all smiles – and quite a few tears. Her weight is now normal, her complexion healthy, she holds down a full time job and exercises regularly. And oh yes, she cooks dinner for her family every evening. No more peanut butter sandwiches.
Another visitor patients see is a man with white hair, a white moustache and a white coat. Other times, he appears in a robe with his head covered.
Debbie, a Southern California mother of three, was the first to see this angel (whose name we don’t know). She was diagnosed in March of 1995 with terminal pancreatic cancer, the same cancer that took the life of actor Michael Landon. She was told she had maybe two months to live. Her experiences included being elevated out of her body, traveling through a tunnel, seeing flecks of turquoise and blue light and ultimately being embraced by white light. Debbie experienced the white haired man in both forms. The first time she encountered him he was wearing his robe and head covering. He touched her wrist sending a surge of energy coursing through her body. He then bowed and walked away, leaving her in the presence of a very bright yet unusually welcoming light. Tears filled her eyes. She next found herself in a tunnel traveling through the galaxy, feeling “stuff” leaving her body through both her feet and her head.
By Debbie’s second or third session, her previously inoperable tumor was 80 percent gone. Approximately eight months later, her doctors felt she was a candidate for surgery to remove the remaining 20 percent. Just prior to her appointed surgery date, she returned for another of our sessions. A day-and-a-half later she went to the hospital in anticipation of her surgery. After some tests, however, she was sent home. No surgery. Apparently, in the day-and-a-half since our session her tumor had vanished completely. Nothing remained but scar tissue.
As an interesting side-note, Debbie came back for another session in November. During her session she felt water droplets landing on the right side of her face. Following that, the man with the white hair and mustache reappeared, this time wearing his long white coat, which was blowing behind him in the wind. Then he simply blew away.
Patients also commonly see a circle of doctors wearing white coats, conferring and guiding the healings. They can be seen talking in the circle, yet they can’t be heard. Another regular is a young Native American girl who places a leather band with shiny, square ornaments on your forehead. Often times a Native American male also comes and stands in the room. (We are not yet sure whether he’s a chief or a shaman.) Another visitor is a very tall, handsome angel, usually described as eight, nine or ten feet tall with huge, densely feathered white wings in scalloped rows. I am told that he stands behind with his arms around my waist, peering over my right shoulder, silently guiding my hands. Many of these angels seem to have their own specific scents: flowers, incense, and herbs – in particular, rosemary.
Then came Jered. Jered was four when his mother first brought him in. With braces on his knees that would no longer hold him up, his eyes simultaneously looked in two different directions yet were able to focus on nothing. Words no longer came from his mouth, and in the void was only the endless flow of saliva. Jered’s light had been reduced to a vacant expression which showed barely a glimmer of the beautiful being that once dwelt within.
Jered had been losing the myelin coating of his brain where nerve impulses travel. He had been suffering approximately fifty grand mal seizures per day. Medication reduced the seizures to approximately 16 a day. As he lay there on the table, motionless and almost without expression, his mother explained that over the past year she had helplessly watched his rapid deterioration. By the time of her first visit, she found herself left not with the child she once knew, but with what she could only describe as an “amoeba”.
During Jered’s first session, whenever my hand would approach the left side of his head, he would sense its presence and reach for it. “Look, he knows where your hand is. He’s reaching. He never does that,” his mother pointed out with hopeful surprise. “That’s where the myelin is missing,” she added. Jered became so active that by the end of that session his mother had to sit by him on the table, lightly holding his hands, placatingly singing children’s songs as only a mother can. Their favorite was “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. The day of Jered’s first session, these physically violent seizures stopped. Completely.
Jered’s second session found him grasping at doorknobs and beginning to turn them. His vision improved, he was now able to focus on objects. On his way out of our office, he pointed to a floral arrangement in our reception area: “Flowers,” he said smiling. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
That night, Jered was discovered reciting the letters of the alphabet with Vanna White while watching Wheel of Fortune. And before he went to sleep, this formerly speechless cherub looked up towards his mother and said “Mommy sing to me.” Five weeks later, Jered was back at school. On the playground. Catching balls.
Did Jered see an angel? He never said so, but I know that he did. This one drove him one hour to and from his appointments, sat by him on the table, lightly held his hands and lovingly sang to him “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” as only an angel can.
It turns out that I had to go inside to find most of my answers. My two main concerns were, one, that I couldn’t predict what someone’s response would be and therefore could make promises to no one, and, two, that I would have unpredictable highs and lows in the energies that would last anywhere from three days to three weeks.
I had always been an in-charge type of person who could accomplish whatever I set my mind to. While others took a wait-and-see attitude, I preferred to dominate, manipulate and control situational outcomes. Obstacles that seemed invincible to others were invisible to me, so I would charge ahead and get things done. The most galling expression on earth to someone like me was, “If it’s meant to be, it will be.” Meant to be, schmeant to be. If I want it to happen, I’ll make it happen, and don’t any of you namby-pamby fatalists get in my way. So, imagine my surprise when the realization dawned on me that for these healings to really accelerate, I had to get out of the way and quit directing, to step back and let a higher power guide. Who’s saying this? I thought. It can’t be me.
But it was true. Not only did the energy know where to go and what to do without the slightest instruction from me; the more I got my attention out of the picture the more powerful the response. Some of the greatest healings occurred when I was thinking about my grocery list. The audacity!
Receive, don’t send.
Who said that? I asked, searching the inner recesses of my head as if I could really see something in there. You’ve got the wrong person here for that kind of advice. My ego was still recovering from “get out of the way and let a higher power guide.” How am I going to get these healings through to these people if I don’t send them?
Receive, don’t send.
I heard you the first time. Now answer my question, I mentally retorted.
Silence.
(Silence can really irk me sometimes.)
I went in to see the next patient. Hoping that I wasn’t doing her a disservice and grateful that she couldn’t read the hesitation and uncertainty of concept in my mind, I began, palms open, at her feet. I received from the patient through my hands. I received from the heavens through the top of my head. It was loving, it was humbling, and it was confusing. It felt awkward. And then I saw the patient begin to respond. And it felt right.
At that point I truly embraced the concept that I had been espousing, yet not fully understanding all along: I am not the healer, only God is the healer, and for some reason, whether I’m a catalyst or a vessel, an amplifier or intensifier, pick your own word, I’m invited into the room.
The session was over. The patient had seen the same spectacular colors and heard the same exquisite tones that the other patients see and hear. She too had seen two of the angels frequently described to me as being present during the healing process. Her problem, a mixture of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, fibromyalgia, and colitis, was to be gone after this session. Although not immediately life threatening, it had been ruling her life for the past eight years. She got up from the table and said, “Thank you!”
I replied, “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it.” She said, “Well of course you did,” not understanding. “It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t hold your hands over me.”
I thought, maybe that person sitting up there on that cloud didn’t make such a mistake after all. Maybe I was selected for this gift because I don’t wear robes and turbans, because I don’t hang tapestries and burn incense, because I don’t walk around barefoot eating bowls of dirt with chopsticks. Maybe it’s because I’m accessible and speak in relatively plain terms. Or maybe it’s because of my ability to come up with silly little ways of explaining things that I’m only beginning to grasp myself.
“It’s like this,” I explained, searching for an easily comprehensible analogy for a young girl whose concept of spiritual synchronicity was that Melrose Place was both the name of the street where my LA office had been located and that of her favorite TV show. “It’s as if you’ve just had a wonderful chocolate malted…and you’re thanking the straw.”
She laughed.
I think we both got it.
       

THE HEADS

The following article is my favorite UFO story. It ran in UFO Report about 15 years ago. I don't have the exact date of the magazine because the pages have been torn out. I know you will find it as intriguing as I do...

THE ALIEN OF BLOUNT ISLAND - The most unique and conclusive alien encounter in UFO history - by B. Ann Slate (Deceased)

Last October, 600 disappointed people had to be turned away from the already packed Florida Junior College auditorium in Jacksonville. They all wanted to hear nuclear physicist Stanton Friedman deliver his lecture, "Flying Saucers ARE Real."

Norman r. Chastain, a resident of Jacksonville, had arrived early in order to get a seat. The reason for his promptness was more than a normal interest and curiosity about UFOs. Norman Chastain had kept a secret inside him for over a year about an amazing experience which he would not reveal until he found the proper scientific authority to investigate it with, as he put it, "sincerity."

Later that evening at his home, Chastain began drafting a letter to Stanton Friedman at the UFO Research Institute in California. It began, "I am just an ordinary railroad electrician with 35 years of service..." The contents of that letter and the subsequent scientific research now being conducted as a result may make Norman Chastain's encounter the most unique and conclusive in UFO history.

While an electrician by profession, Chastain is an outdoorsman by hobby, so on a Friday evening in late January 1972, the 60 year old man drove with his cabin boat and trailer toward Blount Island which lies inland from the Atlantic Ocean near the mouth of the St. Johns River which is east of Jacksonville.

The island is essentially an industrial complex with municipal docks, a generating plant, and towering power lines. It was soon to figure prominently in the news as the Audubon Society fought in the courts to prevent a platform-mounted floating nuclear power plant from being constructed on the island.

But for Norman Chastain, Blount island meant calm water and a likely spot to catch large red bass. He anchored the Sea Camper 50 feet from shore. It was high slack tide. Across the island, the deserted passenger liner, the Constitution rested at storage anchor.

The mild winter's night was so quiet, Chastain could hear a "tiny frog croaking across the river." He began fishing and the hours passed quickly. It was near 3 a.m. when he first noticed the orange and blue lights flashing over the Ft. Caroline National Monument.

"Must be Mosquito Control," Chastain thought to himself but he soon changed his mind. The lights remained stationary, hovering about 300 feet over the monument and changing colors frequently. "Could it be a police helicopter?" he wondered. No, there wasn't a sound. Suddenly, the lights moved directly toward him, stopping 150 feet over his boat. The domed, circular shape was clear now and the electrician knew he was looking at a craft that was not from this planet. Approximately 75 feet across, eight feet thick, with a dome estimated at five feet high, the strange object had brilliant lights around its circumference.

"When I saw it was a UFO and the first one I've ever seen in my life, naturally I was kind of startled," Chastain said. "I didn't know what to do and I didn't know what it might do!"

After the initial shock wore off, Chastain reasoned that the craft might have mistaken his boat's running lights for another alien object. The Sea Camper has some unusual lighting features which Chastain built himself, blinking red and green markerl lights, a flashing white light on the bow and several reflectors. The two-burner Coleman lantern, mounted on top of the cabin, was also burning.

For five minutes, the craft hovered noiselessly overhead until Chastain snapped off the main light switch and turned out the lantern. Almost instantly, the UFO lights went out and he watched the dark outline of the object move slowly back toward the bluff from where it had come.

Chastain believed his strange encounter was over and that he had seen the last of the alien spaceship. Now he had other things to worry about because in the excitement of the sighting, the tide had shifted and pushed his boat aground. He made his way onto the dark island to hunt for a piece of driftwood to pry his boat off the shore and back into deeper water. He carried a strong spotlight with him and played the light over the ground to avoid stepping in any holes. Some distance from the boat, he located a 10 foot plank and began making his way back to the Sea Camper.

"I stopped about 75 feet from my boat to rest a minute as that wet piece of timber was heavy," Chastain said. "I raised my spotlight to see if my boat was still in the muck and there in the edges of the bushes was the strangest looking creature one could ever imagine!"

Standing in the waist-high growth was an alien being, clothed in a tight fitting suit that the witness compared to old fashioned men's winter underwear, "except it was a dark silver gray and it shined slightly." The being was about five to five and a half feet tall, had small arms, a large head with pointed ears, and a slightly angular chin. On the top of its head was a glowing disc. The creature's mouth was slightly open and framed in the bright glow from Chastain's spotlight, the oversized, protruding eyes resembled glass reflecting light. As the witness understated, "It didn't look human at all!"

For several frozen moments, alien and earthman gazed at each other. Then suddenly, the being raised his left hand which held a flat device about three inches across. There was a brilliant white flash which Chastain said almost blinded him. Then the numbness started, a slow paralysis that began in his neck and moved throughout his body.

"I staggered around so dizzy I couldn't stand up, so I laid down in the tall grass. My arms and legs became numb and tingled, just like when your leg goes to sleep. I was tempted to scream for help, hoping someone might be on the island and would come to my rescue, but then I decided it might be better just to lie still. The devil-looking thing might've come up to where I was and finished me off in an instant."

After the brilliant ray from the alien's weapon flashed in his face, an overpowering stench seemed to cling to Chastain's hair and clothes; a sickening, unfamiliar odor which he said "didn't compare to a skunk!" Whether this foul smell was part of the beam or one of its after effects, Chastain couldn't be sure.

Now lying paralyzed in the grass, the terrified witness said, "For the first hour I was sure I would die, but I prayed and prayed. The numbness began going away. About daybreak, I was able to get up on my hands and knees and crawl farther away from the boat. By noon of the next day, my strength returned and I could walk again. It was a warm day, I could see my boat 50 feet out in the water with the door open and no one inside."

The offensive odor still covered him. Chastain swam out to his boat, put on swimming trunks and dried his clothes, but the stench still remained. He washed his hair with a disinfectant, threw the clothes in a roadside ditch on the way home and felt almost normal except for having a peculiar light feeling, almost as if he was floating on air.

This condition didn't escape his wife's notice. "You don't look right, Norman," she said as soon as he walked on the house. "What's the matter?" Since Mrs. Chastain had been under a doctor's care, he didn't want to upset her with the details of his frightening experience. "So I told her a little lie, that the water had been rough and I got seasick," the witness said. "What's more I didn't tell anyone else for fear of being ridiculed, or have somebody accuse me of being some kind of nut!"

Norman Chastain couldn't have known that his experience with the humanoid from another world was far from over. The following day he went to his physician for a checkup, just in case the alien ray might have dome some permanent damage, or by chance the paralysis might have been caused by a stroke or heart attack. His doctor gave him a clean bill of health.

The electrician returned to the island in the daytime to search for some clue or evidence of his bizarre encounter but there wasn't a trace. He smelled around the grass and bushes where he had fallen but the noxious odor was gone. The piece of timber was still on the ground where he had dropped it. He went back to work at the railroad as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

But his nights weren't ordinary, for Chastain began to experience vivid dreams of another planet with strange-looking beings, remarkably huge flowers, and assembly lines which put out saucer-shaped craft. He kept these dreams, as well as the incident on Blount Island to himself.
Not being well informed about UFOs, Chastain wasn't aware of the many strange objects sighted over power lines, generating plants, and atomic installations. Nor had he ever researched the many cases concerning humanoids so he couldn't have known the alien he saw was not unique in appearance or actions. Silver-gray, tight-fitting uniforms, prominent glowing eyes, pointed ears, mysterious rays which blind or paralyze, all these are familiar features in documented sightings reported by responsible eyewitnesses to UFO investigators all over the world.

The classic case of the Hopkinsville, Kentucky creature bears several similar characteristics to that of the Blount Island episode. Considered one of the finest of all occupant sightings in the US, this incident took place in 1955 and is listed in official Air Force files as "Unidentified." Jacques Vallee's presentation of the case in Anatomy of a Phenomenon points out several significant facts omitted in other versions. He especially calls to the attention of interested biologists that a particular reaction on the part of the Hopkinsville creature might be worthy of further investigation.

In brief, the Kentucky alien was described as about four feet tall with huge eyes, large pointed ears, arms that hung almost to the ground, and large hands with long nails or claws. The being's clothing was called "nickel plated." Just before the alien approached the Sutton family household of eight adults and three children, one of the teenager's said he'd seen a flying object land behind the farmhouse. The family assumed he'd seen a shooting star -- that is until an hour later when a "little man" walked toward the house with both arms raised over its head.
If this gesture meant no hostility was intended, that fact was lost on the frightened people. One of the men grabbed his shotgun and fired through the screen door but the blast seemed to have no effect. The creature did a somersault and disappeared into the darkness. (The sound of the shot hitting was compared to that of shooting into a tin bucket.) The being's curiosity (or surveillance mission?) continued for interminable hours, as the creatures appeared on the roof and peeked through windows. (There is some question as to the precise number of beings as one of the witnesses remarked during an Air Force interrogation, "I only know what I saw. I saw two of the men or maybe the same one twice.")

The terrified family, during a lull in the "battle" abandoned the house, piled into their cars and drove into town to get law enforcement help. Police and state troopers moved into the area. As one of the officers drove toward the farmhouse to join the search, he reported seeing several strange "meteors" that came from the direction of the Sutton farm. As he and his wife looked out of the car, they saw two of them passing overhead with a loud "swishing" noise. However, the result of the investigation proved fruitless. The craft had disappeared from the gully and there were no indications around the house of what had taken place.

Of biological significance, as author Vallee points out, is that, "The eyes of the entities were large and apparently very sensitive. It was noticed that they always approached the house from the darkest corner. There was no pupil in the eye, no eyelid; when the witnesses turned on the lights outside the house, it seemed to prevent the creatures from coming towards the doors.
Thus, as Norman Chastain stood on Blount Island, frozen with the shock of seeing a silver-suited alien outlined in the beam of his powerful spotlight, can we assume that this creature felt pain or discomfort from the light and so retaliated by blasting the witness with his own form of light ray? This extraterrestrial, as with the Sutton case, had similar large glowing eyes that apparently had no pupils or eyelids.

So if by chance the Blount Island alien was in reality a robot on a surveillance mission, whose job was to take scientific readings (soil analysis, etc.) at the site of a future nuclear power plant, Norman Chastain may have inadvertently interfered and had to be stopped! There's no end to speculating on alien motivation and behavior, yet similar details from well-researched cases must be examined if we're to eventually draw any clear-cut patterns in the data.

However, the real evidence of the Blount Island sighting would uniquely present itself three days after the incident and right in the witness's own backyard.

It was now just a few days into February 1972 and Norman Chastain was asleep when a loud clap of thunder woke him up. "It was lightning and raining and then that same overpowering, distinctive stench that thing shot me with was pouring into my bedroom window. I jumped up to close the window, got my gun, and stayed awake the rest of the night listening and smelling that sickening odor. I wondered if that creature had some way of knowing where I went when I left the island."

Chastain got up several times during the stormy night to peer nervously out the window. His wife was sleeping in a separate bedroom on the opposite side of the house. Finally the storm ended and it was morning. Chastain heard his wife moving about and the cat meowing to be let out. He dressed rapidly and with gun in hand, cautiously opened the back door from where the stench was pouring in.

For a moment, he thought he'd lost his mind. Growing in the grass directly behind the Sea Camper was a cluster of flesh-colored "heads." It was like a scene out of an all-too-real horror movie but the "plants" all resembled the facial distortions of the alien on the Island and were producing the same terrible odor! With mouths gaping, large eye sockets shining with a white substance like glazed eyes, three of the five inch tall "heads" appeared fully developed while two of the smaller ones were, according to Chastain, like "new born babes with their eyes closed." The witness shuddered, looked skyward and on the ground for a spacecraft or other growths but there was nothing else unusual to be seen.

He had to have someone else witness the strange growth so he rushed to some of his neighbor's homes. The men had already gone to work. In a state of near frenzy, Chastain returned home, grabbed a shovel and dug up two of the bigger heads and the two smaller ones, and tossed them behind the nearby utility shed. Then he called to his wife, asking her to join him in the backyard.
Her first shocked response was, "Lord that looks like something from another world!" Chastain desperately wanted to tell his wife everything that had happened the night he went fishing alone on Blount Island, but he held back concerned about her delicate health. Already she was showing signs of becoming ill from smelling the noxious odor of the remaining growth.

"Go inside and call the police! Tell them something strange is growing in our backyard," Chastain said to his wife. "And have them say I'm drunk or crazy when I tell them what it looks like; a pink devil with big eyes and pointed ears and a round mouth that's stinking up the neighborhood?" was her response.

Chastain had to agree with her but he desperately wanted other witnesses. Grabbing a shovel, he dug up the last freak growth, jumped in his car and headed for the Jacksonville Journal newspaper offices. He carefully placed the "head" on the front floorboard of his car.
"I had to drive with my head out the window because the stench was overpowering me," he said. "I was getting dizzy, the same helpless feeling I experienced on the Island, and I was scared the numbness might start to set in before I reached the newspaper office."
In route, Chastain narrowly avoided hitting another car. He jammed on his brakes and the growth slammed against the steep portion of the floorboard. Now another nightmare began. The "head" started oozing a red substance after the impact -- a secretion which Chastain describes as similar to blood.

He tried to regain his composure at the newspaper offices as he described the weird plant in his car to the news editor. Chastain made no reference to the craft or alien on Blount Island.
The news editor eyed Chastain suspiciously. "Is this on the level or have you been drinking?"
"I'm not a drinking man," Chastain answered, "but this thing in my car has got me woozy from the odor it's putting out!" Together with several other reporters, Chastain and the editor returned to the car. Someone in the group remarked upon closer examination of the growth, "Look into its mouth! It's even got little teeth!"

The "head" was not familiar to any of the Journal staff. Nor could the monstrosity be identified by Chastain's coworkers at the Seaboard Coast Line Railroad Company roundhouse, his next stop for additional witnesses after leaving the newspaper offices. Foreman John Ellis exlcaimed, "Good Lord, is that thing putting out all the stink in here?"

Clyde Schramm, pipe fitter said, "Look at the red stuff coming out f the back of its head!"
By the following day, all the "heads" had shriveled into pink sponge-like balls which Chastain buried in the spot where they initially grew to see what would happen, but none of the Demon Plants reappeared.

As of this writing, soil samples taken from different depths in Chastain's backyard and on Blount Island are being subjected to various tests in several laboratories. The backyard soil, under preliminary microscopic examination, possesses substantial fungi hyphae (root filaments) and it is hoped that the spores remaining in the samples will germinate in a humidity chamber set to duplicate the conditions that prevailed on the night they grew.

What exactly are these spores? Are we talking about extraterrestrial ones seeded in terrestrial soil? While this cannot be ruled out thus far, another tentative hypothesis may be possible. One clue to the freak "heads" is indicated by the terrible stench they gave off.

Louis C. C. Krieger in The Mushroom handbook says of the variety of fungi called stinkhorns that they have"... the insupportable effluvium of Limburger cheese raised to the nth degree." Because of the stench, these mushrooms attract flies and thus the spores are disseminated by the insects which carry them on their bodies and in their excreta. The flies also deposit their eggs on these fungi and the maggots then have a ready supply of food as they mature, eating their way through the flesh of the mushroom. The resulting holes in the stinkhorn will produce various designs and a few varieties in the stinkhorn family will ooze a blood-like red substance when cut or split open.

Does that eliminate any connection between the alien on the island and the peculiar growths in Chastain's backyard? Did the witness merely fall into a patch of stinkhorns on the island and transport spores on his shoes or body back to his home where they would magically pop out of the ground several nights later due to the extreme rain and weather conditions?

The specialists working on this case could not agree. The probability that maggots would eat a precise face in one stinkhorn might be called coincidental but the odds are astronomical that all five of the fungi would be eaten in precisely the same manner to produce identical shapes. That the mushroom would bear such a close resemblance to the creature on the island is also rather remote. It is also significant that the "heads' grew near the location where Chastain drained the water from the Sea Camper - water that may have been irradiated from the UFO which hovered over the boat.

Prof. Leslie Paleg of Adelaide University of Australia recently announced the remarkable method of using laser beams on plant life to influence plant behavior on growth. "Only bursts are needed because laser light is highly concentrated and intense," the distinguished agricultural scientist said. "We have been able to show that a one-second burst of light from a laser a quarter mile away will affect the growth of a morning glory vine."
And in that area of research lies the key, not just to the Chastain mystery but the many UFO close encounters and landings which have affected the soil and produced the huge circular rings of mutated plant life nearby.

Laser, microwave, and other light energies used in biological research is still a relatively new science. But if the fungi can be made to germinate in the Florida soil samples, we can work backward to determine what kind of light beam -- or energy -- produced the mutation, yielding still more definitive data on the technological secrets of flying saucers and their occupants.