Raechel's Eyes Unveiled: Final Details Concerning A True Case of a Human-Alien Hybrid [1 ed.] 0926524607

Table of contents :
My Childhood Years......Page 6
The Blue Lights......Page 8
The Last Time I Saw Marisa......Page 13
Marisa’s Funeral......Page 15
Comments by Marisa's students......Page 19
Knowing Raechel......Page 20
Colonel Nadim......Page 27
Raechel’s Leaving......Page 30
Follow up with Bob......Page 32
What Really Happened......Page 33
VISITATIONS and OTHER EVENTS......Page 37
Epilogue......Page 41

Citation preview

RAECHEL’S EYES UNVEILED Looking Back at my Involvement with a Human-Alien Hybrid by Helen Littrell

SYNOPSIS of Raechel's Eyes Marisa, nearly totally blind since eighth grade, was enrolled in her freshman year at American River Junior College, but she needed a roommate to share living expenses and help with her daily living activities. Almost immediately, Raechel appeared at the school with her “father,” Air Force Colonel Nadim, hoping to find a roommate who would be willing to overlook her uniqueness. An agreement was struck immediately, which on the surface appeared to be a synchronicity. Soon after the girls began living together, I visited, and, through a dramatic face-to-face encounter with Raechel during which I saw her eyes, I had to accept the truth that she was definitely “not from here.” Shortly following this, Colonel Nadim called a meeting of the four of us — Raechel, me, Marisa, and he — wherein he disclosed details of how he had obtained Raechel, a hybrid alien/human, and his agreement with the U.S. Government to raise her as a human child. Within weeks, both he and Raechel mysteriously disappeared. Marisa, initially heartbroken over Raechel’s leaving, subsequently discovered that Raechel had left her a most wonderful gift. The second part of Raechel’s Eyes contains many verbatim hypnosis sessions conducted by Dr. June Steiner. I have also included several paranormal experiences that have enriched my life immensely. I do not try to understand them; they were a gift that merely requires acceptance. Finally, there’s brief mention of Marisa’s sudden passing at the age of 38, in the very prime of life, due to arteriosclerosis related to the childhood diabetes that she’d struggled with since age eight. I have learned very clearly that death is not final, that life exists on other planes, and that communication is possible following death. A real page-turner, this book tells it like it is — Black Government

Projects, Men in Black, intergalactic travel, and human-alien relationships!

Preface to the Addendum One thing that never lets go is Marisa’s image and voice constantly present in my mind. I still hear her saying, as she often did when one or the other of us struggled with a problem that seemed insurmountable — “Whatever it takes, mom, whatever it takes.” I believe she encouraged me at every step of the way to tell the story of Raechel’s Eyes, and I did exactly that. It was the story of our personal lives — hers, mine, and the little that we were privileged to learn of Raechel’s. We overcame numerous ongoing obstacles in order to become acquainted with an unfamiliar alien world and its occupants as well as another space-time in which both of us eventually became deeply involved. Some of those obstacles are still ongoing, but the outcome is more informative and not as challenging as in the past. Again Marisa is here in spirit as I begin putting together this new book, Raechel’s Eyes Unveiled, that will fill in some bits of information missing in Raechel’s Eyes — loose ends that readers have asked about. They wanted to know things like, “What happened to the Colonel?” “What happened to Raechel?” “Do you still undergo abductions?” And there were many others, too, such as “Are you a hybrid?” And sadly, some readers still weren’t clear about what had happened to Marisa, that she’d passed away unexpectedly in the prime of her life. It was clearly evident that I needed to provide the answers to these and some other questions to the best of my ability. As well, I needed to include information concerning my personal life to help readers understand how I could interact with the participants of Raechel’s world while living my own difficult life with a physically and emotionally abusive husband and attempting to protect myself and my children while working full-time. Looking back, it seems like an impossible balancing act, but there was no choice, no happy medium. Now that man is permanently out of my life, and I’m free from the actual physical abuse, but the aftereffect is that I’m left with PTSD that flares up occasionally when I observe or even read about particularly cruel, abusive situations. My life is good now, although I find myself living with feet in two different worlds — the ordinary day-to-day

physical world and the extraordinary metaphysical world. And yes, it is possible — I’ve done it all my 80-some years — and as far as I can tell I’m apparently no worse for the wear. I hope the excerpts from both my past and Marisa’s will assist the reader in understanding the overall high strangeness of our interaction with Raechel as well as entities that occasionally continue to visit me from another space-time. Right now Marisa is communicating with me telepathically, as each of us has done since childhood. She tells me to be uncompromisingly frank in disclosing any information that will help my readers understand the part that Raechel played in our lives. She tells me that I no longer need to fear retaliation from those human and nonhuman entities that threatened me in the past. I’m not sure how she can be so adamant about this, but I trust her judgment. There isn’t much left that they could do to me anyway that hasn’t been done in the past. No detail concerning my first meeting with Raechel has changed in the years since that seemingly innocent scenario in which I first met her on a warm late spring afternoon in early 1972. I still remember everything with overwhelming clarity — exactly how each of us, Raechel, Marisa, and I — was dressed, how we wore our hair, where we stood in the doorway to the apartment, the color of the paint on the apartment door as it contrasted with the outside wall, Marisa’s and my conversation. I recall the width of the downstairs walkway outside the apartment and the location of the apartment itself on the second floor of the building, the chest-high wooden safety railing that guarded against making a misstep and falling to the parking lot below, the broad gray cement steps of the stairway leading to the ground-floor entrance, even the position of the cars parked on the pavement below, mine carefully sheltered in the afternoon shade of the tall, bushy oleanders so common in northern California. Almost immediately after Raechel’s Eyes came out, the course of my life changed drastically and swiftly. Within days I began receiving telephone calls and emails from people who had had experiences they couldn’t explain away. Sometimes they saw strange lights in the sky that behaved in an unusual manner, the lights frequently following their car for some distance, oftentimes causing the engine to shut down for an unknown length of time. Sometimes there was an unexplained face-to-face encounter, which sometimes ended in abduction itself.

Most of my callers had never before dared speak of these things to anyone because they feared job loss or ostracism and ridicule from friends and family. Worst of all, however, was their own overwhelming inability to accept whatever had occurred. On one level they clearly knew that something out of the ordinary had taken place. There may have been time lapses that they couldn’t account for; unusual marks may have been placed on their bodies; or they may have been returned from an abduction wearing someone else’s clothes or their own tee shirt put on backwards. No matter what the circumstances were, it was far simpler to just ignore the whole scenario and pretend it never happened. But the memory never truly went away. Always in the back of the person’s mind was the nagging remembrance that it did happen, and the tragic downside of this was that they had never achieved any closure or acceptance. My callers weren’t necessarily looking for answers, because in their minds and hearts there was an overpowering fear of the unknown. Some weren’t quite yet ready to accept information concerning beings and dimensions outside of their comfort zone. They simply needed to confide in someone in what they considered a safe situation. What I offered was a calm, reassuring presence, a voice that listened to a story frequently interspersed with tears, sobbing, and oftentimes long pauses while the caller collected himself or herself sufficiently to continue. The conversation nearly always began, “You’re going to think I’m crazy. I’ve never told anyone about this before.” My response would be, “No, you’re not crazy. You’ve simply had an experience you don’t understand. When you’re ready, just go ahead and tell me what happened.” And then the stories and the questions would just tumble out, and at the end, the caller might ask hesitantly if I had an explanation, followed by, “It feels so good to talk with someone who won’t put me down.” There was no way I could supply answers. I couldn’t even understand some of my own experiences. The important thing was that I was able to reassure callers that they weren’t going crazy, that they had experienced something that may have originated from another world, perhaps another dimension, and that they had come through it undamaged. That was the important thing; they were not really damaged. Now that they had shared the experience with a nonjudgmental listener, the fear of whatever had happened would gradually diminish. I will attempt to provide as completely as possible my own back story

as it relates to Raechel’s Eyes, and the stories of Marisa and the Colonel, as well as of Raechel, who passed through our lives so briefly that we never really had the opportunity to know her as well as we would have liked. To the benefit of us all, she left behind a lingering, unforgettable memory for all who knew her, even though she didn’t speak like us, look like us, or act like us, although she did her very best to try and fit in. We will always remember her with love and compassion.

My Childhood Years As I reflect upon early memories, as well as those in my early teenage years, it becomes increasingly clear that I was not a wanted child. Neither was I loved or valued. There was never any overt closeness or display of nurturing or love, although at the time I suppose I considered this to be “normal” behavior. I was rarely involved in the interaction that other families had with their children for any length of time so I never truly observed how other family groups related to each other. There were few visitors to my home except Aunt Helen and Uncle George, who made regular biweekly Sunday-afternoon visits. Aunt Helen was always unusually attentive to me, hugging and holding me tight as we began talking. She made sure to keep me close by her side, sometimes holding my hand in hers as she included me in the adult conversation while my mother, lips clamped together tightly in a frown, looked on disapprovingly as my aunt quickly and loudly overrode all objections. And Aunt Helen always brought me a lovely, oftentimes expensive gift, which my mother grudgingly allowed me to keep. The hugs I received from her and Uncle George were very special to me at that time. They were the only ones I got. Looking back, I remember that no reference was ever made to my origin — where I was born or details of my birth or family history — except that I was told that all four of my grandparents had supposedly arrived in the United States by boat from Switzerland in the mid-1800s. I sometimes overheard bits of conversation about an uncle who served in the U.S. Navy in World War I, but there were never any details beyond his name, Walter. After he returned from the service, he apparently dropped out of sight for unknown reasons. No one ever overtly spoke of him. I once saw a picture of him in his Navy uniform, but when I looked for it again, the photo album I’d seen it in

had totally disappeared. When I asked where it might be, I was told firmly that there had never been one. I didn’t push the subject, but I knew for sure that I’d seen the album with his picture in it. It was as if they were somehow ashamed of him and his service to the United States. I hardly knew my grandparents, having never met either grandfather, and I only rarely saw the women who were said to be my grandmothers. In retrospect, everyone seemed to go on the defensive whenever I asked about family, and I usually was told that I didn’t need to know about such things. Case closed. If I persisted with questions, I ended up being sent to my room. It didn’t take me long to realize, even at a very young age, that something was terribly wrong in my family — something that I was not allowed to know. The whole family seemed “up tight” most of the time. They were uncommunicative and determined to keep as much distance from each other as possible. I remember that even the neighbors kept us more or less at arm’s length, and conversation with them seemed less than cordial. The one time that I questioned why this was so, I was told that I was “imagining things, that everything was fine.” The last conversation with the woman who raised me, and who I’d thought was my mother, was by telephone, and it was short and to the point. She answered my call pleasantly enough, but the minute she realized it was me, her voice instantly became cold and hard. She fairly shouted her next and final words, “I never wanted you! They made me take you!” Then she slammed the telephone receiver down with a loud bang. Shocked, I sat motionless for a moment. Then I hung up my phone, stomped out into the kitchen, grabbed some plates and cups from the cupboard, and smashed them on the floor, venting my rage on the innocent dishes. Obviously I’d been living a lie for all those years, living out someone else’s “mistake” and another couple’s emotional abandonment. I was depressed and in a bad state of mind for a few days until I decided it didn’t really make any difference what my origin was or who “they” were. It didn’t matter who my father might have been. None of that was of any significance any more. I decided right then to just be whoever I am. My ancestry is of little consequence. Just like Popeye in the old comics, “I yam who I yam, and that’s all that I yam!” And that’s a decision I’ve stuck with for all these years. It was nearly 30 years ago, when I was in my fifties, that my Aunt Helen, nearly at the end of her life, reluctantly confessed that she was my real

mother. She’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock and “got caught,” as she called it. In those days society considered such a situation sinful, to be neither accepted nor acknowledged. Certainly the young woman was to be ostracized and shunned. That’s how society was 80 years ago. The young man involved suffered no shame, just a wink and a slap on the back from his friends, who considered him to have shown himself to be a “real man.” However, the pregnant young woman would suddenly decide to “visit Aunt Dorothy in Ohio” for a few months. She often never returned, sometimes finding a new life there for herself and her child. Marriage lent acceptance and respectability to the situation and made everything “right,” no matter how intolerable that union might turn out to be. Society in its ignorance accepted this solution and held tightly to any secrets that might be involved. Within days after my birth, Aunt Helen “gave” me to her sister, Ada, the woman who raised me and who I’d thought for most of my life was my real mother. Ada had recently married a local farmer, had a teaching job in a one-room country school, so she and her husband could afford to raise me. Because she was both married and employed, she was considered “respectable,” which my unmarried and unemployed Aunt Helen, my real mother, was not. I have no idea why Ada agreed to raise me. Since discovering the truth, I’ve had the feeling that there was some degree of coercion. However, the four people who knew the truth had either passed away or were very ill, and it didn’t seem prudent to try to pursue things further. In the early 1930s, there were many deep, dark family secrets, and this was definitely one of them. Many foolish beliefs persisted and so many people’s lives were turned upside down when and if the truth ever became known. When I finally discovered this particular family secret, I was both angered and saddened. But by then my life course was set, and I’d been successful in most of the paths I’d chosen. What difference did it make who I really was? I was who I had become at the time of my discovery. And today, in my early eighties, I am who I now am — a successful, contented woman living with feet in two different worlds.

The Blue Lights At the ages of probably four to six, I wasn’t allowed to have real children as playmates, so I invented “people” whom my family members

disapprovingly called “imaginary playmates.” To me there was nothing at all imaginary about them. I could see them very clearly, and they were as real as I was, although not of this world. I saw them; I touched them. We talked to each other nonverbally in our special way — a silent language that couldn’t be overheard. My pets — a pony and my cat, Wink, as well as my dolls — were all tangible beings, clearly visible to everyone, and they had names, because of which they were acceptable to my family. My invisible friends and I never called each other by name. There was no need to, because we communicated entirely with our minds, which I now realize was telepathy. Only since writing Raechel’s Eyes and even more overwhelmingly, while writing this addendum, that I realize that I have been communicating telepathically since I was very young, which has been an extremely useful skill that I often use now to communicate with animals, especially when first becoming acquainted with them, as well as with people. My cat, Tuley, and I frequently carry on conversations in this manner. More often than not, he initiates the conversation. On rare occasions my invisible friends brought along some entities, which looked to me like tiny blue orbs of light, approximately the size of a tennis ball, some of them a little smaller. I remember how intrigued I was as I watched these shimmering lights move around, up and down, changing their shape, apparently at will. They seemed to fold in upon themselves, at times nearly disappearing, and then enlarging back to their original shape. These blue orbs carried on the same kind of telepathic conversations with me as did my other invisible friends. And they always remained unseen and unheard by my family One thing that I didn’t anticipate was my next encounter with “blue lights” at about age eight. I’d ridden my pony deep into a wooded area in a nearby pasture, tied him securely to a tree, and sat down on a large flat rock at the side of a small stream. Revisiting it now, I’m choosing to write it in present tense because that seems most appropriate to the dimension in which I found myself then as well as where I am this very moment. It’s an idyllic midsummer scene — quiet, secluded, and peaceful, the silence broken only by the sound of water trickling softly over the small, rounded stones in the creek bed. I lose all sense of time as I gaze around to see if any squirrels or chipmunks are present today. Usually they come slowly and cautiously right

up to me to see if I might have brought some bread, which I break into small pieces that they can carry away in their cheeks or paws and eat at a “safe” distance. There seems to be nothing moving right now, but suddenly a shimmery blue light appears right in front of me. It’s a little taller than me and its surface exudes gentle, radiant warmth as it looks into my eyes. Suddenly it says very clearly, “Hello. How are you?” I’m so surprised I can’t say a word, although for some unexplainable reason I’m not at all frightened, which it seems to realize, because it slowly moves a little closer, and then asks, “What is your name?” At that point I realize that it had made no sound, although I’d clearly heard the words in my head. Then I find myself responding nonverbally, as I do with my imaginary friends, “My name is Helen.” Now it moves back slightly, somehow folding in upon itself until it entirely disappears. I’m sad because I don’t want to see it leave. It seemed like such a nice friend. I hope I haven’t done something to frighten it. The next Saturday I eagerly return to the wooded area by the stream. It’s a beautiful sunny day, and I hope my new friend, the blue light, knows I’m there and will join me. Sure enough, almost immediately I feel that soft, radiant warmth and then the blue light appears close beside me. It hadn’t come that close before. I reach my hand out hesitantly and touch its surface. It holds perfectly still as I cautiously feel its skin, which is soft like my flannel pajamas, and I stroke it gently the way I pet Wink. It doesn’t move at all, but just remains perfectly still. Then, in my head, I hear it say, “Would you like to have a baby?” I’m really surprised that it would say that, and I tell it in my head, “No, I don’t want to have a baby. I’m too little. I have to go to school.” It still doesn’t move away from my hand, but remains there comfortingly soft and warm. After a few seconds, it says, “That’s all right. We can wait, and you can have a baby later. It will look like you, but it will be like us.” Just then I see a vertical opening in the side of the blue light right there beside my hand, and in my head I hear the light say, “Would you like to come inside?” I don’t reply. I just step carefully inside the light so as not to hurt it. Once I’m all the way inside, I fear that the opening might close up and I won’t be able to get out, but that doesn’t happen. The opening remains in place. Curious, I look around at its inner walls and touch them cautiously in a couple of places. They feel exactly the same as the outside walls did — soft and warm. Suddenly I feel a little nauseous, and I realize that I need to get

outside to the cooler air. I step carefully back out through the vertical opening onto the ground. I can see that my pony is still securely tied to the tree where I’d left him. Everything looks exactly the same, except that when I turn around and look back at the blue light, it has disappeared. It must have left the moment I stepped outside and looked over at my pony. I’m surprised to notice that it’s beginning to get dark now. I feel I should have been home much earlier, so I need to leave right away. I don’t understand how it got late so soon; I came here right after lunch, no later than about 1:00. These were my first and most memorable interactions with the blue lights. However, over the years, they have intermittently appeared to me during times of intense stress. As I write these words, I realize that the above event, in which I stepped inside of a larger version of the blue lights, was likely my first remembered instance of missing time. I had apparently been engaged in conversation with the blue light much longer than I had realized, but the few statements given above are all I can remember. I recall no memory of any other event, such as an abduction taking place, although that’s a distinct possibility. I’m hoping fervently that more information comes forward sometime soon. Over the years I’ve frequently experienced an insistent buzzing in my head — most often on the right side only — that precedes the awareness of telepathic information being downloaded, nearly always from the blue light. This is not a tinnitus-type sound; it’s a lowpitched buzzing from somewhere deep in my head, not in my ears, and it only lasts for a few brief seconds. The last time I saw the blue lights was several years ago, a few hours prior to my first meeting with Dr. June Steiner who was to conduct several regression sessions with me in preparation for writing Raechel’s Eyes. Ever since we’d made the arrangements and set the date, I’d been quite apprehensive, wondering what she would look like, what our interaction would be, how the regressions themselves would go, whether we’d recover any of the missing information. We’d planned, if all went well, to have at least four or five sessions over one weekend. There were many details that needed to be investigated in depth since I could remember only fragments of the events concerning my interactions with Raechel and her father, the Colonel. This particular night I’d lain in bed wide awake, nervous and worrying before sleep finally came. Sometime in the middle of the night I

awoke suddenly to see a large, shimmering orb of soft blue light, approximately three to four feet in diameter, hovering low over the cedar chest to the right at the foot of my bed, just below a large window that reflected its glow. The quality of the light itself was similar to that of an outside yard light. It was bright, yet soft, and appeared to be composed of infinitesimal individual light particles. Frightened and obviously not thinking clearly, I got out of bed, grabbed my flashlight (maybe for protection??) but I didn’t switch it on, and I approached the light, which by then had begun to slowly retreat toward the bedroom door, which opened onto a hallway. Still not switching on the flashlight, I followed cautiously a few steps behind the blue light. As soon as it moved entirely out of the bedroom into the hallway, it began visibly undulating and folding in upon itself until it finally dissipated just before it reached the living room at the end of the hallway. Inexplicably, I turned around, went back to bed, and apparently fell sound asleep until the alarm clock buzzed loudly at six. I say inexplicably since even as I write these words, it makes little sense that following an event such as this I could just calmly return to bed and fall back into a sound sleep. It would seem that there would be ample cause to lie awake for some time and ponder the meaning of what had just taken place — except that the blue light had always been a profound source of comfort throughout my entire life. So in that context, there would have been no logical reason to not go back to sleep — it had visited me for the purpose of reassuring me — and it had accomplished that. A few hours later, when I first met Dr. Steiner, I found myself feeling surprisingly calm and relaxed. It was as if we’d known each other forever. She immediately shared that she herself had been an abductee since an early age, and she had been on board extraterrestrial craft with extrabiological beings several times. She said that she was eager to hear what we were to discover together concerning my experiences. I truly believe that my old friend, the blue light, had returned to reassure me that the several regressions I was scheduled to undergo that weekend would be comfortable for both June and me. Indeed, the information that June helped me retrieve contained most of the missing pieces that I needed in order to write Raechel’s Eyes. This process involved my returning to some rather frightening scenes, but her gentle voice enabled me to remain calm and detached in the role of a bystander/onlooker as well as that of a

participant, always under her reassurance. I was thus able to retrieve information that has been both life changing and necessary for my ongoing peace of mind and objectivity. In that very first session, June took me back to the incident where I met Raechel for the first time in the doorway of the apartment that she and my daughter shared. After I re-experienced the initial episode of looking face-to-face at Raechel and realizing she was not of this world, June had me move back a couple of steps and look closely at Raechel's hands. I immediately felt a slight nausea and recognized the identical reaction I’d had all those years ago, although I hadn’t remembered it for all this time. Now I was calmly looking directly at Raechel’s hands, each of which had only four fingers, all about the same length with no apparent thumb, and no fingernails. It was this lack of fingernails that was causing the nausea. June quickly reassured me that I was simply reacting in a normal manner, and, although tears flooded my eyes, the nausea quickly subsided. I dried my eyes and we continued. While it’s neither easy nor simple living with feet in two different worlds, I consider myself privileged to have been chosen by “the others” for the role I was to play in Raechel’s life as well as by the blue lights, which have provided comfort and reassurance all of my life. There’s an indescribable peace and freedom in finally “being who I am” — a part-time resident in two vastly diverse worlds.

The Last Time I Saw Marisa Raechel and her “father,” the Colonel, had suddenly disappeared without a trace not long after my face-to-face meeting with Raechel, and we’d heard nothing about their whereabouts. Marisa was in what I considered to be a safe, loving relationship with a very special young man whom she had married several years previously. His large family immediately welcomed her into their midst with open arms, and she was loved and respected. Her eyesight still fluctuated nearly daily, but overall things were going extremely well for her. Marisa and I had talked intermittently over the years about writing a book concerning her experiences with Raechel, but somehow we never got around to actually doing it. After marriage, her life was extremely busy completing her education at both American River Junior College and then

Sacramento State University, where she earned her Master's degree. She and her husband then moved to a new location and began new jobs. She achieved her goal of working with disadvantaged teens and young adults. She had a young son to care for, and soon became involved in a myriad of volunteer activities in their new community. I was busy also, sometimes working two or three jobs to pay off old bills. My schedule was truly overloaded, and so, for a while, every moment of my life consisted of eating, sleeping, and working. For various reasons a series of events ultimately led to my settling in southern Oregon in October, 1990. Because Marisa and her family had plans for a big Thanksgiving get-together with the California in-laws at their new home on the coast, I invited them to join me in Oregon for an early Thanksgiving. The menu was to be simple — no turkey. Instead, there would be spaghetti with my special homemade sauce, Italian bread, and a big green salad. Because I wanted the bread to be fresh and hot out of the oven, Marisa and I drove to the bakery and sat waiting outside in the car for the few minutes until it was ready. She talked excitedly about an innovative new teaching program that she’d devised to make it relatively simple for her special-needs students to achieve whatever goals they were striving for on an individual basis. However, the California State Board of Education had stipulated that it must be documented on film prior to granting approval for implementation. The equipment necessary for this was expensive, and as soon as she and her husband received their tax return in a few months, they planned to purchase it, but the wait was frustrating, and she was eager to begin officially using the new curriculum. She’d been testing it in her classes, and it really worked. Both she and her clients were ecstatic with the results they’d obtained. Remembering that I had a couple of CDs maturing in early January, I promised to have the funds she needed transferred to her bank account for the purchase of the necessary equipment. She could document the new classroom procedure, submit it to the Department of Education, and after approval, her new curriculum could then be implemented statewide. It would make a huge difference in the lives of those who needed it desperately. We picked up the bread, had a lovely early-Thanksgiving dinner, and left her husband and son to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen. Marisa and I then went for a long walk around the neighborhood. It was a chilly,

windy November afternoon, but we were warmly bundled up. Marisa talked nonstop about her new teaching position and her plans for the future. It was nearly dark outside when we returned to the house, and we still hadn’t finished all the topics that we wanted to discuss. They were ready to leave when Marisa and I made a frantic last-minute dash into the house so she could pick out some of my old-fashioned costume jewelry that she was borrowing for the Christmas party they expected to attend in early December. Ten days later at about 10:00 p.m., I received a frantic phone call from her husband. “Get over here right away!” he shouted. “Marisa’s dead! Get over here right now!” Stunned and shocked, I listened silently as he explained what had happened. They had accompanied friends to an early Christmas party (the one she’d borrowed the jewelry for) given by his employer. After a marvelous dinner and great conversation with friends, they got up to dance, at which point Marisa lost consciousness. Since the hospital was only a couple of blocks away, a friend drove them to the Emergency Room while her husband administered continuous CPR. Sadly, she could not be resuscitated. As deep in shock and sorrow as I was, I could not have driven anywhere that night. With the aid of local Red Cross volunteers, I located her brother Ken, who was stationed in Japan in the Navy, and he began making arrangements for an emergency furlough. Still in shock, I called my other son in central California, who said he would drive to my home the next morning and follow me to the coast. Exhausted, I fell into bed unable to process the events of the past few hours. Sleepless, I tossed and turned all night, finally getting up and pacing the floors like a crazy woman. All I could think of was the extraordinarily happy early Thanksgiving Day we’d had only a few weeks previously, and the marvelous conversation we’d had as we took the very long walk around the neighborhood. It was the last time I ever spoke with Marisa or saw her alive.

Marisa’s Funeral This chapter is extremely difficult to write, as it relates the circumstances of Marisa’s passing, and my emotions surrounding it, even though I know it’s information that I need to share with you. Death is tragic whenever it occurs, and Marisa was only 38, in the prime of her life, when

she passed from the side-effects of atherosclerosis, a side-effect of earlyonset diabetes Type I. Her husband and teenaged son were left suddenly without their mainstay — the person they depended on to be the strong one, the person who never gave up, even when things became a little rocky. She was taken away swiftly and in the blink of an eye it was up to them to deal with whatever life threw at them. And Marisa’s funeral arrangements and funeral were overwhelming events that had to be coped with as best we could. I arrived at the coast at Marisa’s home on Sunday afternoon, two days following her death on Friday evening. My California son Carl arrived at my home late Saturday, and we made the long trip to the coast in separate vehicles early Sunday so I could help make the funeral arrangements Monday, when the remainder of my son-in-law’s relatives would all arrive. Carl planned to return to his home late Sunday, hoping to make connections with Ken, who was returning from Japan and would contact him upon arrival in San Francisco. I hoped desperately that the two of them would make contact, as it seemed a bit tenuous at best right then. Miraculously though, things fell into place and the two of them did connect and made the long drive up, the night before the funeral. All I could concentrate on was doing what I needed to do and not falling completely apart. Just driving to the coast in my own car in the state of shock in which I found myself, trying to remain cognizant of the events that lay before me, was absolutely all I could handle. Under the best of circumstances, making funeral arrangements for a close loved one is a very emotionally traumatic experience, and participating in Marisa’s was no exception. The morning we met with the funeral director I was still numb inside from the sudden shock of losing Marisa as was her husband, and we quickly realized that it was basically up to the two of us to make the necessary decisions. The in-laws hadn’t yet arrived, being en route with a long way to come, so we did whatever was needed, going through the motions with heavy hearts, choosing a lovely casket that would, in her husband’s words, “Show her off the way she would want.” He’d already planned that she be dressed in a gorgeous pale beige Victorian-style dress, which I believe was her wedding dress. To some readers, his statement might seem callous and uncaring, but it definitely was not — I understood where he was coming from. It was his manner of expressing himself and ensuring that she would look her best. He and Marisa had had a love that few people ever

experience and it was his way of holding himself together. The next morning things had calmed down a bit — Marisa's body was dressed beautifully in the lovely old-fashioned gown, and she did indeed look exquisite. Her hair was arranged very simply, the way she always wore it, her very minimal makeup was perfectly done, and she was ready for private family viewing later in the afternoon. I’d waited patiently outside the director’s office, hoping desperately that I could be alone with Marisa's body for a few minutes before other family members arrived. I wanted — I needed — to say my goodbye in private. After a few minutes the director came out of his office, took my hand and led me to the dimly lit viewing room where he seated me in a comfortable pew directly in front of the dais on which lay Marisa’s casket. Gently putting his arm around my shoulders and taking my hand, he said, “I want you to know that I admire how you’ve held together during all of this, even when the others were falling apart. I’m going to make sure you have as long as you want in here by yourself to make peace with what has happened and to tell your daughter the good-bye you both need.” Then he stood up and walked quietly out of the room. He was right. I had needed to be the strong one throughout the past few days, and it had taken its toll on me. I truly understand that everyone reacts to grief in different ways, but there were a couple of instances that were, to me, over the top and unnecessary in the tragic situation in which we all found ourselves. What we’d needed was to come together and support each other instead of going off in different directions, and that hadn’t happened. I was relieved that things had now more or less calmed down. But it just seemed as though, for whatever reason, I wasn’t able to truly grieve until that precious time that the funeral director set aside for me to spend alone with Marisa. Although I’ve forgotten his name, I will be eternally grateful to that funeral director for his compassion. Early on the morning of the funeral, Carl and Ken showed up together, connecting late the previous evening and driving most of the night. I’d wanted to give a eulogy at the funeral, but I knew that standing in front of a large group of mourners and speaking would break my very last bit of composure. I feared that I wouldn’t be able to continue, even if I could begin it. Marisa’s brother-in-law David, a leader in his church and accustomed to public speaking, suggested that I might write the eulogy in my most heart-felt

words, stating that he would feel honored to read it for me. So I wrote and rewrote far into the night, finally finding the exact words I needed to say. Just before the funeral I handed David the paper. He read it briefly, and then gave me a big hug. Tears flooded my cheeks again, but now they were tears of relief. He promised to add a short eulogy of his own. Two o’clock in the afternoon came, and, because of his concern for family members, the funeral director showed us to some private seating located off to one side from the open pews. An opaque gauzelike curtain insured that we would be secluded from other mourners. It was very private here, and we could see everything and everyone, although they could see us only indistinctly. I sat there quietly for a moment, and suddenly it was as though Marisa spoke to me. It was clearly a message in her words, “Don’t hide behind the screen. Sit out there in front of me. I need you there.” I knew she was right. The director was still seating late-arrival relatives and friends. I stood up and said, “Please seat us in the regular family pews (they were still vacant). We need to be there in front of everyone. Thank you.” So we filed out of the private room and into the empty front pews. I was so relieved that we’d made the seating change, although it was emotionally very difficult. I knew we’d done the right thing. Soon other mourners began to arrive, many of them Marisa’s students. Their school had chartered a bus to bring them to the funeral home, but each client had politely declined to ride it, saying that Marisa had gone to great lengths to teach them how to read a bus schedule and to travel to wherever they needed to go in town. And that today they all needed to attend her funeral by taking a city bus as a group. “It was what she would have wanted,” they told the school-bus driver. One by one they filed in, walking respectfully to her open casket to take one final look, some speaking a few quiet words to her. Then each turned and stopped in front of me, took my hand for a moment, and offered their condolences. A few were too overcome with grief to speak, so they just held my hand tightly. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done — to acknowledge what was obviously an extremely difficult and challenging act for her students. But I got through it. And they got through it — all of us with grace and a sense of peace and closure. I understood the overwhelming amount of effort it took for them to attend her funeral and say their good-byes to her. It’s what she would have wanted all of us to do.

Approximately two or three weeks later I received a large manila envelope containing a memorial newsletter from Marisa’s students, a tribute that they’d put together with the assistance of their teachers. It contained a hand-written sentence or two from each student stating how much she’d helped them accomplish and how much they missed her. As I read it through tears that just wouldn’t stop falling, it was obvious that they had chosen this simple way to express their love and respect for both Marisa and me. She had taught them well, indeed.

Comments by Marisa's students Following are comments by some of Marisa’s special-needs students, which appeared in a special edition of the memorial newsletter. Their words come straight from their hearts. Dianna H. – She was my favorite teacher. She taught me how to read. She was a very good person. Albert B – She cared about her students and her work. She dedicated her students to learning. She’ll be in our hearts forever. Ted S. – Dear friends, we know Marisa for a special friend, and she was a very good teacher. She taught us what we need to know. She was a very beautiful lady to teach everybody how to read. She helped people watch their weight and she understood everybody’s small problems they had in class. Tony S. – She was a good person to work with. She always wore a smile, and she was always very easy to get along with. She was a very, very helpful person. Silas M. – Marisa was a good teacher. She helped me with valuable tools and trades. I liked her sense of humor. She was appreciated around here, and I’m really going to miss her. Kenny G. – That made me upset to hear that. She was nice. I hate hearing about that. She taught people to read, helped us tell time, how much food costs. Gary H. – She was a good diet teacher. She taught our newsletter class, too. The thing is, we’re all going to miss her. Elissa H. – Marisa was a good lady. She weighed us on the scales. She took us places. I feel very upset. Sara D. – Marisa was my First Aid teacher. I’m very upset. She was

my good buddy and so is her husband and her mother. I love Marisa. She’s my friend. I cried, very much. Goodbye. Pam P. – She was a nice teacher and she was a good teacher. I followed her directions real good. I’m sorry, and I miss her, and I hope her family makes it through. Sherrie H. – I didn’t cry at all. I really miss her, though. But I’m happy. Gaylord N. – She was a nice teacher working with me for reading, typing, and job interviews. We should go see her at the cemetery. We should buy flowers for her grave. Love, Gaylord. Tim G. – I had a good time in her classes. She showed me how to use the computer and typewriter, how to make resumes, how to balance checkbooks. I liked the movies she showed us. I’m pretty upset. Earl H. – She was a good teacher, a nice person. She helped me to do a better job, showed me different places where I could work in the future. I’m going to miss her very much. Frank A. – She was a great school teacher. It’s a shame she died at an early age. It was a sad funeral and memorial service. The Lord told me to be there, and to take my hat off in the house of the Lord. I said a prayer to Marisa at the service. I asked Jesus to take care of her. She has a nice husband and a nice son. It’s real sad. She’s going to be missed. Dale L. – Marisa was a very good teacher and helped me a lot. She helped me learn to read words I use on my janitorial job.

Knowing Raechel A frequently asked question is, “Do you have a photograph of Raechel?” My response is always the same, “No.” The next question is, “Well, why not?” And I have no really satisfying answer for that except that I met her maybe four or five times at most. Maybe I simply didn’t think of taking her picture, ridiculous as that sounds now. To be totally honest, I don’t even remember whether or not I had a camera, although I suppose there must have been one. However, I don’t recall taking photos of anything or anyone else at that time. There certainly was no extra money to buy film or to have it processed even if I did have a camera. Just surviving my emotionally and physically brutal alcoholic husband and attempting to protect my children from him in addition to working full-time to put food on the table occupied

most of my time and energy, so taking photos would have been last on my list. As well, at that time I had no way of knowing that she would suddenly disappear; so there would have been no rush to take photos. I don’t usually provide such a personal explanation to the casual questioner, but my readers deserve to know why I have no photos of Raechel. My initial encounter with Raechel was extremely traumatic for both of us — in retrospect, probably much more so for her. Seeing her literally face-to-face as I held tightly onto her left arm to prevent her from falling forward, my reaction was simple gut-wrenching fear. This, however, almost instantly transformed itself into the shocked realization that I was looking at and touching Raechel, and that she was an entity not of the world I knew. I will never forget the thoughts that raced frantically through my mind in the space of those few brief seconds. Undeniably the initial element of primal fear deep in my gut temporarily immobilized me. I felt literally frozen in place. But, on some level, I remembered that I’d already learned from my friend Bob, a co-worker assigned to Intelligence at the military base where I worked, that Raechel was not “from here.” He’d told me that she was most likely from Zeta Reticuli, having arrived at Four Corners in a crashed spacecraft, and subsequently being “adopted” by Colonel Nadim. And right from the first, too, Marisa had told me that Raechel was unlike anyone she’d ever known in nearly every way, that her voice wasn’t at all like anyone she’d ever heard, even what she could and couldn’t eat and drink. So seeing her up close and personal wasn’t exactly a complete surprise. Or at least it shouldn’t have been. But it was, just the same. Nothing could have prepared me for this experience — this actual meeting with Raechel as I stood in the apartment doorway, holding firmly onto her arm and looking deep into her non-human eyes. Thankfully, my panic was short-lived. Almost instantly I returned to better control of my reactions and emotions. I could see that Raechel was even more frightened than I when she realized that her wraparound sunglasses had slipped down and sideways on her face and that I was gazing straight into her huge avocado green eyes with their vertical black slits. I now knew unequivocally that she was not “from here.” There was no question in my mind, and she knew that I knew. I don’t remember how long our gaze remained locked or who was the

first to break it. In reality, the time involved must have been only a few seconds, but it seemed much longer than that. I didn’t realize it then, but this was the beginning of at least one more episode where time was of another dimension when Raechel was not wearing her sunglasses when her eyes and mine met directly. And although Marisa was standing one or two feet off at Raechel’s right side, she couldn’t see well enough to realize the complexity of the situation. Once Raechel stood upright and pushed her sunglasses back into their usual position with her right hand, I released her left arm. Looking straight ahead, in her monotone voice she said, “Thank you for saving me,” and hurried on out through the doorway. We stood there speechless for a few seconds and then Marisa said, “Now you see what I mean. She’s not like us.” And indeed I did see clearly that she was not like us. She was unlike anyone I’d ever met. We talked then for a few minutes about other things, and I left, still in a daze over what had just taken place. I have always been puzzled over Raechel showing no signs of emotion when she’d thanked me for saving her from an apparent fall. Looking back now on the incident, I realize that she rarely, if ever, exhibited any emotions. I probably would have said something similar, basically the same language, but I would have demonstrated considerable emotion. But what did I know then and nearly 50 years later, what do I know now? For reasons I have never understood, and as far as I’m aware, she was never “outed” by Marisa’s friends or classmates at the junior college they both attended, or by any of the instructors or office staff. It is difficult to believe that her unique persona could have gone unnoticed by anyone. One of Marisa’s old boyfriends, whom I contacted just prior to writing Raechel’s Eyes, said that he always considered Raechel “other-worldly.” That may have been one of the most accurate descriptions anyone ever came up with. Apparently her appearance or mannerisms were not considered too far out of the ordinary. Certainly the sound of her voice, her speech pattern with absolutely no use of contractions, and the nearly complete lack of a normal fund of knowledge for someone her age, should have immediately raised red flags to anyone with whom she came in contact. But for some reason this never happened. However, the time line here was back in the early 1970s, an era where almost anything was accepted and little was questioned — unusual clothing, mannerisms, behaviors, attitudes — and although I’m not using this

as an explanation for Raechel’s acceptance by her peers, it’s the only reasoning I have. It was indeed a time of “anything goes.” Raechel’s height was average, about 5’4”, and she was slim with a slight build and an almost ethereal aura. To me her arms and legs seemed a bit long and thin in comparison to her body, but not unusually so. I found her appearance somehow very compelling in an inexplicable way. On the one or two occasions that I saw her without her headscarf, I noted that she had rather wispy, sparse reddish-blonde hair that was short and slightly curly, with a “mind of its own.” Its slightly tousled appearance ideally complemented her complexion, a blended shade of pale greenish-orange. Although I’d never before seen this particular skin coloring, I found the unusual combination actually very attractive. At least it was to me. Her nose was tiny, delicate, and petite. She had large light-green eyes the color of the inside of an avocado, rounded at the inside corners, tapered around onto her temples, ending there in a distinct point. A narrow vertical black slit was centered in each pupil. I wouldn’t have considered her beautiful in an ordinary sense, but "arrestingly exotic" described her features perfectly. Only after many years had passed, and I saw Raechel clearly without her sunglasses in my first regression with Dr. Steiner, did I notice that she had no eyelids. I cannot understand why this was not obvious at our first meeting when we were literally face-to-face. One explanation could be that every person and nearly every animal I’d ever seen had had eyelids, and therefore I would have automatically expected her also to have them. Each of the few times I also saw Raechel without her sunglasses and spoke with her, I was absolutely mesmerized by her eyes and I found it extremely difficult to break my gaze. It was as if the coal-black, glittering slits pulled me deep inside them, holding me securely while time seemed to enter another dimension. During that particular period, there was no question that they exerted a powerful control over my entire being, and, in retrospect now, I am positive that they did. I cannot say whether this effect was intentional on her part, or simply my reaction, or some combination of both. I also suspect now that she may have worn the dark wraparound glasses to shield her eyes from light because she had no eyelids. Why didn’t I notice conspicuous details such as the lack of eyelids and fingernails when we were alone in the apartment, speaking with each

other on the occasion that I was there waiting for Marisa to return? Why didn’t I see her hands more clearly when she took me to the place she said she “was from” and placed her hands on the inside of the window so I could place mine directly over them on my side of the window and then pass through? There is no question that I had to have looked closely at her hands in order to do this. As I reflect upon this incident, I don’t understand why I would not have noticed such obvious details. Was it that Raechel had somehow deliberately allowed me to see only what she wanted me to see when she wanted me to see it? Was it because I was initially influenced by some mind block or perhaps an invisible aura that surrounded her to a point where I could observe only the more noticeable details such as her overall appearance, how she dressed, her monotone voice with its lack of inflections and unique speech patterns? Was I simply favorably impressed by the fact that she and Marisa were becoming close friends and so I only saw her in a superficial sense? I have no answers to these questions. At least none that make any sense. Not in the real world, not then and not now. People have asked why I would continue to allow Marisa and Raechel to be roommates. Again, whatever answer I give is rarely considered sensible or adequate. “Raechel was an alien. She might have harmed your daughter!” That’s the most common remark I get. And of course it could have been possible for Raechel to do something harmful. I realize now that it would have been in her power to do so, and it’s clearly a fact that she was not “from here”; but the two of them had become fast friends and depended on each other for day-to-day activities and their growing friendship. Because Marisa’s sight was nearly nonexistent at that particular time, she needed help choosing proper outfits to wear to class and Raechel gradually learned how to pick them out for her. Raechel guided her safely across the busy street that separated their apartment complex from the college and oftentimes on campus to her classes. In return Marisa offered companionship and shared her knowledge concerning boys (whom Raechel had never met during her upbringing at Four Corners), popular music and groups such as Simon and Garfunkel, with Marisa’s favorite song, "Bridge over Troubled Waters." Marisa needed a roommate who would pay her share of the rent and utilities, who was not a party person, who would not steal her few possessions, and most importantly

of all, someone who would be compatible. Raechel fulfilled all of these needs. And Marisa fulfilled Raechel’s needs of being a roommate who would not be too critical of her unusual mannerisms, speech, and dress, and who would help her fit into college life. My questioners on this particular subject have never been satisfied with any of my responses, so I usually leave it at, “The girls were getting along very well and I saw no reason to interfere.” And I refuse to discuss it further. I believe I was only alone with Raechel one time when I stopped by the apartment to see Marisa, who hadn’t yet arrived home from classes. The individual scenario I am about to describe was so traumatic that my memory will not allow me more detailed recall even after all these years. I’m calling it an abduction, although it has been suggested that Raechel may well have transported me to a different dimension or time-space where only my mind travelled with her and experienced what I am about to describe. It may not truly have been a physical abduction. I simply do not know, and I cannot define it further because of the memory block. Besides, there may be little difference between the two interpretations as far as the experience itself is concerned. I told Raechel that I would wait for Marisa to arrive, and we stood there in the kitchen, she standing a few feet away between the refrigerator and the stove, and I across from her, leaning back against an old white enamel-topped table with one hand behind me on its cool top. Quite unexpectedly Raechel said, “I wish you could be my mother,” to which I replied, “I can’t be your mother, but I can be your friend.” Then she said, “I will take you to the place where I came from.” And she did, and it was a place I’ll never, ever forget. It’s etched permanently in my memory. I’ve described it in great detail in one of the regressions in Raechel’s Eyes, and as I write these words today, I’m immediately transported back there in my mind — to a place not of this world. I am unable to say with accuracy whether it was on-board a space craft or whether it was on another planet. It could have been either one or both. With information I have learned since the incident, I believe we traveled on a space craft to her home on a planet in Zeta Reticuli. The old sensations and fears and sights are as clear this very moment as they were when Raechel and I traveled there. Apparently I’ll never “get over” this experience, nor do I really want to. With any luck, someday I’ll be

able to “get around” it, but it’s been nearly 50 years, and every detail is still crystal clear — the colors, the music, the sights, the sensations, the reactions — it just never goes away. There were blended background colors not of our color spectrum, gorgeous combinations that I am usually unable to visualize clearly with my eyes — only in my mind. In the regression mentioned above I attempted to describe them as well as the music I clearly heard as Dr. Steiner guided me through the experience. That was based on a tonal scale also not of this world, and I can say this with knowledge because I’ve been a musician all my life, and know intimately every note on “our” scale. For some reason that I cannot explain or understand, the music and the colors appeared to be intertwined into one overwhelming sensation that I experienced physically throughout my entire body as well as in my mind. I remember wanting it to never end. The beauty, warmth, and comfort of these physical sensations contrasted sharply with the stark appearance of the large oval-shaped room to which Raechel took me. The walls, floor, and ceiling appeared to be constructed of some type of off-white plastic with a soft surface. Running completely around the circumference of the room were several tiers of what appeared to be incubators or aquariums filled with brackish-looking green fluid in which floated fetuses in various stages of development. To me they were grotesque and frail looking as though they were barely clinging to life, and I struggled to overcome the nausea that threatened to overcome me. Raechel spent considerable “time” trying to convince me to stay there and help care for the fetuses in this room where she said she “was from.” When I became adamant that I would not remain and help care for these “things,” as I called them, she quickly turned angry, although her facial features did not change. It was the only time I saw her express any degree of emotion. Raising her voice, she said loudly, “They are not ‘things!’” Then, in a calmer, but authoritative, tone she said that in that case my “job” would be to tell people about her and this place she’d taken me to, and that people would listen to me. She was right about that. People most certainly have listened to me in increasing numbers, and although some disagree vehemently, their minds have nevertheless been opened to new possibilities. The most frustrating thing about this particular situation is that I was never given any other explanation for Raechel transporting me to wherever we went, beyond the fact that she wanted to show me where she came from.

Sometime during this experience I received telepathic information from someone or something that I was part of the Humanization Project, as was she, but the flow of information stopped abruptly at that point, and I found myself back in the kitchen with one hand still behind me on the cool surface of that old enamel-topped table. Raechel was still standing a few feet away, where she’d initially been, her eyes still fixed intently on mine. I have no conscious memory of being asked to agree to be part of the Humanization Project. Apparently I was made a member without my conscious permission, and once in, I had no choice but to remain. I feel that I am still a member, albeit more or less an inactive one. At that time I assumed that only a few minutes, maybe 15 or 20, had passed since I arrived at the apartment. Marisa still had not returned, and shaken by the recent experience with Raechel, I left. Knowing what I do now about the ability of visitors from off-planet to manipulate time, I believe that was exactly what had just taken place. It seems highly improbable that all of those events could have occurred in that short space of 15 or 20 minutes of real time as we know it. This was the last time I ever saw Raechel alive. I wish with all my heart that her stay here could have ended differently and that she were still here. We were beginning to become good friends, and I miss her very much.

Colonel Nadim There have been many questions regarding Colonel Nadim — where he is now, have I ever heard from him? Are he and Raechel still together? Someone even speculated that he might be in the “witness-protection program.” However, with his military background that involved an extremely high security clearance, I really doubt that he’s in a normal witness-protection program, at least not one that we, as civilians, would ever have any access to. It is possible that through the military he may have been relocated to a place where it was normal for people to frequently come and go without arousing any suspicion. It’s a good bet that he may have undergone plastic surgery to alter his facial features and maybe even have had speech therapy to alter the sound of his voice and change his pattern of speech. As well, it’s logical that he would have changed his name to a more normal-sounding one that would have been less noticeable. Nadim is not a really common name, at least not the way he

pronounced it as Nah-deem. Try as I may, I cannot remember his first name. He introduced himself as ____ Nadim, Raechel’s father. He said it so fast that his first name was a blur. I have no idea why I didn’t politely ask him to repeat it. But for some unknown reason I didn’t. I couldn’t even remember it under hypnosis, and we tried several times because we felt it was critical to the rest of the story. He did mention to me the first time I spoke with him that he loved to fish and was enjoying the superb fishing on the nearby Sacramento River. He said he could be found somewhere along its banks every time he was off duty. He even promised to bring some striped bass all cleaned and ready for Marisa because she’d mentioned she liked fish. I saw the Colonel only three times, and each time he was dressed casually in jeans, a worn pullover tee shirt, sneakers, and a baseball cap. His appearance definitely wasn’t that of a man who’d just come from duty at an ultra Top Secret underground base, and I realize now that that was part of his disguise. He simply looked the part of any off-duty ordinary military man, relaxing on his time off. The second time I saw the Colonel was at the meeting he’d arranged at the girls’ apartment to apprise me of Raechel’s background as well as his, and describe Four Corners, the secret base from where they’d just come. He was cordial and welcoming and we made small-talk for a few minutes before beginning to speak of his background. The third and final time I saw the Colonel was when he drove me to Four Corners in an old “woody” station wagon that I assumed was his. He was waiting for me when I arrived at the parking lot of the apartment complex where the girls lived. I assumed it would be an overnight visit, so I put my duffle bag with a change of clothing in through the open back window of the old “woody.” I noticed a large ice chest there and mentioned that I was glad he’d thought to bring some cold drinks. We were going to be driving through some hot, semi-desert land and the temperature was already nearly 90º. “Yep,” he said. “That’s for when we get out of town a bit, up in the foothills.” And indeed at the first rest stop on the interstate, he pulled over and stopped. Getting out of the station wagon, he reached into the open back window from the outside and picked out two cans of soda He’d already

opened mine before he got back in, and I took a long cold swallow. In just a few minutes I fell asleep, waking only when we pulled off the main highway onto the bumpy ranch road that led over a hill to the secret location of Four Corners. Obviously I’d been drugged on the long trip there. Once we reached Four Corners there wasn’t much to see above ground, just some old dilapidated-looking barns and sheds that on first glance appeared to be ready to fall down, but on closer observation had been renovated with weathered barn boards to give a run-down appearance. I remember meeting a group of nurses and security guards who had helped Colonel Nadim raise Raechel. At least that’s who he told me they were. They appeared cordial and welcoming, but conversation was minimal, and I sensed there was more that they wished to say, but were not free to do so. However, the highlight of this bizarre trip was meeting Chisky, the hybrid exchange scientist from Zeta Reticuli who had formulated Raechel’s “food” and drinking liquid. He was short and slight in build, and his limited command of English with its interspersed peeps and squeaks, as well as his body language, was impressive. He fairly bubbled over with enthusiasm and friendliness and of all the others standing there, he was the one with whom I really wished I could spend some private time. It seemed we’d been there less than an hour before the Colonel said it was time for us to leave. Just before we turned off the rough ranch road onto the main highway, we stopped for a “soda” from the ice chest at the rear of station wagon because we were both thirsty, and once again shortly after taking a few sips of mine, I apparently dozed off and was drugged for the return trip as well. Colonel Nadim today could be living a few miles from where I am, and if he’d had plastic surgery, I wouldn’t recognize him. Actually I don’t know whether he’s even still alive. At the time we met I’d assumed he was somewhere close to my own age, not more than a couple of years older. If that were true, then it’s very possible that he has passed away, although I hope that’s not the case. I sincerely would like him to be alive and well, and enjoying life. If that’s the case, I’m sure that he’s heard of Raechel’s Eyes and could have found a secure way to communicate with me had he wanted to. If he’s in a safe place where his identity is still a secret, I’m also very sure he just wants to be left alone in his privacy to live out his life in peace and quiet.

So, readers, this is all I really know about the Colonel. To be sure, it’s not much, and in reality, I still have at least as many questions about him as do you. But it’s not at all important that they be answered, nor his current identity or location be discovered. Colonel Nadim served his country well, he was a devoted “father” to Raechel, and he was a good and generous friend to my daughter Marisa. Those are the important things that should be remembered about him.

Raechel’s Leaving I was just finishing lunch at my desk at work when the phone rang. Marisa was in a panic, half-crying, excitedly telling me that when she came home from classes a few minutes earlier, Raechel was nowhere to be seen. Usually she was sitting at the kitchen table studying when Marisa came home for lunch. She’d called out to Raechel the minute she opened the door, as she always did, but today was different — there was no answer. Putting her backpack down, she called again but still no response. Then she’d checked Raechel’s bedroom and closet, only to find that they were bare. Nothing remained but the bed, the dresser, and an empty closet. She told me that she’d felt around on the dresser surface, and it was as bare as the bed, where just the mattress and a pillow remained. Then she’d checked the kitchen and the large glass bottles of Raechel’s drinking liquid that always stood on the floor beside the refrigerator were gone as well. She opened the freezer door at the top of the refrigerator and felt around inside. The small unmarked white boxes of food that were kept there were gone. Everything, including Raechel, had vanished in the space of only a few hours. We discussed possible reasons that might have been responsible for Raechel leaving without telling Marisa. Maybe her father, the Colonel, had suddenly been transferred to another duty station without any advance notice. We both knew that he was assigned to an extremely high, beyond Top Secret military base across town from the supply base where I worked then. We both agreed that that could make sense. But neither of us believed that was it. Then there were those menacing “men in black” that had frightened Marisa on more than one occasion, ordering her to leave the apartment whenever they came to check on Raechel. I remembered meeting them one afternoon when they’d crowded me roughly against the railing as they came down the stairs three abreast, as though they didn’t even see me. They were just leaving

from one of their frequent visits to check on Raechel and her progress in, as she termed it, “the Project.” Marisa and I agreed that they were the most likely to be responsible for Raechel’s sudden departure. They seemed to be in charge of so much else. They were the ones who delivered her drinking fluid and small white boxes of “that green stuff,” as Marisa called it. Ultimately, and at the time of this writing in 2016, I realize they were in charge of much, much more — all of it connected with the Humanization Project But we were getting nowhere in our discussion. Anything was possible in this situation. By now Marisa had calmed down considerably and mentioned that she needed to get herself some lunch before returning to a late afternoon class. I reminded her of our friend, Bob, who worked in Base Security at the same installation as me, and I had discovered the truth concerning the origin of Raechel and her father a few weeks earlier. Right now, Bob was our best bet for any information as to where Raechel might be. Actually he was our only hope, as I saw it. I told Marisa to wait there at the apartment, that I would call him right away and see what he might find out for us, and then I’d get back to her. Luckily, Bob answered my call on the first ring and agreed to do an immediate check with his counterpart in Security at Mather Air Force Base. Less than five minutes passed when he called back stating that all of Colonel Nadim’s military records had been pulled and in his words, “It’s just like he was never there. But I know he was because I obtained all that information for you not very long ago.” There was a long pause on his end, and then he continued, and to this day I don’t know what words had been exchanged in his last call to Mather. “I should never have told you anything in the first place, and if you ever ask me concerning it anytime in the future, I’ll deny ever talking to you about it.” And he hung up abruptly before I could even thank him for telling me as much as he had. I called Marisa and told her Bob’s exact words. But almost before I could get them out of my mouth, she said, “Mom, I found something. I went back in Raechel’s bedroom and saw a note taped to the mirror. I pulled it off and sat down on the bed to read it. It said, ‘Dear Marisa, I will miss you very much but I have left you a gift to remember me by. Love, Raechel.’” For a few minutes Marisa had sat there on the bed, thinking about everything that had happened in the past few hours. Then it dawned on her that she had SEEN the note taped to the mirror. She had READ it, and hadn’t

had to use her magnifying glass to recognize the words. The content of the message became unmistakably clear to her as she again gazed around the room, able for the first time to SEE the window, the dresser, the note in her hand, and the words of the message. Raechel had given her the finest possible gift — much-improved eyesight. My eyes filled with tears, and I needed a few minutes alone in my tiny private office to assimilate the events of the past few hours. Because I was responsible for sending out classified messages by teletype to various Air Force bases, my small, one-person office contained no windows and only one door. I stood up, quickly closed that door, sat back down, and cried with both sadness and joy. Marisa and I had just lost a good friend, and Raechel had left Marisa a priceless gift, a gift from her world to ours. And that gift remained with Marisa until the evening that she passed away — the ability to see nearly everything without her magnifying glass except fine print in newspapers or books.

Follow up with Bob I met with Bob again several years ago just prior to the release of Raechel’s Eyes, and he adamantly refused to acknowledge any aspect of our conversations or even that we’d had any such conversations, regarding the circumstances concerning Raechel and the Colonel, nervously repeating over and over, “I really need that retirement money, I have to have it. I could lose it.” What he was referring to was the fact that, strictly speaking, he should never have disclosed any information regarding Raechel and her father — the penalty for doing so could be that his retirement funds would be permanently cut off. We were both aware that there were some additional, much more severe methods of retribution that could have also occurred. I didn’t want him to suffer an unexplained one-car accident or suddenly disappear permanently. The one thing he did acknowledge openly was occasionally visiting the ranch where I lived and riding horseback with me in the past, and that those were the “good old days.” We reminisced a bit about that. However, at this last meeting it was obvious he was in poor health, so I didn’t push the issue of Raechel and her father. He’d done me an invaluable favor, twice. I appreciated it very much, and he knew it. He didn’t need to be made to suffer by our government because of it.

What Really Happened to Raechel? Several years ago, sometime after Raechel’s Eyes came out in 2005, readers frequently questioned me concerning what had actually happened to Raechel. “Did I know what happened?” “Had I ever heard from her?” “Why hadn’t I ever been able to trace her down?” “Had I tried to find her?” My responses were always disappointingly negative to both me and my questioners, “I have no idea what actually happened to Raechel.” “Sorry, I have never heard from her.” “I tried finding her through every possible means, and these efforts produced no information at all.” Answers such as these satisfied no one, least of all me, but they were the best I could do. It had always seemed to me that I should have somehow learned where she went after leaving so suddenly, maybe once she got settled in wherever she was. And I’d also secretly hoped that someday I’d learn how she was doing, if she was still with her father, how he was doing, just anything. All I really hoped was that she was well and safe. If she wanted to keep her location secret, that would have been fine with me, but that never happened in the normal sense. What did happen was that a few years ago, while I was still struggling to find an answer — any answer — as to what had happened to Raechel I underwent what I feel was a MILAB (Military Abduction) event, at least in part. Although the entities involved appeared to be human, I feel they may have been connected with the military as well as extraterrestrial beings, and could possibly have been androids or hybrids. I recognized them as “men in black,” whom I’d seen before back in the early 1970s when visiting Marisa and Raechel, and those men were definitely connected with the Humanization Project. I now believe that they may also have been androids or hybrids, but I cannot substantiate this. I recall awakening suddenly one evening sometime after midnight and seeing the familiar white light shining down from above the tall evergreen tree just outside my bedroom window. As per my usual pre-abduction routine, I got out of bed fully awake, stepped over to the waist-high window,

and gazed intently up at the light. The next thing I knew I’d somehow passed effortlessly through the wall and window and found myself transported to a location that I feel was on Earth since certain aspects of it were vaguely familiar. I have absolutely no recall of the actual transport, no memory of how I arrived at the location. There is also no memory of seeing any entities, either human or alien, or being in a ship of any kind during the actual abduction from my bedroom. However, there had to have been entities of some kind as well as some object or method that transported me to what I believe was a military base, which may have been totally or at least partially abandoned. At no time do I do recall seeing any uniformed military personnel, nonhuman entities, or any vehicles. Likewise I remember no furniture of any kind in the room to which I was taken. I found myself in a large room with gray walls and a low ceiling, totally covered in what looked like off-white particle board, possibly some kind of sound-proofing material. I’d seen this type of room somewhere before, but I am unable now to recall exactly where or when. I believe it may have been on one of the Army or Air Force bases where I’d worked as a civilian many years ago. At any rate it looked familiar. The interior of the building looked old, but clean. I didn’t see any dust or debris on the floor. As I write today, that fact is surprising, because of my overwhelming sense that this was an old, abandoned building. If this was so, it should have had a more run-down appearance. Two large, menacing-looking men approached me, one on each side. They reminded me of the “men in black” that I’d seen leaving the apartment where Raechel and Marisa lived. Each grabbed me roughly by the arm and ordered me not to make any noise. I was totally physically restrained and very frightened. Next I saw two more men, looking equally as dangerous, approach through a side door that I hadn’t noticed before. They had Raechel between them, holding her arms tightly as they dragged her across the floor in front of me to a stairway that I also hadn’t noticed previously. It seems that they deliberately brought her close enough that I could get a good look at her. She was dressed in a bedraggled, dirty jumpsuit and her wraparound glasses and headscarf were missing. I called out to her, but she didn’t respond. She just stared fixedly down at the floor as though she didn’t hear me. She looked as though she’d been beaten severely and might have been partially unconscious or for some other reason unable to speak.

The stairway itself had a familiar look to it. In many of the older military buildings that I’d seen over the years, stairways were usually made of cement and either narrow in width and high with steep, narrow steps or quite wide with fewer steps that were also wide These stairs were wide and from where I stood, seemed to go down a considerable distance, but the step risers themselves were not very high. The two men holding Raechel dragged her to the top of the steps and swung her back and forth between them a couple of times with her feet just clearing the floor, then just let go of her arms, throwing her as hard as they could down the steps. The men restraining me half-pushed, half-pulled me forward and off to the far side at the top of the steps, so I could see what was happening, but I would be safely out of the way. As Raechel landed at the bottom of the stairwell, she screamed loudly in pain. I also screamed in horror, but I could do nothing to help her. There was no way I could break the hold the two men had on my arms. Even if I did, there were the other two men who had just thrown Raechel down the stairs — how would I defend myself against all of them? So all I could do was watch, sickened with horror and disbelief at what I had just witnessed. Then the two men that threw Raechel down the stairs hurried down to where she lay immobile and dragged her back up. I think she may have been totally unconscious by now — at least I hope she was. One of the men said to me, “That didn’t quite do it, but this time will.” And he laughed, a loud, terrifying sound. So did the man who held her other arm. Nausea began to overtake me, but somehow I suppressed it. The two men had her again positioned at the top of the steps. Each one took a more forceful grip on her slender arms and swung her even higher in the air between them, then released her. She was airborne until landing in a crumpled heap on the cement floor below. With my partial view I could see that her head was twisted far to one side in a very unnatural position, and she made no sound. But this still wasn’t enough to satisfy the one man who had laughed and boasted about what they were doing. He swaggered down the stairs to her limp body, grasped her head in his massive hands, and twisted it around until I could hear the crunch of her neck bones. “There,” he said casually, in a normal tone. “Guess that does it.” And then he laughed again as he walked up the steps to where I stood between the two men still restraining me. They didn’t go down and bring her back up the stairs now that she

was dead, at least not while I was there. I don’t know if anyone ever did. I don’t know what happened to her body. It was the most horrible scene I’d ever witnessed. Worse, I realized, these were professional killers, monsters that worked with or for the Humanization Project. How many more were there like them? And how many more killings of hybrids had been carried out? And how many killings of humans who had somehow broken the rules of the Humanization Project? I was totally revolted and appalled by what I’d just witnessed. I’d had no choice in the matter but to be a witness to the whole sick procedure. I still don’t know whether I observed Raechel’s execution in real time or whether my abduction took me back in time to when it was actually carried out. I can hardly bear to think about it. It makes me sick to my stomach every time I remember that horrible scene. It’s not a simple thing to wrap my mind around. Either possibility — a real time event or a trip back in time to observe it — is an extremely unsettling things to have been involved in And I still don’t know for sure who those men were except that I feel sure they were members of the Humanization Project who had just killed Marisa’s and my friend — Raechel, a lovely, peaceful, intelligent hybrid human/alien who had done nothing but gain more emotional range than had been allotted to her. She had grown to love my daughter Marisa and in so doing had written her own death sentence. She had failed the guidelines she’d been allocated — all in the name of the Humanization Project sponsored by our government. So, to those readers who have questioned me repeatedly regarding Raechel’s disappearance, I have nothing further to say except that she suffered a horrific death under the direction of one of our government’s blackest projects. And I, through no fault of my own, was forced to witness to this unspeakable act. I remembered nothing after this event until I woke up back in my bed the following morning. Everything seemed as usual except for the unmistakable, predictable morning-after symptoms of an abduction. There was a pounding headache in the center of my forehead, a nearly unquenchable thirst for orange juice, and an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach all day. I hoped desperately that it had all been just a terrible nightmarish dream with no basis in fact. But that wasn’t the case. I knew it had been another abduction, except that this one helped me clear up in my

mind what really happened to Raechel, tragic and horrifying as it was. Moreover, it may have been an unspoken warning to me, a demonstration of what could happen if I persisted in telling the truth about the alien-human hybrid goals of the Humanization Project and my involvement in it. If that is the case, then the warning is going to be a huge failure. At this point in my life and knowing what I know about black government projects and practices, I will not be silenced by anyone, any thing, or any threats from beings of this world or any other. I will speak the truth and let the fallout land where it may. Rest in peace, Raechel.

Thoughts on Raechel’s Fate My publisher sometimes uses dowsing to ferret out more information, and his dowsing of the situation may be entirely correct — that “Raechel’s murder” was a contrived screen memory to keep me silent about what actually happened. The murder itself, as I thought I observed it, was extremely gruesome, and I realize now that that was probably entirely to impress me properly that Raechel was truly dead. On the question of bruises that I should have received from the extremely rough handling I received, there were none! And there certainly should have been! However, since I now realize that the experience probably was “contrived,” the question remains of what really happened to Raechel — is she is dead or alive? Does she sometimes visit from an alien/human plane? She has come to me in “dreams” a few times, usually accompanied by my daughter, Marisa, who I know has passed over. However, once or twice Raechel has come alone, announcing her presence with a cool breeze and a sharp jab on my upper right arm as I would be sitting quietly in the evening. On these occasions, her presence does not stay long, maybe one or two minutes, and I greet her eagerly, inquiring if she has a message for me. I don’t receive any distinguishable response from her. If she is still living, her human age would be about 63, and it’s possible that she returned to her home planet, Zeta Reticuli. I have no further ideas about her status, but I really hope that she’s still living.

VISITATIONS and OTHER EVENTS Since the publication of Raechel’s Eyes, my abductions have greatly diminished in number and frequency, and I’m grateful for that. Now that I’m

older, they are even more difficult to deal with emotionally, so I’m hoping that maybe I’ve simply outgrown my usefulness to whomever or whatever was conducting the events. Marisa and Raechel occasionally visit me, most often Marisa. Her presence is always preceded by one of two distinctive scents — either cardamom, a spice she used when baking Christmas cookies — or a light, flowery scent of the perfume that she always wore. Neither of these are scents that I have ever had in my house. And so when I detect one of these, I know that Marisa is stopping by to pay me a visit. She doesn’t stay long, perhaps only a minute or two, but my day is made immeasurably better in the knowing that she was here to spend a short time with me. Raechel hasn’t paid a visit in two or three years. It used to be that up to then she would occasionally visit in the early evening, shortly after I’d gotten comfortable in my large old recliner. I’d feel a sudden jolt like a light punch on my right arm midway between the shoulder and elbow. At that exact time, my cat, which had usually been fast asleep on my lap, would suddenly leap straight up into the air, long hair frizzed to the max, staring fixedly at a point just above and beyond my right shoulder. This entire event would last perhaps a little more than a minute, and then everything would go back to normal. Raechel always announced her presence in this exact manner. She has never sent a telepathic message, as has Marisa. Just the punch on my shoulder has been enough for me to know that she still remembers and cares enough to pay a short visit. My last remembered abduction was approximately six or seven years ago and I believe it was by a combination of MILABS and/or possible androids. I saw all four of the entities and heard one speak, but I cannot say for sure what or who they were. I only remember being taken out of my bedroom, through the window, lifted up on a beam of white light above the huge pine tree just outside my bedroom window. I remember being suspended in mid-air for a moment about halfway up to an odd-looking craft that vaguely resembled the body of a helicopter, with no rotor or landing gear — just the body of the craft with an open entranceway at its side. Then I found myself in the doorway where two entities stood, one at each side. They were identically dressed in military fatigues and were of identical height and with the exact same facial features. Silently they reached out, took my arms and pulled me inside the craft, and the door slid closed noiselessly behind me.

A third entity, also dressed in fatigues, but taller and with more human-like facial features pulled me toward the rear of the craft to what looked like a canvas camping cot, forced me down on it flat on my back and proceeded to secure my arms and legs to the cot with wide straps. Then he reached to his side, grasped what looked like a cattle prod attached to an electric wire and placed it forcibly on the skin just above and on the outside of my right ankle, applying continuous pressure. I could smell my skin burning, and I experienced immediate, severe pain. I screamed and tried to pull my leg away, but it was tied down securely. His facial expression remained immobile, and he continued applying pressure with the instrument. Finally he removed it, threw it down, and leaning close to my face said loudly, “You thought we forgot about it, but we didn’t.” I can only assume he was referring to the warning I’d been given many, many years ago in regard to the Humanization Project — that if I ever spoke of it, harm would come to me or my children. At the time of writing Raechel’s Eyes I’d mentioned the warning to my boys, and they told me to, “Go for it, Mom.” And so that’s what I did. The book has now been out for more than ten years, so it seems overly long after the fact for Project members to carry out their threat but it’s the only explanation I have. I remember the restraints being released, and I was standing upright beside the cot. Next I found myself waking up the next morning back in my bed as usual. But things were not “as usual.” I sat up and looked at my right leg, hoping I’d just dreamed the whole thing, but it was no dream. A few inches above the ankle on the outside area I saw a perfectly square red mark with symmetrically rounded corners and a row of tiny white symmetrical dots placed diagonally from corner to corner. I measured the dimensions of the mark and found each side to be exactly 5/8". Inside the square the subcutaneous flesh had a shiny, raw, angry-red appearance. I touched it gingerly, anticipating extreme pain but there was none whatsoever. From its appearance, this wound should have been extremely painful, like a regular burn, which it closely resembled, and which I initially thought it was. At no time did I ever experience pain with this strange wound. It took about three months to heal and has left virtually no scar, except that the overlying skin is of a tissue paper-like consistency. My final experience with entities was of a very different kind. It occurred on October 4, 2010. I was standing in my kitchen washing dishes at

about a minute or two after 6:00 p.m. For some reason I looked out the window over the sink, which faces down the cul-de-sac where I live, and I saw a huge golden eagle swoop down from the left behind one of the houses on my right. It looked as though it must have gone right down into the yard on its dive. Fascinated, I continued watching. Coming from the left was another eagle, then another, then another, and another. They were circling very low around the house at the end of the street and repeating their maneuvers over and over. They seemed to be flying in a definite, strict formation. They had my full attention now, because the golden eagle is my power animal, and I’ve had other strange experiences with them previously. I hurried outside and leaned up against the bed of my pickup truck, which was parked at the left of my driveway so I could better watch them. It was windy, and the temperature was probably 50º. Although I knew it was really quite chilly, I felt strangely warm, actually quite comfortable. The air felt strange and heavy, and that part of the sky where the birds were was a striking mixture of mauve, violet, greenish blue, and pinkish gray, all blending into one another. At the same time I noticed that the rest of the sky was a normal blue, with the sun beginning to set. As I continued to watch the eagles, more and more of them appeared, flying in wide, symmetrical circles. I counted eleven golden eagles, possibly twelve, but couldn’t be positive of the number because they were circling so widely in what became rather intricate maneuvers. They finally slowed down and straightened out in their flight pattern and disappeared from sight to the east, one by one. That is, except for the very last one, which broke off from formation and flew directly over my garage. It hovered there no more than 30 feet above me for what seemed like three or four seconds. Then it too flew off to the east with the others. All of these birds were golden eagles, which are rarely if ever seen in groups that large and almost never in an area of dense housing and a nearby main street with heavy traffic at that time of evening. Additionally, they are not known to fly in a strict formation such as I’d just witnessed. When I went back in the house I saw that the time was about ten minutes past six. So in real time I’d watched the golden eagles for only a few minutes. Something quite out of the ordinary had just happened, and I didn’t know what it was. I felt strangely elated, as though what I’d just seen was not really golden eagles at all The sensation was familiar, one that I’d

experienced several years ago when I’d been regressed by Dr. June Steiner back to my first meeting with Raechel. And then there was something else — those uniquely beautiful colors I’d noticed in the sky exclusively in the areas where the eagles were flying. Maybe, I thought, June could provide some insight here. So I emailed her and received immediate feedback. Below are some of her comments that I’ve paraphrased. She felt that I was perhaps being honored or blessed in some way and the eagles were presenting as screen images, in such an unusual number that I would notice them and realize this was not what it looked to be. The maneuvers would be in the manner that ships or other forms would move, to alert me. The fact that the eagle, which is my power animal, appeared in multiples, in an unusual area and in such numbers, strengthens the screenmemory theory. The fact that I was warm during the chilly wind, especially as the one came near me at the end, felt (to June) as though contact was made and that I would understand clearly that something had happened and I could begin to explore it. There didn’t need to be missing time unless I went with them or if I did, I may have gone dimensionally. So there it is — my final contact with entities that I cannot explain fully, and have no reason or intention to do so. It was enough to simply witness this magnificent display of golden eagles, the unforgettable multicolored sky, the strange feeling of the weather, the final salute of the one eagle who broke formation and hovered overhead for a few seconds — that is more than sufficient to consider the whole event, as June suggested, as a kind of honor and a blessing by something not of this world, and I intend to regard it as exactly that — a final honor by whatever or whomever may have conducted it, a thank-you for my part in a most unusual series of events over my entire lifetime. For that I am both privileged and grateful.

Epilogue Writing this book has necessitated a thorough look back over my life beginning with my earliest memories of playing with my friends, the tiny blue orbs. They were wonderful, caring playmates, and little did I realize then that they were preparing me for a lifelong involvement with them as well as other members of their “family” from another world, another universe, certainly another dimension. Reliving these memories has involved a gamut of emotions including

sadness, joy, and heartache, as well as many tears, and the overall pervasive realization of not knowing who I really am or where I come from. However, in spite of the above, there is final closure to the events that have brought me to this point. I have no more tears to cry, no more sleepless nights to endure, no sadness over what has either been lost or taken from me. What remains now is the knowledge that I have done the best I could with what I was given to work with. I am grateful for the many new friends who made their entrance into my life at often the most unusual but in retrospect, totally appropriate times and places. To those who have chosen not to believe in me or what I stand for, the choice was yours. The world that I now find myself in is sometimes difficult and demanding, but its rewards are boundless and I consider myself fortunate indeed. I now have the strength to stand behind what I have learned and what I know is the truth, and that perhaps is my finest achievement. I am a privileged daughter of whomever my real parents may have been — privileged to walk with one foot in each of two different worlds — worlds of many diverse dimensions. And for that I will be forever grateful for the comfort, grace, and peace of mind it has brought me.