The Hunter's Tables Turned: The Revenge of an Alien Abductee
Posted: Tuesday, September 20, 2011
by Paul Schroeder
alien / demonic attachment
He had been taken from the desert, in Texas, when he was seven years old.His father, shot-gun in hand and he had been climbing rocky outbreaks amidst cactus and scrub.
They had hunted coyote there before, successfully.
They had used a coyote lure, a blow- into device that produced a sound that resembled a rabbit's cry of pain; with their backs to the setting sun to blind the predator's approach, they had shot and killed six, that evening.
A craft had appeared overhead.
It had appeared from nowhere, instantly.
It was blue like the sky, slowly changing to brown, like the desert floor, then silver as though the color progression change of metal cooling.
Later, when his father had awoken, a shell had been discharged, missing from the chamber, but he had no memory of ever firing the gun.
The seven year old had been swept aloft into an overhead craft and examined by small, dark, large-eyed, hairless beings with large pear-shaped heads extended in the back.
They had a thin torso, long arms with three long fingers, spindly legs, no ears and mere slits for mouth.
The large black eyes strangely had compelling power.
"You will not remember!"
But he had remembered..
He had felt pain unlike any ever imagined; he screamed as they penetrated every part of his body: ears, eyes, nose, head, sinuses, feet, arms, intestines, legs.
The large black-wet eyes had stared at him endlessly, extensively, close up to his head.
"This will not hurt.", they had said.
But agony had suffused lines and channels throughout his body.
Terror, rage and pain had overcome him.
The creatures had been puzzled by his pain, saying," You will not remember."
When he was returned to the desert floor, some forty minutes later, his father had looked switched off, eyes glazed, saliva dribbling from the right corner of his mouth.
It was his sobbing, he had then believed that had awoken his father.
His father had told him that he had imagined and dreamed it.
"The Texas sun can give you heat stroke, make you see things", he had said, holding the shaking boy close and placing a hand over his son's forehead.
" Let's find some shade."
They had walked to the shade of hemlock and mesquite at the foot of rock outgrowth and had eaten bologna sandwiches with yellow mustard and had washed it down with canteen water.
During this meal, the child had held his father's hand and would not let go; while he had chewed slowly, he had stared upwards in fear.
When he was seventeen, his abduction experiences had ended violently.
Photo taken over Scotland on September 20, 2011
One night, aware of them, he had pretended to be asleep; going into deep, regular breathing, he had visualized a dream he would like to be in; he had waited.
The wallpaper on three walls had bulged and small snouts and pear-shaped grey heads had waggled quickly back and forth.
They had melted out of his bedroom walls to stand coldly surrounding him.
He had jumped up and had grabbed the closest one to him around the neck, had clutched the feather-like being's back to his own chest, pinioning him.
The creature had frantically struggled to hit him with a small hand-held rod-like device, but the pillows had
prevented the creature from reaching the teenager's body with it.
In panic, the creature had squirmed and thrashed in the boy's tightening grip.
The others, in quick moves like jumping spiders, had scattered from the tight circle.
He had tightened his grip and had squeezed hard.
Something brittle had snapped in the creature's neck.
Suddenly the scene had changed; he had seen his whole family, brother, mother and father surgically eviscerated, but alive.
On a black floor under hospital lights, were lungs, intestines, strewn amidst their gore, as they pleaded with their eyes to save them.
The image had been so real that it had confused, startled and distracted him.
He was convinced that real harm had come to his family and he loosened his grip.
His parents writhed in agony, butchered horribly in front of his eyes.
There had been a dank, musty smell that had permeated the room.
The creature in his arms, in self protection, in desperate panic to free itself, had flashed the image into his mind, but he had killed one of them.
They never came for him again, after that night.
(Author's note:
Aliens have always been here and are as native and terrestrial to our planet as are thunderstorms; they are the game wardens of this preserve that we call 'Earth and like good game wardens they do not let the creatures within suspect that it is indeed a preserve. They are inter dimensional as well as inter galactic and can and do use the same dimension that ghosts and demons do to enter and exit our reality.
The lower Earth animal forms seen as reptiles, amphibians, insects are mirrored and echoed by the higher technological forms which have been seen aboard craft who have lent their DNA to create this preserve.
We , too, are constructs of their creative meddling.
When people ask them,"Where are you from?" Where do you come from?", they are often told,"We come from within."
That is, after physical abductions, their possessing energies are deposited, not unlike the lamprey parasites that they are, within the multi layered human psyche/mind.)
Paul Schroeder
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Top-level comments on this article: (4 total)Dude! Well told. Colorful. Gripping and it makes me shiver. Of course, your explanation at the end is tremendous. Things I have not even thought of in quite that way. I like the custodian concept. Story idea: A real alien resistance tale that comes from someone who had a good teacher. Maybe a Kabbalist or Jew, or even Roman Catholic. These large outfits understand the stuff that many will not speak of. Anyway that's my recommendation. Humans like to cheer. Humans like a Hero. Even if there is futility involved.Please log in to respond to this comment.
Sorry. I got your "revenge of the alien abductee" article, which is good. I am envisioning a fictional character who counsels and advises. He looks like you and uses your lingo. Then you create little tales that have problems and solutions. After all this mostly is under the topic of "harassment", thence to downright "possession". You can explain as you go why they don't want to "kill us" and they can't take all people over at will. Thus their world is restricted. This will be less haunting and scary. Then your "Holmes" character can have true to life stories in which getting answers is the goal. Yet, your style is so real, it will always be gripping. Just some thoughts.Please log in to respond to this comment.I should dedicate this one to Ella, who always insisted I try my hand at fiction.
Though truth is stranger than fiction, there is much truth, in fiction.Please log in to respond to this comment.You are afire with salient literary spirit where all is grist for the mill; I salute you!Please log in to respond to this comment.
No. I don't think you are "beating a dead horse". I think this story stands alone for being provocative and intriguing. Why don't you sit back and ask yourself where you are going next. "What am I trying to get across?" "Where do I want to go next?"Please log in to respond to this comment.After I've finished asking myself all those questions, my ideas are often then throttled in the womb; I have begun to accept that there is much truth in fiction, and that, perhaps, fiction is a better way to reach inquiring readers, like you, who do indeed take time to think.Please log in to respond to this comment.
Very nice read Paul.Please log in to respond to this comment.Thanks, Dave!Please log in to respond to this comment.
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