Re: Whitley Strieber, Oct 11th 2003

Discussion in 'Computer Support' started by Lord Avner Williamsburr Smythe, Oct 14, 2003.

  1. Geoff Blackmore wrote:
    > The Capture House
    > Whitley Strieber
    > Saturday October 11th, 2003
    > I have recently had a very complicated and, to me, interesting series
    > of events happen in my life that, I believe, relate to something that
    > has been happening to me since I was a child, and which drew me back
    > to San Antonio in the first place.
    > I would characterize this as a period of heightened awareness, or
    > contact with other levels of reality. Some of it has been really
    > beneficial. For example, about a week after the sequence of
    > experiences was initiated, I woke up one night to find a person
    > standing in our bedroom. After an initial moment of terror, I had the
    > powerful impression that this was Anne’s mother. As she died when
    > Anne was seven, I’ve never met her. She said three words to me:
    > “Mustang, 1966, fire.” Then she disappeared.
    > The next morning, I described the woman to Anne, but she didn’t think
    > it sounded like her mother. I puzzled over the words. We’ve been
    > slowly restoring a 1966 Mustang, with the idea of eventually giving
    > it to our son, who loves old cars. I puzzled over why a ghost would
    > say those words to me. Finally, I input them into Google or Yahoo,
    > and was horrified at what I found. It was a story from 1999 called
    > “1966 Mustang a Classic Danger.” Sixty Minutes II had reported that
    > the car is a death trap that can explode in a rear-end collision. As
    > I had one when I was young, I already know that it’s not very stable
    > on the road, especially in wet weather. I took this as a very
    > important message and I intend to heed it.
    > But the central part of the 'communication' involves going to a
    > certain house, which I believe I have been unconsciously struggling
    > to remember for many years. I call it the Capture House because it
    > seems to me to be a sort of knot in space- time that a normal person,
    > using normal facilities, cannot really navigate.
    > I have uploaded to our subscriber section the first chapter of an
    > unpublished novel of mine called Wonderland, which is entitled “The
    > Capture House.” I wrote this about two years ago, and I believe it to
    > be a buried memory of an actual structure, or type of structure, that
    > I have entered on occasion, and which I have just entered here a few
    > days ago.
    > This whole sequence of events started about three weeks ago. Anne was
    > having difficulty sleeping. She was tossing and turning. Suddenly,
    > she was surprised to hear me say, in a calm and normal-sounding
    > voice, “Please stop flouncing. I’m communicating with the visitors.”
    > I have no memory of saying these words, but I do have a memory of
    > there being something wrapped around my ankle on that night, and of
    > having a very intense conversation with someone. What the
    > conversation was about I do not know— or, not consciously. But, of
    > course I do know. I know very well. It’s probably why I am sitting
    > here at my desk at three o’clock in the morning writing this instead
    > of sleeping.
    > From that day to this, I think that I have been involved in this
    > 'communication.' The warning about the car, all of the material about
    > the capture house--in fact, everything that I am going to relate in
    > this journal entry--are part of it.
    > I think that my experience of the Capture House goes back to
    > childhood, and that it is the foundation of all of my life at the
    > edge of reality, and that I am presently in the process of
    > rediscovering it, and perhaps learning how to link my lives in
    > different realities so that I can have a single, integrated set of
    > memories that includes everything that I have done and known in the
    > years of my life.
    > It was shortly after this communication that I had the experience
    > with the ghost warning about the car, and then that Brian Vike, the
    > Canadian UFO researcher and “Cynthia,” the woman who had the
    > abduction in British Columbia came into my life. Then, just as I was
    > getting Cynthia in touch with the brilliant and deeply compassionate
    > psychologist Constance Clear, who has helped so many abductees, was
    > in a horrible motorcycle accident and nearly killed. Indeed, as I am
    > writing this, she remains, three weeks later, still in ICU, and her
    > survival is in question. (There is no evidence of foul play. She lost
    > control of her motorcycle on a curve.)
    > Then my sister, who has been slowly recovering over the past year and
    > a half from a devastating stroke, suddenly said to me on the way to
    > dinner one evening, “Do you remember the time you disappeared off the
    > boat?”
    > I did not remember any such event, but she related it thusly: Our
    > father had taken us out onto the Gulf of Mexico in a chartered
    > fishing boat. Onboard were the three of us and the operator of the
    > small boat, which sounds like about a thirty foot motorboat with a
    > small cabin, a typical small fishing charter operated out of Port
    > Aransas, Texas, where we used to go quite frequently.
    > I was nine and my sister was eleven, as she remembers it. We were
    > perhaps twenty miles out when she discovered that I was no longer
    > present on the boat. There was no question about it: the boat was
    > small, and there was no place for me to hide. Horrified, she told my
    > father that I was gone, only to find that both he and the operator
    > simply ignored her! She rushed around on the boat looking for me and
    > calling overboard, but they would not stop and they would not
    > acknowledge her in any way.
    > The next thing she knew, I was back. She doesn’t remember me saying
    > anything about it, and neither did our father, so she, also, stopped
    > talking about it. In fact, it has taken nearly fifty years for her to
    > mention the incident again. I have written elsewhere about another
    > strange incident in the Gulf, but this doesn’t appear to be the same
    > thing.
    > If it was indeed during the summer of my ninth year, it was at the
    > beginning of the most intense Secret School period.
    > There has always been a subtle connection between me and my sister
    > involving this stuff. I’ve sensed at times that she was involved in
    > the Secret School, but she has no memories of it, only of mother and
    > dad having the screens on my windows nailed shut to keep me from
    > going out in the night, and a few other odd things. I do remember her
    > being with me, though.
    > There then came an incident, last Thursday night (October 2nd) when I
    > again arrived home from taking her to dinner and Anne asked me where
    > I had been for so long. I was shocked to realize that it was full
    > night—a quarter to nine, in fact. I had taken her to dinner, then
    > stopped at the drugstore, then taken her home. There was still light
    > in the sky when I left her off, which would have made it no later
    > than about seven forty-five. Sunset was at 7:19 and Civil Twilight
    > ended at 7:42. The trip between our two houses takes about fifteen
    > minutes.
    > Even if I left her place at eight, it would not have taken me
    > forty-five minutes to get home. So, what happened?
    > That night, I felt very happy. When I went to bed, I found myself
    > wanting to listen to a compilation tape that I had made back around
    > 1982. It was a very special tape for me. I had last listened to it
    > before going to sleep on the night of December 26, 1985. I hadn’t
    > realized it until I put it in the player, but I have never listened
    > to it since. It has been among my tapes for eighteen years without
    > being touched.
    > The next morning, quite incredibly, I also discovered a tape that has
    > been lost for ten years. This is the complete version of my second
    > hypnosis tape, made on March 5, 1986. All the copies I had were ones
    > that I had erased parts of, out of embarrassment. How the tape got
    > into that drawer, I cannot say.
    > The next morning, I remembered saying to somebody, “This is quite a
    > place. You’d never know it from the outside.” I still have no idea
    > who I said that to, but I said it during that half hour or so of
    > missing time. I think that I said it in what I am calling a capture
    > house, a place that people who are entangled in the close encounter
    > experience are drawn to from time to time. My thought is that I went
    > to such a place on that night, and that it appears to be an ordinary
    > house, and that it stands somewhere between my house and my sister’s
    > place.
    > I think that we have been there before, the two of us, last
    > Christmas. On that occasion, I went to pick her up for a family
    > party, and arrived at the party with half an hour of missing time.
    > Again, I felt very happy, but I had the distinct feeling that we had
    > been somewhere very strange. She remembered nothing, but in the state
    > she was in then, still very diminished by the stroke, there was no
    > way even to ask her.
    > In my second book about close encounters, Transformation, I described
    > finding myself in what appeared to be an ordinary house during one of
    > my experiences in Upstate New York. I even made quite an extensive
    > search of the area looking for the house, but I was never able to
    > find it, even though I remembered its setting.
    > This current house, though, I suspect has been in my life for many
    > years, and perhaps I have come back here, in part, to find it. A very
    > long time ago, I remember being taken from my day camp by one of the
    > teachers, to a house that was nearby. I was taken alone, in her car,
    > not the camp’s station wagon. At the time, I would have been four or
    > five.
    > I remember the interior of the house quite well. It had just been
    > built, and there was a rock wall that separated the foyer from the
    > living room, with a planter near the wall.
    > She took me in and gave me a demi-tasse of very sweet coffee, and
    > encouraged me to eat the sugar out of the bottom, which I did, of
    > course, with relish. A few minutes later, she left me alone in the
    > living room. Then there was a man standing in the front doorway. I
    > instantly did not like him. I tried to leave, but he blocked my way.
    > I was being raised in a house full of servants, and I perceived the
    > teacher to be a sort of servant, and assumed that he was one, too. So
    > I told him to get out of my way, that I was to be taken home
    > immediately. He continued to block the door.
    > I got scared then, and ran off into the house to find my teacher,
    > whom I trusted implicitly. I went down an hall and around a corner
    > and there she was—lying on a bed bound and gagged, with an expression
    > of terrible fear in her eyes. Then the man was there, and he picked
    > me up and I remember nothing more.
    > I think that the two visits that I have made recently are to the same
    > house. I think that they represent an attempt on the part of my mind
    > to regain access to memories that I very much need to address, about
    > my early childhood.
    > I came to know the man I met that afternoon well. He was our teacher
    > at a terrible school that I have worked for years to discover more
    > about. Recently, the Central Intelligence Agency released another
    > 18,000 declassified documents about its mind control experiments,
    > which included an attempt to induce multiple personalities in two 19
    > year old girls.
    > Before the 1973 Congressional investigation that led to the
    > disclosure of the CIA’s notorious MK-ULTRA mind control project, DCIA
    > Richard Helms destroyed thousands of documents. My belief is that
    > what he destroyed was documentary evidence of such experiments being
    > performed on much younger children.
    > I suspect that what happened to me back in 1948 or 49 probably
    > involved dosing me with some sort of drug, which was in the coffee.
    > Back in those days, the notorious Nazi murderer Dr. Hubertus
    > Strughold was operating the new ‘aerospace medicine’ project at
    > Randolph Air Force Base. I have many memories of being taken by the
    > same man who attacked me in the house to classes at that base, which
    > I have written about before. I note that Dr. Strughold was familiar
    > with the use of hallucinogens, from experiments using Mescaline that
    > he had conducted in the concentration camps.
    > My belief is that something was discovered in those camps about
    > children. Specifically, that children, if placed under enough stress,
    > could be induced by drugs and trained to literally enter another
    > dimension—a ‘brane world’ as recently discussed in our insight
    > section as part of a larger discussion about humanity being possibly
    > embedded in a larger galactic civilization.
    > I think that this was done to me, and that the disappearance that my
    > sister remembers represents an occasion when I went, or was drawn,
    > into this other reality.
    > Wonderland is a novel about going back and forth between realities,
    > and the Capture House chapter up in the subscriber section is, I
    > believe, an accurate description of how it feels to do it.
    > In order to drive from where my sister lives now to my house, I have
    > to pass right by where the front gate of the day camp used to be. I
    > think that I am returning to the house where I originally encountered
    > Dr. Krause.
    > But what am I finding there? Is it still what it was then, a sort of
    > waystation between the worlds, or are its present residents simply
    > being bemused by the occasional odd appearances of a rather fusty
    > looking guy who knocks on their door and tells them that they’ve “got
    > quite a place?”
    > I know the general area where the house must be. I think that my
    > sister and I have moved where we have moved so that it will be
    > between us, and there will be opportunities to visit it, which we are
    > now doing. God knows, that would be an explanation for the grim place
    > she moved to when she came back to San Antonio, and to which she has
    > returned now that she has left nursing care.
    > I will make a search for the Capture House, beginning with a
    > reconstruction of the neighborhoods and streets as they were in 1949.
    > Somewhere along one of those streets, I hope to find some answers to
    > the questions raised by my haunted life, and the memories that I and
    > many others, I believe, deserve to recover, that I fear were fed into
    > Richard Helms’s shredder in 1973.
    > My belief now is that whatever I found out the back door of the
    > Capture House, was what I have come to call 'the visitors.' I do not
    > believe that we have, or even can have, language that adequately
    > describes this phenomenon. I suppose that it's as accurate to call
    > them aliens as it is to claim that they are hallucinations, but
    > grossly inaccurate to maintain that they have no existence
    > independent of our minds.
    > I think that one of the psychologists I have worked with was right
    > when she said that they had rescued me from this soul- crushing
    > program that I was in as a child. The program thrust me into their
    > world, and they responded by taking a fierce sort of pity on a
    > terrified child. Somebody was using me, and I assume, others, to
    > explore this other world. No doubt, after I disappeared from the boat
    > or any number of other odd incidents in my childhood, I was eagerly
    > 'debriefed' by these people.
    > The Capture House was where it started, and perhaps it to this day a
    > stationhouse for travellers between the worlds. If you want to find
    > out what it was like to be a little child and not be able to get out
    > of it, read that chapter I have posted. I think that my mind, in
    > writing that fiction, went right back to the actual experience of
    > moving between realities, and drew some very deep and secret memories
    > to the surface.
    > I'm always getting people asking me not to write fiction. But it is
    > through the fiction that I can gain access to the memories of the
    > reality I have lived. My fiction, I think, contains a secret history
    > of a secret life, and, when it is all written, will be a map, if read
    > with objectivity and knowledge, for journeyers between the worlds.
    > There will be more of those. For, as venial and badly motivated as
    > they probably were, the people who terrorized children into escaping
    > through the veil between the worlds, also opened up a new frontier
    > for humanity.
    > From

    Lord Avner Williamsburr Smythe, Oct 14, 2003
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