SECTION FIVE

Entry #0031: In the Old Storage Room: Part One - Dusty Files
12-18-2008

Time to put my paranoid delusions of idiocy aside, before they kill me.

Earlier today I got bored and decided to investigate the dark and dusty storage room across from my station of operations. There is only a single light bulb hanging from the low ceiling, probably a 60-watter, so I had to bring my large camp-light with me, a 200-watter.

There are several old metal filing cabinets here, scratched, and dinged all over, plus there's a bunch of dusty old cardboard boxes. Why my Dad put all this crap down in the bunker, I'm not sure. Perhaps for safekeeping, or to act as a kind of time capsule, capturing old memories. In the cabinets are a lot of old patient files, business letters, invoices, bookkeeping records, x-ray reports, and other boring crud from his Chiropractic office when he was in business here in the high desert area. In a few thick files I found pamphlets, papers, and small booklets from various metaphysical groups he had explored, such as Paramahansa Yogananda's Self-Realization Fellowship, the B.O.T.A (the Builders Of The Adytum, which focused on Tarot cards and the Cabala), Hamid Bey's Coptic Fellowships, and others. I was aware my Dad was into these unusual things in his younger days, and of course I did my own spiritual explorations as well, so I feel I understood him.

I also found miscellaneous stuff from us kids, like art work and school papers and such, manufactured by me, my brother, and sister. There's even a thick file with my crap in it! A lot of it was boring, like quizzes and tests, compositions and drawings, and other stuff from school.

I know there's got to be something more interesting then this crap!



Entry #0032: In the Old Storage Room: Part Two - Dad"s Old Journals
12-19-2008

In one of those dusty old boxes I found some very old spiral-bound Mead notebooks. On each of the front flaps he had simply written "Journal" along with the journal dates. I found one, dated from March 1963 to February 1964, and thumbed through it. Then my own name caught my eye, that is, the nickname they gave me (changed here for obvious reasons). Here's what I read:

May 9th '63
     Tommy has been developing a strong sense of curiosity lately, and that is to be expected at seven-years old. He brought his Basic Arithmetic textbook home from school this evening, working on his times table. I was sitting in my recliner watching the six o'clock news while Tommy sat at the table in the dining room with his textbook, whispering numbers to himself while jotting them down on a worksheet. From time to time I glanced over at him, and one time he seemed to be staring into the corner of the dining room with his mouth hanging open, daydreaming possibly. Then he looked over at me and asked, "Daddy, how far up do the numbers go? I mean, what's the last number?"
     I told him, "It's infinity."
     He asked me if that was actually a number. I told him this was an idea that was too big for numbers, that contained all numbers, and meant that the numbers went on forever. He sat there with eyes wide and exclaimed, "Wow!"
     I told him you can write down any single digit, such as nine, and you can continually add zeros to it, one after another, and you could do this forever, with no end, and that would be infinity. He thought that was pretty impressive.

Actually, I don't have any memory of that, but all I can say is, my Dad was a pretty impressive fellow.


Entry #0033: In the Old Storage Room: Part Three - Schoolyard Junkies
12-20-2008

I found something else that wasn't very impressive, but demonstrated my "naughty" side. Take a gander:

Sept. 18th '63
     I felt angry and scared simultaneously. Yesterday afternoon Tommy did not returned home from school. I was angry because I believed he most likely walked to the home of one of his schoolmates and didn't call us. However I was scared because the thought occurred to me that he had been kidnapped, and I have read articles in the paper relating to such stories. I told his mother to call the police but she was too frantic, so I had to take charge as usual. The officer on the phone told me all they could do was drive a patrol car around the elementary school and surrounding vicinity of Sierra Madre. I drove around town myself for an hour. When I returned home, he was there, thank God! I wanted to spank him hard, but his mother had him sitting at the kitchen table with a glass milk and homemade apple pie. She shouldn"t be rewarding him, but I know she was just glad that he was safe and sound. I noted how scared he looked when I entered the kitchen. I scolded him profusely and told him he had to write a hundred times, "I will come directly home after school every night." I told him to work on his penmanship at the same time. He did. I also grounded him for a week. He could visit none of his friends during that time.

Yikes! I must have felt like a little criminal! Real naughty behavior there! But that's an event I sure remember clearly. Once school let out that afternoon, I stayed in the schoolyard with a friend of mine, Bobby Vincent, playing in the sandy playground with the slides and swings and the jungle gym. All the other kids had gone home, so we had the whole place to ourselves. It had rained lightly that morning, making the sand perfect for molding. So we decided to build a big sand city. We built castles and forts and bridges and tunnels and roadways, almost a Dr. Seussian village. It was nighttime when we saw his parents on bicycles peddling up the road which was right next to the playground. They were mad at Bobby of course, but they sat us on their handlebars, Bobby on his mom's and me on his dad's. They peddled to my house first and dropped me off, then went home. They lived a few blocks away fortunately.

My Mom was excited to see me and said she thought I was lost. I told her that I wasn"t lost, that I knew exactly where I was. I even wrote a school paper on the whole incident -- but I waited a few years to do it, letting it ferment with time a little. Yes, this is one incident I remember very clearly. From the annals of my distant past!

Well, that"s enough reminiscing for one day. I"ll get back to the old storage room another time.


Entry #0034: Scoping it out
12-22-2008

It"s been a several days since that questionable encounter with the unknown dark-suited man. I"ve been holed up here at Area 57 for several days, afraid to go out. But I"ve seen no strange vehicles driving around these dirt roads through the numerous cabins lately while just sitting on the porch, or watching the footage on my security cams. But this morning I went downtown to look around, bought groceries, and put them in my car, then I decided to take a walk, although it"s been chilly and windy here. So I walked down the sidewalk along Mulvern Avenue looking in parking lots on both sides of the street for suspicious cars and suspicious characters. But I didn't see anything strange around town, not at all. I even asked various retailers if they"d seen a stranger in a dark business suit. No one had so far.

Perhaps I"m worrying about nothing. Perhaps that fellow was just a city-slicker passing through. Or one of those creepy goons looking for me. If they had found me, if they at least knew which town I now resided in, what were they waiting for?

I think my paranoia was getting the best of me. But I couldn"t help except remain cautious. I knew that someday, trouble would find me.

Perhaps sooner than I thought.


Entry #0035: Sinister Footsteps in the Sand
12-27-2008

Christmas was rather bleak here at Area 57. I sat in my station of operations and spent that evening watching two DVDs: How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the Jim Carrey version, and It"s a Wonderful Life while I drank hot cocoa and ate Christmas cookies from the market. What a wonderful life I was having, hiding from dark strangers, holed up underground. I"ve gotten burned out at the computer the last few days, but I had to at least put this post up, so people know I"m still here. "They" haven"t shown their ugly faces yet. But I know they"re lurking around out there somewhere. But something strange did rear its ugly head.

It was sweater weather outside today, but I wore my usual buckskin jacket as I took a leisurely walk through the desert, through the Joshuas and the greasewood and cholla cactus this afternoon. I almost fell into a wash while my mind wandered off onto my usual paranoia fears of being watched. The dry river bed was rather deep as it wound through the desert. I wondered where it led, where it came from, as if it represented my own twisty-turny life, meandering through this fiasco and that dilemma.

Then I saw footprints crossing through the wash, flat soled shoes, probably wing-tips or some kind of dress shoes. I imagined that dark suited man I saw in town a couple weeks ago. I followed the pair of foot prints as it traversed the soft sands of the desert. It was heading toward the dirt road. It ended there. Perhaps a vehicle picked the man up. Perhaps a black van. But on this hardened dirt and gravelly road you can"t see tire tracks too easily, only in the occasional soft spots, but there are mostly rocks and ruts here. I looked around, seeing if I could see anybody, or any vehicles up or down the road. Nothing. These tracks could have been a few hours old, or a few days old. The wind will pick up soon and eradicate them in no time.

So who the hell was snooping around in the desert with improper footwear? Any desert resident uses boots or hiking shoes out here with waffle-grid soles usually, not smooth-soled dress shoes. Since this was all too close to where I lived, I bet someone, one of "them," was looking for me, endeavoring to pin-point my specific location.

My paranoia was all alarm bells again. I was tired of that panicky feeling. I hurried back toward the cabin, looking around me, this way and that, making sure no one was watching me return. But "they" could be hiding in the greasewood using binoculars. I ducked down, and crawled the rest of the way on my belly, on all fours, out of range. I did this for several hundred yards, creeping slowly to the front door. Yeah, I felt ridiculous, but so what? Still crouching low, I reached my hand up, turned the knob, slowly opened the door, and slid in. I closed and dead-bolted it. I had one of those panic attacks; short of breath, heart racing, light-headed, while I laid there on the floor. That was enough excitement for one day. What was next?


Entry #0036: Contemplating my Possible Insanity
12-30-2008

I"m sitting at my desk in my operations station, in front of my computer, file open to "Chronicles of Area 57," not sure what to type next, wondering what the heck I"m doing out here in the middle of freaking nowhere, hiding from unknown pursuers that might not even exist. Those dark strangers have been haunting my mind and emotions more than anything, since I didn"t know where or who they were, and saw nobody to clearly accuse as being "them." Not being able to put a face or name on "them" was frustrating.

Maybe I"ve been imagining it all, seeing what I thought to be signs and clues, making them out to be something they"re not. But I did see actual footprints in the sand from somebody. It could have been anybody though. And I did see that dark suited stranger in town -- that could have been anybody, like a visitor from the city. Sometimes I wonder if I should see a shrink. For what? So he can tell me what I already know? That I've gone nuts?

But my inner voice insists something is still definitely wrong, that I still have to be alert, that perhaps "they" are real, that they are actually out there, looking for me.

Or was that just the crazy voices in my head?

I"m typing these insane thoughts down now, and we"ll see how it all plays out as things progress.


Entry #0037: In the Old Storage Room: Part Four - Early Poetry
01-01-2009

Earlier today I got bored and decided to investigate the old storage room again, hoping to find something interesting, maybe something about the family or Dad I didn"t know. Digging up dirt on my own family? I hope not!

Then I found something very interesting, something I had totally forgotten about. In my box of crud anyway. A 6 x 9 spiral-bound steno pad with my old poetry written in it! From 1973. Fortunately, the year was written on the inside flap. I was a wild eyed 17-year-old back then. That must've been around that time when I came up with my first pen-name, because it was scrawled above the year in the pad, that flashy name that has stuck with me ever since: R. R. Stark. I became that wild-eyed writer as a teenager, and signed all of my stories with this crazy moniker. That's when I started to become who I am today. Which I'm still trying to figure out after all these years. . . yuk yuk . . .

Anyway, some of this pathetic poetry was pretty dry and boring. But when I flipped toward the back, I found several pages with weird swirly doodles and strange designs, plus I apparently fancied drawing flamboyant peace signs and aunk symbols. On one of those artistic pages there is a really strange poem -- and I'll have to post it here for you:

This world is spinning and spinning
Like a top it is spinning
But I'm afraid that someday soon
It will just stop spinning
Because people stop caring
People stop loving
People keep fighting
Because people keep hating
I hope that someday soon
We will change our minds
I hope we wake up
And keep the world spinning
Because if the world ever stops
That will be the end.

Wow. What was I thinking? What was I smoking? Was I trying to be prophetic, or what? Was I trying to predict the end of the world? Either way, the message was clear. Considering that was written during my long-hair hippy days, I recall that I was a pretty radical thinker, already conspiring conspiracy theories early in life. Anyway I decided to share this vintage poem with you.


Entry #0038: In the Old Storage Room: Part Five - An Account of Abduction and Men in Black
01-02-2009

I was drawn to look through my Dad"s old journal"s again, see if I could learn something about him I didn"t already know. He tended to be quiet about certain things in his life from his past, like his religious ventures, and his first marriage. So what juicy morsels would I discover?

Soon I stumbled upon something very startling! This apparently took place a year after we moved up to the high desert where he established his new office on our ranch property on Foothill Rd. Lay your eyes on this, folks:

June 17th '67
     Approximately two weeks ago a very peculiar incident occurred. A middle-aged male patient had an appointment for acute back pain in the lumbar region. As I treated his back, which required major adjustments, I noted tiny markings all along its length, and they seemed to form a strange symmetrical pattern, which made no logical sense to me. The unusual marking were tiny triangles approximately a quarter of an inch wide. At first I thought these were from some new acupressure technique that required a triangular-tipped instrument, due to the fact the design they seemed to form was very symmetrical, but the configuration of the numerous markings did not line up with any Neurovascular or acupuncture point patterns that I was aware of. In fact, the markings appeared to be burned into his skin.
     I asked the patient about the strange markings, and he relayed to me a very unusual account. I found it to be extremely incredible, but I at least believed that he believed it, because his voice trembled as he spoke and his eyes teared up. He told me that one night while he was sleeping he had been taken from his bedroom against his will by strange inter-dimensional beings, he said, but they were definitely nonhuman. Although his memory was unclear, he seemed to vaguely remember that they performed experiments on his body - which explains the markings. He remembered waking up in bed in a cold sweat and feeling very alarmed, but remembered nothing at first. But he did tell his wife later when he began remembering the bizarre incident. Although his wife denies he went anywhere that night, and did not leave the house at all, he argued that he had been taken away; however, she did find the markings on his back peculiar. I told him for his emotional health he should visit a psychotherapist.
     Yesterday, two strange men in neat black suits came to my office asking strange questions about this particular patient. I told him that due to doctor-patient confidentiality, I could not disclose any information to them. They informed me that this man had demonstrated severe schizophrenic behavior and experienced strange delusions that he flagrantly discussed with people, especially his wife, friends, and coworkers, and that they needed to locate him because his wife had decided to commit him to a mental hospital. But in the last several days people that knew him did not know where he was, especially his wife. He seemed to have disappeared.
     Their explanation sounded very reasonable and truthful to me, but I still felt they were not telling me everything. The strange markings on his back were not a delusion, but I decided against telling them anything about this. Before they left they reemphasized that I should tell no one about this matter. But I was concerned that this patient had mysteriously disappeared.
     I do not fully understand the ramifications of this patient's unusual account or who these men really were that new something about it; however, I do realize there are things in this world that take place that we may have no comprehension of.

My Dad never told me or any of the family about this weird incident! But then, like a good doctor respecting the confidentiality clause, I can understand why. It sounds like he had encountered Men in Black, dark strangers that attempt to silence and suppressed people who have had alien abductions or witnessed UFOs, or anybody involving themselves in these kind of matters. To think that my Dad came this close to the UFO phenomenon!

Another thing occurred to me. What if these same mysterious individuals that visited my Dad were from the same "organization" of the dark strangers that pursued me?


Entry #0039: The Ghost Truck
01-03-2009

I briefly mentioned the only guy in town that knows me, Calvin Hodges. Sometimes we talk on the phone, or visit, at his house or at the Kountry Kitchen over lunch. Because we"ve known each other since grade school, I feel I can trust him. When I first came in the summertime, I had contacted him, and told him I was living here in town incognito, that he shouldn't tell anybody who I really am. I told him about my bizarre situation, that unknown pursuers were after me, searching for me, probably due to my conspiratorial articles. I told him of the strange incidents that occurred back in Sioux Falls that drove me to flee and come here. I even told him about the dark-suited stranger I saw at Mulvern Market, that this might be one of them, and about the strange footprints in the sand near my cabin.

He thought I was a tad bonkers. Since he was an old X-Files fan, like me, he jokingly said to me I had EXS, or Excessive X-Files Syndrome. We laughed about that.

Perhaps I"ve underestimated Calvin. I thought he"d understand me, not think I"m nuts.

When we were kids we used to watch Lost in Space and Star Trek over TV dinners. And he was intrigued with ghost stories or anything that had to do with ghosts and creepy-crawly things. Obviously he grew out of all that. He had become a practical-minded, skeptical man, but since he worked at the Mulvern Daily Press, I asked him to keep his eyes and ears open just in case he heard anything out of the ordinary, especially something that could become a juicy story for the paper-- considering nothing dramatic really ever happened here. But he told me the town newspaper wasn't a tabloid, that weird ghost stories might circulate around the Valley by word-of-mouth, but few people took them seriously. Well, I did, because I needed such stories for my unusual articles.

Incidentally, I remember one of those old ghost yarns from way back when. There was this family that used to live up on Rimrock Road, and every night around midnight they would hear one of those diesel trucks come roaring up the road. Then they would hear the hydraulic brakes screech to stop the long rig, then a truck door would creak open, and they would hear footsteps on the pavement, then walking up their driveway, stepping up their creaky steps, and then knocking on their rickety door. But any time one of them opened the door, no one was there, and there was no diesel truck out on the street either, nowhere to be seen! That family soon moved away. But strangely, no one else that lived in that house ever heard what they heard either. Perhaps they took their truck driving ghosts with them - or maybe the whole affair was just a crazy tale they told people to get a rise out of them.

01-05-09 Blog Comment:
"You should RUN, since you can"t HIDE!" - "them"
them@them.com


Entry #0040: And Yet Another Conspiratorial Comment!
01-06-2009

Alright, folks. That last item in the blog comment section, "You should RUN, since you can"t HIDE!" makes it clear someone is playing games. I think. Whether it"s the real "them" as in those annoying goons that I"m trying to hide from, or just some crazy joker, I"m not sure anymore.

At first I felt pretty safe and secure out here in the high desert. In spite of those questionable signs I"ve seen, the dark-suited stranger and the mysterious footprints, or these crazy comments, I haven't actually been confronted by anybody that could qualify as an enemy. I"m still puzzled about whether or not that dark-suited man was one of "them." It"s quite possible that "they" are testing me, seeing if I attempt to flee again instead of staying in one place, which is probably the wiser thing to do. On the other hand, hiding out and staying in one place is like being a sitting duck, especially if they have already found me and they're just bating me, waiting to see what I do next. But, as far as that last comment, it very well could be some practical joker again, trying to get a rise out of me. I'm sure that's all it is, so I'm not budging one bit. In fact, if this keeps up, I'll turn off the comment section. That'll show "them!"

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