Are we merely microbes living on a rocky planet, caught in the gravity well of a run-of-the-mill M class star on the edge of a common spiral galaxy, looking up and stupidly wondering WTF? Or are we really spiritual beings, temporarily existing as mortal pawns in a war between good and evil? Do alternate planes of reality exist, which we can only “see” if the circumstances are just right or when we finally croak?
I’M NOW GOING to tell you a bizarre but absolutely true story that happened to me one winter night a long time ago. You may not believe a word and I will not blame you; but please make note I’m not saying for sure I had contact with a real angel and demon, just that whatever did happen makes me wonder to this day.
I’ll just tell it to you the story straight out and let you decide. Who living on this planet can really say what lies past this veil of tears?
I’ve literally only told this story to a single handful of people over the years and now I’m telling the whole wide world. Exactly what happened on that crazy night so long ago is way beyond little old me. I did write everything down soon after, replayed it all in my mind countless times and will now share my strange little experience with you.
Did INCOG MAN experience a real visitation from “the other side?” You be the judge.
It was during the Christmas season, and a blustery, snow-driven cold wind stung my face as I left a typical fern bar with this girl I once worked with. We had just a couple of beers and laughs after a short Friday at work, but the two of us had to leave early since we had other things to attend before the coming holidays.
As I watched her cross the parking lot, I remember thinking I personally cared a lot for her but not in the way where I wanted to get inside her pants. The feeling actually kind of surprised me, since I was a bit of “manwhore” at the time and she was fairly hot. At the time, I was pretty sure I could have tagged her, but we were good friends and I wanted to keep it that way for some reason (she was a beautiful blond and one of the smartest persons I ever knew).
I had to leave early so I could meet up with my father that evening at the Costco to do my last minute Christmas shopping, as we did every year together.
As we walked through the giant shopping warehouse, my elderly dad would point out with his walking cane what he thought would make a nice present to various members of the family. Now you might think that I was taking the easy way out and you’re right, but my dad really enjoyed doing this. He loved giving advice to his progeny. And who was I to be an ass about it?
At the time I lived in this really pleasant apartment complex, where the proactive, pro-White management did every thing possible to keep ruinous “diversity” down to a minimum. The park-like landscaping was expertly thought out and meticulously manicured. My batchelor pad was on the first floor, a fairly big 2 bedroom, all by myself, with a nice screened-in porch surrounded by shady mature oak and pine, just across the street from a nice pool. The neighborhood was really quite pleasant, like a futuristic Isaac Asimov “Foundation” novel where robots carefully tended the surroundings at night.
That evening, after returning home after shopping, I remember doing some serious philosophizing about the concept of “love” while laying on the couch idly watching the usual worthless TV fare.
It struck me like a thunder-clap the difference between pristine love and lust love. The love for a son by the father is unequivocal, nothing can change it and nothing is required. I suddenly realized the huge difference and what it truly meant deep inside.
At just about then, I heard a loud banging noise out on my screened in porch just feet away. I got up and went into my bedroom overlooking the porch door and saw someone trying to break in! It looked like it was a women dressed only in a flimsy plaid flannel shirt and apparently naked underneath. I couldn’t believe it, since it was absolutely freezing outside, in the 20’s and a couple of inches of snow.
Not sure what to do, grab my Smith and Wesson semi-auto 9mm pistol and start blasting away or what, I went out to the sliding glass door in my living room and opened it right as she broke the meager hook and clasp holding the wooden framed screen door. She burst past me like a runaway freight train and into my apartment’s living room, where she immediately flopped right down on my couch!
I could easily see her nakedness underneath the worn-out flannel shirt clear as day. And she was a fairly decent looking woman! Sure, not a Miss America or a Playmate of the month, but reasonably attractive and definitely “doable.”
She started telling me she had seen me around and wanted me. I can’t remember her exact words but I clearly recall how she lewdly cocked her legs apart so I could get a good, straight-on look at her you-know-what, while her ample breasts flopped wildly around her loosely buttoned shirt. All right on my couch!
It was like that final parade scene in the movie “Animal House” when this good looking woman flies through a window and lands on a bed where a boy is looking at a Playboy magazine. The kid says “thank you God!”
I fully admit it did cross my mind for a moment to take advantage of her. It would have been just like another Hollywood scene when a tiny devil with a deep demonic voice appears on one shoulder telling you “DO HER — DO HER NOW” and a tiny angel with a squeaky voice appears on the other saying “YOU BETTER NOT TOUCH THAT GIRL.”
She had been drinking. I could smell the alcohol. But when I told her I wasn’t going to mess around, she became very irate and stormed about looking for something to drink. Soon she found my well-stocked liquor cabinet and became very excitable.
Forcefully, but non-violently, I sat her down in my favorite overstuffed chair from the fifties — a beautiful chair I had found in absolutely perfect shape at an estate sale, carefully packed away for years, the tropical colors still vivid.
I tried to talk some sense into her and get her to drink some hot coffee I made. She kept refusing any, nor tell me her real name no matter how many times I asked. I had only wanted to get her home to wherever she lived and suspected rightly it was nearby.
All of a sudden she quite visibly changed and started talking about people I knew and worked with. Impossibly, she used the actual names of these people. She knew all about the girl I had beers with that afternoon and the name of my best friend at the time. I asked her pointed, specific questions about myself which she answered either absolutely correctly, or coyly refused any reply, only looking at me with a strange little smile.
I could sense she, or “IT,” wanted to show off, but some sort of unspoken rule kept her from crossing a line that would reveal more, possibly removing any last vestiges of doubt. I could see this frustrated her, or whatever arrogant entity possessed her. It seemed like she measured each question, carefully deciding if answering might violate that special law. The behavior was so oddly distinct, that I double underlined the observation in my notes I later wrote down.
Whatever the hell was going on, I was absolutely positive she said things that no stranger could possibly ever know about me, unless they paid for some serious private eye investigation work in advance. It was simply too unbelievable.
All during this back and forth the woman’s face seemed to distort in impossible, wild ways — nervous tics and spasms burst across her face. It looked like some uncontrollable force lived just beneath her skin; a bit like the special effects you see in movies today, using advanced CGI and surface mapping.
Quite sure by now that I might actually be dealing with something beyond my earthly understanding, I kind of panicked (ghost stuff scares the beejesus out of me). I felt an insane, primordial fear well up inside me, like what one might feel when a Great White shark circles you while swimming at the beach, or stumbling upon a roaring Grizzly Bear standing on her hind legs on a hiking trail.
I decided I had better call the police. I probably should have as soon as she stormed into my apartment but wanted to help her out without involving Johnny Law if possible.
A plan of action was enough to quell my rising fears. I went across the hall and banged on the door to my neighbor, an elderly gentlemen who was a veteran of the Korean war. A quiet widower with out-of-town children, he rarely talked to anyone in the building but me, since I knew a lot of the history behind his unit’s combat record (he survived the surprise Chicom human wave attacks during General Douglas MacArthur’s advance and retreat from the Yalu river).
Out in the hall, I explained how the woman had broken into my apartment. He agreed about calling the police and then tried talking sense into the woman, but she started telling him specific things about himself! Like how his eldest son never visited because he was a self-centered yuppie living in a big city.
Obviously disquieted, the old man slipped outside to meet the cops.
A big beefy cop eventually showed up and I told him the basics of the deal, consciously leaving out the weird stuff. He had already received a BOLO about the woman (be on the look out); her mother had phoned the police she was missing and explained she suffered from mental issues — obviously enough.
I had this really nice olive drab, detective-style raincoat — an expensive Burberry I remember — in which I wrapped her up before sending her out the door with the cop.
The cop came back to return my raincoat. I had given up seeing it again. He told me and my elderly neighbor that the woman lived with her mother nearby. She had broken into the mother’s locked up liquor cabinet while she was gone. Basically, she was a drunk mental case. Or so it would seem.
And if all that wasn’t enough, what happened next totally tripped me out.
After bidding my neighbor good night, I went to bed to try to get some sleep. Although it was very late, I wasn’t very tired. Laying flat on my back, I looked up at the ceiling, thinking about what had just happened.
All of a sudden the ceiling dissolved into a inky blackness lit with pin pricks of starlight. Then I saw some sort of amorphous, opalescent cloud, about the size of a throw rug, brilliantly lit in reds and purples where the ceiling should have been. It was astoundingly beautiful, almost too impossible to describe.
What did I see that night? It looked a lot like this montage I created in photoshop by using a shot of a galactic nebula; but my recollection and notes say the edges were more defined, scalloped and the over-all shape more rectangular. However, the glowing colors seen against a black background are right on. Also, please note, those are not my real toes, just some shot I found to do the image.
I distinctly remember saying to myself “WTF NOW!” as I looked up at a celestial display up above where my ceiling should be (I said the words out fully). Then I felt someone touch one of my big toes. Notice I said “someone” there and not “something.” I was absolutely certain it was a human finger touching me even as I knew no other human was in the room.
But before I could think of another thing, instantaneous waves of indescribable sheer bliss and happiness surged up through my body straight from my feet. Whatever force it was, it bounced off the top of my inner skull (that’s exactly how it felt), back down towards my feet and then back up again, with lessening intensity each reverberation. It was like a sloshing back and forth inside a tub of molasses.
This happened for some unknown amount of time — could have been 10 seconds or 10 minutes — I don’t know because I completely lost all sense of temporal awareness. When whatever it was finally petered out, I felt wrung out like a limp dishrag and sobbed like a big stupid baby (yep, I’ll admit it, meanie tough old INCOG cried).
Most definitely not able to sleep now, I got up and scribbled down a half dozen pages of crazy looking notes and sketches, eventually collapsing around 8 am, thankfully on a Saturday morning.
For years, I often explained to myself that all this was my guardian angel thanking me for not polluting my soul by tagging that crazy, demon-possessed woman. Maybe.
I hadn’t done any drugs — didn’t drop acid or smoke any killer Jamaican Ganja. I only had some coffee and cigarettes, hardly enough for something like that. The stress of the night may have generated a hallucinatory response, which in turn set off a wildly raging dopamine storm in my head. I don’t think that’s what happened.
Also, it could have been this strange mental condition people have right before falling asleep and the dream state kicks in a bit too early. This is the same thing that some debunkers believe to be the source to UFO abduction stories in the present day, or ancient tales of nightly visitations from demonic entities often called the Succubus and Incubus.
I still can’t bring myself to believe all that to be the case since I knew I was totally wide awake from coffee and the crazy chick. Also, the words of my late night female interloper could not be satisfactorily explained away by this explanation.
And I was certain the woman hadn’t used psychic parlor games to get info out of me earlier, by using verbal and visual cues that charlatans rely on to fool the gullible. I was very aware of these things, since I was personally acquainted with a pretend “psychic” at the time and saw how she played with people’s heads to get attention and sometimes money.
Researching the matter in more detail later, I read accounts of crazy people talking about subjects they shouldn’t have any understanding of, even speaking in languages they couldn’t possibly know, like latin or chinese. Seems like they somehow get connected to a global “ID,” some sort of universal subconscious that allows them to tap into things no regular person could.
Either all that, or a demonic entity from Hell itself took up residency in that poor drunken girl’s body and decided to mess with my head that night!
I’ve never had anything like this happen to me before or since; I don’t see dead people and never any UFOs (I do keep my eyes peeled). Whatever it was that happened on that cold wintry night, I’ll always remember it. Call me crazy all you want, that is if you don’t already!
If you get all bunged-up and depressed about matters going on today in the world and America, remember this one thing: If the devil is real, then God must be too. Call it Ying and Yang. Think about it.
I will leave you on that note.
— Phillip Marlowe
I certify the above is true to the best of my recollection and from reviewing my notes taken shortly after the events described. If I wanted to embellish this account with a bunch of “Amityville Horror” business, I easily could have, but resisted the temptation.
Please give me your opinion of what happened to me that night in the poll below and in the comment section.