Confessions of an Abductee

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
That night, I walked alone down the deserted rain-soaked avenue....

Submitted: September 04, 2019

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Submitted: September 04, 2019

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Yes, during one of my abduction experiences aboard a saucer-shaped mother-ship, the grim aliens did offer me food.  The experience was mortifying, because all my favorite dishes were placed before me…. viands of slow-roasted meats seasoned with foreign spices, exotic fruits from a faraway private island paradise, and sweet vintage of seductive bouquet.  There was fire in that blood-tinted wine.  

For some lurking hidden agenda entirely unknown to me, I was afflicted with the most ravenous appetite I have ever suffered.  I would have eaten month-old stale dry bread and washed it down with tepid soured milk and thought it a feast fit for kings, I was so hungry, yet I dared not place one bite of the numerous delectable entrees in my mouth.  I’d heard thick rumors promulgated by conspiracy theorists that hostile alien entities from an undisclosed location within our own home galaxy are secretly responsible for the deteriorating nutrient content of our daily diet, resulting in what nutritional psychologists refer to as Standard American Diet, or SAD.

The alien craft must have been of colossal proportions, because on either side of me, long narrow corridors stretched out as far as I could see in every direction, on all sides, above and below me.  In confused horror and desperation, I refused to eat even so much as one single bite of the tempting food offered me by the alien beings because, with a creeping sense of encroaching doom, I felt threatened by the entire unearthly sequence of paranormal encounter.  A little voice inside my head warned of disguised threat that the insidious aim of those brooding extraterrestrial apparitions was to prime my cognition for schizophrenic mood induction and mental health disturbance.  

“Brain fog?  Brain fog?”, a soft voice kept whispering that disorienting question to me, but looking around the elongated oval table, I saw only oblate craniums, mournful faces without noses as we know them, and large dark lidless eyes staring at me.  No expression whatsoever could I detect in those blank staring eyes of infinite shadow, haunting mystery, and mortal danger.  

The notion that they wanted to trigger the release of certain neurotransmitters via my physiological hormone system suggested itself, because I had recently been reading about the powerful mind-manipulating mechanisms involving insulin production and over-stimulation of the CNS by hydrocortisone.  It felt like I was an unwilling initiate in a medieval witchcraft cult during an interdimensional Walpurgis Night.

Suddenly, and totally without warning, I found myself strapped to an examination table.  A silvery metallic tray of small multi-colored objects, about the size of drugstore bubblegum pieces and shaped like holographic dodecahedrons, was placed beside me.  There were four of the bite-sized curiosities of assorted colors - pink, yellow, green, blue.  

I could not move my legs or arms.  My heart was furiously pounding, beating like a barbarian siege-hammer in my chest.  My skin palpitated with morbid dread and debilitating fear.  The grotesque scrawny fingers of a particularly sinister specimen of the alien entities picked up one of the small pasty pastel objects and held it close to my face, but I clasped my lips tightly shut so the hideous thing couldn’t drop the menacing unidentified object into my mouth.  I was terrified of toxins, carcinogens, poisons, and brainwashing chemicals.

When I refused to eat, an entirely different tall humanoid organism with rheumy translucent skin used what I would describe as a laser-light scalpel to open a small incision beneath my sternum to gain direct access to my stomach.  Apparently, the highly technologically advanced surgical instrument cauterized the wound while inflicting it, because, to my utter astonishment, in spite of the searing stinging pain of burning and the fleshy smoke-odor that sickeningly reminded me of outdoor barbecue, there was no bleeding.

The strange pink, yellow, green, and blue dodecahedrons were placed inside the gaping hole that had been cut in my belly, then another surgical device was used to close the agonizing injury.  The invasive objects were inside my body and there was nothing I could do to stop the sadistic unholy molestation.  There were no sutures involved, nor was there a scar or any other indication that I had been sliced open.

I don’t know if I began hallucinating, but a slinky creature, about the height of a department store mannequin, clad in violet robes with four pairs of arms and hair like glowing fiber optic cable, stepped up to the examination table and undulated erotically beside me while playing a tenor saxophone.  I’m very familiar with saxophone music having played the instrument myself in high-school marching band, but for some inexplicable reason, I can’t for the life of me remember the names of any of the songs this creepy salacious alien played.  The reedy throaty notes resonating from the conical bore of the shiny golden horn were eerily soothing.  

Suspiciously, I was induced to start talking; possibly by harmonious melodies of the sensual sax or by a mind-control substance contained in the multi-colored dodecahedrons as they were metabolized by my digestive system.  I spoke of events, the nature of which was very disturbing to me.  I did not know what I was talking about because I had no memory whatsoever of living through any of the situations I was describing.

Shockingly, there was cryptic talk emanating from my very own voice about a wandering gypsy woman clad in huge gaudy bangles and voluminous layers of flowing silky garments.  From a sunlit meadow of no known time or place, she collected flowers, roots, herbs, mushrooms, and toadstools, placing them carefully into a linen basket with the face of an alien skillfully embroidered on its intricately woven cloth flank.  I mumbled vaguely about digitalis and fairy bells.

In the kaleidoscope of weird imagery, I spoke as an automaton of a sallow-faced elderly man with a microscope and pair of binoculars making violent gestures toward a simmering crucible and something blurry hovering amid the storm clouds in the iron-gray sky overhead.  I absolutely could not believe what I was saying.  To my surprise, I spoke as an expert on remotely controlled weapons guidance systems being clandestinely smuggled to a terrorist faction in a stony grotto hidden behind a treacherous waterfall at noonday amid the steep ravines of a steamy equatorial jungle, and even a biohazard Level 4 highly contagious genetic retrovirus capable of surviving extended travel through the icy, radiation-bombarded vacuum of interplanetary space.

There was a strange meeting involving an Apache mystic and medicine man in a torch-lit cave somewhere along the Mogollon Rim in the ancient high desert of what is now known as Arizona.  

In another mind-boggling scene amid the cobwebs of a lowly musty dilapidated fungoid shack behind an abandoned burial ground shunned as Swamp Hag Acre, a scarf-headed midwife had been using her dirty long sharp fingernails to collect DNA samples from squalling newborns without the knowledge or consent of their screaming vulnerable castaway adolescent mothers.  

From a shrimp-stained gelatinous conch shell there was much talk about precocious puberty (a frightful topic which I could have sworn I knew nothing about) and teen pregnancy being brought about by diet-induced mood disorders combined with subliminal messaging in the mass media.  Malnutrition makes the human brain pliable for the subversive power of persuasion.  All these wickedly devised plots covertly masterminded and bankrolled by you-know-who.

There was an old tintype photograph, a fading shade of sepia, portraying my maternal great-grandmother on her wedding day.  Her eyes were so sad and lonely.  Her lips seemed to move calling my name, yet I could hear no sound.  I remember all the family and kinfolk sobbing and weeping at her funeral.  Grannie Emma was so devoutly loved by all.  A heavy overwhelming weight of hopeless sorrow swept over me as I watched helplessly her young lips grow wrinkled with heartrending age while crying out for me in silence.

The last thing I remember is restating the purpose for why the aliens deliberately let strange lights be seen in the night sky immediately preceding sudden outbreaks of atrocious cattle mutilations and the advent of enigmatic crop circles.

At that point, I woke up behind a sloppy heap of used cardboard boxes in a dusty warehouse that was mostly empty.  In the corner farthest away from me, I saw a group of people huddled around a large flat-screen computer monitor where they focused their attention, intensely observing a muted surveillance video.  As quietly as I could, I tiptoed to the warehouse doors nearest me, which were parted in the middle just enough that I could quietly squeeze through unobserved.  

Once outside in the alley, I ran as fast as I could, not knowing where I was or why.  I didn’t have my Motorola Android, but an old set of automobile keys from a Ford pickup truck were in the left hand pocket of my gray windbreaker jacket.  This was very strange to my mind, because I haven’t had a driver’s license since autumn of 1999.  

When I emerged among the dull streetlamps of a deserted late-night two-lane avenue, I recognized what part of town I was in.  For a long distance, I walked along the sidewalk accompanied only by the eerie repetition of pattering rain and my own solitary footsteps, all the while casting nervous glances over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed.  Nearly twenty blocks away, I finally arrived (totally exhausted and drenched by cold drizzling precipitation) at the apartment building where a friend of mine lived.  Knocking on her door at 2 a.m., I naturally had some explaining to do.  

There’s much more to this unsettling paranormal experience, yet for the most part, I’ve answered this question to the best my distorted memory will allow.  I hope there’s never a repeat of that unhallowed nightmare trauma, yet when I’m alone at night, I jump in uncontrollable spastic paranoia at the least unrecognizable sound or flash of odd light.


© Copyright 2019 Sean Terrence Best. All rights reserved.

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