One of the watershed moments for me in life was when I realized I had dreamed the exact images of a movie before I had ever actually seen it. Say what you want about that, but it always stuck with me through the years. I fell asleep one night, and witnessed what I can only describe as a scene of horror, hundreds of people screaming in a hell-like agony, and marching into the mouth of some hideous metal demon. The last I remember was an onlooker below them crying out in terror, just before seeing his back disappear through a set of heavy iron double doors. Later, while visiting relatives, an uncle brought a videotape of an old silent film for my other uncle, because he was an enthusiast for the Roaring Twenties. This was maybe 1988 or 89, so VHS cassettes were in use. As I was watching it, it was then that I realized that the thing I had dreamed was, in po0int of fact, the EXACT visual images from the “Moloch” machine explosion scene from the beginning of Fritz Lang’s “Metropolis” (1927).
George Fox, the esteemed Quaker visionary, once met Cromwell while out riding. In a burst of vision, he exclaimed that, “I smell the stench of death about you!” As bizarre as this seemed to Cromwell, it turned out to be prescient, as Cromwell died a few weeks later, on Sept 3, 1658.
Certain death portents include the stopping of clocks, raps on the door whe no one is there, pictures falling mysteriously from the wall, and raps on the headboard.
Socialist reformer W.T. Stead was fascinated by spiritualism and psychic phenomena, so much so that when a medium told him he must not, under any circumstances, travel by sea, he went and booked passage aboard an ocean liner for her maiden voyage.
He died aboard the Titanic, April 15, 1912.
Mario Bocca could speak with the dead. Or, at least, so he claimed. The Italian researchers who gathered around him on a night in 1950, in the small city of Camerino, Italy, wanted to verify, for themselves, if that were indeed true.
Sometimes, of course, the dead do not rest easy. Something draws them back, again and again, to the scene of their tragic, final act, the time when they, quite literally, “gave up the ghost.”
In this case, however, the ghost never gave up.
“My name is Rosa Spadoni. I was put into my casket alive! Please, so that others can be spared this terrible fate, please, DIG UP MY BODY AS PROOF.”
The medium, presumably through his “control,” vocalized the desire of the departed Rosa. Attendant was the intrigued doctor, Dr. Guiseppe Stoppolini, a distinguished professor of anatomy at Camerino University. Under his direction, it was a short order of work to demand the exhumation. The problem being: they could find no “Rosa Spadoni” in the town of Castel-Raimondo, where the spirit had purported to have died and been interred.
Further communications revealed, of course that she was buried under her married name of MENICHELLI, and had been so buried on September 4th, 1939, after apparently dying of an infection. She was 38.
It was grim work, exhuming the body. But, how much more macabre could the condition of the corpse have been, when the lid of the casket was finally opened?
Imagine the terror of being trapped in the dark, coming to consciousness, being unable to turn over, and putting your arms out to feel a hard, unyielding surface of solid wood. Screaming!–but there is NO ONE to hear your screams.
You writhe in terror, your mind cracking, knowing that you have been delivered into a trap from which there is NO escape–that you have quite literally been BURIED ALIVE. Perhaps you gnashed your teeth, bit through your tongue. The blackness was pervasive and all-encompassing. In the darkness and despair, you might have hallucinated the face of your own dear mother. Or Jesus. A saint, an angel, or Lucifer himself might come to greet you! It is hot, stifling, and the air is getting thinner and thinner…
Breathe in, breathe out…not many breaths left.
The condition of the body proved that, like Poe’s sister character in “House of Usher,” Rosa Spadoni Menichelli did, indeed, show signs of having been interred too soon. Her spine was arched in agony, her skeletal hand affixed to the lid of her coffin, as if in a hopeless attempt to push it open. She might have prayed for a miracle at this point, but, most probably, she just went mad until the oxygen ran out.
A general reform in burial practices across Italy and all of Europe are said to have followed in the wake of this strange, supernatural event. If so, we find no record of association, between one and the other.
So, did this prove the power of the medium, and survival after death? YOU DECIDE.
I was thirteen years old when I first saw the demon.
It came to me in the darkest watches of the night. Waking up from slumber, I found I couldn’t move. I knew I had been away, somehwere, in a place that was dark and grey and dead. Upon coming back from that dismal, horrifying place, I would slowly open my eyes and see the immense form, the hooded shadow that a man has described as “blacker than the black.”
When it first came to me, it was invisible. I could feel it crawl over me, and the feeling was both overpoweringly exhilarating, erotic, and terrifying. I could feel it press down upon me, could feel its weight as the bed creaked up and down heavily…
I awoke that night in a panic, and had to be rushed to the hospital emergency room.
A year or two later, I saw the demon.
I awoke and it was there. Blacker than the shadow which surrounded it, with a hood like a medieval monk. Burning red eyes, and NO FACE. Immensely long fingers, twisted tree branch-like. Curling. Someone has described the horror of having those long, twisted fingers reach out and touch you. I can attest to the fact that this is correct.
I awoke, screaming, my mother running into the room while I implored her “Can you see it? Can you see it?” I had broke the paralysis in terror. After that, I passed back into sleep.
The last horrifying time it visited me, I was in a childrens’ hospital. In my dreams, I was visiting the same grey, dead place, the same melancholy, dark world of rocky, muddy ground, dead trees, yawning caverns, and deep, filthy wet. I awoke, and the Hooded One had come again. Immense, dark, a being that could be seen through, but who was also distinctly defined–I could nearly make out the folds in his cloak. His long, claw-like pointed fingers were in my face; his eyes burned red in the darkness of his hood, but THERE WAS NO FACE.
As hideous as this phantasm was, standing beside it was a being so utterly beyond the pale of what could be considered “real” that it seemed to have escaped from some psychedelic nightmare. A twisted, starved body, like the body of a greyhound dog or even a starved old nag, and long, crooked,preying-mantis like arms that culminated in long, skinny, skeletal white fingers; like the bones of a skeletal hand. Perhaps there were four fingers.
The neck was a skinny branch. The head was huge, oversized; the mouth was a twisted, psychotic, slit-like grin stretching from one side of the huge head to another. But the eyes! They were the huge, black, almond-shaped eyes of the extraterrestrial abductor, the visitor.
I could not move; I could not scream out. I was paralyzed with fright, and could not breathe from the crushing weight of absolute spiritual terror suffocating me. Finally, I must have lost my mind, for I bolted up in bed, screaming more violently than I had ever screamed before or since.
It was almost as if, in sheer terror, I had left my body, and was outside myself, looking at myself. It was not me screaming, at this point; it was simply my body performing a motion to purge itself of some toxin.
I then fell back on the pillow, passing out. My last memory of that nigth was of a hospital attendant rushing into the room with a flashlight. “Oh, I heard this individual say, “he’s just having a nightmare.”
When I awoke the next morning, it was with a massive headache, and virtually no memory that anything unusual had even happened at all.
It took several hours before my memory was jogged, and the terrifying events of the night before started flooding back into my consciousness.
It was maybe a year later, when I was out walking with a relative, that I had my first close-encounter UFO sighting. Rounding a corner of an abandoned lot, across the street from a field and coming into the entryway of an apartment complex, my relative looked over at a strange, hovering object across the street, and asked, “Hey, what’s that?”
I turned, telling her, “it’s a helicopter.”
“Yes,” she said, “but it’s not making any noise.”
Sure enough, the huge, cigar-shaped object was hovering over the field across the street, near a huge radio antenna. Lighted brilliantly on each end, with a strobing, lightning-like blue flash on top, it went up, silently, at a 35 degree angle, before exploding into scarlet light and shooting into the stars. It moved faster thn anything I had seen before, or since. It was, quite obvioulsy, a legitimate, bona-fide UFO.
“That was someone a little off course,” I remember joking. “Like, about 35 million light years…”
Since then, I have had many, many paranormal experiences: visions of beings holding scrolls with strange symbols; episodes of missing time; bizarre, vivid, and often precognitive dreams; bodily scratches; beds that bounce as if some invisible entity were standing at the end, kicking them. And, of course, communications with SOMETHING else, via automatic writing, art, etc.
It was decades before I learned others also had similar “Night Hag” or shadow person experiences, or experiences with the “Hooded Man,” and Preying -Mantis entities. Some of these people described experiences not just similar to my own, but EXACTLY like my own, to the T. You could argue such experiences are simply hallucinations, but, then, explain why all of these people, throughout the history of the “Night Hag” phenomenon, have all had the same experience.
It has been many decades since I have seen the “Hooded Entity,” as far as I can remember. I expect to see it again some day, perhaps, I think, when I finally go to join that mysterious OTHER in the misty veil.
Ego develops slowly over time as a defense mechanism against the outrages of the world. We identify with the image of ourselves most conducive to personal defense. Orr psychology is a fragile thing; our mentality is elastic.
The ability to stretch–to make huge intuitive leaps in our idea of meaning and purpose is the hallmark of every right-thinking and sentient individual.
A mind can be shattered like a mirror– or, can reflect, like a pool, whatever is projected into it. It can rationalize any action ‘for the greater good.’ It, again, can make those intuitive leaps concerning duty and the will to a single-mindedness of purpose. It can both create prosperity, and foster pain.
Yet, as much as it is IN US, it is NOT US. We are something immutable, everlasting, apart–a consciousness encumbered in a physical shell–encumbered by the burden of the physical form–located in the confines of dimensional space–yet, apart from it. Waiting, growing; like the golden yolk of an eternal egg, waiting, for the moment to be hatched; to return to the bright Elysium shores of our Eternal Now–to be One again.
Heaven is wholeness; completion. Our psychology is like a withering stain, the ugly coat or cloak covering the brilliant body beneath. And when we cast off the old garment–do we put on another?
Psychic medium and subject of obscure book “Telephone Between Worlds,” which was presented to me, one night, when something told me to go downstairs at my building and look for a special present. Upon seeing this photo, I realized I had had a vision of this face before. The “Walt Disney Man” I had called him then.