The Ufo Silencers: Mystery of the Men in Black (14 page)

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It started out one night when I was alone in the house. You see, I'm practically never alone, as my wife goes out only maybe for 10 minutes to half-an-hour at a time, to stop at the store. But that Saturday night—
September 11, 1976
, the time was
8:00 P.M.
—my wife and son decided to spend the evening at a drive-in movie. There was something they wanted to see, and so they asked me if I'd mind if they went out. I didn't object, saying I'd had plenty of things to do at home.

And so they left, leaving me alone for an extended period of time —for the first time, virtually ever you might say. It practically never happens. I don't go to movies. I sit home and watch TV, although I feel I'd be better off utilizing my brain power absorbed in something of factual interest. It has to be fact, something I can make use of. I never read about the MIB, but I most assuredly had heard of UFOs, flying saucers and what-not. Who hasn't? Usually, though, if there is a magazine story about UFOs, I characteristically skip over the article, because I feel it's neither proven nor disproven, because there is other factual material that I want, material that is known, that I could use as part of my knowledge.

Anyway, while they were out to the movie, the telephone rang, and I answered it, and a voice on the other end said—he identified himself, if I remember correctly—he was from the New Jersey UFO Research Organization. He told me he was the vice president of the group, in fact. I understand from Dr. Berthold Schwartz that this has been checked out and verified and there is no such organization. He used a purely fictitious name. And he wanted to know if he could come here and talk with me about an abduction case I'd been asked to investigate. Well, I thought, the man has credentials. Strange, though, that I didn't ask his name, and this is not characteristic of me, as I always like to know who I'm dealing with.

Anyway, he asked if I was alone. I said that I was and agreed to talk with him. And after saying that he'd be right over, he hung up. I walked from the telephone in the hallway to turn on the light in the room and the man was already coming up the stairs outside, leading to the second floor. Now, if he was even as close as across the street or even next door, he couldn't have possibly gotten here so soon.

I just opened the door and said, come in. That too is not entirely characteristic of me, either. I don't know what was the matter with me then to be so lax, so open. So the man came in, asked if he could sit down, and I said, yes. So he took a seat, and while doing so I noticed that his attire struck me as a little odd. He wore a black suit—a neatly tailored black suit—black shoes, black socks, and what looked like a very dark blue shirt—it wasn't quite black—and a black tie. He wore a derby—you just don't see derbies very often these days—and that was black, too. The derby was round and polished, and I thought to myself, my God, this guy looks like an undertaker.

We sat down, and I said to myself, this character is as bald as an egg, and indeed he was. He didn't even have eyebrows, or eyelashes for that matter, and I saw this as soon as he removed his derby. He had smooth skin, like a soft plastic, smooth, like a dolls. But it was a dead white color. His nose was very small, set low and set rather far back. His features didn't have the normal balance. His lips were ruby red— brilliant red—which I thought was odd, and I wondered about it.

As we talked, he wanted to know about the Stevens case. I asked him what he wanted to know, specifically. He began to question me, and to everything I said he would nod and agree with. He'd say, "That's the way I understand it." His eyes were—remarkable. They weren't round. They weren't slit-like. And from where I was sitting, I really couldn't tell the color of his eyes. They certainly appeared to have an iris pupil, but I wasn't observant enough to see the color, except that they were darkish, perhaps dark blue—I'm just not sure.

The lights glowed very brightly and I noticed when he sat quite still he had the appearance of a clothing store dummy. His suit looked like it had just been put on, as though it had never been worn before or even walked in for that matter. And not a wrinkle. Flawless, with a nice sharp crease in the pants. And the odd thing was, when he seated him self, the crease just stood right out over the knee. The super perfection of this individual's attire, even after he sat down, was still absolutely- perfect—it struck me as uncanny. He confirmed that it was as he understood it, and I wondered why he was even asking me these questions if he already knew the answers. The only talking he did was to ask me "what happened next?"

He didn't lead me on, or ask me too many questions. He simply kept the conversation going by saying, "And then what?" Other than that he didn't speak much and when he did talk he spoke in an expressionless monotone. This was the way I recognized his voice being the one on the telephone earlier. It was characteristic. He spoke flawless English, absolutely perfect English with no accent whatsoever. He constructed no phrases and contracted no sentences—just a sequence of words very evenly spaced. A scanning speech they call it. His voice was completely neuter and passive—no inflection, no intonation, no nothing! Just like you'd get from a machine that could talk, if you could picture that.

He was wearing gloves. They looked like gray suede, and he idly brushed his lips with the back of the glove, and when he put his hand down, the back of his glove was bright red, and the red on his mouth was smeared. At that point I said to myself, this guy is some sort of queer—he's wearing lipstick. Then I could see that his mouth was perfectly straight. He did not have what we call lips, so the lipstick, I concluded, was there as some sort of decoy, so to speak, only it was done poorly. The lips did not turn down. They did not smile. They did not turn up, nor did they form an oval. They were just simply flat, like a dummy—Charley McCarthy—and I didn't see any teeth, and his head seemed to blend into his collar. He had a receding chin, and he didn't move his head at any time. Neither did he nod his head. He was perfectly immobile except that his entire body moved. He could apparently read my mind, telling me that I had two coins in my left pocket. Everything else was in my wallet, and it was in bills. So I admitted that I did have two coins, and he asked me to remove one of them and hold it in my hand. I put my hand in my pocket and took out the larger of the coins—the penny.

It was a bright new copper penny, and I held it up in my fingers, but I was asked to hold it flat in the palm of my hand. I did so and looked at him not knowing what to expect next. "Don't look at me, watch the coin," he said. And I did. It suddenly began to develop a silvery color—and the silver became blue, and then I had trouble focusing. I could focus on my hand perfectly well—that was my reference point—but the coin simply was gone. Not abruptly. It simply slowly dematerialized—it just wasn't there anymore. I didn't smell anything. I didn't feel anything. I didn't hear anything.

I was just fascinated at that point. I was spellbound, and I knew something strange was happening in my hand, because I could feel the weight of the penny going away. I don't know how he did this. He didn't perform any hocus-pocus; he didn't move his hands in any way.

Then with a sudden change of subject he asked if I knew Barney and Betty Hill. I said I'd heard of them, yes, but I don't know them personally or anything about them, except that I was under the impression that Barney Hill had died. To that, his only response was, "That's right, and do you know what he died from?" I said that I wasn't entirely sure, but I thought he died suddenly, so it might have been from a heart attack. I later found out that this was not so. And he said, "That is not entirely the case. The reason he died was because he knew too much!" He added, "Barney didn't have a heart, just like you no longer have a coin." It's pretty convincing evidence to me that these things can be done. I knew it, with my own eyes, it's not a second-hand thing that could have been rigged.

Later I discovered that Barney Hill had died under suspicious circumstances. Then he told me—or, rather stated—that I had tape recordings on the Stevens case in my possession. Naturally, I was a little frightened after the coin disappeared. I got a little more uneasy when he ordered me to destroy the tapes and any other correspondence, and anything I had in writing or otherwise that had anything to do with UFOs. It was not the least bit indignant, not the least bit angry, he just said, do it. That's all he said and he would know when I had done so. He did leave a threat that if I didn't do so, I would suffer the same fate as Barney Hill. He did not say that he would come back or anything, just that he would know. It was all put in an inhuman machine-like way.

As he spoke his last words, I noticed that his speech was slowing down, slowing up markedly, not slowing down in a phonograph way, with a change in pitch. His words became slower and farther spaced, but retained the same tonality. He slowly got to his feet unsteadily and he said, "My energy is running low—must—go—now—goodbye." He spoke like that. He walked a few steps to the door—I never got his name. I must have been absent of my senses that night. I opened the door for him and he clung tightly to the wall and walked down the steps one foot at a time—in other words he didn't go from step to step; he took one step at a time with both feet on the step, very unsteadily. And I was afraid that he might fall, and I watched him, he very slowly walked to the corner of the building, not the way he had come in, but towards the other way.

He walked to the corner of the building and held on to the corner of the building for a long moment and then he disappeared around the corner. Well, as he was going out, I saw a bright light coming down the driveway. As he disappeared around that corner I first became aware of the light, and I thought he was getting into a car. I figured he must have a car parked in the driveway. But it was different; no ordinary automobile headlights; the light was bright, bluish-white, and it was a cold light, brilliant. I did notice one other thing. I didn't see his shadow as he walked. I suppose he was walking towards the light and wouldn't cast a shadow, and I reasonably and firmly believe that, if he were in the beam, he would have cast a shadow, because he was of material substance, no question about that.

Next, I rushed to the kitchen window which was right alongside the driveway, because I wanted to see if he were getting to a car, and I didn't see anything. I didn't see any light, nor any car, nor did I see any man. I rushed out to the front porch—that's the only way to get out of the driveway, because there's the large hedge on one side and the house on the other. You can't get through the hedge very easily.

I waited there for a few moments, but nothing came out of the driveway, so I went off the porch, went to the entrance of the driveway, I didn't see anything—cars were going by, but I didn't see any cars going out, and I didn't see anything in the driveway. So I wondered if perhaps it had gone through. You could drive through this driveway and around back of the other house and come out another driveway. It's sort of a horseshoe-shaped driveway, which serves three houses. So I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't think to look up. It just didn't occur to me. If I had looked up, I might have seen something or I might have not, I don't know. I was shaken badly. I'm not a little boy afraid of the dark, but I wanted to know who was around me.

The rest of the night I kept the outside lights on. I kept the kitchen lights on as well. The "interview" took only a matter of minutes. I can't tell how many, because I didn't have much of a sense of time, maybe 20 minutes. One other thing that comes to mind—when he came to the house, the dog, half collie and half German Shepherd, began to whine, and ran into the closet and hid. The cat was unmoved. But the dog was horrified. I had quite a time getting the dog out of the closet. He was so frightened he had even urinated right there. I was afraid if he was outside he would never have come back in. Normally, the dog is not a scaredy-cat. Really, he's a darned good watchdog. I'd never seen him frightened of anything at all. He just has no fear. And if anyone made a move towards me or any member of my family, well, he's right there.

I did something irrational then. I took out my revolver. I have a .38 Special for self-defense. I never had to use it, but I have had a few scares with junkies coming into the office looking for drugs and I decided I should have a weapon for protection. The police had to be called a couple of times, and the Chief of Police advised me to purchase a handgun. I was unwilling at first. I never before had a gun in my life. I never handled one, except when I was a kid, I had a BB-gun. I dislike guns, but he advised me to carry one, and his plea was put so strongly that I finally relented, secured a permit and purchased a personal weapon. He said, "I know you're not going to shoot anyone. You're safe enough to have a permit." I guess he regards me as a fairly stable individual.

So, I sat at the kitchen table with the gun—terrified. Then, after a while I got up, taking the gun with me. I had the tapes and UFO- related correspondence in the other room, and I just ruined the whole thing. I demagnetized the tapes—all of them—and I destroyed them physically. I absolutely wanted to get rid of them. And so I burned every damned thing I could.