Geoff Blackmore wrote:
> The Capture House
> Whitley Strieber
> Saturday October 11th, 2003
>
> I have recently had a very complicated and, to me, interesting series
> of events happen in my life that, I believe, relate to something that
> has been happening to me since I was a child, and which drew me back
> to San Antonio in the first place.
> I would characterize this as a period of heightened awareness, or
> contact with other levels of reality. Some of it has been really
> beneficial. For example, about a week after the sequence of
> experiences was initiated, I woke up one night to find a person
> standing in our bedroom. After an initial moment of terror, I had the
> powerful impression that this was Anne’s mother. As she died when
> Anne was seven, I’ve never met her. She said three words to me:
> “Mustang, 1966, fire.” Then she disappeared.
>
> The next morning, I described the woman to Anne, but she didn’t think
> it sounded like her mother. I puzzled over the words. We’ve been
> slowly restoring a 1966 Mustang, with the idea of eventually giving
> it to our son, who loves old cars. I puzzled over why a ghost would
> say those words to me. Finally, I input them into Google or Yahoo,
> and was horrified at what I found. It was a story from 1999 called
> “1966 Mustang a Classic Danger.” Sixty Minutes II had reported that
> the car is a death trap that can explode in a rear-end collision. As
> I had one when I was young, I already know that it’s not very stable
> on the road, especially in wet weather. I took this as a very
> important message and I intend to heed it.
>
> But the central part of the 'communication' involves going to a
> certain house, which I believe I have been unconsciously struggling
> to remember for many years. I call it the Capture House because it
> seems to me to be a sort of knot in space- time that a normal person,
> using normal facilities, cannot really navigate.
>
> I have uploaded to our subscriber section the first chapter of an
> unpublished novel of mine called Wonderland, which is entitled “The
> Capture House.” I wrote this about two years ago, and I believe it to
> be a buried memory of an actual structure, or type of structure, that
> I have entered on occasion, and which I have just entered here a few
> days ago.
>
> This whole sequence of events started about three weeks ago. Anne was
> having difficulty sleeping. She was tossing and turning. Suddenly,
> she was surprised to hear me say, in a calm and normal-sounding
> voice, “Please stop flouncing. I’m communicating with the visitors.”
>
> I have no memory of saying these words, but I do have a memory of
> there being something wrapped around my ankle on that night, and of
> having a very intense conversation with someone. What the
> conversation was about I do not know— or, not consciously. But, of
> course I do know. I know very well. It’s probably why I am sitting
> here at my desk at three o’clock in the morning writing this instead
> of sleeping.
>
> From that day to this, I think that I have been involved in this
> 'communication.' The warning about the car, all of the material about
> the capture house--in fact, everything that I am going to relate in
> this journal entry--are part of it.
>
> I think that my experience of the Capture House goes back to
> childhood, and that it is the foundation of all of my life at the
> edge of reality, and that I am presently in the process of
> rediscovering it, and perhaps learning how to link my lives in
> different realities so that I can have a single, integrated set of
> memories that includes everything that I have done and known in the
> years of my life.
>
> It was shortly after this communication that I had the experience
> with the ghost warning about the car, and then that Brian Vike, the
> Canadian UFO researcher and “Cynthia,” the woman who had the
> abduction in British Columbia came into my life. Then, just as I was
> getting Cynthia in touch with the brilliant and deeply compassionate
> psychologist Constance Clear, who has helped so many abductees, was
> in a horrible motorcycle accident and nearly killed. Indeed, as I am
> writing this, she remains, three weeks later, still in ICU, and her
> survival is in question. (There is no evidence of foul play. She lost
> control of her motorcycle on a curve.)
>
> Then my sister, who has been slowly recovering over the past year and
> a half from a devastating stroke, suddenly said to me on the way to
> dinner one evening, “Do you remember the time you disappeared off the
> boat?”
>
> I did not remember any such event, but she related it thusly: Our
> father had taken us out onto the Gulf of Mexico in a chartered
> fishing boat. Onboard were the three of us and the operator of the
> small boat, which sounds like about a thirty foot motorboat with a
> small cabin, a typical small fishing charter operated out of Port
> Aransas, Texas, where we used to go quite frequently.
>
> I was nine and my sister was eleven, as she remembers it. We were
> perhaps twenty miles out when she discovered that I was no longer
> present on the boat. There was no question about it: the boat was
> small, and there was no place for me to hide. Horrified, she told my
> father that I was gone, only to find that both he and the operator
> simply ignored her! She rushed around on the boat looking for me and
> calling overboard, but they would not stop and they would not
> acknowledge her in any way.
>
> The next thing she knew, I was back. She doesn’t remember me saying
> anything about it, and neither did our father, so she, also, stopped
> talking about it. In fact, it has taken nearly fifty years for her to
> mention the incident again. I have written elsewhere about another
> strange incident in the Gulf, but this doesn’t appear to be the same
> thing.
>
> If it was indeed during the summer of my ninth year, it was at the
> beginning of the most intense Secret School period.
>
> There has always been a subtle connection between me and my sister
> involving this stuff. I’ve sensed at times that she was involved in
> the Secret School, but she has no memories of it, only of mother and
> dad having the screens on my windows nailed shut to keep me from
> going out in the night, and a few other odd things. I do remember her
> being with me, though.
>
> There then came an incident, last Thursday night (October 2nd) when I
> again arrived home from taking her to dinner and Anne asked me where
> I had been for so long. I was shocked to realize that it was full
> night—a quarter to nine, in fact. I had taken her to dinner, then
> stopped at the drugstore, then taken her home. There was still light
> in the sky when I left her off, which would have made it no later
> than about seven forty-five. Sunset was at 7:19 and Civil Twilight
> ended at 7:42. The trip between our two houses takes about fifteen
> minutes.
>
> Even if I left her place at eight, it would not have taken me
> forty-five minutes to get home. So, what happened?
>
> That night, I felt very happy. When I went to bed, I found myself
> wanting to listen to a compilation tape that I had made back around
> 1982. It was a very special tape for me. I had last listened to it
> before going to sleep on the night of December 26, 1985. I hadn’t
> realized it until I put it in the player, but I have never listened
> to it since. It has been among my tapes for eighteen years without
> being touched.
>
> The next morning, quite incredibly, I also discovered a tape that has
> been lost for ten years. This is the complete version of my second
> hypnosis tape, made on March 5, 1986. All the copies I had were ones
> that I had erased parts of, out of embarrassment. How the tape got
> into that drawer, I cannot say.
>
> The next morning, I remembered saying to somebody, “This is quite a
> place. You’d never know it from the outside.” I still have no idea
> who I said that to, but I said it during that half hour or so of
> missing time. I think that I said it in what I am calling a capture
> house, a place that people who are entangled in the close encounter
> experience are drawn to from time to time. My thought is that I went
> to such a place on that night, and that it appears to be an ordinary
> house, and that it stands somewhere between my house and my sister’s
> place.
>
> I think that we have been there before, the two of us, last
> Christmas. On that occasion, I went to pick her up for a family
> party, and arrived at the party with half an hour of missing time.
> Again, I felt very happy, but I had the distinct feeling that we had
> been somewhere very strange. She remembered nothing, but in the state
> she was in then, still very diminished by the stroke, there was no
> way even to ask her.
>
> In my second book about close encounters, Transformation, I described
> finding myself in what appeared to be an ordinary house during one of
> my experiences in Upstate New York. I even made quite an extensive
> search of the area looking for the house, but I was never able to
> find it, even though I remembered its setting.
>
> This current house, though, I suspect has been in my life for many
> years, and perhaps I have come back here, in part, to find it. A very
> long time ago, I remember being taken from my day camp by one of the
> teachers, to a house that was nearby. I was taken alone, in her car,
> not the camp’s station wagon. At the time, I would have been four or
> five.
>
> I remember the interior of the house quite well. It had just been
> built, and there was a rock wall that separated the foyer from the
> living room, with a planter near the wall.
>
> She took me in and gave me a demi-tasse of very sweet coffee, and
> encouraged me to eat the sugar out of the bottom, which I did, of
> course, with relish. A few minutes later, she left me alone in the
> living room. Then there was a man standing in the front doorway. I
> instantly did not like him. I tried to leave, but he blocked my way.
> I was being raised in a house full of servants, and I perceived the
> teacher to be a sort of servant, and assumed that he was one, too. So
> I told him to get out of my way, that I was to be taken home
> immediately. He continued to block the door.
>
> I got scared then, and ran off into the house to find my teacher,
> whom I trusted implicitly. I went down an hall and around a corner
> and there she was—lying on a bed bound and gagged, with an expression
> of terrible fear in her eyes. Then the man was there, and he picked
> me up and I remember nothing more.
>
> I think that the two visits that I have made recently are to the same
> house. I think that they represent an attempt on the part of my mind
> to regain access to memories that I very much need to address, about
> my early childhood.
>
> I came to know the man I met that afternoon well. He was our teacher
> at a terrible school that I have worked for years to discover more
> about. Recently, the Central Intelligence Agency released another
> 18,000 declassified documents about its mind control experiments,
> which included an attempt to induce multiple personalities in two 19
> year old girls.
>
> Before the 1973 Congressional investigation that led to the
> disclosure of the CIA’s notorious MK-ULTRA mind control project, DCIA
> Richard Helms destroyed thousands of documents. My belief is that
> what he destroyed was documentary evidence of such experiments being
> performed on much younger children.
>
> I suspect that what happened to me back in 1948 or 49 probably
> involved dosing me with some sort of drug, which was in the coffee.
> Back in those days, the notorious Nazi murderer Dr. Hubertus
> Strughold was operating the new ‘aerospace medicine’ project at
> Randolph Air Force Base. I have many memories of being taken by the
> same man who attacked me in the house to classes at that base, which
> I have written about before. I note that Dr. Strughold was familiar
> with the use of hallucinogens, from experiments using Mescaline that
> he had conducted in the concentration camps.
>
> My belief is that something was discovered in those camps about
> children. Specifically, that children, if placed under enough stress,
> could be induced by drugs and trained to literally enter another
> dimension—a ‘brane world’ as recently discussed in our insight
> section as part of a larger discussion about humanity being possibly
> embedded in a larger galactic civilization.
>
> I think that this was done to me, and that the disappearance that my
> sister remembers represents an occasion when I went, or was drawn,
> into this other reality.
>
> Wonderland is a novel about going back and forth between realities,
> and the Capture House chapter up in the subscriber section is, I
> believe, an accurate description of how it feels to do it.
>
> In order to drive from where my sister lives now to my house, I have
> to pass right by where the front gate of the day camp used to be. I
> think that I am returning to the house where I originally encountered
> Dr. Krause.
>
> But what am I finding there? Is it still what it was then, a sort of
> waystation between the worlds, or are its present residents simply
> being bemused by the occasional odd appearances of a rather fusty
> looking guy who knocks on their door and tells them that they’ve “got
> quite a place?”
>
> I know the general area where the house must be. I think that my
> sister and I have moved where we have moved so that it will be
> between us, and there will be opportunities to visit it, which we are
> now doing. God knows, that would be an explanation for the grim place
> she moved to when she came back to San Antonio, and to which she has
> returned now that she has left nursing care.
>
> I will make a search for the Capture House, beginning with a
> reconstruction of the neighborhoods and streets as they were in 1949.
> Somewhere along one of those streets, I hope to find some answers to
> the questions raised by my haunted life, and the memories that I and
> many others, I believe, deserve to recover, that I fear were fed into
> Richard Helms’s shredder in 1973.
>
> My belief now is that whatever I found out the back door of the
> Capture House, was what I have come to call 'the visitors.' I do not
> believe that we have, or even can have, language that adequately
> describes this phenomenon. I suppose that it's as accurate to call
> them aliens as it is to claim that they are hallucinations, but
> grossly inaccurate to maintain that they have no existence
> independent of our minds.
>
> I think that one of the psychologists I have worked with was right
> when she said that they had rescued me from this soul- crushing
> program that I was in as a child. The program thrust me into their
> world, and they responded by taking a fierce sort of pity on a
> terrified child. Somebody was using me, and I assume, others, to
> explore this other world. No doubt, after I disappeared from the boat
> or any number of other odd incidents in my childhood, I was eagerly
> 'debriefed' by these people.
>
> The Capture House was where it started, and perhaps it to this day a
> stationhouse for travellers between the worlds. If you want to find
> out what it was like to be a little child and not be able to get out
> of it, read that chapter I have posted. I think that my mind, in
> writing that fiction, went right back to the actual experience of
> moving between realities, and drew some very deep and secret memories
> to the surface.
>
> I'm always getting people asking me not to write fiction. But it is
> through the fiction that I can gain access to the memories of the
> reality I have lived. My fiction, I think, contains a secret history
> of a secret life, and, when it is all written, will be a map, if read
> with objectivity and knowledge, for journeyers between the worlds.
>
> There will be more of those. For, as venial and badly motivated as
> they probably were, the people who terrorized children into escaping
> through the veil between the worlds, also opened up a new frontier
> for humanity.
>
> From http://www.unknowncountry.com/journal/

Yes.