By Sandy Nichols

The round silver airplane looked small against the brilliant blue sky as I stood at the end of the sidewalk, waving goodbye to my new friends. When I first saw it in the field behind my grandmother’s house it seemed so big. As a six-year old, I didn’t understand the concept that objects appear smaller the further away they become. It seemed even bigger still when the little grey people took me by the hand and led me inside. There I met other children my age in a large round room, and we played with toys and went to school, but not like the school near my house. This school was filled with toys that floated in the air, wands of multi-color lights that left their colors dancing in the air, and balls that could be thrown very hard but would never hit the walls. A tall grey person would watch us, but never say a word. Every once in a while he would take some children and show them different things on his airplane. As a six-year old, I couldn’t understand why the grey people would come for me, or why they told me not to tell anybody about them. In time I would forget about the grey people. Years later, I would start to remember again, and know they never left.

In a small farm field nestled somewhere between the rolling hills of Middle Tennessee, a group of friends is gathered. Some are standing by the campfire, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. Another is fixing a soft drink on a nearby card table. A few more are sitting on log benches, resting their feet on medicine wheel rocks that encircle the flames. A shadowy movement a hundred feet away and the crunching of tall scrub grass indicate a newcomer is checking out one of three energy vortex areas scattered throughout the field. A full moon obscures the millions of stars twinkling overhead, but provides ample light for others to check out the Indian Mound, partially covered by years of overgrown bushes and trees. Native Cherokee peoples used to live and hunt on this land and in the valleys across the road. The infamous “Trail of Tears” passed through this area, just a scant few hundred yards away from the field. Some of the gatherers, myself included, have felt and even seen the spirits of these tortured people reliving the lives they once enjoyed. A common bond links the gatherers, a sharing of information that most people dismiss to wild imaginations and ludicrous thoughts of things that can’t be. We gather to share, to become one with another in an exchange of information to better understand; not just the world, but the universe around us. Each one of us has been affected in different ways, but the common link is the same.

“In the money-green hills of Brentwood, TN, home of Dolly Parton, Sandy Nichols is on the phone, seeking earthlings. He doesn’t need to look for extraterrestrial life. It found him 42 years ago,…”

These are first words that Cynthia Fox wrote about me for the March 2000 Issue of Life Magazine dealing with UFO’s and related subjects. Ms. Fox, a freelance writer, was commissioned by Life Magazine to write the cover story. In January 2000, Ms. Fox contacted me, stating that she was interested in interviewing me and participating in a group discussion of alien abductees. During exchanges of e-mails and phone calls, Ms. Fox gave indications that she was going to write a very serious and unbiased story on the subject. Being a trusting person, I had no reason to doubt her sincerity, but when the issue hit the newsstand, it was very clear that Ms. Fox had other intentions. In reading the story, I found it to be riddled with inaccuracies, misquotes, her own biased psychological personal opinion, and words taken totally out of context. The only glowing tribute paid to anyone was to a gentleman by the name of Chris McKay. Mr. McKay is an astrobiologist employed by NASA who searches for signs of extraterrestrial “critters” on the Earth’s surface. From all indications, Mr. McKay does excellent work, but his field of expertise travels neatly down the road of main stream beliefs, and so Ms. Fox heaps mounds of praise upon him. She goes so far as to say “he’s a rough-hewn jewel in the crown of the new NASA National Astrobiology Institute.” After reading Ms. Fox’ story, it would not be hard to assume what Ms. Fox’ true intentions were in writing the story. It was a clear attempt at character assassination of others-and particularly myself. The others that I am referring to are the people I associate with at the farm field, and the good people of Roswell, NM, which Ms. Fox pointed out is “west of lost and north of nowhere.” There are also flagrant discrepancies between Life Magazine’s own scientific survey, the managing editor notes, and the story that Ms. Fox wrote. Yet Life Magazine let a story be published that dismisses any credibility of those people that dare go against the main stream, status quo thought process.

For years I tried to write off the scratches, the cuts, the strange marks, the weird dreams with the scary faces, the bloody noses, and the missing time to one logical explanation after another. There were “logical” explanations that for years made perfect sense, but after so many failed explanations that made no sense, I began to wonder what was really happening. I began to worry more and more, and tried desperate measures to stop the marks, the dreams, etc. I wore gloves to bed, but the scratches continued. I hung Christmas bells on the bedroom door to awaken me in case I was sleep walking. I set the alarm clock at one-hour intervals to try and stop the bad dreams. During my yearly physical I had the doctor check my nose for weak blood vessels. Everything I did was to no avail. I was stumped.

In August of 1996, the need to know the real truth overcame my fear and hesitation to explore this issue further. I made an appointment with a psychological counselor and certified hypnotherapist, in the hope that she could help me deal with and provide some answers to my dilemma. After a few initial sessions of just sharing my concerns, we began regressive hypnosis. It was through these sessions that I was able to remember more clearly my past abductions and what I have come to call “real time abductions.” Real time abductions are those abductions that happen in the present and are remembered for what they are. The counseling sessions did more than just help bring back the memories of my abductions; they also helped me to deal with my abductions in a more realistic manner. For the most part, I no longer feared the beings that were to blame for my abductions, as I wanted to learn more about them and the purpose for their intrusion into my life.

It may seem rather silly and foolish looking back on it now, but at the time I was feeling very apprehensive. My wife Sherrie was leaving on a business trip and would not be back for three days. This left me alone in our home for the first time since I began the counseling sessions. With all of the lost memories that I was recalling, I was praying that my time alone would be uneventful. The first two nights were just that, but on Saturday morning I awakened to find the all too familiar cut marks. There were three of them, eight to ten inches long, traversing in a curved symmetrical formation from my left side and extending to the middle of my back.

I should not have been surprised, but I was. No matter how many times I had found marks, I just couldn’t get used to finding them again.

The rest of the day was just a normal day. I finished working on a honey-do-list by the time Sherrie returned home. We spent part of the evening talking and watching TV until Sherrie toddled off to bed around 10pm. I stayed up another two hours watching a movie, and not wanting to disturb Sherrie’s peaceful slumber, I decided to sleep upstairs in a spare bedroom. At 12:40am I set the alarm clock, turned down the covers, immediately fell asleep and soon was dreaming.

The light of the moon was casting an eerie glow through the back window of my bedroom. I was sixteen years old again, standing in the middle of the room, as old memories flooded my thoughts. I gazed around in wonderment of a time long past. The few baseball cards I collected as a youth were stuck in the wooden frame that wrapped around the dresser mirror. The comic books I loved so much rested on the shelf of the nightstand between the two single beds. The wicker wastebasket was full of wadded-up papers, and stood guard near the window that faced the neighbor’s house. A five-dollar bill, one quarter, two dimes and a few pennies testified to the wealth of a young teenager. What was I doing here?

Suddenly, the glow of the moon becomes more brilliant. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; I am naked. Curiosity compels me to turn around, and I catch the diffuse brilliance of the moon as it slowly descends and comes ever closer to the window. A few seconds pass, then the moon turns dark, as if a switch has been thrown.

The darkness transforms to a dull yellowish glow. I am no longer in the security of my parent’s home, but lying on my stomach on a cold, dull pewter colored table; my arms dangling off the sides. I try to move, but my body does not respond; just my eyes. Off to my left, a device moves toward me. It resembles upside down wooden salad bowls connected together progressing down in size from large to small. There is a long thin needle at the end. It slowly moves behind me out of view. Oh God, please no, not again.

I feel the needle press into the base of my skull, right below the hairline. Oh God, please let this be just a dream. I know better.

Without warning I am turned over onto my back. A tall grey stares down at me with his large, almond shaped eyes. Another grey straightens my head, as two others bend my legs and I am slid into a long brownish looking machine. I am halfway inside this thing. It reminds me of a miniature CAT scan. Pressure starts to build; I can feel it on my bladder. I think I am going to pee. I scream. It is a scream of terror.

Then I hear my own voice yell out, “What are you doing to me?” I demand to know! You’re hurting me.”

I scream again.

Just then I hear a voice, but not through my ears. It is in my mind, all around and everywhere at once.

“Be calm, we will not hurt you.”

But I will not be calm. They are hurting me! It is wrong what they are doing to me! This should not be happening. I call out Sherrie’s name. I want her to come and save me, but she doesn’t; and I feel helpless, like a marionette puppet.

I scream again. “Why won’t you come and help me?”

A grey that I have seen many times before walks from the shadows toward me. My thoughts are filled with what other tortures they are going to inflict upon me. Instead of pain, he places his hand on my head and a strange peace envelopes me. I can move. I reach out with both hands and hold onto his right arm. It is cold to the touch but I don’t care. I close my eyes. I feel like a frightened child holding onto his mother.

I awaken from this nightmare; my body is buzzing with a strange vibration. I sense a presence beside my bed. Am I still in my dream, or am I at the end of another abduction? I slowly turn my head and see the remaining remnants of a greenish mist.

The urge to tell someone is overwhelming. I walk downstairs hoping that Sherrie is awake. She is fast asleep. I will tell her in the morning. I return to bed, but sleep is not peaceful. I can’t get the cold feeling out of my hands.

The alarm awakens me to a bright sunny morning. I scamper downstairs, eager to tell Sherrie my story.

“Good morning dear. How did you sleep last night?” She asked with a smile.

“Not well.” I replied. “Strange dream.”

“I see. Is that why you are up earlier than usual?”

“Nope, same time as always on Sunday morning, eight o’clock. The alarm woke me up.”

“It’s not eight” she countered. “It’s seven thirty.”

“No way!” I shot back.

Turning around, I saw the green time numbers on the VCR, seven thirty-one. I ran back upstairs. The clock in the room where I had slept read eight-o-two. They were the same when I went to bed. It was the last thing I had checked before going to bed.

So, at an early age began my odyssey into a reality that I was never taught to believe in: A journey that continues to this very day. It has been a journey filled with unimaginable terror, so mind boggling that it caused me at times to question my own sanity. During these abduction experiences I have been subjected to the most excruciating pain, both physically and mentally that I have ever felt. For people that have never been through an alien abduction, it is virtually impossible for them to imagine the emotional trauma that an abductee has to face. The strange physical marks left on my body will heal, but the emotional impact of the experiences lasts forever. Sometimes it even seems that I live my life in the confusion of my own thoughts in trying to deal with my abductions.

But in all honesty, I cannot say that the abductions have not produced some positive side effects. A new way of thinking and perceiving the world and the universe has been offered me. No longer do I confine my belief system to what I have been taught to believe in. I now use fully the precious gift of “free will” that I was born with. I no longer judge people solely by the way they look, the color of their skin or any of the other petty ways in which people judge others. I look past the outer layers to the heart and soul of those I have come to know and love. I don’t rely on just my five senses to understand and believe in certain things. I have no scientific proof to prove I am an abductee. I have nothing solid to take to a lab and be measured, but I know with every fiber of my being that I am an abductee.

What you have just read is just a miniscule portion of the many experiences with unknown beings that I have had. I have lost many close friends in the past because I dared to confide in them what I have experienced. I have been called a liar, mentally ill and told that I am highly susceptible to delusional thoughts. My circle of friends are those that have been affected in similar ways or who want to expand their awareness of the universe around them. I have never once tried to convince anyone of the reality of aliens and abductions. A few years back I felt a calling to speak out, to share with others that wanted to hear. In this sharing I ask that people not just listen to me, but to others that have also been affected in similar ways. Each abductee has in their possession a piece to a gigantic puzzle, a puzzle that is very complicated. With sharing and human perseverance, this puzzle can be solved. The beings have never been there to comfort me when the abductions are said and done. It is my fellow human beings that have come to my rescue and given me the assurance that I am not crazy. Not to preach, but the time has come for the human race to grow, to learn and to live a fuller and richer life. No longer can we afford to live in the shadow of someone else’s beliefs. No longer can we afford not to know our true potential for growth, what we can become and who we really are.