I’ve Been Missing Since August of 2014, This is What’s Happened Since My Last Journaled ‘Experience’

To begin with, my name is Samuel Terrence. I was a college dropout living a pretty sad life with my parents until a blackout that occurred in 2014.
I recently posted a journal entry titled ‘Blackout – 8/15/14’ that detailed a handful of weeks that would be the beginning of a bizarre string of events; events that, even now, have a hard time coming to focus in my mind. In this forum, I’ll do my best to remember any and all occurrences within the past ten years. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll write what’s stuck out to me.
To begin with—
I have to be careful with what I talk about.
I don’t know why they didn’t wipe my laptop’s hard drive, so don’t ask me.
And if my memory is right, Dick Cheney is satan incarnate.

My last update was cryptic—a standalone post that gained a bit of traction. It’s taken a few months since my ‘reappearance’ to recall, reflect, and do some research placing into perspective what exactly I’ve been through—hence the wait.
In 2014, I began to journal a bizarre experience I was having during a blackout. Somehow, after this blackout hit my hometown, I found myself completely alone. No people, animals, or outside connections. From what I remember and have recorded, almost everything living had disappeared without my knowing. A mean windstorm had hovered in the vicinity of my town for as long as I was experiencing this phenomenon. Looking back, I would have gone mad if it hadn’t been for a Walkie-Talkie system that somehow broke through my isolation and put me in contact with my friend, Laure. I came to find out he was experiencing the exact same thing that I was. After some time of talking, we both witnessed and came into close contact with a set of rectangular-shaped objects that made us both physically ill. I was somehow able to escape(?) this situation.
To answer an obvious question early on, Laure is still missing to this day. I haven’t talked directly to his family as of the time I’m writing this, but I’ve been aiding in his search the best I can.

On the flipside, the official story of the blackout goes like this—
On August 15th, 2014, a blackout hit my city. It was resolved within the next four days. Supposedly, crime rates ‘rose’ due to the loss of power, and turned into what authorities dubbed as a series of ‘connected kidnappings’. Five other people besides Laure and I went missing between August 15th and 18th.
Strange enough, law enforcement has stacks of files about sporadic and impossible burglaries occurring within this time frame. Some, according to reports, happened within the turn of a head and back. Other residents complained about sets of unmarked vehicles blocking roads, most of these roads leading into the hills surrounding the city. Said residents also reported seeing smoke rising from far behind these blocked roads.

I am the first and only missing person from this period to be accounted for; given, ten years later.
I was found, according to my mother, on the outskirts of my town by a drainage pipe. I was in a comatose state. I pushed for more details, and she said I was also found clean, well-kempt, with my old backpack, and wearing a set of clothes I would have worn any other day as she last remembered. This was in September of 2024.
My first solid memory in a long time was waking up in a hospital to a nurse tending to my vitals. There was a dried-out playdough-popsicle-stick figurine on the window to my right (Bob). I was conscious again only two days after my retrieval. Come to find out I had been reported missing for ten years, my parents had divorced, and I was presumed dead after half a year of searching.
Now, I’m in my early thirties.

My mother was the first to rush by. She cried, a lot. My father came next, and he scolded me, a little. It was so weird seeing them with a decade more of life than I had last seen them with. I greeted them as though I had just woken up from a long nap.
The doctors were surprised, under the assumption I had been unconscious for so long, that I had retained my speech and motor skills down to a tea.
After the world was assured that I was well enough to pick on, the questions came. First my parents, then the police, then whoever else was interested.
‘What do you remember?’ My response was that I simply didn’t know. This was a partial lie.
After the questions came an embarrassing physical exam, something I’d imagine they would have done if I was unconscious anyway. They found slight traces of burn trauma covering most of my body, an array of heart problems only beginning with murmurs, and a small scar on the inner-side of my right wrist; between the ulna and radius. Something they overlooked, as I feel it, is a small, round object not unlike a BB pellet lodged just beneath the scar. It freaks me out whenever I feel it, or worse, get the intrusive thought to move it around. I haven’t mentioned it to anybody.

There was nothing else beyond that. I was back, and have been for a while now. I’ve been incorporating myself back into society little by little. I have a job at the local supermarket now. I have routine medical evaluations, and a strict diet and supplement set to follow.
There was nothing else beyond that, until pretty early on, I started to remember. And reflect. And research.
Some people, when they remember something traumatic, tend to relapse or panic. I didn’t panic, but I couldn’t sit still.
I reread my ‘journal’ at some point. And along that line, I touched it up and shared it.
Only then was I ready to find out the truth of what really started all those years ago.

Before I share what I’ve pieced together, I wanted to preface my experience with an account that I stumbled across in my research. This, I hope, adds much-needed context to what I’ve come to remember.

The first sighting was on Easter Sunday of 1971.
It began with the family of a man named J.E. Wilson. According to the online report I read, it was approximately mid-afternoon, and the family (mother, young son, young daughter, grandparents, nieces, nephews, and other extended family) had begun their yearly Easter traditions. After an hour of grilling, the family went about to set up their annual egg hunt. The daughter, along with one of the nieces, had seen it first. The two were lingering by the edge of the backyard near a treeline when the daughter screamed. J.E. Wilson and his brother-in-law ran over immediately and pulled the children away, suspecting a coyote problem that the Wilsons had been dealing with for some time. J.E. was confused when he saw a pair of red lights under the dark of the canopy. His daughter, brother-in-law, and niece retreated as the object came into focus, gliding towards J.E. He described it as a dark rectangular prism, black and shiny like ‘used motor oil’; roughly ten feet tall. It had two red ‘eyes’ (J.E. described them as looking more like taillights) that grew brighter in intensity as it approached. The object hovered 3-4 feet above the ground, and seemingly ‘warmed the air’ around it. When it was less than ten feet away from J.E., it stopped moving and focused the lights from its ‘eyes’ onto him. When it had finished doing that, Wilson said it emitted a brilliant, quick flash of light that resulted in intense heat and a sound that he compared to a flash bulb. The brush in the general vicinity proceeded to burst into flames. J.E. recalled he was in too much pain to notice the object retreat. The family filled this gap in his statement, stating that the object disappeared just as slowly as J.E. said it had approached.

Police were called, and a small investigation took place. Nothing definitive was found besides burnt brush on the forest’s edge. According to a police officer I talked to—an older man, and friend of my father’s who worked as a deputy at the time—the Wilsons had moved out of town shortly after this encounter. No explanation given.

This ‘report’ was in an online forum. It disappeared a day after I printscreen’ed the full text. Not the report, but the whole forum site.

If J.E. Wilson is still alive, I hope to contact him someday. If this is seen through, my communication with him will hopefully be recorded in my next post.
I firmly believe that my written encounters in 2014 were with something consistent in both Wilson’s sighting and what I would come to remember after I wrote my journal.

With this out of the way, here is my account starting on September 7th, 2014. This was when I had stopped typing.
The following is imperfect and based solely on memory.
Whether these memories were dreams, visions, or something else—that is for the reader to decide. I hold steadfast that my experience, as much as it’s hard to admit, was very real; and a graze with the beyond.

After finishing the last bit of my journal, I closed my laptop and went down the tunnel leading out of town. This was, in my mind at the time, the only option I had to escape whatever anomaly I was experiencing. I had a flashlight that ran on batteries the width of my thumb, and I used it indiscriminately for whatever light it actually gave.
I was walking for a long time. I don’t remember being afraid of the dark ahead, but the growing darkness behind me. I kept looking back towards the beginning of the tunnel to see if one of those god-awful things was following me. I never saw anything.
It was at least an hour on foot to the other side of the tunnel, a travel I had taken for granted by car. I was upset when I saw that the other side was just as unoccupied as the city was. The tunnel drops off at a rural set of running hills; this should have been expected. The sky was much, much darker, still daytime, and the wind was strong enough to push my balance. All of my surroundings were way too saturated with color—leading me to think something was wrong with my eyes. I turned to my right, and there was something large and dark hovering at least ten feet above the ground, close to me. Whatever this thing was, it looked like one of the rectangles, way elongated, and with a cube sitting on its top. The cube had two lights on two of its faces, versus two lights on one of its faces. I didn’t get too good of a look beyond that.
It wasn’t there one second, then the next, it was. My vision tunneled either out of fear or the will of the object observing me. Then I blacked out.

I woke up on a cold table in a monochromed, dimly-lit room. Everything was dull metal, like a dark stainless-steel. There was an ambient vibration that filled the area. This might have been an industrial fan. Behind this, I could hear feet shuffling around me. My vision was painfully nearsighted when I had woken up, and it didn’t get any better as I tried to bring things into focus. From what I could garner, there were three people surrounding me. All three appeared, from my vantage point, as complete silhouettes.
One of them reached out and dangled something in front of my face. This was Dad’s Walkman. The voice that asked me ‘what is this’ wasn’t spoken aloud, it was ringing in my head, and the tone sounded indifferent. It took a moment for me to concentrate on what I was seeing. I couldn’t tell you why, but I screamed like hell when I saw the speaker’s hand holding the Walkman with long, spindly fingers. The skin was pale, and there weren’t any fingernails. Starting at the wrist, and going beyond, was a form-fitting black sleeve. This hand was not normal. When I screamed, my head was jerked back to the table and my jaw spasmed shut. I couldn’t make much noise after that. I saw them take a tape from somewhere, probably my bookbag, and try their best to put it in the Walkman. They did this as a show for me. They made sure it was right in my sights. The song choice alone made me want to thrash around more than I already was. ‘Only the Good Die Young’.
The one that had spoken to me watched with dark bugeyes as I jerked my head around. My neck was the only part of my body that I could move.
This memory quit sometime after the song started.

Next, I remember waking up on another table. I knew this wasn’t the same room because the wall to my right was gone. There was a tall hallway going out from this missing wall as far as I could see. It looked like the back room of a grocery store stripped of its pallet racks.
My vision was normal again, and I could move my body. Naturally, I got up and walked. The rooms I had woken up in, including the first one, were much more sleek and clean over the rest of the compound. The facilities were clean, but I distinctly remember these two rooms being much more pristine.
I don’t remember many details about the actual hallways, other than their dark-gray blandness and how high the ceiling was. Sometimes the ceiling would duck, stay that way for a while, then find its way back up.
There were occasionally doors. There was even one close to the room I had woken up in. All of them were locked and reinforced, and nothing budged. It didn’t take long for me to get extremely bored with this.
Over the course of my stroll, I never got tired, hungry, or thirsty. I must have been walking for at least a month. I didn’t see anybody or anything. A month in was when I decided to turn back and find the room I had woken up in. I decided the only way I was going to find any peace was if I could lie on that table again and close my eyes.

It was less than a month back. Not even a week. I knew some shortcuts at that point.
When I got to the expanse where I could finally see the open wall, I noticed that the door closest to where I had woken up was open. The metal bars holding it shut were retracted, and the door was resting on the adjacent wall. Inside was a clean, large storage room with no extensions. Only fluorescent lights in the high ceiling. On the center floor was a tall rectangular prism. I stopped myself for a moment when I realized what I was looking at. There it was, in a room with a doorway too small for it to leave. Its ‘eyes’ were dark, and it looked deactivated. To that, I simply backed out, shut the door over the best I could, and laid down on the table I found myself on in the beginning. It was oddly comfortable, and I fell asleep instantly.

Next, I remember a handful of visions. They’re all disconnected, and may have been years apart. I don’t remember what led up to them, or what happened after them. Whatever stuck out in my mind, I’m writing down.

First, I walked up to a door and looked into a room. I did not have any motor control. I had a feeling that all of these movements were pre-programmed.
This room was pristine, like the previous two I mentioned. In this room were three or four, probably four, figures. They were tall and thin, all holding what looked like skinny sledgehammers with both of their hands. They were raising the hammers above their heads and bringing them down to a shattered object on the ground. I recognized a strap from Dad’s Walkman. They were moving fast, and all of their movements were blurry. One of them phased up to me. It didn’t walk or run, it just floated towards me really, really fast. I got a good look at its face. Its head was shaped like an upside-down teardrop, and it had large, slanted eyes. Pale skin, slightly bluish, no ears or hair, and a small mouth and nose. It bared these sharp little teeth at me. Its head turned slowly as it spoke right into my head; ‘Blasphemy’—then it zipped back to the circle and began working with its sledgehammer again.

The next three visions are interchangeable. I have not been able to pin a timeline on them.

This one I’m almost sure was a dream.
It began in a dark park. It was cold, but I could hear summertime bugs. I could only see about ten feet out in front of me whichever way I looked. There were lampposts, but they and their light were only visible when I got right up to them. I remember hearing something large rummaging in the dark. It wasn’t running or walking heavy, it was rummaging, and it knew I was there. It could see me walking around, but I couldn’t see it. I remember panicking at some point and running to a bench. I laid down and thought I could play dead, so I closed my eyes and waited. I knew exactly what it was going to do when it walked up to me. I could feel it pressing down on my chest with massive hands. I squinted my eyes just enough so I could see what it was. It had thick arms with white fur that extended into the dark above me. Beyond that, I could see a pair of little glowing eyes. They were orange, and had black pupils that might as well have been the rest of the darkness. I closed my eyes again as it let out an airy growl.

This one might have been a dream.
I was in another room. This one was way too bright. A person (this thing was for sure a person) slid something to me on a table. I picked it up, and said something along the lines of ‘what is this?’ My question wasn’t answered, and I don’t remember what exactly the object looked like. It was box-shaped from what I remember. When I went to set the object down, it stuck to my fingers. When I complained, it vibrated like a trick gum pack you might get at a novelty store. I yelled, as it wouldn’t come off my fingers and the vibration was uncomfortable. The more I yelled, the more it buzzed me. So I stopped yelling. The man, I’m sure it was a man, leaned forward. He was wearing a surgeon’s mask, black suit, and face-fitting sunglasses. The mask was moving up and down, and he was laughing. I said—‘What’s up with you?’ He stopped laughing and reached forward. He had on blue medical gloves that were too small. He pulled the little object off of my fingers, set it back down on the table, and stared at me too long for comfort. Then he started laughing again.

This one wasn’t a ‘dream’ in the sense that the others ‘were’.
Here, I was looking down at a gap between one of the reinforced doors and the concrete floor. There was something wiggling freakishly from underneath it. The movements almost felt playful. It was, as far as I could tell, a set of long, pale fingers. These did not scare me as the others did. These felt different. They disappeared after a second of wiggling, then they reappeared, sliding something under the door. It was a slip of paper, and I reached for it. Just as I got close to catching it, the fingers and the paper slipped back under the door. They reappeared a second later. This time, the paper had writing. I reached for it, and it slipped back in. The next time, I was prepared. I had my hand hovering over the spot where the hand would appear. In the split second before I smacked my hand down, I saw the paper had different writing. The moment my hand touched its hand, I knew the truth without even reading the paper. I laughed a little to myself and let go as it slunk back under. This one was my friend.
I smile, thinking about it now. In all of the uncertainty and emptiness I felt in that state, something, for the first time since Laure, interacted with me; not talked at me, not looked at me, or used me, but interacted with me.

This jumped to another disconnected memory too vague for me to describe in detail. This one was in a dark room, and it felt like a vision test with patterns of lights instead of a letter pyramid. I don’t remember my surroundings or what the patterns were, but I do remember a large machine being pressed against my face—like a vision test.

My next solid memory started in a low-ceiling hallway not dissimilar to the ones I found myself wandering around in towards the beginning of my experience. I had the perspective of standing and watching a conversation unfold; I couldn’t see my body below me. Off in the distance, standing next to a more-or-less ordinary door, were two figures. One was a man, and the other was a very, very short person. The man was in a suit and had round glasses on—this wasn’t the man who was wearing the surgical mask as I remembered before. The short figure was bizarre looking. He, or it, had a large, bald (from what I could tell) head and was wearing black coveralls paired with a matching military cap. He had long, pale fingers and was looking up at the suited man with his hands crossed behind his back. The suited man was expressing something accusatory at him. I felt an intense hatred for the suited man. Every kind of negative energy I could think of was coming off of him in waves, yet his outward appearance was composed. I stood for a while, watching, then decided to walk(?) up to them. They didn’t seem to notice—and odd enough, I didn’t even hear my own footsteps. I might as well have been invisible. When I approached them, the energy got to be overwhelming. This feeling almost drowned out my understanding that the person I was looking at was former Vice President Dick Cheney, and that the shorter figure was not a person at all. I knew this as a fact then, and I know it now. The short being looked at me with eyes that were large and sharp with scrutiny. Cheney didn’t seem to register me until my energy began to bubble over, and I could feel my body(?) emanating heat. I was damn close to them. He turned to me, still talking to the being and said something like—’This is what I’m talking about, we can’t have them floating around like this. They will hear and remember.’

The shorter being stayed quiet.

From this moment, I took away that Cheney was behind most, if not all of this. It was a very strong notion. I hated it.

I retreated back from the conversation and lost consciousness when the short being lifted its hand towards me.

Then, there were people in surgical masks around me. I could feel that a point in the center of my forehead was open. It didn’t hurt, but I could feel pressure, and they were working with needles. Cheney was standing to my right, looking content, but not smiling. I hated that man like hell. I was getting a download to my brain that kept telling me; it’s him. It’s his fault.
I didn’t have enough energy to put up with the surgeons, or him, so I just lolled off.

When I woke up next, something did hurt. My right wrist, lower back, and both of my knees. Nothing from my forehead. I was standing up in the center of a small, dark room lit by an orangey incandescent bulb. This was the first time I registered my age. I’ve always been thin. Here, I was more filled out. Not padded, but healthy. I knew I wasn’t old, but rather older.
I was well groomed. My hair had been shaved, nails clipped, and on my face, I could feel full stubble. I was used to it being patchy.
For once, I wasn’t wearing a windbreaker and jeans, I was in a hospital gown. My skin, once irritated and patchy with sores, looked long-healed.
I was standing there and looking at this ratty door. There was not a handle on the inside, but there was a sliding cover at eye-level. Like you would see in a prison. Just as I’m thinking of this sliding cover, it opens, and I run up to it. There was somebody looking through it. Their eyes were dark and large.

You’re awake.

‘I am.’

I have your stuff.

‘Thank you.’

It didn’t have to, but at this point, the person raised their head and positioned their mouth over the opening.
You’re welcome.
It had a small mouth and sharp teeth. It was one of the teardrop people.
It noticed that I noticed what it was.
Please don’t be scared.

‘But I am.’

Don’t. I’m going to open the door, but you better not run.

‘Is that a threat?’

We’ll see.

It opened the door and stood in front of me, full-figured. It blurred itself so I didn’t have to look at it directly. The only features I could see clearly were its eyes. It proceeded to glide down the hallway to my right, and I followed it. I wasn’t scared then. It was tall, but it was also gangly. If it tried anything, I could probably help myself.

‘Who are you?’

I’m Jerry.

‘Jerry? You have a name?’

Might as well. You just thought of that name. It wasn’t my idea.

‘What’s your real name?’

Just Follow Me.

‘JFM?’

Sure.

‘Jerry Fitzgerald Martin?’

Sure. I like that.

I kept following Jerry down the hallway until he opened a door on our left and went in. This room was bright in lighting and color. As far as I could tell, it was a locker room. He floated over to and opened a locker. Jerry took my bookbag and a set of folded clothes out.

They’re clean.

‘Thank you.’

He handed the clothes to me and set the bookbag down on a bench.

‘You’re wearing coveralls?’

Yes.

‘What are you?’

As much of you as anybody else.

‘Are you a ghost?’

Not quite.

‘You’re not human, are you?’

Not in the way you think of it, no.

‘An Angel?’

Not really.
Jerry paused and reached behind his back. He pulled my laptop out of thin air and put it into my bookbag, tapping it with his forefinger.
You’ll need this, trust me.

‘I will.’

You will.

I put my clothes on as Jerry picked up my bookbag and held it. When I was dressed, I put my arms out scarecrow-style as he put the bookbag over my shoulders. He took an extra moment to adjust Bob, who had been zipped halfway in my bookbag the entire time we had been down there. Jerry glided to my front and looked at me dead on. His image stopped blurring. This confirmed the observation I had made earlier; Jerry was one of the beings I had seen over the course of my experience. He was not of this world.

They’re going to want to silence you. The information you have written in your laptop is valuable beyond anything else you know. Guard it with your life. You’ll piece the rest together when it’s time for you to do so.

‘Why are you doing this for me?’

What they’ve done is wrong.

‘I understand.’

I know you do. Take my hand.

When I did, a staircase appeared in front of us and we began to walk up.

Stay in touch.

When I woke up at the hospital, I had amnesia. I knew what my parents were telling me, and I vaguely remembered the blackout of 2014. I did not remember anything in between. Weeks into the recovery, they started to come in flashes, always when I was alone. Each flash would accumulate to one memory for every three days. I wrote them down. They meant something, whether a symbolic representation of a fight for consciousness, or actual happenings. It wasn’t as hard to grapple with emotionally as I thought it would be. It was just hard to believe. I might talk to a psychologist someday to get some kind of affirmation, it depends on how things progress. Right now, though, I feel at an odd peace, as much as everything that started on 8/15/2014 is unexplainable to me, my personal connections, law enforcement, medical experts, and beyond. I’m confident in saying that I’ve experienced, first hand, a series of high-strangeness events. These have ranged from close encounters of the first, second, third, and fourth kind, to out-of-body experiences.

I know that, as much as I would like to call the passages you’ve just read ‘memories’ or ‘visions’, I can’t deny the evidence anymore. My wrist, my skin, my health, my journal, the vagueness and vividness that I remember everything in.
But something else—
When I rummaged through my backpack for the first time since I had left the hospital, I noticed a small envelope taped to the back of my laptop. The outside said ‘Sorry for the Walkman’. Inside, there was a slip of paper, roughly the same size and shape of a dollar bill. Paired with a crudely drawn design was a single word in crayon;
‘Spacebux’.

Credit: Eric S. McCarthy

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