tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26168197539918656752024-03-14T00:26:53.690-07:00I amDillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-25514714812128665792007-09-17T10:14:00.000-07:002007-09-18T11:30:47.299-07:00Sep 18, 2007 - Entry #18Sep 18, 2007 - Entry #18<br /><br /><br /><em>*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please scroll down and begin with Entry #1*</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />On the outside, one could easily assume that the plane Boyd and I were about to board was like any other, common, commercial aircraft.<br /><br />Inside showed a different story with plush leather seats, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">livingroom</span>, several offices with closed doors, a sixty inch, wide screen television. All the comforts for either the President or your average Billionaire.<br /><br />I saw Mr Accountant <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">disappear</span> into an office and close the door behind himself. A Soldier led us to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">separate</span> seats and we were instructed to ask for anything we wanted to make our flight comfortable. Boyd asked for a cheeseburger and fries with a big smile. And to my surprise, ten minutes into the flight he <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">received</span> it along with the Globe and Mail.<br /><br />Shorty after take off I turned my attention to the digital tape recorder Mr Accountant had given me. I put the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">earbuds</span> into my ears and pressed play...<br /><br /><br /><br />"Who I am is not important. What is important is that you listen carefully. This recorder will only play this once then will be automatically deleted...<br /><br />...Your wife and son are being held in Iraq by an organization called the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Illuminati</span>. A group that has been around for roughly 200 years. Their official goal is simply 'power over the planet through wealth and influence'. Pretty much every government and major corporation on earth has been infiltrated by this society on some level. The top of their list as their means to their ultimate goal is to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">acquire</span> what has been found in Iraq..."<br /><br />(at this point I pressed pause and asked for a paper and pen which I promptly received)<br /><br />"...in 1988 Iraqi <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">archaeologists</span> unearthed a 2800 year old treasure found in the ancient <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Assyrian</span> city of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Nimrud</span>, located south east of the present day city of Mosul. The treasure included 5 crates filled with over 600 pieces of gold jewelry and ornaments. This find was placed on display at <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Baghdad's</span> National Museum. Almost two years later, Saddam Hussein ordered the invasion of Kuwait. At this point, the treasure was taken and hidden away by unknown individuals and not seen until ...<br /><br />...March 19, 2003 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">missiles</span> hit <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Baghdad</span> and Operation Iraqi Freedom had begun. Looting was out of control and even though the U.S. had mandated to protect at all museums, palaces etc, the majority of forces were initially ordered to protect one bank...<br /><br />...Why would they care about one bank and not worry about the billions of dollars of gold and national treasures being stolen and destroyed? Simply put, the treasure of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Nimrud</span> was known to be hidden in the basement of this bank...and what has not been released to the public is the fact that one of these crates held several scrolls...<br /><br />...These scrolls are made of an unknown, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">metallic</span> cloth like material that can not be destroyed. Identical to scrolls found in a recent <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">archaeological</span> find in Peru...they are not of this world.<br /><br />...depending on one's viewpoint. these scrolls hold information that could possibly destroy mankind or save it...<br /><br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Illuminati</span> has viewed this find to be a tool that could not only collapse the Catholic church but also bring world leaders to their knees. This my friend is the reason why the Invasion of Iraq <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">occurred</span>. All else has been a smokescreen.<br /><br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Illuminati</span> are desperate to decipher these scrolls and they have discovered that there is only one individual on the planet that can translate the etched writings and symbols...<br /><br />...your son"<br /><br /><br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-52606239725537620802007-09-16T08:22:00.000-07:002007-09-16T09:13:58.543-07:00Sep 16, 2007 - Entry #17Sep 16, 2007 - Entry #17<br /><br /><em>*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please scroll down and begin with Entry #1*<br /><br /><br />-------------------<br /><br /><br />I appreciate all email, thoughts and prayers/support while I have been absent from internet use. I shall respond to all email as promptly as I can.<br /><br />I am back in the United States and I will continue with this blog. It is more important now than ever (as you shall soon see) that I continue to convey an accurate, chronological account of what has happened.</em><br /><br /><br />--------------------<br /><br /><br /><br />...I sat next to Boyd on the flight to Alaska, thinking about the dream. I couldn't get over how real it was and I hoped to hell what Mr Leatherskin had said was bullshit.<br /><br />The facility at HAARP was damn near identical to Groom Lake. Several stories of floors underground. Security procedures were identical. Photographs, retinal scans, DNA swabs etc.<br /><br />Mr Accountant and two Military Police led us to a living quarters. (or should I say temporary prison). The bedrooms were slightly larger and a little more comfortable. We were shown a recreation room that was ours to use, complete with a billiards table, a library of books (mostly fiction) and a movie screen which showed mostly classic films.<br /><br />Roughly after a week of pacing the walls an MP Officer arrived at our floor and handed me a folder with a NSA emblem in a corner and marked 'CLASSIFIED LEVEL 4' across the front (no idea what level 4 meant).<br /><br />Without a word the MP ignored my 'what's this?' and headed back to disappear into the elevators.<br /><br />I sat on my bed and opened the folder. I quickly realized that it was the 'file' on Claire.<br /><br />Several pictures showed her on the first few pages. Close up of her out in public. Obviously under surveillance. The following pages revealed a fairly detailed biography. Some speculation but mostly facts.<br /><br />Overall the folder revealed that she is a mercenary/assassin for hire and a deadly one at that.<br /><br />It also was clear that she could win an academy award for the way she could infiltrate tight groups / foreign governments, gain trust, strike then disappear like the wind. Her arsenal of tools included poison, sniper rifles, knives and hand to hand combat. She had learned her skills in the U.S. Special Forces and had gone AWOL. Prior to her military career her life was speculation. The file suspected that she had come from Ireland as a teenager and had a past completely fabricated in order to get into the military. It seemed that she had someone pulling strings and had long term plans for her.<br /><br />I sat thinking about the day she pushed the gun in my face and the convincing 'story' of what happened to her. This woman obviously had zero conscience and it made the hairs stand up on my neck knowing she had Michael.<br /><br />The following days were finally interrupted by Mr Accountant. They had found my wife and son in Iraq. It was now 'urgent' that they get me there.<br /><br />Panic filled my chest 'Why urgent!?'<br /><br />Mr Accountant handed me a digital, hand held recorder and headphones. "Listen to this on the plane.'<br /><br />He abruptly turned and left without a word.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-19123972106842226072007-09-15T15:09:00.001-07:002007-09-15T15:35:29.676-07:00Sep 15, 2007 - Entry #16Sep 15, 2007 - Entry #16<br /><br /><em>*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please scroll down and begin with Entry #1*</em><br /><br /><br />before leaving Groom Lake I had a dream...<br /><br /><br /><br />...Boyd and I had requested to get some sleep. We were exhausted beyond being able to comprehend another word. Mr Accountant nodded and led us from the boardroom to a sleeping quarters section, two more levels down. There were roughly fifty or so doors, along a plain hallway, each opened to a single bedroom. The were more like shoe boxes complete with a small shower stall.<br /><br />I was so tired I didn't care if it was a closet lined with broken glass, the sight of a pillow was heaven.<br /><br />As I lay there I felt lead pull my eyelids down and my thoughts drifted to precious moments I had playing with Michael. Instantly, I found myself sitting in our living room, a massive bucket of lego bricks which Valarie and I had bought him for Christmas.<br /><br />Michael was silently stacking pieces, making what looked like a strange ship. He was humming a song under his breath which struck me odd because I don't remember hm ever taking an interest in music.<br /><br />I sat there smiling, feeling good at how happy he was.<br /><br />He suddenly stopped and looked up at me "Dad, you need to know something..."<br /><br />I raised an eyebrow.<br /><br />"...Don't believe anybody. Not a soul"<br /><br />He reached over and placed his hand on mine. I looked down at it and saw it didn't seem right. Kinda bluish and dusty pale. I lifted my gaze to his and realized that his face had changed too. He was horribly sick.<br /><br />He forced a smile "The world will be wonderful one day."<br /><br />I put my hand on his forehead. It felt ice cold to the touch. I panicked and told him I was going to take him to the doctor, he could finish his spaceship another time.<br /><br />He continued to smile "It's not a spaceship Dad. It's a container."<br /><br />He patted the top of the lego structure. "...inside is the future"<br /><br />I shook my head confused.<br /><br />He laughed and lifted the square top by what looked like handles. He set it aside. Just as I was about to peer inside, sand began to pour from it and out into the room.<br /><br />Within seconds the floor was covered and it was rising fast...Within another few seconds we were both engulfed. I fought like hell to keep Michael above it...sand soon filled my throat and I couldn't scream...<br /><br />I instantly woke with light stabbing my eyes.<br /><br />The shadow of Mr Accountant stood in the doorway. "It's time to go"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-70948808941607663742007-08-18T14:48:00.000-07:002007-08-18T20:31:24.084-07:00Aug 18, 2007 - Entry #15Aug 18, 2007 - Entry #15<br /><br /><em>*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please scroll down and begin with Entry #1*</em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br />I am sitting in a cafe in Anchorage Alaska. This is the first moment I've had to get at a keyboard and have access to the internet (since my last post).<br /><br />The past several weeks Boyd and I have been held in a military facility, located underneath a scientific project called HAARP. Some kind of communication system being developed using the ionosphere. (more interesting facts on this later)<br /><br />We have been treated fine and have had all of the comforts of home minus televsion. My torture lay in the hours and weeks that have ticked by like a sloth on morphine. There has been zero news on the location of my wife and son until now...<br /><br />Michael and my wife have been located and in the morning Boyd and I will be transported to Iraq.<br /><br />---------------------<br /><br /><br />continued from my last post...<br /><br /><br />Shortly after arriving at Groom Lake (area 51) I was ushered toward a hangar while Boyd was shoved toward another.<br /><br />I stopped in my tracks, dug my heels in and asked 'Mr Leatherskin' where Boyd was being taken to.<br /><br />He told me not to worry. Boyd was to be debriefed (whatever that meant) and was to be safely escorted home.<br /><br />'And me?'<br /><br />'You are to be informed on various aspects on your situation and processed into our system. You will then be transported to Alaska. Don't worry, reasons will become clear.'<br /><br />It suddenly dawned on me, as 'Mr Leatherskin' waited for my legs to move that they (whoever these top secret goons were) needed me.<br /><br />I shook my head. 'Boyd stays with me'.<br /><br />He lowered his brow and clenched his jaw. It was obvious nobody said no to this man. For a moment I thought he was going to grab me by the throat and pull my tongue through my nostrils.<br /><br />I didn't give him the chance to reply...'You want me? Boyd stays by my side. End of discussion.'<br /><br />Mr Leatherskin looked at his watch and scowled. 'Fine'<br /><br />The complex we were led to would be best described as a massive office building with dozens of floors...inverted underground.<br /><br />We were taken inside past a jet fighter hangar and through a series of hallways to a set of 12 elevator doors. Security, as you can imagine, was in place to keep anyone and anything out that wasn't permitted.<br /><br />Boyd and I had our retinas scanned, photographs taken, the inside of our mouths swabbed (I'm guessing for DNA). then finally, after a series of various body measurements (height, weight etc) -- we were given ID tags with magnetic keys. During this entire time I wondered what the hell they wanted from me so bad that they would go through all of this to get me into a top secret facility.<br /><br />Knowing I was about to see behind the curtain made my palms sweat and with each documentation of my body, uneasiness grew in my guts, warning me that this wasn't a good thing.<br /><br />We entered a guarded elevator. I could see Boyd was disappointed at no sight of 'flying saucers' and I noticed he was just as exhausted as I was from the last couple of days.<br /><br />After a series of carpeted hallways we ended up in an office like boardroom. Soft chairs, a table that would seat twenty, a pitcher of water and a large plate of fresh fruit. I had no idea what floor we were on (elevators had no numbers showing, only a touch screen and keyboard)<br /><br />Mr Leatherskin did not waste time. He directed us to sit as he worked a control panel on the wall.<br /><br />Boyd immediately dug into the fruit and helped himself to the water. Mr 'Accountant' calmly walked in from another door as an overhead projector screen lowered and a slide show began.<br /><br />Various slides continued to show surveillance shots of families in the public...each with a young child....a family at a park...another walking in a mall...a mother loading her daughter into a mini-van. All oblivious that they had been photographed.<br /><br />"...These families have several aspects in common..."<br /><br />Boyd happily munched on a strawberry as Mr Leatherskin turned toward me and paused. I could feel myself slowly sink into the chair from the weight of his unblinking stare alone. "All of these children are the genetic offspring of an Alien race. Their paternal mothers had been abducted by Drones. You may have heard them as Grays.'<br /><br />Boyd suddenly choked on his strawberry and leaped to his feet. Two soldiers at the door tensed as he slapped his hand on his thigh. "I knew it!"<br /><br />I told Boyd to shut up and sit down. He reluctantly sat, squirmed in his chair, leaned over and whispered in my ear 'I knew there was fucking aliens. Lying cocksuckers.'<br /><br />The slide show clicked again...<br /><br />The screen now displayed my wife, my son and I three years ago at a county picnic. I remember that day clearly. My son rode on my shoulders as my wife and I held hands. We were making our way toward the parking lot sunburnt and tired. It was the end of a hot day of baseball, watermelon and good friends. The perfect of perfect days.<br /><br />'Mr Kramer...you need to listen carefully and understand this. Your adopted son's mother was abducted by the drones and was impregnated with your son. He has special abilities and is one of many...'<br /><br />I swallowed hard at a completely dry throat.<br /><br />'You and your wife had been chosen to be the parents of Michael. Based on your psychological design and protective nature. The Alien Race who have sent these Drones had factored in insurance to protect their genetic investment. They need to protect the children while being absent. Finding a parent who would protect their offspring to ends of the earth isn't difficult. But finding an adoptive parent who would is. You and your wife are of select, rare individuals by nature.<br /><br />My blood pressure began to rise. I leaned forward and locked eyes with Leatherskin. 'Look. I don't care about this alien shit. This story you are feeding us is bullshit. Why aren't you finding my son? And where the hell is my wife!'<br /><br />Mr Accountant stepped forward. 'Dillan. This Alien race had factored in something else...a safety mechanism...'<br /><br />I folded my arms, bracing myself for another stream of manure.<br /><br />'...if the parents are physically not present with the child for a period of time, a biological switch is triggered and the child will begin to slowly die...'<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-16727942852818555462007-07-02T16:07:00.000-07:002007-07-03T06:20:11.598-07:00July 2, 2007 - Entry #14July 2, 2007 - Entry #14<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please scroll down and begin with Entry #1*</span><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure if I’ll ever come to grips with what I’m about to write.<span style=""> </span>The past 12 days have been beyond words but I’ll do my best.<span style=""> </span>A lot has happened since my last post and I finally have the chance to document most happenings.<span style=""> </span>(although it may take a couple of posts over the next day or so to catch up)<span style=""></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I am currently typing this from an airport hotel in Canada. Boyd and I are on route, under U.S. military escort, to Alaska...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The morning after my last post, Boyd and I crossed the border into Mexico.<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It was obvious that they were waiting for us.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We crossed on foot for two reasons.<span style=""> </span>No passports are needed (for people crossing on foot) and no explanation/insurance documents etc are asked for.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The plan was to hire a driver pay him as a guide.<span style=""> </span>Before we could ward off a swarm of locals selling their souvenirs, dozens of Mexican soldiers suddenly appeared from nowhere.<span style=""> </span>They <span style=""> </span>grabbed us, cuffed us and threw us into the back of an unmarked van.</p><p class="MsoNormal">We were driven (at amazing speeds) to a small town (I still don’t know where this is/was).<span style=""> </span>We were pulled from the van and hurried into a small warehouse type building, separated into two different rooms where I sat, cuffed to a chair, waiting for over an hour.<o:p></o:p><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The stale heat in the small room was unbearable and my wrists ached like hell, cuffed tight behind me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I sat there thinking the worst.<span style=""> </span>I’ve heard horror stories of Mexican prisons and corrupt Judges.<span style=""> </span>I knew I wouldn’t be able to pay off any bribes and at that moment, alone in an empty room with a steel table bolted to the floor, I thought my life was over.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My thoughts drifted from worries of imminent beatings and extortion to my wife and son.<span style=""> </span>I would have given anything to tell them I loved them and wanted to see them one last time.<span style=""> </span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I now know what goes through your mind when the ‘fat lady is about to sing’.<span style=""> </span>You simply think about the ones you love.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally the door opened and man walked in (Mexican) wearing a suit and eye glasses.<span style=""> </span>At first glance one would assume him to be an accountant type.<span style=""> </span>But considering where I was sitting, I immediately thought him to be a lawyer...about to offer help...for a price.<br /><span style=""></span>But I was wrong.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He took off his eye glasses and without a hint of any emotion (or the slightest drop of sweat) he proceeded to tell me he was American and he was here to ‘help’ me and my family.<span style=""> </span>He then mentioned, without hesitation that he worked for the U.S military.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before I could say anything, he continued with the following...</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Your family has been watched since the day you brought your boy home from the hospital (adoption).<span style=""> </span>Not by us (U.S. Military) but by a rogue, global, secret organization...”</p><p class="MsoNormal">I raised an eyebrow and he continued...</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“...Between the years of 1947 and 1998 there have been, on average, 54 documented, abductions of humans by this organization each year. (this number is supposedly higher)...<span style=""></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">...<span style=""></span>The overall scope of their project is unknown and aside from various experiments, the main purpose of the abductions is to impregnate females and return them to their lives.<span style="">.. </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">...A good majority of the women impregnated were the offspring of mothers who were also impregnated with them.<span style=""> </span>A second generation...<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>...It is speculated that roughly 1500 women have returned with roughly half actually given birth.<span style=""> </span>The others have had miscarriages at various stages of pregnancy without anyone the wiser.<span style="">..<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">...</span>At first it seemed that the women were chosen strictly due to genetics (above average in physical attributes/health/intelligence) but data shows that the ‘selection process’ also includes similar family, social backgrounds.<span style="">..<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>...Overall, we speculate that the scope of the ‘project’ is to genetically modify the human race in small steps.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At this point all I could do is stare at him while he took a break from talking and cleaned his glasses.<span style=""> </span>The man spoke as if he was casually mentioning baseball statistics.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He then looked at me for a long, unblinking moment and said “What do you know about the Grays?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stared back silent. <span style=""> </span>At first not quite realizing what he said.<span style=""> </span>I was having a hard enough time trying to absorb everything else. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He repeated the question to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I stared in disbelief “Fucking Aliens?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He nodded and I burst into a fit of laughter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I tried to talk but I was laughing so damn hard I couldn’t even breathe. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I mean, I watched X-files and I’ve seen movies.<span style=""> </span>I’ve even heard of crap like this on late night ‘on the fringe’ radio where nutballs call in to describe how they’ve been ‘anal probed’ and implanted with alien listening devices.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then my temper kicked in.<span style=""> </span>I wanted to explode.<span style=""> </span>I told him to get fucking serious.<span style=""></span><span style=""></span><span style=""> </span>I <span style=""></span>demanded him to let me and Boyd out of there and to <span style=""></span>‘Charge me with something or get fucked!’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He calmly returned his glasses to his face and continued...</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not going to waste time here.<span style=""> </span>For the moment, you need to know two things.<span style=""> </span>Your son has been kidnapped by an incredibly dangerous woman...”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">No shit</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I tried to tell him Claire is headed to Peru with my son.<span style=""> </span>(my son and julian’s map) but he carried on...</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“...Claire isn’t in Peru anymore.<span style=""> </span>And latest intelligence shows that your wife is most likely being tortured.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before I could demand more information he promptly left the room.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Five minutes later Mexican soldiers returned, threw a bag over my head and ushered me back to the van.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next thing I knew I was sitting next to Boyd on a large helicopter.<span style=""> </span>Both of us with black bags tied over our heads.<span style=""> </span>Boyd and I tried to speak but without radio headsets the blaring helicopter blades made it impossible.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two hours later I could feel the helicopter drop in altitude.<span style=""> </span>Moments upon landing, two hands pulled me from inside.<span style=""> </span>I could feel flat pavement below my feet as I walked, guided by someone on each side of me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I could hear the helicopter rise away when the handcuffs were removed and the hood pulled off my head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I squinted around through blinding sunlight and noticed Boyd standing a few yards from me, also squinting as his hood was removed as well.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two American soldiers stood on each side.<span style=""> </span>Desert camouflage.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My eyes adjusted on a sparse, never-ending, desert terrain and long, rolling mountains the distance.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The soldiers suddenly stood to attention when I noticed my ‘Accountant type’ friend from emerge from a steel building’s open hangar.<span style=""> </span>Beside him, a high ranking, uniformed soldier with skin like leather.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The pair reached me as I rubbed my wrists.<span style=""> </span>‘Mr Leatherskin’ held out his hand looking as serious as a heart attack’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A split second thought wanted to refuse his hand but I took it anyway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He looked me square in the eye and said “Welcome to Detachment 3, Groom Lake, Nevada gentlemen”</p>I scanned the desert terrain again and the various hangars/buildings and it dawned on me where we were.<br /><br /><span style=""> </span><p class="MsoNormal">I turned to Boyd and could see his face was showing the words that wanted to escape my mouth.<span style=""> </span>Then he said it for me...<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">‘Area 51?’</p><span style=""><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-43881438628146382902007-06-19T17:08:00.000-07:002007-06-25T13:15:32.413-07:00Jun 19, 2007 - Entry #13Jun 19, 2007 - Entry #13<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please scroll down and begin with Entry #1*</span><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The police have no idea who I am…</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I walked to the local police station soon after my last post.<span style=""> </span>The officer on duty sat behind the front desk doing some kind of paperwork.<span style=""> </span>I told him everything.<span style=""> </span>He took me to a questioning room of sorts, gave me a glass of water and a few pastries.<span style=""> </span>I handed over my ID and he left me alone with my thoughts.<span style=""> </span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It seemed like an eternity before he returned and sat down before me.<span style=""> </span>My mouth hung open as he proceeded to talk…</p> <p class="MsoNormal">According to him, there is no record of me being wanted for murder.<span style=""> </span>No record of my wife missing.<span style=""> </span>No record of anything.<span style=""> </span>He told me he even called my place of work to ask if I have been missing.<span style=""> </span>According to my supervisor (at the engineering firm) they have ‘never heard of me'</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stared at him and told him ‘that’s wrong.’<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I’d call them myself. <span style=""> </span>I pulled out my cellphone and dialed the office.<span style=""> </span>The phone rang then answered with the ‘after hours’ recording. <span style=""> </span>I slammed the phone shut and checked my watch.<span style=""> </span>It was after 4pm.<span style=""> </span>Closed for the day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">‘What about Claire?<span style=""> </span>My son has been kidnapped for Christ sakes!<span style=""> </span>What about my wife!'</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He just stared at me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I frantically pulled my laptop out and showed him the blog, scrolled to the picture of my wife and told him to read from the beginning.<span style=""> </span>It was all there, ‘Why the hell would I make this up!’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He shook his head, closed my laptop case and asked me if I was taking any medication. <span style=""></span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I used every ounce of my being to not explode and realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere with this condescending asshole.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I wouldn’t believe me either.<span style=""> </span>I glanced to my reflection in a window.<span style=""> </span>I looked like I slept in a ditch for days and was wild with panic.<span style=""> </span>Like some nut case that escaped from an asylum.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I calmed down and asked him to check the computers again.<span style=""> </span>I described Claire and Julian in detail.<span style=""> </span>I told him that she must have kidnapped him as well.<span style=""> </span>He (reluctantly) took down all details then left me again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I sat there fuming at the indifferent attitude of this prick.<span style=""> </span>I contemplated giving him the contact info for the old guy at the farm.<span style=""> </span>But decided that would be my last straw.<span style=""> </span>I did not want to implicate that nice family in anyway.<span style=""> </span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I opened my laptop and checked my friend’s site for messages and was relieved to see he had responded to me.</p><p class="MsoNormal">He was on his way.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I compared times in his message and realized that he would most likely be pulling into town within the half hour.<span style=""> </span>I had to get out of the station.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thank God, small town police stations don’t have much staff.<span style=""> </span>I opened the door to the room and checked the hallway.<span style=""> </span>Nobody.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped from the room and made my way toward the exit.</p><p class="MsoNormal">A voice suddenly shouted from down the hall.</p><p class="MsoNormal">‘Hey<b style="">!’<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I froze in my tracks</p> <p class="MsoNormal">‘Could you come back after dinner?<span style=""> </span>I’ll see if I can help you then.’</p><p class="MsoNormal">At that moment, I didn’t know if I wanted to smile and shake his hand for not giving a shit, or drive my fist through his face for not giving a shit.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I’m currently typing this beside my friend ‘Boyd’ as he drives.<span style=""> </span>We are heading south and are 3 hours or so from the border. My only thread of a clue as to where Claire and my son might possibly be is the map the boys had made.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve known Boyd since we were kids.<span style=""> </span>One of a small handful of ‘best pals’ that grew up together.<span style=""> </span>Some friends stayed around and camouflaged into their married lives, others <span style=""></span>left for bigger and better things.<span style=""> </span><span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>Boyd’s always believed he was one of the smart ones to move out of that ‘shit-assed-inbred-mutherfuckin-town’ (his words).<span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">N</span>ever married. No kids.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Only string of girlfriends that 'don't-know-how-to-cook-cause-it-don't-matter-that-they-don't-know-how-<br />to-cook’ (again, his words)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Despite his messed up taste in women, he is definitely one of the few good guys around these days and if he wouldn’t punch me in the nose, I’d kiss him on the cheek for showing up to help.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I am fully rested again and my head is much clearer.</p>Questions play over and over again in my head like some hellish merry go round...<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Who the hell is Claire?</p><p class="MsoNormal">Why did she try kill me?</p><p class="MsoNormal">Why did she kidnap my son!</p>Is my wife alive?<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow morning we are going to try get across the border.</p><p class="MsoNormal">If anything has happened to my son...</p><p class="MsoNormal">...Claire is going to wish she was dead.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">.<br /></p>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-53043038026716875192007-06-14T09:45:00.000-07:002007-06-14T12:55:50.241-07:00Jun 14, 2007 - Entry #12Jun 14, 2007 - Entry #12<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1*</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire has kidnapped my son…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The morning after my last post, we had left a motel.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>While driving toward the next town I told Claire that Michael and I weren’t going to be going to South America with her and that we were parting ways with her and Julian at the next town.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She was very quiet for the entire ride.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">When we reached the next town Claire pulled into a service station to get fuel.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>She said she needed to use the restroom while I unloaded my backpack from the back of the van.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The only thing she had asked me (earlier) was how I was going to get to where I had planned.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I told her I was going to walk and possibly hitchhike.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>One thing I didn’t tell her was my friend (in the city) had planned on driving to meet us since he had acquired a car.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Not another word from her for the rest of the day.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">While I unloaded bags to get at my backpack I overheard Julian say something to Michael that made the hairs on my neck stand up.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Julian had asked Michael ‘why we had to leave them’.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Michael told him ‘Don’t worry’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Julian said he was scared and told Michael to ‘Make me stay'</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Then, as Claire returned from the restroom I heard Julian whisper...<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">‘If you see my Mom, tell her I miss her’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I paused, wondering if I heard him right.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I said ‘Julian, what did you say?’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Julian sat there silent, tears rolling down his cheeks, begging me with his eyes to not say anything.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire climbed behind the wheel as I closed the back door to the van. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked to the driver’s door window.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I told Michael to get out of the van and just as I was going to ask Claire about what Julian had said, I was staring straight into the barrel of a handgun.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Every muscle in my body froze and my hearing became strangely muffled.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I could see Claire’s lips move with a curled bitterness that chilled my bones.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Time slowed down for me as I could hear her say “Don’t move Michael!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Her lips moved again 'You wouldn't understand.'<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Then her eyes turned hard as stone. I could see a slight shift in them, knowing in an instant that she was going to pull the trigger.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A reflex kicked in and I jerked my backpack upward, ducking down.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>The blast of the gun ripped the backpack from my hands as my momentum carried me toward the back, side door.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I grasped the handle and managed to yank it open.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Michael had just taken his seatbelt off and I reached for his arm.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But I wasn't fast enough. Claire punched the gas and the mini-van’s wheels churned in the gravel.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Michael slipped backward away from me, back into the van as I fell to the ground.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I pulled myself to my feet, ears ringing from the gunshot.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I watched in horror as the van sped away, with my son still inside.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I frantically searched around for someone, anything to help.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I begged in my mind that someone had seen what happened.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Nobody.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I paced and tried desperately to calm down.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I needed to think but my mind raced back and forth to every moment leading up to this.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">My body lurched into a run into the direction that Claire drove off to.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>My heart thumped like a war drum in my head.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Rage boiled to the point that my entire being wanted to rip her limbs off, one at a time until there was nothing left.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Then my body couldn’t take it anymore.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I stumbled to the ditch and stood there, no feeling whatsoever.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I've hitched one ride with a rancher and have walked for miles. I need a car and <span lang="EN-US">I’ve tried to get a hold of my friend.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I was supposed to meet him yesterday (a days travel from where I am) but I’m guessing that since I didn’t show, he might have turned around and went home.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Hopefully he checks messages I’ve left on his site.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I haven’t eaten in 3 days now.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I can’t think straight</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A broken record plays over and over in my head. 'I shouldn't have gone this far!'</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I'm doing what I should have done the day this all began.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I'm turning myself in.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">this could be my last post.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">.<br /></span></p><span lang="EN-US"></span>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-38452476068412049392007-06-08T01:27:00.000-07:002008-12-08T19:08:57.100-08:00Jun 8, 2007 - Entry #11Jun 8, 2007 - Entry #11<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1*</span><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Two more days and we reach the border…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Driving to South America like this has me worried to no end.<span style=""> </span>And I've told Claire that it’s probably not a good idea to go.<span style=""> </span>In her mind, there’s no other option.<span style=""> </span>But I’m starting to have serious doubts on all of this (and her mental state).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve tried to tell her that we have no clear reason to drive to a foreign country other than the fact the kids say we have to.<span style=""> </span>This is nuts. I can't believe I said yes in the first place.<span style=""> </span>She won’t discuss it at all.<span style=""> </span>In fact, now she won’t discuss anything.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve decided I’m going to tell her tomorrow that I’m not going with her.<span style=""> </span>I’m going to stay at the next town and figure out a way to get my son and myself heading back toward my friends place in the city.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Regarding my wife…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Today I’ve spent several hours trying to get any kind of information at all on her.<span style=""> </span>All I can find is the fact that she is missing. I even called her sister and received nothing but accusations of doing ‘god knows what’ to her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I know she’s alive.<span style=""> </span>I can feel it in my bones.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve decided to post a picture of her that I have on my camera phone.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I am doing this with the hope that someone who reads this might have come across her somehow, somewhere.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I’ve also posted an email address</span> below her picture. if anyone has any information at all, <span style="font-weight: bold;">please</span> let me know.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I know posting this information is a possible risk and a shot in the dark.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I don't care...<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I'm on my last straw.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_odpLn4_hezU/RmkVK53rtTI/AAAAAAAAAAM/zZNTAQmka3s/s1600-h/missing1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_odpLn4_hezU/RmkVK53rtTI/AAAAAAAAAAM/zZNTAQmka3s/s320/missing1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073609732286821682" border="0" /></a><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Valarie C</span>.</span></p><p style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Last seen in Washington State, May 7, 2007</span></p><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">contact for info... dillankramer at gmail.com<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.<br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"></p>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-15411082387690767052007-06-05T16:34:00.000-07:002007-06-06T03:30:29.629-07:00Jun 5, 2007 - Entry #10<p><span lang="EN-US">Jun 5, 2007 - Entry #<span style="font-style: italic;">10</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1*</span><span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br /><br />Claire and I (and the boys) had left the farm on the 3<sup>rd </sup>and we are currently driving to South America.<br /><br /><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Around 4 am, after my last post, Claire woke me.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I could see she had been crying (which she had been doing every night, alone, in her room).<span style=""> </span>She had drifted off to sleep beside her son and woke to find him gone.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I noticed her hands were ice cold when she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the window. She desperately wanted to show me something outside.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Michael wasn’t beside me either and I panicked.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But before I could ask where Michael was she had yanked me over to the window and told me the boys were outside.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I rubbed sleep from my eyes and initially had a hell of a time to focus…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Outside, under an amazingly bright moon, I could see Michael and Julian standing beside the barn.<span style=""> </span>Both facing the wall in their pajamas.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I asked Claire, 'what the hell they were doing?'...'Michael should be in bed'.<span style="">..</span>‘They should both be in bed’.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She pointed, told me to open my eyes and “Look.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I rubbed my eyes again and could make out papers tacked to the side of the barn....Lots of papers.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I quickly threw some pants on, ran downstairs, and headed over to the boys.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The boys had kept to themselves over the last couple of days, drawing their strange, geometric pictures.<span style=""> </span>They were content (with their strange behavior)...so I had left Michael alone while Claire and I talked and tried to figure out this whole mess.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The boys had finished their drawings, had got out of bed and tacked them up on the barn wall with a staple gun.<span style=""> </span>Up close it was a strange collage.<span style=""> </span>But when you stepped back several feet you could see that the separate images (on separate papers) made up the unmistakable shape of a South American country.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I stood there with my mouth hanging open beside Claire.<span style=""> </span>I asked her what the hell it was for.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">‘The boys said we will find answers there’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Michael walked over and pointed to one, well defined spot.<span style=""> </span>“Here”.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">So without any other options and having stayed at this farm way too long, we said our good-byes and have hit the road.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Before leaving, the old man told me he had ‘mowed down’ the strange impressions in the alfalfa and told me not to worry. whoever comes looking for us will ‘see the wrong end of his shotgun’.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I smiled, shook his hand and said goodbye.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We have been taking turns driving Claire’s mini-van for a day and a half now.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We have pulled into a small town now and have rented a motel room with two beds.<span style=""></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire hasn’t been talking much and, up until moments ago, she hasn’t slept (hardly at all) in days.<span style=""> </span>Upon opening the motel room door she flopped onto one of the beds and instantly fell fast asleep.<span style=""> </span>It was only minutes before I noticed a few tears roll down her cheeks.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I fed the boys some sandwiches and t<span style=""></span>hey have fallen asleep in front of the muted television.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It is quiet here now as I type this and search the internet for any news on anything at all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Previous news reports on the net of me being 'hunted' are gone.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I keep trying to google my wife’s name. searching online newspapers for any sign of her being found.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Nothing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It's like she never existed and I want to drive my fist through the wall.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">driving to South America like this is insane.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I feel like I'm losing my mind.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">and I feel further from the truth</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">...more than ever before.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">.<br /></span></p>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-26595316795703891672007-06-02T15:33:00.000-07:002007-06-02T16:06:00.589-07:00Jun 2, 2007 - Entry #9<span lang="EN-US">Jun 2, 2007 - Entry #<span style="font-style: italic;">9</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1*</span><span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire’s story...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She was born and raised in a small town (Tennessee).<span style=""> </span>Above average grades.<span style=""> </span>Moved away to attend University where she met her husband and graduated with a Masters Degree in Science, specializing in Materials.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She and her husband had adopted their son twelve years ago and have lived happy, productive lives until a couple of weeks ago.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Amazingly, their son has almost identical personality traits to Michael.<span style=""> </span>Somewhat anti-social with other kids, high intelligence and spends hours in his room drawing these symbols on papers, (although more prolific than my son).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A couple of weeks ago, she had noticed her son glued to the television, flipping through channels with a vengeance.<span style=""> </span>He stopped when he reached a news story on a farm in Tennessee.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">A crop circle had appeared on May 25, (this year) in Monroe County.<span style=""> </span>Julian was glued to the television for hours, flipping the channel to any news story he could find on it.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire showed me a drawing he had done of the crop circle.<span style=""> </span>An elaborate series of circles (four large and four small) all joined with lines.<span style=""> </span>In the middle was another circle with a triangle.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The next day, when she came home from picking up her son from school, she walked into her house and found it a total mess.<span style=""> </span>Sofa’s turned upside down (cut open), sections of drywall cut out, carpets ripped up, all in all, just like how I had found my house.<span style=""></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""></span>She heard a loud noise rise from downstairs and then her husband yelled to her ‘Claire!<span style=""> </span>Get out of here!’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She called out his name but no answer.<span style=""> </span>She headed to the doorway to the basement and called his name again.<span style=""> </span>Nothing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She stood, frightened at the top of the stairs, looking down into darkness.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Suddenly a man in a suit rushed up the stairs after her with a large knife.<span style=""> </span>Her reflexes grabbed the door to the stairs and slammed it shut before he reached the top.<span style=""> </span>She turned and ran.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She called out for Julian as she ran outside.<span style=""> </span>With a stroke of luck she found him still in the mini-van (looking for a calculator).<span style=""> </span>She jumped in, started the engine and backed out of the driveway as the man with the knife burst out the front door.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire raced to the police station.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She arrived in hysterics and had a difficult time explaining to the officer at the front desk through her tears.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The police had gone to the house to investigate and found her husband hanging in the basement.<span style=""> </span>Dead.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The official report concluded that he had a mental breakdown, destroyed the house and killed himself.<span style=""> </span>Claire was furious.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She drove to her sister’s house and, while on the way, Julian told her they “had to go”.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He told her that it was dangerous to go anywhere but where the message said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire asked what message he was talking about.<span style=""> </span>He showed her the drawing of the crop circle.<span style=""> </span>He then reached into the glove box, pulled out a road map booklet of the united states and circled a spot where he wanted to go.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She ignored this and told Julian not to worry.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Before she reached her sisters house she received a call from the police on her cell.<span style=""> </span>The officer told her that she needed to come in to answer some questions regarding the investigation into her husbands ‘suicide’.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">When she arrived, she pulled out front and parked.<span style=""> </span>Julian was suddenly trembling in fear and tears began to roll down his face.<span style=""> </span>He cried for her to please not go in.<span style=""> </span>She hugged him and told him not to worry.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As she hugged him, she spotted a face, through the window of the police station.<span style=""> </span>A man talking to an officer.<span style=""> </span>It was the same man in a suit who raced up the stairs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire’s entire being ached with adrenaline.<span style=""> </span>She frantically shifted the car into drive and pulled slowly away from the curb.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The next thing she said she knew she was on the highway and didn’t know what to do or where to go.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Julian opened the map again pleaded with her.<span style=""> </span>So she agreed with out any idea what else to do.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">As they drove, Claire quizzed Julian more about the circles.<span style=""> </span>He told her they were messages.<span style=""> </span>This one was for him.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She asked how it could be a message; it was “only a drawing of circles”.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He simply replied, “It's math mom.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Over the next couple of days as they traveled, the only other information that Julian would say was they knew they would be at the right spot when they found ‘this’.<span style=""> </span>He handed over the drawing of the crop circle we found at the farm.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire asked him what message that image said and was taken aback when Julian smiled as bright as the sun.<span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span>“It’s another boy…like me”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">.<br /></span></p>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-1247538018237158142007-05-31T22:45:00.000-07:002007-06-01T16:33:25.138-07:00May 31, 2007 - Entry #8<span lang="EN-US">May 31, 2007 - Entry #8</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1*</span><span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br /><br />The woman’s name is Claire and she had been driving for days with her twelve-year-old son…</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br />When the two of them stepped from their mini-van and headed toward the barn, I didn’t know what I was going to do.<span style=""> </span>The old guy had locked the shed to keep whoever was coming from thinking anyone was in there.<span style=""> </span>I was suddenly more curious than worried.<span style=""> </span>Why would a woman with her son want to see me and how the hell did they know I was at a farm in the middle of nowhere?</span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The old guy opened the shed and we stepped outside.<span style=""> </span>Claire outstretched her hand to me and introduced herself and her son Jules.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t help notice that she wouldn’t take her eyes off my son.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The sun had started to warm the day and the old man broke a moment of uncomfortable silence by inviting us into the house for coffee and bagels.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Inside, it was quite noticeable that Claire was very tired.<span style=""> </span>I asked where she was from and she said 'Knoxville, Tennessee'.<span style=""> </span>She seemed quite anxious and stressed and wouldn't sit. She paced the room, constantly looking out the window.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I asked if someone was after her.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">No reply.<br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Then I noticed her son and mine sitting together in the living room, quietly talking to each other.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I was starting to get very creeped out.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The old guy asked her to 'please sit' and have some coffee.<span style=""> </span>She refused and asked if she could go outside and look around.<span style=""> </span>Before the old guy could open his mouth she was out the door.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We quickly joined her on the porch and watched her search around, becoming more agitated by the minute.<span style=""> </span>She turned and suddenly headed over to the barn.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">At the barn she searched as if she lost something.<span style=""> </span>When the old man and I caught up with her she asked if he had a ladder.<span style=""> </span>He said ‘Sure, I got a few’.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She told him she wanted a tall one that could reach the top of the barn.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The old guy lowered his brow and before he could open his mouth she spotted one and raced over to it (along side the barn).<span style=""> </span>She struggled as she lifted one end and pulled.<span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="">The old guy</span> caught up with her and told her to calm down and if she promised she wouldn’t 'kill herself' she could climb to the roof from inside the barn.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He led us inside to a built in ladder, leading up to a hatch. The three of us inched our way, <span style=""> </span>it was a tricky climb but we made it up and out onto the roof.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I was amazed at how far I could see.<span style=""> </span>Farmland stretched to the horizon.<span style=""> </span>Fresh green fields growing lush from the large amounts of rain the county has been getting.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Claire hurried along the sides of the barn, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand as she scanned the area.<span style=""> </span>The old man yelled for her to slow down (he didn’t want to clean up the mess if she fell and if she didn't calm down she'd have to get off his land)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She spotted what she was looking for and halted.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I joined her side as she pulled out a folded up paper (letter size) and handed it to me. I unfolded it.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">On the paper were two circles joined by two lines and hash marks along the sides of the lines.</span></p><span lang="EN-US">She said ‘My son drew that four days ago’.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />She then pointed down to the field of alfalfa stretching out from the back side of the barn.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />My mouth hung open at the same image, pressed down in the plants.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">So we’ve been at the farmhouse since.<span style=""> </span>I’ve heard her whole story and have been documenting everything.<span style=""> </span>It’s frightening how similar our stories and lives have been. <span style=""></span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This morning, she said my wife is probably dead...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Just like her husband.</p><br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-30157051667166580842007-05-28T19:46:00.000-07:002007-06-02T19:02:22.777-07:00May 28, 2007 - Entry #7<span lang="EN-US">May 28, 2007 - Entry #7</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br /><br />I am having a difficult time writing this at the moment.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US"><br />I wish I could describe what happened yesterday (and today) with enough clarity that anyone reading this would understand why I am numb and why I’m having a very hard time sorting this situation out.<span style=""> </span>But, I guess, even if I could write like a pro I wouldn’t believe it myself.<span style=""> </span>Then again, I probably would believe it even less.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />As I mentioned, I planned on leaving yesterday morning but, due to what I’m about to write, I am still here writing this from the farmhouse guest room…</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br /><br />I woke before sunrise, showered, dressed and thanked everyone for their help. I wasn't feeling well so I graciously turned down a large breakfast.<span style=""> </span>My son quietly ate while I went outside to the dark morning and joined the old guy’s side at his pick-up truck.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />He had started it and was cleaning garbage from the passenger floor.<span style=""> </span>He told me we would have to stop for gas on the way and that it would be a half day drive.<span style=""> </span>(further than I thought)<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">I turned to get my son but he was already walking from the house toward me.<span style=""> </span>Then my chest tightened…<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">Headlights from a vehicle, a half mile away, were heading toward the farm.<span style=""> </span>I asked the old man if he was expecting anyone.<span style=""> </span>He shook his head as he joined my side.<span style=""> </span>We watched the headlights turn away to another direction and I relaxed.<span style=""> </span>But then they turned again and it was obvious that this farm was their destination.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />The old guy told me to grab my son and follow him.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />We hurried to the barn through the dark, where he led us inside, to a tool shed room.<span style=""> </span>I told my son not to worry as the old man shut the shed room door and padlocked the outside.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I pushed my way through various boxes and farm equipment to a dirt smudged window.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t see a thing so I used my sleeve to clean it the best I could.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I could see the old man at his pick-up.<span style=""> </span>I saw him pull a shotgun from behind the seat, load a shell into it and rest it over his shoulder.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I waited for what seemed like forever for a sign of the vehicle to arrive.<span style=""> </span>The old man stood calm as he lit a smoke and watched.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Light finally stretched across the ground and shone on the old man.<span style=""> </span>He shielded his eyes with one hand as a mini-van rolled to a stop in front of him.<span style=""> </span>The head lights dimmed.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />The farmer walked around to the driver’s door as its window rolled down and its interior light turned on.<span style=""> </span>It was a woman in her late thirties with jet black hair.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />The old man and the woman spoke for a moment and it looked like she was lost as he began to (what looked like) give her directions.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />He then suddenly turned and faced me with confused look on his face.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I felt cold sweat run from my temple as he raised his arm and pointed at me.<br /><br /><br /><br />.<br /></span>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-51412196489194593622007-05-26T17:14:00.000-07:002007-05-28T20:18:55.207-07:00May 26, 2007 - Entry #6<span lang="EN-US">May 26, 2007 - Entry #6</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br />A lot has happened since my last log…</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />It had rained all morning as I drove and, at one point in the late afternoon, I swear that armageddon had been unleashed on the earth.<span style=""> </span>Hail the size of marbles had machine gunned our car for several minutes.<span style=""> </span>I reassured my (scared out of his wits) son that we’d be fine.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />To my relief the rain had slowed as fast as it came.<span style=""> </span>I reached to adjust the radio to hear weather reports when a deer had bolted onto the road.<span style=""> </span>I yanked on the steering wheel.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">The car clipped the back end of the deer and skid sideways over mud.<span style=""> </span>I hit the brakes and the we slid helplessly toward the ditch as if a hand had snatched the top of the car and decided it was time for us to get off the road.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />We hit sideways, burying the front left side (and most of the side down to the door) completely in mud and weeds.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I turned to check on my son and he sat there with his eyes as wide as silver dollars.<span style=""> </span>He pursed his lips and said<span style=""> </span>‘Holy wow’.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Relief burst from me with a laugh, ‘Yeah, Holy wow’.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I looked back to the road and could see a dark outline of the deer on the road.<span style=""> </span>I told my son to stay in the car then climbed out the passenger door, slugged my way through the mud and made my way up onto the road.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I stood before the deer as its remaining huffs of life rose through the rain.<span style=""> </span>It’s eyes wide with fear.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />My son startled me when he joined my side.<span style=""> </span>We both stared at the deer in silence for a few minutes when he looked up at me and said ‘We hit it’</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />My heart sank. ‘Yes we did’</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />An amazing amount of blood had pooled from its neck (which also looked broken).<span style=""> </span>The deer kicked its legs twice and I told my son to go back to the car.<span style=""> </span>I turned to see he was crying.<span style=""> </span>I picked him up and hugged him tight as he buried his face into my shoulder.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Later, I sat behind the wheel, gazing out to farm fields that never end and frowned at the rain as it spit on us.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />It was going to be dark soon so I decided we had better stay put and hopefully the rain would stop by morning.<span style=""> </span>I tried the engine to warm up the car.<span style=""> </span>Nothing. We ate a few gas station sandwiches then bundled up in blankets. I tried the radio.<span style=""> </span>Nothing but static.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />In the middle of the night there was a loud tap on the window.<span style=""> </span>At first I didn’t wake up.<span style=""> </span>I was in a deep sleep and it took a moment for me to realize where I was.<span style=""> </span>I opened my eyes to a blinding flashlight through my window.<span style=""> </span>Relief actually washed over me thinking ‘I’m caught.<span style=""> </span>It’s over, thank God!’</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />It turned out to be a farmer in the area.<span style=""> </span>He was heading home from town.<span style=""> </span>He spotted our car and pulled over to see if anyone was alive in the wreck.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />It was cold and still raining when he helped us out of the car and into his pick-up.<span style=""> </span>I told him about the deer and could smell whisky on his breath as he coughed and smiled at the fact that we weren’t hurt.<span style=""> </span>He ‘swore’ he’d find brains splattered all over the car and said we were nuts to be out in this.<span style=""> </span>There were tornado warnings and funnel clouds were spotted in the next county over.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br />So now, at this moment, I am typing this at a small desk in a guestroom of a rather large farmhouse.<span style=""> </span>The fellow who found us is a grandfather, living with his son and son’s wife.<span style=""> </span>The couple has 5, unbelievably well mannered kids.<span style=""> </span>This is will be the second night here and I am blown away at how nice these people have been to two, total strangers.<span style=""> </span>I can’t describe how good the shower felt and a hot breakfast was heaven.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Earlier today I sat with the old guy in the front room.<span style=""> </span>I told him my story.<span style=""> </span>Everything.<span style=""> </span>I decided that I owed him that and I am definitely not implicating anyone without them knowing.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />After, he sat there thinking and looking at me for what seemed like an eternity.<span style=""> </span>My son came into the room and asked if he could go see their cows (with two of the boys).<span style=""> </span>The old man turned to my son and said ‘Do you love your dad?'<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">My son looked at him with a confused look then nodded ‘yes’.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />The old guy smiled then told him to go see the cows.<span style=""> </span>He then turned to me and said.<span style=""> </span>‘I’ll drive you and your boy to the city tomorrow morning.<span style=""> </span>I need to go shopping anyway.’</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I find it impossible to not think about my wife.<span style=""> </span>So I write to clear my mind.<span style=""> </span>I find putting down my thoughts like this helps more than ever now.<span style=""> </span>Allows me to sort things out and think about what I’m going to do.<span style=""> </span>I’ve begun to work out a plan and I’m looking forward to seeing my friend.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I’ve also been thinking about everything I’ve put off.<span style=""> </span>Building a 3D puzzle that my son has asked me dozens of times to work on with him.<span style=""> </span>Rebuilding a 1968 mustang, collecting dust in my garage.<span style=""> </span>Finishing a novel that I started years ago and above all, take my wife to a tropical island for a holiday.<span style=""> </span>A dream of hers (since forever) that I’ve put aside every year and I pray with every ounce of my soul that I can still take her one day.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I’ve also thought how my situation is laughable in comparison to the horrors in the world others have faced.<span style=""> </span>People moving along with their lives when an event blows in like a sledgehammer and rips their lives apart.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Life can be brittle as an eggshell and resilient as steel.<span style=""> </span>I’ve taken too many things for granted in the past and it has concreted in my mind now that no guarantees exist for anyone.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">When you’re a kid you think you are immortal, not sure where this lie comes from but it sure is a cruel one.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-88032664953497338952007-05-24T23:50:00.000-07:002007-05-28T20:23:16.373-07:00May 24, 2007 - Entry #5<span lang="EN-US">May 24, 2007 - Entry #5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1</span><br /><br /><br />It is just after 10pm and I find myself strangely calm.<span style=""> </span>I guess my stress has deadened from lack of sleep.<br /><br />Back roads have been virtually traffic free and if all goes well, we should have one more day until I reach the city.<br /><br />I’ve decided to not stop for anything now other than to find a wireless internet connection and to nap if needed.<span style=""> </span>I’ve spent the last of my money on a full tank of gas and enough food.<br /><br />There are numerous details/events I’ve left out of this log so far.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been waiting to post them mainly due to the fact that if I want a record of my innocence shown I need to make sure I have accurate details.<br /><br />I’ve been communicating with my friend (in the city) via websites like myspace, facebook and others.<span style=""> </span>He’s been setting up a new (private) accounts every day or so (we have a system so I know which url is the next one).<br /><br />My heart pounds every time I click to hear possible news of my wife and learn more about what the hell is going on.<br /><br />Here are some facts I’ve been able to obtain…<br /><br />1.<span style=""> </span>The person that I’m being hunted for killing is our life long, family doctor.<br /><br />2. Supposedly my fingerprints have been found all over his office and I was spotted leaving there a half hour before he was found.<br /><br />3. He was found strangled to death.<br /><br />4. Police have announced no motive.<br /><br />5.<span style=""> </span>Nobody knows where my wife is.<br /><br />Firstly, of course my fingerprints are in his office.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been there more times than I can count in my life.<span style=""> </span>And yes I was there that day.<span style=""> </span>I had an appointment to see him for a sprained wrist.<span style=""> </span>I had fallen from a ladder the night before (hanging a picture for my wife).<br /><br />Secondly, he was strangled without a soul hearing him?<span style=""> </span>I know how small that office is and the receptionist would have heard something or at least she would have found him a within the half hour.<span style=""> </span>My friend has tried calling her but she’s gone on emotional leave to some other country.<span style=""> </span>Nothing adds up.<br /><br />Also…<br /><br />How could I strangle a 200lb man to death with a sprained wrist?<br /><br />As to why I ran with my son…<br /><br />After the initial shock at how much damage was done to my house I instantly thought my wife had been abducted.<span style=""> </span>She was supposed to be at work but her car was in the driveway.<br /><br />I immediately called her cell and received her voice mail.<span style=""> </span>I called her work and they told me she left for lunch and hadn't returned.<span style=""> </span>I then dialed to where my son was being looked after and he was fine.<span style=""> </span>I bolted over, scooped him up and headed toward the police station.<br /><br />On my way, my cell rang.<span style=""> </span>It was an FBI agent.<span style=""> </span>He asked me where my son was.<span style=""> </span>I told him he was with me.<span style=""> </span>He then told me to head to the police station and he’d explain everything when I got there.<span style=""> </span>I asked why the FBI was there and tried to tell him about my house being ripped apart.<span style=""> </span>He wouldn’t say anything other than to calm down and he’d explain when I arrived.<span style=""> </span>I asked if he knew if my wife was okay.<span style=""> </span>Again, like a broken record, he told me not to worry and he’d fill me in on everything when I arrived.<span style=""> </span>I hung up feeling numb.<br /><br />As I drove, I started to wonder why they weren’t at our house.<span style=""> </span>The crime scene.<span style=""> </span>Then my cellphone rang again.<span style=""> </span>It was a text message from my wife…<br /><br />It simply said ‘Run’<br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com317tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-52988992645908189742007-05-22T12:34:00.000-07:002007-05-28T20:25:38.873-07:00May 22, 2007 - Entry #4<span lang="EN-US">May 22, 2007 - Entry #4</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br />It’s 3 am and my mind is racing.<span style=""> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I am listening to frogs chirp through the driver’s door window and my son is sleeping soundly under two thick blankets and a coat.<span style=""> </span>The breeze is cool but comfortable.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">I’ve had a hard time sleeping.<span style=""> </span>Every so often I jolt awake at some imaginary sound.<span style=""> </span>Writing this helps me focus and I find now it’s the only way I can unscramble my thoughts and fall asleep<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">I’ve driven roughly 420 miles since my last entry and have decided to head to a large, unnamed city.<span style=""> </span>I’ve roughly calculated that I have enough money for fuel and food to make it within twenty or so miles of the city and it should take a couple of days with stops to rest.<span style=""> </span>I don’t dare try using my credit cards due to the fact that they can most likely be traced and Interac is also definitely out of the question.<span style=""> </span>My last option for money is to pawn this laptop.<span style=""> </span>If needed, that should get us there for sure.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">I loathe cities but I feel it’s my best chance to survive by blending into a large population.<span style=""> </span>I need get my bearings and see an old friend.<span style=""> </span>I simply have no choice now.<span style=""> </span>My son and I need help.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">Lack of funds and the need for fuel/food has translated to us sleeping in the car full time.<span style=""> </span>On the plus side it means we have less chance of being spotted and don’t have to worry about finding the cheapest Motel in town with a mattress that would make your skin crawl.<span style=""> </span>On the negative, I wont have access to a shower and I swear, if this nightmare ever ends, I’ll never step foot inside a gas station restroom again.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Libraries are much cleaner and free internet is a big plus.<span style=""> </span>The last time I logged on at a Library I sent an email to a hometown acquaintance.<span style=""> </span>I am desperate for some kind of clue as to where my wife has gone so I created a new hotmail account and wrote up a few questions.<span style=""> </span>The moment I clicked ‘send’ it suddenly dawned on me that email could be traced.<span style=""> </span>I can’t believe I did it but I’m not thinking clearly from lack of sleep.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I hope the Library at the next town is open when I get there.<span style=""> </span>Not only do I want to upload this log but also I’d like to wash up my son.<span style=""> </span>If it isn’t open I’ll be stuck with a gas station and I’ll have to find a wireless connection somewhere I can log onto.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I modified my appearance yesterday.<span style=""> </span>All I’ll say is that it’s amazing how much a change to a person’s hair can alter how they look.<span style=""> </span>My son couldn’t take his eyes off me as we headed back to the car.<span style=""> </span>I helped him into the car, rested my hand on his shoulder to comfort his wide-eyed stare and told him not to worry, “It’s still me’.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I climbed behind the steering wheel when he lowered his brow and said “No Dad.<span style=""> </span>You missed a spot”.<span style=""> </span>I checked the rear view mirror and realized that the lighting in the restroom was worse than I thought.<span style=""> </span>We both burst into laughs.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know what felt better, actually feeling a laugh rise after these long, frightening days or hearing my son giggle until tears rolled down his cheeks.<span style=""> </span>Best sound in the world.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I slid the car into drive and suddenly I felt like we could make it to the ends of the earth.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Later, my son slept as I drove in silence.<span style=""> </span>My thoughts wandered back to the day my life was churned upside down.<span style=""> </span>I thought about the damage to the house my wife and I worked so hard to build and maintain.<span style=""> </span>A home with years of memories that the lonely would die for.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I remember the first night my wife and I slept under its roof.<span style=""> </span>I lay awake with my arms folded behind my head.<span style=""> </span>Her arm rested across my chest as her soft, sleeping breath brushed over my shoulder.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />The window was open to the night after a long, hot summer day.<span style=""> </span>As the white, frail curtains wavered and floated up from a change in the wind, I thought about the future possibilities in that house. How good it was going to be.<span style=""> </span>How we would build a family and stick together through thick and thin.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I was right.<span style=""> </span>It was good.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />When I first met my wife, the very first thought that entered my mind, was ‘I can’t believe how stunning this woman’s eyes are.’<span style=""> </span>The next thing I clearly remember thinking was ‘I can’t believe she’s talking to me.’</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />We met at University.<span style=""> </span>It was the first day of school with an orientation for new students.<span style=""> </span>Roughly nine hundred of us were herded like cattle into an auditorium for speeches, orientation etc.<span style=""> </span>I sat there sweating about what I was going to do about my lack of books.<span style=""> </span>I had come up short after paying tuition and I knew it was going to be a challenge to begin a full course load without them.<span style=""> </span>As I sat there with my worry lines burrowing in and my mind a hundred miles away, something suddenly caught my eye…</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Across the auditorium I saw a flicker of light.<span style=""> </span>I squinted my eyes and then focused on a woman who is now the best friend I’ll ever have.<span style=""> </span>My wife.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I smiled at the pleasant distraction from my worries.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Students were then ushered and organized into lesser groups and after a tour of the University we were released for lunch.<span style=""> </span>I found myself standing outside after the tour dispersed.<span style=""> </span>I turned around, searching for<span style=""> </span>a certain, described building with a cafeteria and there she was, looking just as perplexed as where to go as I was.<span style=""> </span>A magnet inside my guts suddenly pulled me over to introduce myself.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />The next thing I knew, I was sitting across from her having coffee, never wanting the conversation to end.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-21690028773005393942007-05-21T02:36:00.001-07:002007-05-28T20:28:26.638-07:00May 21, 2007 - Entry #3<span lang="EN-US">May 21, 2007 - Entry #3</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1*</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /><br />I stole a car since my last entry.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Not something I'm proud of or have done before and I plan on (hopefully) not doing it again unless extreme circumstances warrant it.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />The day after my last post, I was spotted (recognized) by a clerk at the grocery store.<span style=""> </span>I had left the motel to get my son lunch and a few pairs of socks.<span style=""> </span>His only pair had worn a hole in one heel.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">It took me a moment to realize something was up.<span style=""> </span>When I looked up to the clerk to purchase my items, his face grew instantly pale and he started stammering.<span style=""> </span>I thought he was going to piss his pants as he jogged away, toward an office door.<span style=""> </span>When it sunk in, I quickly left the store, hurried back to the motel, gathered up my son and our stuff.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />In the parking lot I managed to find a car with the keys in it.<span style=""> </span>Thinking on this now, I didn’t realize anyone in this day and age would leave their keys.<span style=""> </span>But it was a small town and I guess small town trust still is alive and well.<span style=""> </span>With a half a tank of fuel, I turned onto back roads and headed out of state. (thank God I remembered my map).</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Later (into the night), I pulled over on a pitch-black, country road to sleep.<span style=""> </span>I clicked the radio on to let music help clear my mind.<span style=""> </span>I turned up the volume just in time to hear a reporter declare that I’ve been spotted in the state and I’m a violent, murdering fugitive who has kidnapped my son.</span><span lang="EN-US"><!--[endif]--></span><span lang="EN-US"><!--[endif]--></span><span lang="EN-US"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Regarding my Son…</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Simply put, he is not like other boys.<span style=""> </span>My wife and I adopted him 7 years ago as a baby and have raised him as an only child.<span style=""> </span>We noticed peculiarities about him at an early age.<span style=""> </span>His speech was delayed and although very frustrating for him, we managed with a booklet of ‘communication pictures’.<span style=""> </span>Upon realizing this was making his speech lazy (and worse), we threw that away and his speech slowly came.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">My son is what I’ve always called an ‘old soul’.<span style=""> </span>You know people in your life that have this natural, wisdom?<span style=""> </span>A mature sense about them or an age-old aura?<span style=""> </span>Well this is my son.<span style=""> </span>He has (since an early age) this way of looking at you from behind the eyes of a wise, 90 year old man.<span style=""> </span>You can tell that he thinks things through thoroughly before speaking.<span style=""> </span>And at times it seems like he can peer through to your soul.<span style=""> </span>Unnerving to most to say the least.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">My son has always had zero interest in socializing/playing with other kids.<span style=""> </span>Other boys/girls would do normal ‘kid things’ and he would just look at them perplexed then go off to work on his own projects like puzzles, models and lego structures.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">So with all this, it wasn’t a surprise to find that, through basic tests, a resident psychologist speculated for us that his IQ is off the charts.<span style=""> </span>We would have to place him in a school for Gifted Children and with that, most likely move.<span style=""> </span>Something I was not happy about.<span style=""> </span>I loved my town and the clean air.<span style=""> </span>I loved the fact you could let your kids walk to school without worrying about them arriving alive.<span style=""> </span>And even, well…leave your keys in your car.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">A few weeks ago my son had showed me something and I haven’t told a soul. For two main reasons. I’m sure nobody would believe me and secondly I have a hard time believing it myself, (let alone making sense of it)</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />It had started with him drawing several shapes on paper then tacking them on his wall.<span style=""> </span>Every other day a new shape.<span style=""> </span>Now, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about a child drawing pictures and decorating his bedroom but these were simple, geometric shapes.<span style=""> </span>Some drawn together to complete bizarre, even more complex shapes.<span style=""> </span>Nothing distinguishable to be seen in the drawings<span style=""> </span>ie. Cars, dogs, trees etc.<span style=""> </span>Only combinations of simple shapes.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I had shrugged this off until one day I passed by his room.<span style=""> </span>These papers had covered most of his walls by now, each with it’s own distinguishable shape(s).<span style=""> </span>One drawing caught my attention.<span style=""> </span>I stepped up close to examine its intricate, almost spectacular circles, lines and spirals.<span style=""> </span>It was simply amazing.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">Two days later…I was reading my after dinner newspaper, thinking of dozing off in front of the television.<span style=""> </span>Then I turned the page.<span style=""> </span>Glaring at me, in bold, clear ink was a photograph of the exact, same shape on my son’s wall.<span style=""> </span>A smiling farmer, on a side photo, described how he discovered the shape in his wheat crop that morning.<span style=""> </span>A Crop Circle.<span style=""> </span>At first I was blown away by how exact my son had copied the picture in exact detail.<br /><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">Then it dawned on me…</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />My son had posted that picture on his wall BEFORE the crop circle had formed in the field.<span style=""> </span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I triple checked the dates in the article and phoned the newspaper.<span style=""> </span>The dates checked out.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />Writing this out like this makes it even more ridiculous to me.<span style=""> </span>As stated before, I am an Engineer.<span style=""> </span>I deal in facts.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">When I asked my son how he could do this he simply smiled and said, “You’ll see.”</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">.</p>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-5242803030528423362007-05-17T08:22:00.000-07:002007-05-28T20:33:08.165-07:00May 17, 2007 - Entry #2May 17, 2007 - Entry #2<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be. -- for an accurate reading, please begin with Entry #1*</span><br /><br />-------------------<span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Before getting ahead of myself, I’ve decided to give you some of my background.<span style=""> </span>I’ve never been one to stand on a soapbox and say ‘look at me!’<span style=""> </span>On the contrary, I prefer to be sitting in the audience and not up on any stage in the slightest</span><span lang="EN-US">.<br /><br />I feel it’s important though to state who or what I am.<span style=""> </span>I truly believe that the only way you can truly know a man is to see what he does when nobody is looking.<span style=""> </span>It’s 3 am.<span style=""> </span>My son is fast asleep.<span style=""> </span>Nothing accompanies me but the sound of a cheap air conditioner humming in this motel room.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I’ve led a life that would make sloth yawn.<span style=""> </span>And I’m good with that.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I’m 35 years old.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Born in a small town.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Two average parents who never divorced.<span style=""> </span>(which I suppose is not normal these days).</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Never any serious trouble as a teenager other than getting caught racing cars on a Saturday night.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Finished high school with above average grades, moved to a larger city, completed University with a degree in Mechanical Eng.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Married when I was 25.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Adopted our beautiful son Michael (not his real name)</span><br /><br />I suppose one way to know someone is to know his or her parents.<span style=""> </span>My Father was a hard, working man with strong ethics.<span style=""> </span>Not too strong of ethics though to the point where you couldn’t stand being in the same room as him.<span style=""> </span>On the contrary, people loved him.<span style=""> </span>He was funny, smart and genuinely cared about people.<span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />I remember once, (I think I was 9), a fight between two men had broken out in a store.<span style=""> </span>I have no idea what the fists were flying about but I clearly remember that one guy was much bigger and it looked like he was going to kill the smaller.<span style=""> </span>Without hesitation, my Father leaped into the middle and forcibly saved the smaller guy by wrestling the other to the ground.<span style=""> </span>Police quickly arrived and took over.<span style=""> </span>Thinking now, I realize that my Father risked his life that day to help (and possibly save the life) of a stranger.<span style=""> </span>No names were exchanged.<span style=""> </span>My Father simply straightened out his clothes, wiped some blood from his chin and led me from the store.<span style=""> </span>We just carried on with our day and not another word was said.<span style=""> </span>Just like a superhero, anonymously helping a man at extreme risk, asking nothing in return.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />That pretty much sums up my Father.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />My Mother was a quiet woman who worked part time to give us the extras in life.<span style=""> </span>She never complained about one thing. (not to my ears anyway).<span style=""> </span>She would sing when she took care of the house.<span style=""> </span>A sound that would warm my heart.<span style=""> </span>And to this day, when I think about how that made me feel, I smile.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />Looking back, I didn’t truly appreciate her.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t realize that the house didn’t clean itself.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t realize that a good dinner (which we had every night) was more than touching the buttons on the microwave.<span style=""> </span>And I had no idea what it was like for a Mother, who worked, baked, shopped and cleaned all day, to put her coat on and go work a few hours every night at a local restaurant.<span style=""> </span>When you’re a kid you just expect things to be the way they are and never change.<span style=""> </span>My lunch would be made for me every day with out question.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes with a note wrapped around a candy bar or a bag of licorice.<span style=""> </span>I used to be embarrassed by those notes at school.<span style=""> </span>Not wanting my buddies to see ‘I love you’ or ‘Kisses from Mom’ scrawled inside.<span style=""> </span>I’d quickly throw them in the garbage and run off to play.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />My parents lives were ended in a heartbeat 11yrs ago when a logging truck slammed into their camper.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br />To this day, I wish I kept those notes.</span><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />.<br /></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style=""> </span></span></p><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-32669574322770801972007-05-14T22:49:00.001-07:002007-05-14T22:49:11.893-07:00Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2616819753991865675.post-60768544231634675192007-05-14T21:06:00.000-07:002007-06-24T21:16:37.752-07:00May 14, 2007 - Entry #1May 14, 2007 - Entry #1<br /><br />Introduction...<br /><br />This diary is intended to be an official record for the world as to what is happening to me and my family and what (although unknown at this point) is to be.<br /><br />a side purpose of this diary is to also allow me to clarify and organize my thoughts. in other words, make sense of my (and my son's) predicament. I also apologize in advance for any ramblings that don't make sense.<br /><br />upfront, I am using an alias (Dillan Kramer) for reasons to be revealed in this diary. I'm currently writing this off line using a laptop which I have finally acquired yesterday. an interesting story in itself. all future (if any) logs will be uploaded from various sources.<br /><br /><br />Why am I doing this? One week ago, upon returning from work, I found that my house had been searched, (ripped apart, board by board). My wife is missing. I have no idea if she is alive.<br /><br />Upon retrieving my son from friends house, I learned that my name has appeared on a most wanted list for a crime I had nothing to do with.<br /><br />I am now on the run with my son trying to put all of the bizarre pieces together.<br /><br />I am tired.<br /><br />and I desperately miss my wife.<br /><br />.Dillanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759842005757071335noreply@blogger.com1