I was honored to be part of my client and friend story with her amazing journey and experiences. Please read and I hope you enjoy the true story that always keep us wonder to ask the question ARE WE ALONE? This story is beyond than Roswell incident , it is mix of the past and the future , out of body experiences and the help of guardian angels,It is when the sea, sand , air and fire come together as 4 elements to help the spirit of a lady who are seeking the truth . Steve Ramsey.
A SUPERNATURAL MEMOIR
BRIAWNA EMBER POWERS
AUTHOR OF THE DALETH TRILOGY
The following are excerpts from my supernatural memoir, currently in editing, entitled I Fly Away from Me. This book is the first of a trilogy I am writing about my life’s experiences linking the supernatural, science and religion. I believe that my father’s abduction by extraterrestrials his sophomore year of college created a change in his DNA that was passed down to me. From that experience onward, my father had the gift of sight. His psychic abilities to predict future events and first-hand accounts through his visions, dreams, ability to see ghosts, angels and demons was something he kept to himself for most of his life. That is, until it began happening to me.
In my hunt for the Truth and the beauty of the internet, I came across www.Moleopedia.com
After reading about Dr. Steve Ramsey and his team of supernatural investigators, I knew I had found the professional who could help me along my journey. Dr. Ramsey is a scientist who himself has been living with the gift of sight his entire life. His diverse team of highly educated investigators are well versed in most of the major religious doctrines of the world, as well as medicine and technology.
Never taking a penny from the clients who seek his help with their supernatural hauntings and experiences, Dr. Ramsey had the first draft of my book read within weeks and sent me a 10-page commentary of possible debunkings as well as scientific and spiritual explanations. Dr. Ramsey and I became fast friends through emails over the course of this past two years. He was the logic and reasoning I had always been seeking. I say that because of the visceral, emotional fear that most people react with when I tell them about my experiences.
It was difficult for me to choose what stories to submit for this project because all of my visions, dreams, ghost sightings, UFO and extraterrestrial encounters, and conversations with angels and demons are part of a much larger message that I will explain in a trilogy of three books that span close to 250 pages each. I describe my life like The Sixth Sense meets the Davinci Code.
What I present to you now is but the tip of a giant iceberg.
I was born October 14, 1982.
If my life story were a script, it would probably start out something like this…
The University of New Mexico
We see my dad, Mickey, a handsome, burly linebacker finishing football practice as a UNM Lobo. Mickey jogs off of the field in full practice gear, wearing a number 16 jersey, holding his helmet by its face mask in his right hand. We see him picking up the headset at a payphone to the side of the practice facility to place a call:
Mickey: “Linda, tell my folks and my sister I will be there in about three hours.”
Cut to POV: Overhead shot of the young man driving a pristine 1968 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport convertible, with its black pearl and turquoise custom paint job. We look down to see Mickey’s car, like a tiny Matchbox car, driving solo southbound along the desolate, two-lane highway 285 in the desert, between Vaughn and Roswell, New Mexico. He is en route to the hotel his parents and girlfriend Linda are staying in for his sister Lynette’s State High School volleyball tournament.
It is dusk, and Mickey’s car is the only vehicle on the road in both directions.
From seemingly nowhere, a cigar-shaped silver craft appears, flying parallel with his car. We see Mickey look up, and then we jump cut to his foot, stepping on the gas, accelerating.
Jump cut again to a shot of the speedometer accelerating speed, at 90 miles per hour.
Roswell, New Mexico
October 13, 1978
Dissolve to Mickey parking the Impala. We see Mickey’s father exiting the hotel lobby to the parking lot; my mom, Linda, closely behind.
Grandpa: Where have you been, son?
Mickey: What do you mean? I was driving 90! I got here in two hours!
Grandpa: You called Linda six hours ago! It took you six hours to get here. Where have you been?
Mickey: (Incredulous, befuddled facial expression.) He splutters, “That’s impossible!”
In the middle of that night, Dad was violently ill, vomiting uncontrollably. My grandparents and my mother rushed him to the hospital. Diagnosis? Radiation poisoning. His classic popular scholastic college football jock life was perfectly normal. And then, it was not.
When I was nine years old, I died. It happened on Mission Beach during my family’s San Diego vacation. And for me, it was nothing like how you’ve heard people describe it.
I had learned to boogie board the last time we visited San Diego, and I was looking forward to diving back into the waves. It was the vibe of Mission Beach that thrilled me as a kid. There was a boardwalk, a roller coaster, arcades, restaurants and food. We rarely went out to eat when we were home in Albuquerque, but when we were in San Diego, it was a restaurant – a- day vacation.
Though Mission Beach was my personal favorite, my parent’s’ favorite was Coronado Island. Day One in San Diego was always a visit to Coronado. There was a Marie Callender’s brunch buffet on the island that we always hit up as soon as we arrived. The food was fresh, and not just because my parents said so. It really did taste different.
After brunch, we would make our way to the local Vons grocery store. My parents would buy a Styrofoam cooler, ice, bottled waters, beach towels, and snacks. Like clockwork, my parents had their routine.
We would beach in front of the Hotel del Coronado.
Hotel del Coronado always reminded me of my Aunt Lynette, my cousin Constance’s mom, whose favorite old movie was Some Like it Hot. The film featured the Hotel del Coronado and one of her favorite actresses, Marilyn Monroe. I would lay lie on the sand and stare at the hotel, imagining the beautiful blonde walking across the beach. Like most little girls, I wanted to be her.
When beach time was done for the day, our next stop was always for ice cream and the Kate Morgan “Ghost Plaque.”. As I considered Kate Morgan, whose ghost is often sighted at the Hotel del according to legend, I knew deep down that the man I saw in my parents’ hallway was a ghost.
As we walked the long sidewalk to the back of the hotel, we laughed and ate our ice cream. Dad was always carefree and his happiest on vacation, away from the stressors of Albuquerque. This spring break, he was particularly happy. Dad was looking forward to becoming the new head football coach at Cibola High School on the west side of Albuquerque. He wanted the job more than anything for his family. My parents had been fighting a lot. Mom cried a lot. To me, it had everything to do with my uncle’s murder. The new job for my dad might change all of that negative energy.
Their laughter and my parents’ banter with one another was a welcomed feeling as we walked in the perfect sunshine of Coronado Island. I felt peace among us.
The following morning was MISSION BEACH TIME! We walked to the beach from our hotel. THIS was my favorite spot in all our travels! We had been to Disney World, Las Vegas’ Circus Circus, Wet ‘n’ Wild in Denver and Hollywood, but this…this place held my tiny soul.
The cool breeze off the ocean, the heat off the sand, and the sunscreen smell on my skin ignited all of my senses. We had rented boogie boards from a local shop on our walk to the shoreline. I immediately grabbed a board and headed to the place where all four elements united. The water was freezing and filled with seaweed. It was perfect.
This place was the only spot I had ever been in my young travels that made me feel as though the entire world was behind me and in front of me at the same time. Thirty minutes into the waves and, like catching up with an old friend, it felt as though we had never been apart. The boogie board was fun, but diving into the waves was the best. I took a final wave in and ran across the hot sand to drop off the board and warm up. My skin was numb from the cold water and I laid on my heated towel. That was my favorite part. From cold to hot in seconds.
I looked over to my family. Dad was burying little Jon in the sand. Mom was resting her eyes. Nobody said a word. Now for my next favorite part, from hot to cold in seconds. I left the boogie board behind and sprinted to the water. Battling the waves, I was waist deep and needed more. A huge wave began to roll ahead of me. I picked up my knees and ran as fast as I could towards the wave. Just as it broke, I dove beneath its power. I stood shoulder deep in the green water. I could feel seaweed tangled around my feet. I lifted my feet to untangle the slippery plant.
Just then, something began to pull me out further into the ocean. It was the undertow.
During our last trip to San Diego, dad had warned me to swim horizontal with the shoreline if the undertow became too strong. I searched around for the beach. I couldn’t see it. Another wave crashed down on me, sending me under the water. I struggled to reach the surface but the seaweed was too thick. I opened my eyes beneath the water and I could see the sun’s rays dancing beautifully above me. I began to panic. I couldn’t get to the surface. Suddenly, the rays of the sun began to disappear and everything turned black. I could feel my lungs filling up with water.
I felt like I had been running for a mile at this point. To my tiny legs, I had never run this far before. And I have no idea how I got here. My last memory is of dying. I didn’t see a white light. I didn’t go down a dark tunnel. I simply went from darkness to being a child running on the beach.
I was sprinting north on the shore of the water, breathing hard. People were relaxing in the sand, playing in the water, and my heart was racing. The only thought on my mind was, “Mom, Dad, and Little.”
Where were they?
I began to cry as I ran.
I could see the familiar boardwalk of Mission Beach. The park area and shops were in my view. I was almost there. Tiny figures of people got bigger and bigger. My dad was standing on the shoreline looking out into the water. MY DAD!! Mom was in a panic, yelling my name in all directions.
There was not a lifeguard in sight.
The beach was relatively quiet that day and not very busy. Bystanders were aware of the alarm my parents were setting off.
I screamed, “MOMMY!!!”
I was crying as my mom picked up my little brother and they all came running toward me.
“Princess! What happened?” My dad looked relieved.
“I drowned, Daddy.”.
The look on my parent’s faces was of gratitude mixed with fear.
Mom said “What do you mean, you drowned?”
“I went under the water and I died.”
Alarmed, my dad picked me up, my mom quickly grabbed our beach supplies, and we made a swift return to our hotel. Once there, my dad ran a warm shower for me. All mom could think to do was feed us. She began to cook in the small kitchen of the hotel suite.
After my shower, Little took a bath. By the time he was finished, our dinner was ready. Not a word was spoken.
Mom and Dad cleaned up as little brother and I made our way to the fold-out sleeper sofa to watch a movie. Before the lights were out for the night, Dad sat on the sleeper sofa next to me where I laid.
“Briawna, if you died in the ocean, how did you get back to the shore?”
Matter of factually, without skipping a beat, I answered, “The ocean brought me back.”
Years later, I was vacationing with my husband, Dustyn, and our two daughters on Mission Beach when Dustyn and I looked at one another in disbelief. We heard a low hum coming from the ocean. I began to research what could be causing the noise, scientifically. Marine biologists claim it is the sound of marine animals farting. Really. But most UFO investigators in their communities claim these sounds are being emitted from a UFO base deep in the Pacific Ocean.
Dustyn and I both made the eerie realization of what saved me that fateful day when I died in the ocean as a child. The very beings that helped create my gifts saved my life.
Expanding on this research, when we returned home from our San Diego vacation, I learned from one of my many visitors in the middle of the night (these entities love to feed me information) that the 33rd parallel north held significance to connecting every vision and every major supernatural life experience I have had along this journey.
Dallas, Texas September 10, 2009
The day after I met Brian left me feeling sad. He was in a bad place. I was in a bad place. He was the first person I had met in Dallas outside of my jobs. Brian told me, “You have a friend.” I got busy. I thought about going by his apartment every time I walked into my building, just to check up on him and say hello. But, I was working two jobs and I was busy.
From the time I was a little girl, I told my mother that something HUGE was going to happen to me when I was 26. I thought for years it would be my wedding or a marriage proposal, but whatever it was, it was going to be something that would define me for the rest of my life. It was one month until my 27th birthday and I kept thinking, “When is it going to happen?” Then on September 9, 2009, I woke up.
I had the worst menstrual cramps I had ever experienced. The cramps shot through my lower abdomen into my back and were so painful I felt nauseated. I went to the restroom feeling as though I needed to “push.” I was not on my period or due to have my period; I’d had my period two weeks prior. I slowly went back to my bed to lie down and called Jake’s mother to tell her I would not be in to work. As the sun began to rise and fill my room with light, the shadows began to appear. Dark figures were all around me and the faces of demons were coming out of my curtains, my closet, my ceiling, and surrounding walls. I closed my eyes in fear and when I did, I had the vision of myself lying naked on my bathroom floor, in front of the toilet, covered in bugs. Large beetles, to be exact. The beetles covered me, the floors, and the walls of my bathroom. I opened my eyes and called Jake to tell him what was happening. He said he would come by on his lunch break.
The pain in my abdomen and lower back continued. The shadows and demons surrounded me in my room. Something terrible was about to take place and I couldn’t move. The hours ticked by slowly as I waited for Jake to arrive. He let himself in and came into my bedroom holding Gatorade, a sandwich, and soup. “Are you OK?” I repeated what I told him earlier on the phone. My vision would not release. I could tell I was scaring him. He believed me.
Jake returned to work and came back that night. I stayed in bed as he worked in the living room on a case. After a few hours, he came in and said he did not want to leave his truck on the street overnight, but I knew it was because he feared what was happening. I did not argue with him. He kissed my forehead and left.
I slept without disturbance that night and woke up at 8:00 am the next morning on September 10, 2009. I was still cramping. The Ibuprofen I took the night before had worn off. I called Jake to no avail and stared at the ceiling.
I heard glass shatter and a man began screaming with absolute terror outside my bedroom window. I ran to my window and opened it quickly. I began looking for a body on the courtyard below thinking someone had fallen from their window. Directly below my window in front of the window at courtyard level, blood and glass covered the concrete. The man was still screaming inside the apartment below. My immediate thought was that one of the workers who was renovating the apartments had injured himself on a tool. I kicked into flight attendant mode and began yelling at the top of my lungs, “SOMEONE CALL 911. WE NEED HELP! WE NEED HELP!” On the sixth floor across the courtyard, a woman came to her window. She had a cell phone up to her ear and mouthed, “I’m calling.” Barefoot and in my pajamas, I grabbed a roll of cellophane, thinking he had cut his arm really badly and we needed it to stop the bleeding. I ran down the stairs to the third floor. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, a man to my left was running up the hallway with a phone to his ear, “I HEARD A WOMAN SCREAMING! WAS THAT YOU?” “YES! We need to get into this guy’s apartment, he is hurt really bad!” I knew exactly what apartment to run to in accordance to my own on the upper level. I ran to the door, locked. I looked up, it was apartment 314. I turned to the man, “We need to go through the window. It’s shattered. We can get in that way!”
As I ran to the windows in the hallway, which opened into the courtyard, I grabbed my abdomen, I was still in so much pain. People began to fill the hallway and as I struggled with the window, it cracked and cut open my hand. I looked up and noticed it was nailed shut. I went to the second window and as I went to open it, a man came from behind me and helped me lift it. I crawled out onto the courtyard. As soon as I stood up, the man who I told we needed to go through the window appeared from another window to my left from another apartment. We jumped over the planter boxes filled with palm trees and ran to the window. As I stood there to look inside, I turned to the man helping me. “I’m barefoot, I can’t get in.” He turned and ran back to his apartment window. I stood there alone looking inside. It looked like a blood bomb had gone off. Within seconds, he was back holding flip flops. I put them on and told him he needed to go through the window and open the door. “You got it.” I ran to the courtyard window and crawled back into the building.
I ran to the door of 314 and waited. He was struggling with the lock. I began pounding on the door, “HURRY UP!” The door swung open and he yelled, “STAY HERE WITH HIM, I’M GOING TO GET HELP!” Directly to my left was the bathroom. At the very end of the bathroom, Brian was naked in front of his toilet, lying on the floor, covered in blood. His bicep was hanging and he was slashed across his back numerous times. There was so much blood I could hardly believe it. He was covered from head to toe. He kicked the wall and punched at the air. Blood was pouring from his back and a gush of blood flew from the crease of his arm onto the wall. He had a beard and it was soaked in blood. He looked like a newborn as he fought for his life. I stood there in shock and absolute disbelief. I was holding the cellophane in my hand, but there was just too much blood. My training kicked in, telling me when there is a large amount of blood and one cannot apply universal precautions, such as gloves and a facemask, one must stand clear. I was bleeding from my hand and did not want cross-=contamination. I was helpless. “Brian, baby, you have to stay calm. Please try to stay as calm as you can. Help is on the way.” There was a woman standing next to me. It was the same woman that came to her window and mouthed, “I’m calling.” She stood shoulder to shoulder with me and said, “Oh, my God, I can’t get to him. I can’t get to him.” I began yelling at neighbors in the hallway, “STAY BACK! STAY BACK! DO NOT COME IN HERE! Oh, my God, this is bad. This is so bad.” I looked into the bathroom one final time, Brian went very still. I panicked.
I ran up the hallway screaming at people, “STAY BACK! DO NOT GO IN THERE!” I ran down the stairs to the lower floor and burst through the door. In front of the main elevator was a stretcher. I ran outside to Main Street where a fire truck was parked and an ambulance was pulling up. Two paramedics stepped out. “LET’S GO! LET’S GO! There is a man on the third floor bleeding out! We do not have much time!” I ran back into the building. I grabbed the stretcher trying to pull it up the stairs by myself. I knew it needed to go up the freight elevator and we had to take the stretcher through the garage to get there. As I was halfway up the stairs, the two paramedics walked in. “WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” they yelled. “The stretcher will not fit in this elevator. We need to take it through the garage to the freight elevator.” They began to hustle. We ran through the garage and entered the freight elevator. As we were riding up, the paramedic said something to me, “What?” He said it again, “What?” His voice was muffled. I could not hear. He grabbed my hand. He said, “Your bleeding. I am going to need to take a look at that when this is done.” All I said was, “He is in apartment 314.”
We ran down the hallway and as soon as we turned the corner to Brian’s hall, I stopped. I watched as paramedics stood at the threshold. People were talking all around me. I stood motionless. I could not hear what anyone was saying. Someone asked me a question and I looked at them blankly. I could not speak. As they wheeled Brian by on the stretcher, he was wrapped in a white sheet with only his face exposed. He was gone. His face was covered in blood and his beard was soaked with red life. The man who helped me was standing next to me. I took off the flip flops he gave me and handed them to him. I did not speak to anyone. I walked up the stairs to my apartment where I threw away my pajamas and took a shower.
The Battle Begins
As I was getting dressed, the smell was back. Someone was standing behind me. I turned around to a man staring at me. He was naked and covered in blood. It was Brian. Just then, demons filled my apartment. I could sense Brian’s overwhelming fear, confusion, anger, and sadness. He was lost and not understanding what had happened. After sensing Brian’s feelings, I immediately came back in contact with my own. “HOLY CRAP! IT’S BRIAN!” The demons began to rush upon me and surround me. I was terrified beyond comprehension. I immediately called Jake. Thank God he answered. “I know we are not together right now but I HAVE to get out of my apartment! I will sleep on your couch! Please, Jake! I’M SO SCARED.”
He said I could stay the night at his place. As I began to get my things together, I keeled down in my closet to grab my shoes. Just then, a small demon about two feet tall rushed upon me to my left. Frightened, I lost my balance in a squatting position and fell on my buttocks. My heart was racing. I broke out in a sweat. My breathing turned rapid. I was being attacked and needed to leave. I pushed myself back up into a squat and as I reached into my closet once again for my shoes, my arm hit the nozzle of my helium tank and made a hissing noise to which I screamed out loud. The demons began to laugh like hyenas. I put on my shoes and stood up to Brian standing in the corner of my room. The demons were all around him, grinning. Fearful, I ran to the living room of my apartment and reached for my purse on top of my bookshelf. As I slid my purse off the shelf, my Bible fell to the floor face up and turned to the first page of Amos. I looked to heaven and felt the presence of God. I knew at this moment what I had to do. I called Jake back and told him I was not coming over. “Sigh. Whatever you have to do, Bri.” He was irritated. I could not focus on Jake right now, I had something bigger happening around me. I went to the kitchen and started to boil water for tea. I understood now why I had been fasting. This was going to be a long night and it had just begun. I walked to my Bible on the floor and picked it up. The demons began to snarl. Brian stood motionless. I sat on my couch at 9 PM and began to read out loud. It was on this night that every vision, every dream, and every “visitor” was understood….. Jesus Christ revealed it all.
Music of Angels
I heard music like trumpets and harps. It was the extreme difference of these two instruments that worked in such a way that can only be described as divine. It was as though the sound took form as the color gold and glistened like the glitter upon the clouds at sunset. The sound brought a feeling upon my skin and inside every organ in my body that even my heart had goosebumps. It was the low hum I fixated upon. Trying to decipher what it was became difficult as it was nothing I had ever heard before. Was it possible to hear a new sound after 26 years of life on earth? It was confusion and familiarity at once. It was distance and togetherness at the same time. This hum. This sound. For this was the singing of Angels. And it was at this realization that I felt a peace not of this world. It was a warmth and coolness bringing total clarity to my mind that humbled my soul. So with this guidance of music, I felt brave enough to open my eyes.
The first thing I focused upon were the words “Amos” on fine Bible paper. The music continued as I began to read the words out loud.
1: The words of Amos, one of the shepherds of Tekoa-What he saw concerning Israel two years before the earthquake, when Uzziah was king of Judan and Jeroboam son of Jenoash was king of Israel.
2: He said:
“The Lord roars from Zion
And the thunders from Jerusalem
The pastures of the shepherds dry up.
And the top of Carmel withers.
JUDGEMENT ON ISRAEL’S NEIGHBORS.”
As I read these words, I could feel my disconnection from the world. My voice sounded small in the presence of the words as they echoed against the walls of my tiny apartment. The music continued to penetrate my ears and look right through me. All of my senses were elevated as I began to realize what was happening to me.
God was speaking to me.
It is Not a Man
As I continued to read from the Bible given to me the day I was baptized, the words of Amos poured from my lips and from the warmth of my breath gave them power against the dread that haunted the space around me. I read with purpose and as the words flew off the page I became distracted. Something entered the room. My glance immediately turned from my Bible to the largest man I had ever seen standing before me. He was approximately eight feet tall bearing armor like a soldier from ancient biblical times. The garment he wore beneath the shining metal was purple and fell just above his knees like a Celtic man’s kilt. His gigantic, muscular legs were wrapped in leather that attached to the sandals upon his large feet. He was covered in lean, cut muscles and his hair was curly, long, and blond. His eyes were piercing blue and his cheeks were perfectly rosy against his fair skin. In his left hand he carried a sword larger than any sword I had ever seen by length of four feet. His demeanor was serious and protective. If his size and sword weren’t impressive enough, it was the wings that spanned across the length from wall to wall of my 10×12 living room that gave me a jolt as I gazed upon them. Attached to his back, the wings were white and sparkling as though ice had formed upon every feather. Without opening his mouth, in fact it was sealed shut, he told me his name was “Michael.”
As the name was revealed, the demons who so aggressively attacked me earlier in the evening began to hiss like snakes. Michael slammed the tip of his sword onto the finished concrete of my seventh-story apartment, silencing the fallen ones at once!
It was after this loud yet silent clap of the sword that Michael’s face became soft and gentle. He was not a he but looked more like a she! Michael was not a man! Michael was not a woman! It threw my mind in so many directions that I could not help but begin to cry. Michael was not human. Michael was an Archangel and the gender of God’s warrior was that of anonymity. The tears were not of fear and sadness as they had been for so many months leading up to this moment. For the first time in the city of Dallas, I felt tears of joy! I was happy! I was protected! I was empowered! Thanking God for this moment, I wept as Michael laid down the sword to point to my Bible. Again, without opening the Angel’s mouth, I heard “Read.”
33rd Parallel North
Jesus Christ’s Transfiguration upon a mountain argued by scholars to be Mt. Hermon is a supernatural event in which Christ appeared in His true glory as the Son of God, revealing his identity as the Messiah and fulfilling the law and the prophets. Matthew 17: 1-8; Peter 1:16-18
The setting of Christ’s Transfiguration on the mountain is the place where human nature meets God; the meeting place for the temporal and the eternal with Christ as the connecting point acting as the bridge between heaven and earth. God proclaims, “Listen to Him” and identifies Christ as the messenger and mouthpiece of God. The Transfiguration of Jesus Christ is the turning point at which God exalts Christ above all other powers in creation and positions Christ as ruler and judge.
Mt. Hermon in the Book of Enoch is the place where the Watcher class of fallen angels descended to earth before the time of Christ. The Watchers began lusting after human women and bared “Giants” that began destroying human men. God intervened destroying the Giant Children of the human women and the Watchers sending evil Watchers into the darkness.
To this day, the Watchers are divided as both good and evil. However, the entire legion of Watchers are not permitted to return to heaven. Those identified good Watchers are those who work for God; the true name of God being Jehovah in the Bible. This class of Watchers aided past prophets Abraham and Moses. They helped Moses build the arch. This class of Watchers help evolve human beings in thought and technology. Mt. Hermon is also the place of Christ’s ascension into heaven; the place where the Watchers resurrected Jesus Christ into the clouds.
33rd Parallel North
Like I said, there is much more to this story. More research. More details. More supernatural life experiences. There is so much to be examined that it will be published in my supernatural memoir trilogy entitled Dalleth.
My husband Dustyn was born in Roswell, NM, also located in the 33rd Parallel North. He died of sudden infant death syndrome as a baby, and was miraculously brought back.
Dustyn and I drive with our toddler daughter Henley to Texas in late October of 2016, heading toward my cousin’s home in Fort Worth. It’s become our tradition to celebrate Halloween together since they first met Dustyn, whom they adore. This year, we’re going as Popeye, Olive Oyl and Sweet Pea. I’ve sewn my costume, as my grandma taught me to do years ago.
We leave in the middle of the night to avoid traffic, making the 11-hour drive straight through from our home in Albuquerque. This is our first trip with our new F-150, our family truckster. For most of our drive, we are talking about how important it is that I write my book and share my story of my demonic experiences in 2009, when I lived in the Wilson Building on Main Street in downtown Dallas.
Dustyn is so easy to talk to. He really listens and he is always interested in what I say. He always asks the right questions, prompting me to elaborate. Our conversation turns to exploring my early exposure to death and how that shaped me. It began when I was in the fourth grade. And it hasn’t stopped.
I am so comfortable with Dustyn, I feel I should open up to him about the book of Ezekiel and the night when everything was revealed to me, initially through my open Bible, which had fallen on the ground in my Wilson Building apartment as the demons surrounded me. I want to tell him of how Archangel Michael appeared to me, followed by the cherub angels, the woman with the veil, and finally, Jehovah. Jehovah has always appeared to me as an older version of me, since I first encountered God in high school. In the flesh, I think this is how God appears to everyone, like you at your most wisdom-filled moment in life.
There was a long pause in our conversation. We have a child together, and we just recently learned we have one on the way. I trusted Dustyn, but part of me hesitated. Do I tell him? I argued with myself. He has never judged me before. Yet I was afraid. Would sharing this experience be the last straw? Would it push him away?
I choose to hold back, watching the flat West Texas landscapes and their leviathan windmills pass us by. Around 4 p.m. we enter Dallas city limits. In a moment of spontaneity, I ask Dustyn, “Do you want to see it? The Wilson Building?” He’s heard me speak of it since we first met.
We drive down Interstate 35 E towards downtown Dallas, eventually reaching Main Street, heading east towards North Ervay Street. My heart starts beating faster with every block. I feel nervous. Up to the left, I begin to see the iconic, E-shaped building with its intricate architecture and curved outline, where it has lived since 1902, when it was built by John B. Wilson above a perched aquifer. This man’s “JWB” initials appear everywhere inside the building: on the door handles, the elevator doors and even on the mail drop signage plates at every level.
The Wilson Building is a place of extreme good and evil. It’s two polarities colliding. As we stop at the light of north Main Street and Ervay, Dustyn drives slowly, taking it all in. No words are exchanged. He turns left to drive past the east side of the building, where from the street, I recognize the first courtyard on the third floor…the place where Brian lost his battle with the demons. As we turn west onto Elm Street, heading back towards the freeway, I reach back and touch Henley’s fragile little arm. I think of a mother’s loss, and the irony of Henley embodying purity and innocence in the face of evil. I think of birth and of death.
We drive west on Elm Street towards Interstate 35 E. We approach Dealey Plaza, and we drive over the two white “X” markings in the road, morbid reminders of where our nation’s beloved President was assassinated. We pass the grassy knoll to our right. The whole atmosphere takes on an eerie feeling.
I am reminded of years ago, when I was starting flight attendant training for Southwest Airlines. I felt a profound sense of sadness and history when I saw Dallas Love Field for the very first time from the window in Southwest Airline’s headquarters. I remember gazing upon that historic tarmac where Lyndon B. Johnson was sworn in after President Kennedy’s assassination, life continuing after death.
As we drive on 114 towards Fort Worth, I think about what the future holds, blissfully unaware that my husband is about to be touched by my history, and my “gift.”
It’s Halloween 2016. My Chicago Cubs are in the World Series. I’m from Albuquerque, where we have no major league baseball team, but we were exposed to three generations of WGN broadcasts, all Cubs, all the time. My dad was also drafted into the Cubs, right out of high school, but he took a football scholarship instead. My husband Dustyn and are emotionally invested in this beleaguered baseball team. It has been 98 years since they last won it. Emotions are running high.
We are staying with my cousin Constance and her husband, Duke. Their close friends and neighbors are all in costume, there celebrating with us.This night is particularly special, because I’ve just shared that we are pregnant with our second child. She’s the lucky penny. Cleveland is winning the series, three to two. Everyone but me is losing hope. I’m dressed up in my Olive Oyl costume, deep meditation tonight, envisioning my Cubbies winning it all.
As the neighbors and friends begin to depart, I ask Dustyn to go check on Henley, asleep in our guest bedroom on the second floor. I’m sitting in the recliner happy, meditative and newly pregnant nauseous, watching the movie Halloween, our tradition. I’m unafraid of Michael Myers; I’m only afraid of the Cubs losing their next game tomorrow night. I’m obsessed.
As Dustyn, dressed in his Popeye costume, made his way down the stairs from checking on Henley, holding a beer in his can of spinach-labeled koozie, he reassures me Henley is in a deep sleep.
The evening wears on and we head to bed together early, around 10 p.m. As Constance’s four children sleep just down the hall, I fall asleep thinking, “It’s October 31st in Texas, and I’m sweating.” It’s so hot.
Around 3 a.m., I’m awakened by Dustyn standing and facing the closed door to our room, just staring at it. He has never been a sleep walker, so I’m confused by his strange behavior. I prod him, “Baby, are you okay?”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
I get up out of bed, back him away from the door to open it, allowing him to take the two steps to the bathroom on the other side of our bedroom wall. I sit down on the bed with my feet on the floor thinking how strange this is, when suddenly, I hear a thump hitting the ground in the bathroom. I run to the bathroom and fling open the door to find Dustyn on the floor crying.
My husband is a strong, muscular and mentally tough Albuquerque fireman who has seen the worst possible calls you can imagine. He handles these calls fearlessly, with such heroism. He never brings it home. He is my pillar of strength, built for the dangerous job he does. Seeing him crying on the floor is shocking and completely out of character.
“Gimme my chew. Gimme my chew. Bring me my chew.” He is blubbering, and I’m discerning what he’s saying through his tears. I go to the bedroom to get his can of chew off the dresser and when I return to him, he grabs it and opens it frantically, pinching the tobacco to place in the side of his cheek.
“He was here. He was here earlier in the night when I checked on Henley. He told me he was watching her and would take care of her. He was in the bathroom just now. He was talking to me.”
“Who, Baby? Who?!?”
“He looks like Jon Lester.”
“The pitcher for the Cubs?”
That’s when my heart sinks and the butterflies from my pregnancy turn into more than just a few flutters. I race back into the bedroom to pull my phone from the nightstand. I pull up my former Dallas neighbor Brian’s obituary from the internet. I hand my phone to Dustyn and I ask if that is who he saw.
“That’s HIM!” Dustyn begins to cry even harder. “Who IS that?”
“This is Brian. This is his obituary photo.”