WHAT ROUGH BEAST

A True Tale of Alien Abduction by Lynne Bishop

CHAPTER 8

Groggy and disoriented, he scans the small round room from his perch -- feet dangling -- atop an examining table. An open doorway beckons just beyond the gray walls of the doctor’s office. This is a doctor’s office, he thinks vaguely -- hopefully -- to himself, not really sure it is, but curiously not wanting to know, either.

A moment passes . . . and another. And with sudden clarity of mind, he knows it is NOT a doctor’s office! His feet touch the floor of the round room, and in a flurry of action caught in slow motion, he jumps from the table -- the door his only means of escape.

I’m barefoot! he realizes with heart-stopping shock, as his feet encounter a strangely cushioned bouyancy. Straining his eyes to the left (My glasses! Where are my glasses? he thinks,) he sees only stygian darkness extending before him. To his right, the gray curving hallway is indirectly lit -- no obvious light fixtures apparent anywhere. Completely featureless, the illuminated hallway no less beckons him. He turns from the small room and flees into the light.

The corridor lengthens before him, stretching interminably into the distance. He continues steadily, passing several closed doors. At last! An open door! he breathes, relieved.

Entering the doorway, he pauses long enough to note interior details: a large, circular room; on one wall are four large panel-like cabinets. The darkness within is banished only in the center of the room: a lone white, floating table -- seemingly suspended in thin air -- is illuminated from an unknown source above. The table commands his attention -- it is the focus, the center of his being.

He strides toward this table, all other thoughts having fled his mind. He is nearly there . . .

He stands before the table, shock rendering him incapable of movement. She lies there on that stark white table, eyes glazed, unfocused -- staring blankly into infinity. He grasps her shoulders, hoping to awaken her from that deep nothingness, but elicits no response.

They will be here soon, he reasons. Changing tactics, he speaks to her -- that frozen form normally so animated -- saying, Lynne, this is very important! You have to remember this! He recites a line from a well-known poem by Lewis Caroll. A touch on the back of his neck chills him, and he remembers no more.

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Groggy and disoriented, she moves weakly toward a ramp to the left of the door, feebly grasping the railing. A negative response from her escort indicates she is to enter the doorway. Why are the walls so gray, she thinks. Where am I?

No answer is forthcoming, and she soon forgets the questions. She scans the interior of the small room as she enters: gray, round, one table containing Glass beakers? Tumblers? What is this all about? Her thoughts are jumbled, incoherent. Her consciousness comes and goes.

A moment of blankness, and beakers tumble to the floor as she rouses, perched upon the examination table. Did I knock those off the table? she wonders.

Emptiness again, a dark void that her consciousness struggles to overcome. Escorted by Something -- What are these “Beings?” she enters a room through a door on the right side of the long, gray corridor. The blackness in the large, circular room is banished only by one small point of light, shining down from an unknown source above, at the apex of the . . . auditorium? Why is that table in the center?

Still no answers -- but she is led to that stark white, floating table in the center of the large room. She lies upon the table, staring blankly upward into the harsh glare of the relentless light beaming downward upon the table and its occupant. Her mind wanders . . .

And returns, once, as she hears a voice above her supine form. Its urgency is compelling, bringing her back from that formless void where neither time nor life have meaning -- recalling her ‘self’ -- reestablishing her very existence. “Lynne, this is very important! You have to remember this!” She hears, she understands -- but her consciousness is like that small, bright light above that fades away into darkness beyond. As the light moves farther away, she can no longer maintain the tenuous thread of awareness . . . and she remembers no more.

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I awoke the morning of September 28, realizing something extraordinary had occurred, but felt an odd reticence to speak about the potential encounter to Kevin. We both left for our respective jobs that morning, without having discussed anything unusual. I was uneasy at work that day, but blamed my edginess on my growing discontent with my data processing position. I was sick of working with mindless machines, and felt a growing compulsion -- a heartfelt longing -- to find a more meaningful job with more human interaction.

Kevin arrived home from work that evening in a strange, reflective mood. We had both been home only a few minutes, when he asked me if “anything had happened” the past night. With a gut-wrenching lurch, my stomach flip-flopped. I related my conscious memories: the small, round room, the larger circular room with the table in the center, and that someone had told me to remember something important -- but I couldn’t recall what the “important thing” was! Kevin surprised me by mentioning that our friend Jack had inquired if something had happened to me that night. Puzzled, I hoped Kevin would give me more information, but he felt I should wait until I could get the details from Jack.

Postponing answers was difficult for me, but I managed to wait for the weekend, when Kevin, Jack and Mary, and I got to visit. Greetings exchanged, I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer -- I asked Jack what had made him inquire about the 28th. He countered with a question of his own, wondering if I had any peculiar thoughts about the evening of the 27th/morning of the 28th. I repeated to him the conscious memories I recalled (as previously recounted to Kevin,) and again stated, “Someone told me I had to remember something very important, but I can’t remember what it was.”

“Can you remember any words, any phrases, at all?” Jack questioned. I responded negatively, and almost simultaneously, Kevin began “misquoting” the Lewis Caroll stanza that he and I had quoted enroute to the Wal-Mart store many days before.

Large as saucers, Jack’s eyes expressed his inner turmoil. Hand trembling, he offered a sealed envelope to Kevin. Kevin opened it, and upon Jack’s urging, read aloud what was written there: the identical stanza from the Lewis Caroll poem!

Smiling wryly, Jack said, “I almost misquoted it, because I’ve always wanted to use the word ‘speak’ instead of ‘talk.’

We all sat, stunned, as Jack related his conscious memories of the 27th/28th. Revolving in my mind was one thought: the multiple witness encounter that Dr. Karla Turner and I had laughingly asked for appeared to have occurred!

Jack elaborated on his feelings about the possible mutual encounter while we listened in rapt attention. He told of his first realization that he was on an alien craft, and the sense of manipulation he felt in being maneuvered away from the dark hallway, into the illuminated corridor extending to his right. “I wanted off that ship!” he asserted unequivocally. “When I realized Lynne was on that table, I wanted to help her escape, too. Then it hit me that I didn’t know how to get off the ship, so I decided to change tactics. I knew They would show up soon, so I thought I would tell you to remember the line from the poem. That way we could verify the encounter, and prove we were both there.”

Jack continued, “You looked too ‘out of it’ to remember what I said, but I was hoping you’d recall enough to corroborate the validity of the encounter.”

I didn’t know what to think, but the anecdotal memories we both had strongly suggested the possibility of a mutual encounter.