At approximately 6:00 pm MST on the evening of Tuesday, May 8th, 2012, I arrived at Brantley Lake State Park, about an hour’s drive south of Roswell, New Mexico, where I had spent the day researching the events surrounding the 1947 crash/encounter. It is a pretty little lake in the middle of an otherwise sun-blasted, wind-blasted, sand-blasted, and at one time nuclear-blasted desolation, and I intended to camp there before moving on to Carlsbad in the morning. With it being a Tuesday and school still in session and all, I was the only one at the campground and picked a spot right by the water’s edge.
After setting up camp and fixing myself a quick dinner, I watched the sun set across the lake. With the dust storms the prior few days, the sunset was vibrant red and orange. I mention this because just as the colors were fading into the approaching night, I saw two…objects…just above the horizon. At first I thought they were military aircraft, due to the heavy army presence in the area, which I had learned about while wandering the grounds of the New Mexico Military Institute earlier in the day.
(One quick anecdote bears repeating: The soldiers I met were polite, but quite reserved. Upon asking one of the cadets how he liked Roswell, he told me firmly, “We’re instructed not to talk to ‘civs.’” “‘Civs’? Oh, like ‘civilians’?” I asked. “No, like ‘sieves’. Because you guys leak everything. Stories, secrets, everything.” That was the end of our conversation, and I ventured no more.)
Anyway, I watched the two distant aircraft for several minutes as they performing maneuvers which led me to believe that they must have been helicopters, moving straight up and down and in intricate patterns with one another. Soon it grew too dark to see, so I went to my tent to read and promptly fell asleep.
I don’t know how long I slept, but it was pitch black when I awoke. I stepped outside my tent to look at the stars when suddenly I heard a pulsating. I say ‘heard,’ but it was really more of a sensation like sitting in an airplane’s pressurized cabin, only it was a rhythmic. The pulsing became increasingly more intense, certainly uncomfortable and almost to the point of pain, but there seemed to be music in it, or math, if that makes any sense. Whatever the case, my equilibrium was thrown off and I became dizzy. The vertigo sent me stumbling to my knees.
That is when the pain started. It originated in a raised circular scar on my forearm, which I had always assumed was the result of a long-forgotten childhood accident. It felt as if someone had lit a match inside my arm and the fire was circulating through my veins or nervous system. The searing intensified, and I blacked out.
The next thing I remember is waking up standing chest-deep in the lake, my hands upraised. Disoriented, I stumbled back to my tent and stripped off my soaking clothes. It was surprisingly light outside, and at first I figured it had something to do with the “super” moon. As my senses returned, however, I heard songbirds and realized that it was nearly dawn. Not knowing where to go or who I could tell, I drove until I found a wireless signal and wrote this affidavit.
I have no idea what happened to me last night, or if anything happened at all, but I solemnly affirm that I am in my right mind and under no coercion—physical, financial, or otherwise—to provide this statement. I just wanted to get it out there before they—the military or…the others—silence me.