WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?
I settled right back into my life in Tallahassee. Everything felt so good. I was back on my feet and the self-doubt and condemnation were pushed to the back of my mind. I probably even began to swagger a little when I’d go out for a beer after work and a few hours of studying Metaphysics and the occult. For some reason, I felt these kinds of subjects were just as important as mainstream, traditional knowledge if my new foundation in life, the new wheel I was inventing, was going to be strong enough to support me while I got to the bottom of things.
One evening just about dusk dark, I was sitting at my table in the living room of my apartment intensely studying a book on precognition. I reached the end of a chapter and had turned toward the open front door still deep in thought.
Suddenly, I heard a whirring noise in the kitchen behind me that quickly intensified and came flying out of the kitchen and into the living room. I sat up in shock as an intense, fiery, expanding head whooshed past me, turned back toward me and came straight at me. It was a hideous, grimacing head without a body that is indelibly imprinted in my mind to this day. I ducked down expecting to be annihilated but never felt the slightest touch, so I hit the floor scrambling on hands and knees for the front door and didn’t look back until I was well clear of the door. I was shaken to the core.
There was no one around to even ask, did you see that? So, I just sat down on the ground and watched the darkness slowly closing in and felt something like a low-grade current of electricity softly humming in my body; I guess from the shock that had just flashed wildly through my nervous system. Finally, after several minutes and nothing else happening I decided I really needed a beer and some human company, so I cautiously approached the front door, ran my hand inside to the light switch and flicked on the light. My little efficiency was silent as a tomb. I left the light on, locked the door, got in my car and made tracks to the bar.