Living for a year with my brother in a paranormal apartment…
and some stuff beyond that
by Carissa Conti
Revised and edited 2006-2013
Note: I wrote “The Vortex” in 2001, after leaving the “apartment from hell” as I came to call it, and while the events were still fresh in my mind. There were so many events to document and conversations that took place, if I hadn’t written it down right then, then it would be highly distorted were I to go back at this stage and try to remember it all. Back then I was a bit ADD, even though I don’t actually have ADD. But being able to complete something that I started was an unusual feat for me at that point, since my mind was scattered and I lacked any sort of direction or purpose in life. So it was a triumphant moment when I finished this piece, but it’s because I was absolutely driven to get it all down. I’m glad I did, in retrospect. This document is actually a “mini book”, not a regular article, so, just to point that out. (click on the numbers at the bottom to move forward through each section.) I know a few people have begun reading it only to realize Wow…this is long. !! Indeed, it is, but, it’s a mini-book, and the only one like it on this site. So, just think of it in those terms if you choose to embark on it. Also, the later pages of the document have more “woo woo!” stuff happening than what was initially going on at the beginning. Things didn’t just start out in an explosive way right from the start. It built up and built up, gradually getting worse and worse, until it became all out.
That year ended up becoming my crash course introduction into the rest of my life. Things decided to take a turn and veer off into a full time study of the fringe, paranormal and conspiracy. Subjects I’d always been interested in, as far back as nine years old…but which weren’t actually happening to me (or so I thought…) until now. After this, I would move on to my crash course in MILABS/mind control and abductions research, and discover how me, my brother, and now my current boyfriend fit into the picture. We learn in stages, and usually don’t move to the next stage until we’ve completed the preliminaries. Much like school. Somebody (my higher self?) decided I should be enrolled in some crash course schooling in 2000, and this is an account of that. It’s the ultimate example of living in two worlds.
When I took a look at this piece after having not read it in a long time I was just immediately struck by the wide-eyed innocent voice of it all. I don’t have that voice anymore. I was caught up in something that I wasn’t fully comprehending at the time and had no idea just how serious of a situation I’d gotten myself into. At any rate, I’ve decided to keep the voice and nearly all of the original writing of this piece intact – it’s a snapshot of who I was at that time. In order to get here, and be who I am now, I had to go through there. I have chopped paragraphs out when they weren’t really relevant, edited out some redundant stuff, and can’t help but see how I would change some of the writing were I to be doing this now, but, it’s just WAY too big of a file to completely re-do, so, it’s going up “as is” for the most part.
I also really wish that I’d documented things with exact dates. However, while I’m lacking specific dates for many of these incidents, I only just recently realized/re-discovered that they were in fact documented in written form. I had a journal from this time period stuffed away in a box with my other life memorabilia, and towards the end of the book I was writing about “all the paranormal stuff that’s been going on in our apartment,” as I’d noted. And in between talking about my work and money situation, and my brother and his adventures, and other assorted daily life happenings and musings, I would resume trying to get this whole paranormal story down, including descriptions, dialogue, and sometimes even little drawings and all, picking up where I had left off in previous entries. (Though usually it was stuff that had already happened months ago, so I was trying to play “catch up” to get the story to the present. Hence, why there’s the lack of specific dates for most of these events. I see where in my journal it says things like, “Other random incidents since that time…” or notes like “To be cntd. tomorrow, or whenever, Topics to be covered: [followed by a list, itemizing out various events to be documented]” ) It’s weird because I’ve pulled this journal out before to re-read some parts of it (after not looking at it for years), but because I was specifically looking for entries concerning my brother and his life and job situation I didn’t really pay attention to the rest of the contents, of which included this material. So I totally forgot that I had a handwritten record of much of what happened. Including a couple of very minor incidents that I decided to leave out of what eventually became the final version of “The Vortex,” only because they seemed so petty compared to some of the larger than life things that were going on. So, this explains why I was able to “remember” so many details when it came time to type it up. I had a written record to refer to if needed.
And I really wished I’d had a good camera, or even better, a video camera, to try to take pictures or vids. But the camera I had at the time was nearly busted, and I didn’t have a spare dollar to my name back then to buy a new one, let alone a video cam. I also seemed to have a force squelching me down, trying to get me to not do anything in the way of documenting things even with a semi-busted camera. (as it was, I did actually have two photos at one point that seemed to show some stuff, but they’ve since mysteriously disappeared.) This probably played a big part in my later obsession with documenting my weirdness, with a log book, exact dates and times, and photos (taken with a brand new camera once I had spare money), as evidenced in other areas around my website. “Not going to let things slip through the cracks again.”
Something kind of funny I noticed years after writing this was the way in which I always seemed to be pummeling my brother with questions. Readers will notice that so much of the dialogue is me interrogating my brother to get to the bottom of things, since he wasn’t very forthcoming with information. “Who? What? Where? When? How? WHY??!!” I never consciously noticed that way back when. But a large part of why this write up exists is because I did that. I’m very curious. I want to know everything, dammit. !!
Recently I also went back in and added a couple of additional (mostly non-paranormal) scenes of the everyday aspects of life at that time that were left out of the original, because it helps to flesh out the plot a little better (in my opinion), including some additional insight at the end.
Now, it might help the reader to understand who my brother was before digging in. When you read what went on in this apartment, you’re going to naturally wonder “WTH?!? How??” It all traces back to my brother at the core, although certainly I have to take some responsibility as well. So as a preface, I’ll try to summarize the life and times of Joe as best as possible, without sidetracking onto all kinds of side stories with examples of everything I talk about:
My brother Joseph, or Joe as we called him, was 6 years younger than me, born January 31, 1981. With dark brown hair and fair skin, he took after our mother with the Scotch Irish genetics. I took after our dad who was Hungarian/Italian/English with the light blonde (then dark blonde, then brown blonde) hair, dark brown eyes and Italian complexion. Joe was a really cute kid, facially perfect, and didn’t have the problems I had with bad eyes and needing glasses and eye operations and such. Whereas I was genetically flawed, he in turn was the strong, healthy, good looking kid.
From the time Joe was a toddler, he was attracting in “stuff” it seems. A better way of putting it would be that he seemed to be harassed by negs. As a tot he didn’t want to stay in his room and would keep leaving to come in my room, sometimes even sleeping in my bed. Starting at age three or so, when he was better able to communicate, he would say that he heard “breathing” in his room. Something was there in his room, “breathing” and it obviously scared the crap out of him. My mom never took him seriously – she was emotionally detached, but that’s another story. So she didn’t believe him, nor care, because he was interfering with her TV time. She’d just keep putting him back in bed, brushing it off. Sometimes my parents would outright spank him for it, then try to block his doorway with something to keep him forcefully barricaded in his room. Weirdo abusive behavior that I delve more into in the “Appendix” section of my book.
He also showed signs of obsessive compulsive disorder starting at age three. Obsessive compulsive disorder manifesting in a young child usually indicates that there are some stressful things happening. With Joe, he developed this thing about his feet. He always had to have sneakers and socks on, even in the baking hot summer, and his socks had to be tight, and his shoes laced up skin tight. He would NEVER, EVER, in the entire time I knew him, ever wear sandals or flip flops. I remember him crying silently to himself at the age of three because he couldn’t make his shoes tight enough on his feet. In retrospect, I think this “foot binding” thing had something to do with energy, and grounding himself. Joe was not grounded in this reality as a kid, which is why stuff was happening to him.
When Joe was seven, he started drawing the morbid pictures, of cemeteries and dead bodies coming out of the ground, corpses with knives sticking out of their bodies, blood dripping everywhere. They were actually kind of comical and demonstrated some artistic talent. Everything he did was cloaked in a layer of humor. Laugh things off, play stuff down. I still have one of these pics, actually, since I saved a group of his drawings that he’d done around this time period, including one of a UFO.
The thing about Joe worth mentioning is that when he was a baby he’d had several accidental head injuries. Yet, this never seemed to really register with my parents about why he was the way he was. Joe’s whole personality overall was very detached from reality. Very mellow, laid back, quiet, well mannered, spacey, and very much off in his own world. He didn’t bother people, kept to himself, and didn’t want to be a nuisance, to anybody. He played with his toys, Legos and matchbox cars, drew, and spent the rest of the time riding his bike or roaming around in the woods outside our house. He attracted in girls like a magnet, since he was so cute, and seemed to gravitate to the troubled kids for friends. He had problems with school work, due to a learning disability, (later self-diagnosed by him as being dyslexia…it’s the reason he had such trouble reading, and insane trouble with numbers) and he wouldn’t listen to authority of any kind – but was always so nice and mellow and laid back and charming about it all that his teachers and school administrators couldn’t help but really like him and be taken with him. He came across like a nice kid who just kept making bad choices. And in a way that’s the truth – he wasn’t a schemer who manipulated people in a calculated, devious way. He just did what he felt like, off in his own world, and didn’t listen to the rules, and wasn’t affected by guilt, threats, or authoritarian instruction. You could yell at him and his response was to just stare back at you, turn around…and do it again. And again. And again.
When he was about nine or so we all woke up hearing loud banging going on in his room. It was Joe, in a terrified state, trying to get away from whatever was in his room. He kept smashing into the wall and closet door over and over, seemingly unable to actually get out of the doorway right next to it. He was so scared he could barely talk and could only say something about “the lights…” Just kept talking about “the lights” in his room. And the breathing. By the end, before we moved out of that house when he was ten, he was taking his sleeping bag and sleeping in his closet to try to hide from whatever it was that was apparently comin’ round practically every night to harass him.
Fast forwarding a couple of years, when my parents were divorced and we were now living in Orange County, California with my mom. At this point in the game she was almost completely copping out on being a mom, and had disintegrated into crazy abusiveness. My brother was eleven and twelve at this point, and was running around being a delinquent, stealing and shoplifting food, candy, clothes and miscellaneous items, starting fires, smoking cigarettes, and getting pot and alcohol from his friends when he could; he was sneaking out of the house to run wild in the middle of the night, jumping out of his second story bedroom window, had detention too many times to count, had been suspended a few times as well, and was even arrested at one point, for something, I don’t know what. And then ran away. His obsessive compulsive disorder was also in full swing at this point, and he was changing his clothes three times a day, showering several times a day, rubbing his mouth and lips into a raw rash, so convinced was he that he had “food on his face”, as well as constant q-tipping of his ears and blowing and picking at his nose – a general obsession with keeping orafices clean – and then the ongoing feet/shoes/socks issue that was as strong as ever, dating back to when he was a toddler. Later on when I got him back to California he had even more OCD traits going on, which I’ll get to in a short bit.
At this point he’d also begun consciously astral projecting – something that my dad and our paternal grandmother can apparently do, and do/did often. I’ve never had an interest in it, and instinctively shied away from it. In fact, I adamantly opposed it when my dad tried to convince me when I was 15 that it was neat and I should try it. No thanks. Instinct told me it was an area that was bad news, something where one could easily get in over their head if they don’t know what they’re doing. But Joe fully embraced it.
On top of the delinquent behavior he’d begun demonstrating some psychic skillz and phenomenon as well, with the onset of puberty when we were in California. It didn’t take me long to figure out that “stuff” happened when Joe was around, that he’s a magnet for it. When I was by myself…nothing, nada. When Joe showed up…cue the three ring circus music. It was extremely intriguing, and I dug it.
The next few years would be absolutely crazy with everything that went on, for both him, and myself. It would fill a book, seriously. The highlights that are relevant for this are that Joe ended up going back to Connecticut to live with my dad right after turning 13, where he was also held back a year in seventh grade. When he was fourteen, something snapped. He broke into a gun shop and stole a gun, then went on a convenience store robbing spree. With the money, he got himself a motel room, with the intention of catching a train first thing in the morning to New York City. The motel clerk who checked him in tipped off the cops, who soon had the motel surrounded. They got him by climbing in through the bathroom window. He spent the next three years in various juvee jails and psych hospitals, including one called Vitam.
And that’s what finished Joe off. You can see it in the pics that were taken of him when he was 15, 16 years old, when he was on home leave, visiting my dad and his new wife and their new baby daughter. You can see it in the face and the eyes. He looks deadened and haunted. I only heard a couple of minor, surface level stories about what went on at Vitam, and it wasn’t pretty. Whatever I do know about it is bad enough, but it’s not even the half of it, I know.
After Joe got out of Vitam, and was “mainstreamed” back into the public high school, he lived a paradoxical life. He worked at the local bicycle shop and became quite the expert on bikes, with bikes becoming his life – fixing them, making them and riding them. He pulled honors and A’s in school, shattering everybody’s expectations (I’ve seen the certificates, showing the honors/high honors semester after semester, and recently when doing a search on my brother’s name on the ‘net, which I periodically do, a search result came up which I’d never seen before for an archived Hartford Courant newspaper entry listing Joe for the high honor roll. Not just honors, but high, which as far as I understand means all As…..) while simultaneously doing drugs, stealing cars, and running wild. Pot, alcohol, coke, smoking heroin, he did it. He’d disappear for days at a time – a week at a time – then come back, ace tests and pull high honors. Then turn around and get yanked out of class and sent to the principal’s office because he’d arrived at school drunk as a skunk, and wound up puking Jagermeister all over the principal’s shoes. Or stand up in front of the class giving a report about why he sympathized with the Columbine killers. (This was in ’99, so Columbine was still a fresh event.) The cops were making regular visits to my dad’s house, yet it was all so confusing because he was so damn charismatic and likable. Even the cops liked him. They didn’t want to have to bust him for anything. Over and over he was given multiple, endless chances by cops and judges to change his ways, because they were rooting for him, but he never did.
During 1999 Joe and I were back and forth on the phone, a lot. More so than ever before. But we had his personality change to thank for that. It started in late 1998. Previously, trying to talk to him on the phone was like pulling teeth. All you’d get were one and two word answers, and then he’d get annoyed and bored and go. I never gave up though, and was always trying to maintain contact with him. I had that intense – and inexplicable – concern for him and bond going on that didn’t make much sense to anybody around me at the time. The amount of money I sunk into him, and the fact I was willing to die for him, literally placing myself in the line of police guns at one point, was…….insane I guess. I have yet to meet anybody who was so insanely latched onto a sibling with intense concern as I was for him. It was obsessive. It’s what drove me in all of my interactions with him, and why any of “The Vortex” even happened…and continued to happen….long after I should have walked away. So sometime around ’98 he changed, and I remember having our first meaningful conversation one afternoon, where he actually talked to me, and I think it had to do with something woo-woo. After that, things took off.
It seemed to be by design in retrospect. I think something wanted us to connect, and wanted him to be in my life for what was in store down the line. There seems to have been a plan shaping up, which I was completely clueless about.
Throughout ’99 Joe entertained me on the phone with his endless adventures of supposedly investigating illegal chemical waste dumping being done by Amtrak. He was even supposedly shot at one time, while trespassing and poking around on Amtrak property. He proudly kept that bullet holed T shirt tacked up on his wall in his room. The enter and exit hole go through the armpit, and you could see the faint drips of bloodstain…not from his blood, but actually from his friend who was with him, whose arm was grazed by the shots. I myself had absolutely nothing of interest going on in my life at that time, so the conspiracy kept me riveted. He also reported that he had all kinds of paranormal happenings going on in his room in my Dad’s house, and again, I really dug his stories, and didn’t doubt it, because I’d seen the foundation for it when he was just a kid.
Then there were the “THEMS.” Joe was now being followed and monitored by “THEMS” in black cars. They would park on the curb outside his work, watching him. An unmarked van tried to run him off the road one night when he went for his usual nighttime bike ride. They were tapping into the phone line…and I do have proof for that. Several of our conversations had obvious, unexplainable “disturbance” and interference, the same identical type experienced by me and my current boyfriend when talking over the phone. He also mentioned happenings that sounded like flashes of abduction memories. Including the one that coincided with him being gone/missing for almost a week. During that week he remembers being in some facility and being wheeled down a hallway on a stretcher sort of thing; the hall connected/passed through these all white, rounded dome shaped rooms; He was being wheeled to one of these rooms, where “something” was done to him.
The conspiracies and intrigue were growing by the week, and I was totally hooked. He had no reason to make it up, I thought. Why would he invent something like this? See, the thing about Joe that would keep you hanging on was that every once and awhile he could actually generate some proof. I saw that bullet holed shirt. I saw the high honors certificates and heard my Dad’s confirmations about Joe’s almost unbelievable performance in school. I heard the phone tapping craziness. I’d been witness to the paranormal woo-woo that followed him around like a magnet. There was tangible proof for this wacky, paradoxical life he was leading.
Joe reached the end of the line in his senior year when my dad told him that he was out of the house on June 1st, and the locks would be changed…and then the school informed him in January of 2000 that despite his grades, he would not be eligible for graduation, because he’d missed too many days of school. When I heard that I called up his school in the middle of the day from my then-job just to verify this myself, asking to speak to the principal. The secretary sounded suspicious when I announced who I was – “Joe C___’s sister Carissa, from California….” – and the principal sounded downright leery when he first picked up the line. I was truly surprised I actually got him on the line, I wasn’t actually expecting to get anywhere with that call. But then again Joe was so notorious there was probably a part of him that was genuinely curious. And as I explained to him, I had to hear it for myself, whether it’s true that he’s really not being allowed to graduate for missing too many days of class……only because Joe is always telling so many stories you just can’t know what to believe. Before I bring him out to California I just have to know whether he’s telling the truth, I explained.
Once he heard me admit to the fact that Joe’s always telling so many stories that you just don’t know what to believe he actually loosened up and relaxed. Probably figured he was dealing with a smart, sane person after all who could admit that about their own brother. :D But yes, indeed, it was true. Joe was not allowed to graduate unless he completed whatever summer school requirements they had. Which, considering my dad was kicking him out three weeks before graduation, means it wasn’t going to be possible. Not for Joe and how he was. I knew him enough to know there was no way in hell he would juggle being homeless with “completing summer school requirements.” He just wouldn’t, he was too…..touch and go. Joe was better off being brought out to southern California, the land of opportunity, to come live with me. Coming to California, with me paying for everything and helping him get started with a new life meant he actually stood some sort of chance in life. Being left in Connecticut as a homeless kid with no real money, no car, just a bike, no other family, surrounded by the biggest low life druggies you could imagine when he was a total addict always needing something to numb his brain, and being expected to show up to some rigorous summer school schedule on top of that….he stood absolutely no chance.
In fact this entire time period I later described as “beat the clock.” The race was on to try to get Joe out to SoCal before he died. There was a short time period where I was not in contact with him in ’99 because he’d been so nasty and rude to me over the phone that I stopped my desperate reaching out to him. But then I’d had this extremely realistic “dream” where he died. And thus overrode my anger/frustration and called him up anyway, extremely concerned about his well being, and resuming our long distance contact. I later found out that during that exact time period when I’d dreamed about Joe dying he’d put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger….but the trigger “jammed.” I now realize/recognize in retrospect that my “dream” wasn’t really a dream. It was a real memory of the way things had originally gone…of which I couldn’t mentally handle. And much like the beginning of the movie “The Others” I woke up in another reality “screaming” with the memory…a new reality where the death hadn’t happened.
So that’s when I brought Joe out to California, trying to beat the clock for when the next death attempt would happen. Between him putting guns to his head and his drug use and crazy lifestyle it was only a matter of time. January 25, 2000, he stepped off a train at Los Angeles Union Station, running from Connecticut. I felt triumphant, feeling like I did it, I’d beaten the clock and won. Totally fucking clueless.
Joe was 19 now, although he looked no older than 16, (same problem I’ve always had, looking younger than I am) mostly because he was only about 5’6” and lacked muscle bulk. His preferred look I’d come to learn was the tight white Hanes T-shirts, his huge Paco jean shorts down to his knees with the duct tape wrapped around the edges that were falling apart ;) and at first his Nikes, but which later changed to black steel toed boots. He kept his head shaved short and had a couple of homemade tattoo symbols etched into his arm, done himself with a needle and ink bought from the store. He also had a “tool belt,” for lack of a better term, which consisted of his various knives, and at one point a Motorola hand held police scanner thing. He was never at any point not armed and fully equipped. His look was reminiscent of Fight Club’s Project Mayhem “space monkey” army, and factoring in his very white Irish/Scottish/English skin, several people mistakenly took him for a skinhead. (kind of ironic, considering that he didn’t like being white, and would get miffed when I’d point out the English/Scottish/Irish aspect of his genetics. ;) He liked being Hungarian and Italian. That was cool. The rest…could go. :D )
After getting to California he began working out religiously every day, sit ups and push ups, and within a year had packed on his desired muscle bulk in the arms and chest, and even appeared to have grown an inch or so, and finally began looking his age. But like me, he had long and lanky limbs for his relatively short height, which means he didn’t come across like one of those short, bulky guys with short arms that sways from side to side when they walk, with a disproportionately bulky body. The added muscle sat well on his frame, and if anything, created an illusion that he was taller than he really was.
As mentioned earlier Joe developed even more OCD traits by this point in life. One of them was his whole bit with “hoarding,” a trait associated with OCD as I only just learned. He was a complete pack rat, stuffing his room with stolen goods that he hoarded, stuff he didn’t even need, to the point where his room was a cram jammed filthy disaster area. He was worse than a raccoon. But paradoxically he was obsessive with the hygiene as always, such as the need to keep his fingernails clipped down to the quick – anything longer than that was dirty – as well as shaved head at all times, because hair was dirty too, burning the leg hair off his legs with a lighter !!! and slathering deodorant on throughout every day. And his “feet binding” thing progressed to point where he would wear several pairs of socks with steel toed boots. ALWAYS had to have his feet and ankles bound up and sealed off tight, and was never without this set up unless he was sleeping. He had a LOT of weird OCD quirks.
First Joe lived with me and my then-boyfriend Steve, whom I was about to break up with anyway. Then moved into our own apartment as roommates on May 27, 2000. The apartment was what I’ve come to call The Vortex, in Rancho Santa Margarita, (south Orange County). I’m really flying along here, leaving most everything out, for space constraints. It’s just to give the bare bones surface scratching explanation of who my brother is, and why he would have attracted stuff in, so readers will have a foundation for what they’re reading.
“Stuff” broadcast loud and clear to me what was going on with Joe after he got to California. Before “stuff” breaches your realm in such a major way it seems they have to. Free will. It’s something I’ve since learned, concerning the “occult rules.” Since Joe would be responsible for almost getting me killed on three separate occasions (one of those three times being when I had police guns pointed at my head, referenced earlier) as well as almost getting me arrested, and end up costing me thousands of dollars, it had to be announced. But I didn’t listen, pay attention or see it. This is why awareness is everything. I mean, it’s not their fault after all if we don’t have the knowledge to recognize a warning, or see what’s right under our nose. Right? ;) So their way of thinking goes.
He flat out told me on a number of occasions, “Am I real, Carissa? I sure don’t feel real. You don’t feel real to me, none of this does.”
“Of course you’re real Joe…” I answered, frozen.
“Am I? Are you sure? Are you sure about that? Am I real?” He looked at me with a smirk. Like a predator, toying with its prey.
Then there was the night that he got drunk, probably around February of 2000, shortly after he got there. It was the drunkest I’ve ever seen him, so bad that I actually hid the rest of the bottle of brandy so he wouldn’t do any more damage and kill himself. In that drunken stupor he relayed to me, “The only reason I’m here…is because of you. You wanted this so badly that you made this happen. I’m supposed to be dead right now Carissa…I’m supposed to be dead. Don’t you understand? You made this happen….it’s all you….I’m supposed to be dead. You wanted me here so badly that I’m here…I’m alive….but I’m supposed to be dead…It’s you…”
I froze up, paralyzed when he said that. I couldn’t speak. Went blank. On a subconscious level I recognized what he was saying. Coming to terms with that wouldn’t happen for another two years though. Some things take time to process, and have to happen in their own time, when the mind can finally handle it. It took two more years of “happenings” to get me to a place where a bombshell like that could be processed.
Also straight off the bat when Joe arrived to California he was demonstrating his newfound “inexplicable” knowledge of radios, electronics and all things techno-gadget. By the end of us being roommates he would have half his bedroom filled with electronics, police scanners, radios, satellite dishes (the kind people mount outside their homes or apartments) and converted word processors to “process” it all. I have two pics of this in fact. He demonstrated how he could pick up transmissions from NASA 3,000 miles away and he tuned into MIR so I could hear, back when it was orbit. Not that we could understand what was being said, since they were speaking Russian. ;) The first time he was demonstrating his equipment when he’d first moved in with Steve and I, I asked him – How did you learn all this??
The brother I knew growing up was not like this. He was off in his own world, and never played around with electronics. He played with toys (especially Legos) and drew a lot, or rode his bike and wandered around in nature. That was it.
This “New Joe” was something else entirely. He looked at me with a strange smirk and those glassy, far away eyes that he’d get many times. “I don’t know Carissa. I just know it. It just happened.” He would always answer that way any time I asked. He just “knew” how to do this one day. It had just “happened.” Just inexplicably had the knowledge. He also had this weird thing about drawing some kind of strange “grid” thing. He said it was just “in his head” and said he showed the drawing to somebody and was told it had to do with “Earth’s ionosphere.” I had no idea what the “ionosphere” was and had never heard of it, but later found out it ties into what the HAARP array in Alaska is involved in.
[Joe in his room. This pic shows a lot of different things, including the phenomena I mention at the end of this intro, about how in two years worth of photos I never managed to get one photo of Joe looking straight at the camera with both eyes unobstructed. Also, the gray bullet holed shirt that he tacked up on the closet door is visible, towards the right side of the photo. And then of course, all the electronics, including the Brother word processor, the satellite dish, some large aluminum tube “antenna” thing, regular antennas, and the various radio equipment. The rattan chair is something I gave him, and it’s what I’d sit on when listening to the transmissions from NASA and MIR. There’s even an “orb” going on, whatever those are. This pic was taken towards the beginning. By the end, fully half the room was filled with electronics, once he inherited my ex boyfriend Steve’s cast off equipment that he was trying to get rid of, to the point where I needed my friend Mike to help me dismantle the craziness when it came time to move and Joe was in jail. If I’d had the kind of digital camera I had now, versus the camera I had back then that was breaking down on me, I would have gotten more pics obviously and even video. But this was back in 2000, I didn’t have much money back then.]
He was also now a perfect shot with a gun, and quite the expert with hand-to-hand combat. He would always practice his mish-mash version of martial arts/hand to hand in the living room, trying to show me moves that I could use to defend myself. I remember Steve sitting across the room, glancing sideways at us, VERY nervous as Joe did this – not nervous for my safety, but nervous at the presence Joe emanated. To say he put out a feeling of “power” is putting it mildly. It was something else.
At a liquor store in Portland one time a couple of tough looking black guys started moving in towards me, but then stepped aside and looked down at the floor when this little 5’6” white kid charged down the aisle towards me. It probably didn’t hurt either that the temperature was in the mid-20s and Joe purposely had no shirt on to make a point to people. :D He emanated both power, and quiet/intense “loose cannon crazy.” And part of me admittedly kind of dug it. But there was a reason for that. After being alone in life for so long with no real family – even alone while in relationships – and always finding myself unprotected and vulnerable, it felt REALLY good to finally have somebody around who had my back, for once. My mom and her random boyfriend had thrown me out weeks before graduation, encouraging me to drop out of high school (not even kidding) and treated me like I was last week’s trash. My dad was 3,000 miles away and nothing seemed to register with him no matter how negative or crazy. He’d always been completely useless as a protector, completely mentally checked out, and where it was made clear that Joe and I were first marriage leftovers, an uncomfortable intrusion in his new life. And as our “mother” even admitted during our August ’98 fluke meeting (the one and only time I’ve spoken with her in person in 20+ years now) “You were thrown to the wolves!” (making sure to say this using the passive voice, instead of active voice. I “was thrown,” by some mysterious unnamed force that like, jumped out from behind a bush or something and “GOT ME!” Not “I threw you,” using the active voice, which would mean she would have to take direct responsibility. But this is the same woman who always refers to herself in the third person, so disconnected was she from her own self, and my brother as “your brother.” Not “Joe” or “my son.” Just always “your brother…” You know, this kid who somehow belonged to me, and was my deal, not hers, and not connected to her in any way. Which I realize in retrospect was very telling. Joe was always my deal apparently. Mine. From the moment he came home from the hospital in fact, when I was six, and over the next few years where I was constantly admonished to back off, because “….you’re not his mother.” [well, if she’d actually done her job as a mother than I wouldn’t have felt the need to have to step in all the time….kinda sad when a seven, eight, nine year old kid instinctively has what a grown ass woman in her late 20s to early 30s doesn’t….] And as he even told me at ten years old “….I consider you to be my mom, instead of Mom.” Forget how things were by the time we moved to SoCal, where I did completely take over as the mom role, buying him school clothes, since she wouldn’t, toys, even food sometimes, since she wasn’t feeding him properly, and just looking out for him in general. So really, it’s no surprise. But I digress.) But here was Joe, basically acting as my personal bodyguard whenever we were out, having my back. It felt absolutely awesome. In public when we were together Joe was always eyeing everybody and everything up, on top of things, always alert and ready to pounce. I had absolutely nothing to worry about in terms of anybody messing with me, or us. It felt REALLY good to have that……….for once in my life. Joe demonstrated that protectiveness when he was a kid. But back then he was just a kid. He could only do so much. Now… he was old enough to follow through and actually do serious damage to people.
The irony is that Joe could protect me like a personal bodyguard in life, seeming to have my back…….while simultaneously almost getting me killed three times, acting as a walking portal and a “vector of attack.”
What stepped off that train in Los Angeles was not my original brother. I didn’t realize until two and a half years, and two states later, while living in Fort Lauderdale and buzzed on wine one night that in the two years worth of photos that I’d taken of Joe you can’t see his eyes directly in almost any picture. Originally I had written here that you couldn’t see his eyes in any of the photos except for in one, however, there are actually two as I now realize. In the first photo taken in Portland, Oregon, he was working outside on his car with the front hood up, and I tried to grab a shot of him doing that. Right as I was taking the shot he scrunched up his face to make a weird expression to ruin the shot, and so you can actually see one of his eyes open in that pic. The other is squeezed shut. And there’s some weird distortion going on with his wrist/hand area that I can’t figure out. Maybe it was the angle but it doesn’t look right. And in the second photo where I finally managed to get an eye in the pic it was part of a series of three pics, again taken in Portland. I took the shot of him from a distance, then had an invisible voice urging me to get closer with my camera. So I did, and took another. “Get closer….closer….closer……” it urged, and I did, taking the third and final shot from only about a foot and a half away.
In the first two shots, like in every other picture, there’s an excuse for why you can’t see his eyes – the brim of his hat is bent down, obscuring them. (the brim of his hat where he used a marker to scrawl all the strange symbols that he was always seeing in his mind, symbols he would later tell me he saw in an underground base during one of his abductions, symbols that a lot of people say are “alien” in nature.) In the third, because I’d been “urged” to get up as close as I could to him, I managed to actually get one of his eyes on camera, from a side angle, looking at the right side of his face. And it’s completely red. And I don’t mean camera “red eye” – his pupil itself is red, from the side angle. His face is white, there’s dark shadows under his eyes, his face is blank, and he looks like a zombie corpse. Photoshop doesn’t remove the red either. I showed this photo to my dad when trying to explain to him what my brother had turned into. You can even see some of the scrawled alien-esque symbols on the underside of the hat brim, like the icing on the cake. But it didn’t register with my dad at all, which was nothing new with him. He himself walks around in a programmed daze, his alters popping up from time to time, giving clues, as I note in my book.
I had the photos developed while Joe was still in my life back in Portland – but didn’t see them until after I got to Florida. When I saw it, my stomach did a flip flop. I clamored over to the box where my pictures were kept and yanked them out, and began sorting through them like mad, trying to find the other pics of Joe that I’d taken in the past two years. I pulled them all out, there were maybe a dozen total, and began flipping through them. Flip, flip, flip, tossing them off to the side. With the exception of that other pic where he’s working on his car and his face is scrunched, showing only one of his eyes, over and over again there was an excuse for why you couldn’t see his eyes. Right as I would take the shot he’d just happen to glance down, or to the side and away, or around completely so I’d get the back of his head. Or his hat was covering them. In another shot, the picture mysteriously cut off… right at his eyes. You see his grin, and his nose…but his eyes are cut out of the shot. There was one photo where I took a pic of his face, full on, for fun while he was standing right next to me one night. (Not that it was fun for him. The look he gave me was anything but amused.) And that pic never came out on the developed roll. There was an “excuse” though…..that was my old camera, which was breaking on me, and sometimes pictures just wouldn’t come out. Since it wasn’t the only picture that it happened with, I didn’t even question it at the time. But later on, pooling that together with all the other shots……well, you know.
What this means is open for interpretation. It usually isn’t that difficult to get a picture of somebody straight on, with both eyes open, looking directly at the camera. And yet I can say that I never actually managed to do that. During the two years he was back in my life I don’t have even one picture of him where he has both eyes open, looking at the camera. The odds on that are pretty weird, to say the least. Eyes are supposed to be the “window to the soul” as they say, and so the lack of pictures showing both of his eyes, open and clear and unobstructed, could be symbolic of something going on with him on a soul level.
My psychically inclined internet acquaintance Leslie had told me back in 2005 or so that the real Joe exited stage left when he was about 17, after drawing in neg entity attachments due to his heavy drug usage. She had no way of knowing that as I hadn’t told her about the drugs, but she could see things play out in her mind and that’s what she saw. Something happened, he left, he didn’t want to be here anymore, and he made a switch with something negative who took over the body. I remember how puzzled she was about this as she relayed it to me over the phone, she was unaware that something like that could even happen and kind of trailed off in confusion to ponder on it for a short bit. She reported that the Joe that came back to me was not the same Joe. “A few of the original cells, but not the same core,” as she wrote in an email. What the true story is of Joe, I’ll probably never know. He could have had a co-pilot (or several…) navigating his wheel along with him, or he was gone completely, leaving behind a shell being piloted and controlled by who knows what.
And that’s the Reader’s Digest condensed version of Joe. Charismatic, intelligent in many ways, dumb in others, good looking, a magnet for the paranormal, abduction/mind control victim, funny as hell, afraid of nothing, professional criminal, and sociopath. A few years ago (maybe around 2009 or so) I would come across a write up somewhere on the ‘net talking about the link between sociopathy, and……injuries to the frontal lobe of the brain. As mentioned earlier, Joe had experienced a frontal lobe injury (that again, was played down/ignored by my parents) and the traits listed in the article matched my brother to a T. The learning disability/trouble with school, the inability to learn from his mistakes, and the way he would not listen to authority, period. And then his lack of fear, leading to his penchant towards criminal behavior. (fueled by his astrological configuration which was very…willful, to put it mildly.)
I’d also come across a write up/compilation article of some sort on the web detailing all the traits of a sociopath, things that were so specific that it was like I was reading a personality profile of Joe himself. It had checklists from different sources, DSM IV manual excerpts, psychology report excerpts, and even the author’s own commentary too it seems, and it was just absolutely uncanny in how accurately it portrayed Joe. I copied and pasted the write up into a Word doc, which I still have, but I never noted the URL or source, so now I’m unable to find it on the web to post a link to. Because instead of trying to sum up Joe, going on and on, which I could do all day, I would prefer to just link people to this write up. Be like, “Here, read this. With the exception of these five things, all the rest is completely Joe. THIS is who Joe was.” I did searches on the ‘net of specific sentences in that write up, but nothing comes up now, unfortunately. Only the excerpts from other well known sources that the author quoted come up. oh well. Someday I’ll retype it and post a link.
Also worth noting is that several years after experiencing all of this I came across the book “Practical Psychic Self Defense – Understanding and Surviving Unseen Influences” by Robert Bruce and let me tell you….I REALLY could have used this book back when living in this apartment. Seriously. His book describes so much of what I experienced here, to a T. I had nobody to go to when all of this was happening, nobody recognized any of what I was describing when I told them and some even thought I was making it up, or going crazy. So I really wish I’d had his book back then. Unfortunately it wasn’t published until 2002, a year after I moved out. My then-boss Felicity found what bits of paranormal stuff I was willing to divulge amusing, and didn’t disbelieve me, but she was no help. My Wiccan/Pagan buddy Tiffany had no clue what I was talking about, and I figured she might know since she’s a practicing Wiccan. But being Wiccan doesn’t automatically equate to being paranornally aware. She wasn’t knowledgable about the “cosmic” stuff like that, as she jokingly told me. My buddy Mike also couldn’t help me despite the fact he was also going in the Wiccan/Pagan direction. He helped me “clean” my room after I was attacked by an entity but, that’s about all he was good for. He didn’t understand most of what I was experiencing. My buddy Julie thought I was making everything up, as I later learned. And my ex Steve probably thought I was going crazy, based on the way he talked to me over the phone in a tone of voice that was a mixture of befuddlement, and cautiously humoring me because he had no idea what to do or say about anything I was claiming.
Robert Bruce’s book is basically a comprehensive handbook of what neg influences are, where they come from, what they do, how they operate, and how to rid them. And it’s full of so many uncanny details that match up to what you’re about to read here, from the interdimensional portals/doorways, the disembodied hand, the golden “sparklies” and floating white balls and black circles, the “hitchhikers” and energy vampire nature of entity presenses, the “large creamy blobs” as he calls them which I describe as the blue-white shapeless blobs, stuff crashing and banging around into stuff in my room, the knocking on the headboard, the waves of cold chills eminating from a localized point, on up to the full on physical attack from an entity that sucked the lifeforce out of me in order to keep itself going. And just tons more stuff. My copy is all highlighted up for that reason, because it’s nonstop stuff I’ve experienced. It’s all in his book, and I can’t say enough times that I really wish I’d had his book back then. So if anybody reading this is also experiencing anything like what you read here…then get his book.
So, with all that in mind, let the games begin…