-- by Lynn Taylor
I awoke to the sound of the phone ringing, one Sunday in March of
1998. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Who would be calling this early? After all, it
was the weekend, and having counted on being able to sleep in, we stayed up rather late
the night before. Still half asleep, I picked up the receiver to hear John's frantic voice
on the other end.
"Lynn, I'm sorry to be calling you on the weekend (John
reveres the weekend as family time), but I had to talk to someone. Lynn, they were here
last night! I don't know what to do. And I think they did something to the baby,
"They were in your house?" I asked.
"Yes." He responded.
"Okay, tell me what happened."
"Last night, I began to have some terrible chest pains. My
heart felt like it was going to explode. I didn't know what was happening. I was afraid I
was having some kind of heart attack."
"Do you think that's what it was?" I queried.
"I'm still not sure what happened. Anyway, the pain stopped
after a while, but I didn't feel good, so I went on to bed. At 3:00 AM, the baby woke me
up screaming. I got out of bed to check on him. For some reason, I was so weak I could
barely stand up. As I was walking through the house in the dark, I noticed my shirt was
sticking too my chest. I turned on a light and pulled my shirt out. That's when I saw it.
At first, I thought someone had broken into the house and tried to stab me in my sleep.
Lynn, they were here, and they cut a huge chunk of flesh out of my chest! It's all the way
down to the membrane that covers the muscle. I could see the muscle tissue!"
This is not the first time I've seen John in this state of mind
after a visitation, but this was, by far, the most horrific. As John continued, Susan, his
wife, came into the room and said something to him.
"Lynn, Susan just came in and showed me her nose. It just
"Which side?" I asked.
"It's the left side." He answered. "It's one thing
to have to deal with this stuff when it's me they're doing it to, but when it's my
family.. well, that's when it gets to me."
"You feel like you don't have control, and can't
protect?" I posed.
"Anything I can do for you? Any way I can help?" I
"Thanks, but I think we'll be okay, now. I just needed to
talk to someone who doesn't think I'm nuts. I'll be okay."
After apologizing again for calling on Sunday morning, he hung
up. I sat there with the phone still in my hand. All I could think to myself was,
After talking to me, John called my daughter, Jill, and her
friend, Robert. Having certain insights into the world of ufology, and being somewhat
insistent, Robert, along with Jill, went down to John's Smithville home to look into the
situation more deeply. When they arrived at 10:30 AM, John pulled away his shirt to reveal
a triangle shaped wound so perfect, it looked like a cookie cutter had been used. Some
blood was still evident at the corners, but although still a deep and ugly wound, it had
healed over considerably since 3:00 AM, according to John. I had loaned my Polaroid camera
to John on an earlier occasion, so Robert used it to take a picture of the wound. One hour
later, another picture was taken. In that time, the wound had healed even more. Ten hours
later, John asked Susan to take a third photo. Again, the photo showed the wound had
continued to heal with unnatural speed.
The following day, John called to say that, later Sunday
afternoon the baby's nose suddenly began to bleed. I can only imagine the anguish and the
sense of helplessness he was feeling at that moment. After all, the father is supposed to
be the protector of his family. John is a big man at 6'3", and about 230 pounds. If
he feels powerless to stop these incursions into his life, then who among us is totally
It was later in the week when I got a chance to meet with John.
By then, all that was left of the wound on his chest, was a reddish-pink triangle. The
skin was perfectly smooth, with no depression. If this had been a natural wound, even with
a skin graft it would have left a terrible scar for life. I have seen scoop marks and
other surface scars, but never anything like this.
John has asked me to present this account of events along with
the photographic evidence with the hope that someone can give us feedback on this type of
wound. We are not talking about small skin samples anymore. This wasn't a "pound of
flesh", but it was a sizable piece of human tissue that someone so brazenly and
cruelly removed from a man's chest. The big question is why?