Table Of ContentRAECHEL’S EYES UNVEILED
Looking Back at my Involvement with a Human-Alien
Hybrid
by Helen Littrell
SYNOPSIS of Raechel's Eyes
Marisa, nearly totally blind since eighth grade, was enrolled in her
freshman year at American River Junior College, but she needed a roommate
to share living expenses and help with her daily living activities. Almost
immediately, Raechel appeared at the school with her “father,” Air Force
Colonel Nadim, hoping to find a roommate who would be willing to overlook
her uniqueness. An agreement was struck immediately, which on the surface
appeared to be a synchronicity.
Soon after the girls began living together, I visited, and, through a
dramatic face-to-face encounter with Raechel during which I saw her eyes, I
had to accept the truth that she was definitely “not from here.” Shortly
following this, Colonel Nadim called a meeting of the four of us — Raechel,
me, Marisa, and he — wherein he disclosed details of how he had obtained
Raechel, a hybrid alien/human, and his agreement with the U.S. Government
to raise her as a human child. Within weeks, both he and Raechel
mysteriously disappeared. Marisa, initially heartbroken over Raechel’s
leaving, subsequently discovered that Raechel had left her a most wonderful
gift.
The second part of Raechel’s Eyes contains many verbatim hypnosis
sessions conducted by Dr. June Steiner. I have also included several
paranormal experiences that have enriched my life immensely. I do not try to
understand them; they were a gift that merely requires acceptance.
Finally, there’s brief mention of Marisa’s sudden passing at the age of
38, in the very prime of life, due to arteriosclerosis related to the childhood
diabetes that she’d struggled with since age eight. I have learned very clearly
that death is not final, that life exists on other planes, and that communication
is possible following death.
A real page-turner, this book tells it like it is — Black Government
Projects, Men in Black, intergalactic travel, and human-alien relationships!
Preface to the Addendum
One thing that never lets go is Marisa’s image and voice constantly
present in my mind. I still hear her saying, as she often did when one or the
other of us struggled with a problem that seemed insurmountable —
“Whatever it takes, mom, whatever it takes.” I believe she encouraged me at
every step of the way to tell the story of Raechel’s Eyes, and I did exactly
that. It was the story of our personal lives — hers, mine, and the little that we
were privileged to learn of Raechel’s. We overcame numerous ongoing
obstacles in order to become acquainted with an unfamiliar alien world and
its occupants as well as another space-time in which both of us eventually
became deeply involved. Some of those obstacles are still ongoing, but the
outcome is more informative and not as challenging as in the past.
Again Marisa is here in spirit as I begin putting together this new
book, Raechel’s Eyes Unveiled, that will fill in some bits of information
missing in Raechel’s Eyes — loose ends that readers have asked about. They
wanted to know things like,
“What happened to the Colonel?”
“What happened to Raechel?”
“Do you still undergo abductions?”
And there were many others, too, such as “Are you a hybrid?” And
sadly, some readers still weren’t clear about what had happened to Marisa,
that she’d passed away unexpectedly in the prime of her life. It was clearly
evident that I needed to provide the answers to these and some other
questions to the best of my ability. As well, I needed to include information
concerning my personal life to help readers understand how I could interact
with the participants of Raechel’s world while living my own difficult life
with a physically and emotionally abusive husband and attempting to protect
myself and my children while working full-time.
Looking back, it seems like an impossible balancing act, but there was
no choice, no happy medium. Now that man is permanently out of my life,
and I’m free from the actual physical abuse, but the aftereffect is that I’m left
with PTSD that flares up occasionally when I observe or even read about
particularly cruel, abusive situations. My life is good now, although I find
myself living with feet in two different worlds — the ordinary day-to-day
physical world and the extraordinary metaphysical world. And yes, it is
possible — I’ve done it all my 80-some years — and as far as I can tell I’m
apparently no worse for the wear. I hope the excerpts from both my past and
Marisa’s will assist the reader in understanding the overall high strangeness
of our interaction with Raechel as well as entities that occasionally continue
to visit me from another space-time.
Right now Marisa is communicating with me telepathically, as each
of us has done since childhood. She tells me to be uncompromisingly frank in
disclosing any information that will help my readers understand the part that
Raechel played in our lives. She tells me that I no longer need to fear
retaliation from those human and nonhuman entities that threatened me in the
past. I’m not sure how she can be so adamant about this, but I trust her
judgment. There isn’t much left that they could do to me anyway that hasn’t
been done in the past.
No detail concerning my first meeting with Raechel has changed in
the years since that seemingly innocent scenario in which I first met her on a
warm late spring afternoon in early 1972. I still remember everything with
overwhelming clarity — exactly how each of us, Raechel, Marisa, and I —
was dressed, how we wore our hair, where we stood in the doorway to the
apartment, the color of the paint on the apartment door as it contrasted with
the outside wall, Marisa’s and my conversation. I recall the width of the
downstairs walkway outside the apartment and the location of the apartment
itself on the second floor of the building, the chest-high wooden safety railing
that guarded against making a misstep and falling to the parking lot below,
the broad gray cement steps of the stairway leading to the ground-floor
entrance, even the position of the cars parked on the pavement below, mine
carefully sheltered in the afternoon shade of the tall, bushy oleanders so
common in northern California.
Almost immediately after Raechel’s Eyes came out, the course of my
life changed drastically and swiftly. Within days I began receiving telephone
calls and emails from people who had had experiences they couldn’t explain
away. Sometimes they saw strange lights in the sky that behaved in an
unusual manner, the lights frequently following their car for some distance,
oftentimes causing the engine to shut down for an unknown length of time.
Sometimes there was an unexplained face-to-face encounter, which
sometimes ended in abduction itself.
Most of my callers had never before dared speak of these things to
anyone because they feared job loss or ostracism and ridicule from friends
and family. Worst of all, however, was their own overwhelming inability to
accept whatever had occurred. On one level they clearly knew that something
out of the ordinary had taken place. There may have been time lapses that
they couldn’t account for; unusual marks may have been placed on their
bodies; or they may have been returned from an abduction wearing someone
else’s clothes or their own tee shirt put on backwards. No matter what the
circumstances were, it was far simpler to just ignore the whole scenario and
pretend it never happened. But the memory never truly went away. Always in
the back of the person’s mind was the nagging remembrance that it did
happen, and the tragic downside of this was that they had never achieved any
closure or acceptance.
My callers weren’t necessarily looking for answers, because in their
minds and hearts there was an overpowering fear of the unknown. Some
weren’t quite yet ready to accept information concerning beings and
dimensions outside of their comfort zone. They simply needed to confide in
someone in what they considered a safe situation. What I offered was a calm,
reassuring presence, a voice that listened to a story frequently interspersed
with tears, sobbing, and oftentimes long pauses while the caller collected
himself or herself sufficiently to continue.
The conversation nearly always began, “You’re going to think I’m
crazy. I’ve never told anyone about this before.” My response would be, “No,
you’re not crazy. You’ve simply had an experience you don’t understand.
When you’re ready, just go ahead and tell me what happened.” And then the
stories and the questions would just tumble out, and at the end, the caller
might ask hesitantly if I had an explanation, followed by, “It feels so good to
talk with someone who won’t put me down.” There was no way I could
supply answers. I couldn’t even understand some of my own experiences.
The important thing was that I was able to reassure callers that they weren’t
going crazy, that they had experienced something that may have originated
from another world, perhaps another dimension, and that they had come
through it undamaged. That was the important thing; they were not really
damaged. Now that they had shared the experience with a nonjudgmental
listener, the fear of whatever had happened would gradually diminish.
I will attempt to provide as completely as possible my own back story
as it relates to Raechel’s Eyes, and the stories of Marisa and the Colonel, as
well as of Raechel, who passed through our lives so briefly that we never
really had the opportunity to know her as well as we would have liked. To the
benefit of us all, she left behind a lingering, unforgettable memory for all
who knew her, even though she didn’t speak like us, look like us, or act like
us, although she did her very best to try and fit in. We will always remember
her with love and compassion.
My Childhood Years
As I reflect upon early memories, as well as those in my early teenage
years, it becomes increasingly clear that I was not a wanted child. Neither
was I loved or valued. There was never any overt closeness or display of
nurturing or love, although at the time I suppose I considered this to be
“normal” behavior. I was rarely involved in the interaction that other families
had with their children for any length of time so I never truly observed how
other family groups related to each other.
There were few visitors to my home except Aunt Helen and Uncle
George, who made regular biweekly Sunday-afternoon visits. Aunt Helen
was always unusually attentive to me, hugging and holding me tight as we
began talking. She made sure to keep me close by her side, sometimes
holding my hand in hers as she included me in the adult conversation while
my mother, lips clamped together tightly in a frown, looked on
disapprovingly as my aunt quickly and loudly overrode all objections. And
Aunt Helen always brought me a lovely, oftentimes expensive gift, which my
mother grudgingly allowed me to keep. The hugs I received from her and
Uncle George were very special to me at that time. They were the only ones I
got.
Looking back, I remember that no reference was ever made to my
origin — where I was born or details of my birth or family history — except
that I was told that all four of my grandparents had supposedly arrived in the
United States by boat from Switzerland in the mid-1800s. I sometimes
overheard bits of conversation about an uncle who served in the U.S. Navy in
World War I, but there were never any details beyond his name, Walter. After
he returned from the service, he apparently dropped out of sight for unknown
reasons. No one ever overtly spoke of him. I once saw a picture of him in his
Navy uniform, but when I looked for it again, the photo album I’d seen it in
had totally disappeared. When I asked where it might be, I was told firmly
that there had never been one. I didn’t push the subject, but I knew for sure
that I’d seen the album with his picture in it. It was as if they were somehow
ashamed of him and his service to the United States.
I hardly knew my grandparents, having never met either grandfather,
and I only rarely saw the women who were said to be my grandmothers. In
retrospect, everyone seemed to go on the defensive whenever I asked about
family, and I usually was told that I didn’t need to know about such things.
Case closed. If I persisted with questions, I ended up being sent to my room.
It didn’t take me long to realize, even at a very young age, that something
was terribly wrong in my family — something that I was not allowed to
know. The whole family seemed “up tight” most of the time. They were
uncommunicative and determined to keep as much distance from each other
as possible. I remember that even the neighbors kept us more or less at arm’s
length, and conversation with them seemed less than cordial. The one time
that I questioned why this was so, I was told that I was “imagining things,
that everything was fine.”
The last conversation with the woman who raised me, and who I’d
thought was my mother, was by telephone, and it was short and to the point.
She answered my call pleasantly enough, but the minute she realized it was
me, her voice instantly became cold and hard. She fairly shouted her next and
final words, “I never wanted you! They made me take you!” Then she
slammed the telephone receiver down with a loud bang. Shocked, I sat
motionless for a moment. Then I hung up my phone, stomped out into the
kitchen, grabbed some plates and cups from the cupboard, and smashed them
on the floor, venting my rage on the innocent dishes.
Obviously I’d been living a lie for all those years, living out someone
else’s “mistake” and another couple’s emotional abandonment. I was
depressed and in a bad state of mind for a few days until I decided it didn’t
really make any difference what my origin was or who “they” were. It didn’t
matter who my father might have been. None of that was of any significance
any more. I decided right then to just be whoever I am. My ancestry is of
little consequence. Just like Popeye in the old comics, “I yam who I yam, and
that’s all that I yam!” And that’s a decision I’ve stuck with for all these years.
It was nearly 30 years ago, when I was in my fifties, that my Aunt
Helen, nearly at the end of her life, reluctantly confessed that she was my real
mother. She’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock and “got caught,” as she called
it. In those days society considered such a situation sinful, to be neither
accepted nor acknowledged. Certainly the young woman was to be ostracized
and shunned. That’s how society was 80 years ago. The young man involved
suffered no shame, just a wink and a slap on the back from his friends, who
considered him to have shown himself to be a “real man.” However, the
pregnant young woman would suddenly decide to “visit Aunt Dorothy in
Ohio” for a few months. She often never returned, sometimes finding a new
life there for herself and her child. Marriage lent acceptance and
respectability to the situation and made everything “right,” no matter how
intolerable that union might turn out to be. Society in its ignorance accepted
this solution and held tightly to any secrets that might be involved.
Within days after my birth, Aunt Helen “gave” me to her sister, Ada,
the woman who raised me and who I’d thought for most of my life was my
real mother. Ada had recently married a local farmer, had a teaching job in a
one-room country school, so she and her husband could afford to raise me.
Because she was both married and employed, she was considered
“respectable,” which my unmarried and unemployed Aunt Helen, my real
mother, was not. I have no idea why Ada agreed to raise me. Since
discovering the truth, I’ve had the feeling that there was some degree of
coercion. However, the four people who knew the truth had either passed
away or were very ill, and it didn’t seem prudent to try to pursue things
further.
In the early 1930s, there were many deep, dark family secrets, and
this was definitely one of them. Many foolish beliefs persisted and so many
people’s lives were turned upside down when and if the truth ever became
known. When I finally discovered this particular family secret, I was both
angered and saddened. But by then my life course was set, and I’d been
successful in most of the paths I’d chosen. What difference did it make who I
really was? I was who I had become at the time of my discovery. And today,
in my early eighties, I am who I now am — a successful, contented woman
living with feet in two different worlds.
The Blue Lights
At the ages of probably four to six, I wasn’t allowed to have real
children as playmates, so I invented “people” whom my family members
disapprovingly called “imaginary playmates.” To me there was nothing at all
imaginary about them. I could see them very clearly, and they were as real as
I was, although not of this world. I saw them; I touched them. We talked to
each other nonverbally in our special way — a silent language that couldn’t
be overheard. My pets — a pony and my cat, Wink, as well as my dolls —
were all tangible beings, clearly visible to everyone, and they had names,
because of which they were acceptable to my family. My invisible friends
and I never called each other by name. There was no need to, because we
communicated entirely with our minds, which I now realize was telepathy.
Only since writing Raechel’s Eyes and even more overwhelmingly, while
writing this addendum, that I realize that I have been communicating
telepathically since I was very young, which has been an extremely useful
skill that I often use now to communicate with animals, especially when first
becoming acquainted with them, as well as with people. My cat, Tuley, and I
frequently carry on conversations in this manner. More often than not, he
initiates the conversation.
On rare occasions my invisible friends brought along some entities,
which looked to me like tiny blue orbs of light, approximately the size of a
tennis ball, some of them a little smaller. I remember how intrigued I was as I
watched these shimmering lights move around, up and down, changing their
shape, apparently at will. They seemed to fold in upon themselves, at times
nearly disappearing, and then enlarging back to their original shape. These
blue orbs carried on the same kind of telepathic conversations with me as did
my other invisible friends. And they always remained unseen and unheard by
my family
One thing that I didn’t anticipate was my next encounter with “blue
lights” at about age eight. I’d ridden my pony deep into a wooded area in a
nearby pasture, tied him securely to a tree, and sat down on a large flat rock
at the side of a small stream.
Revisiting it now, I’m choosing to write it in present tense because
that seems most appropriate to the dimension in which I found myself then as
well as where I am this very moment. It’s an idyllic midsummer scene —
quiet, secluded, and peaceful, the silence broken only by the sound of water
trickling softly over the small, rounded stones in the creek bed.
I lose all sense of time as I gaze around to see if any squirrels or
chipmunks are present today. Usually they come slowly and cautiously right
up to me to see if I might have brought some bread, which I break into small
pieces that they can carry away in their cheeks or paws and eat at a “safe”
distance. There seems to be nothing moving right now, but suddenly a
shimmery blue light appears right in front of me. It’s a little taller than me
and its surface exudes gentle, radiant warmth as it looks into my eyes.
Suddenly it says very clearly, “Hello. How are you?” I’m so surprised
I can’t say a word, although for some unexplainable reason I’m not at all
frightened, which it seems to realize, because it slowly moves a little closer,
and then asks, “What is your name?” At that point I realize that it had made
no sound, although I’d clearly heard the words in my head. Then I find
myself responding nonverbally, as I do with my imaginary friends, “My
name is Helen.” Now it moves back slightly, somehow folding in upon itself
until it entirely disappears. I’m sad because I don’t want to see it leave. It
seemed like such a nice friend. I hope I haven’t done something to frighten it.
The next Saturday I eagerly return to the wooded area by the stream.
It’s a beautiful sunny day, and I hope my new friend, the blue light, knows
I’m there and will join me. Sure enough, almost immediately I feel that soft,
radiant warmth and then the blue light appears close beside me. It hadn’t
come that close before. I reach my hand out hesitantly and touch its surface.
It holds perfectly still as I cautiously feel its skin, which is soft like my
flannel pajamas, and I stroke it gently the way I pet Wink. It doesn’t move at
all, but just remains perfectly still. Then, in my head, I hear it say, “Would
you like to have a baby?” I’m really surprised that it would say that, and I tell
it in my head, “No, I don’t want to have a baby. I’m too little. I have to go to
school.” It still doesn’t move away from my hand, but remains there
comfortingly soft and warm. After a few seconds, it says, “That’s all right.
We can wait, and you can have a baby later. It will look like you, but it will
be like us.”
Just then I see a vertical opening in the side of the blue light right
there beside my hand, and in my head I hear the light say, “Would you like to
come inside?” I don’t reply. I just step carefully inside the light so as not to
hurt it. Once I’m all the way inside, I fear that the opening might close up and
I won’t be able to get out, but that doesn’t happen. The opening remains in
place. Curious, I look around at its inner walls and touch them cautiously in a
couple of places. They feel exactly the same as the outside walls did — soft
and warm. Suddenly I feel a little nauseous, and I realize that I need to get
