“If there arise among you a prophet, or a dreamer of dreams, and giveth thee a sign or a wonder, And the sign or the wonder come to pass, whereof he spake unto thee, saying, Let us go after other gods, which thou hast not known, and let us serve them; Thou shalt not hearken unto the words of that prophet…” (Deuteronomy 13:1-3 KJV)

They say to never begin a book with a dream. They being the experts, the key holders for the publishing world, the gatekeepers so they’re called…

It all started with a bad dream, a really bad dream, one that jarred me awake in the middle of the night and had me sleeping with the light on afterward. I’ve since dubbed it Halloween Town, and although I didn’t know it at the time, this really bad dream would later turn into a living nightmare.

The alarm clock read about two in the morning. I threw off the covers, jumped out of bed and stumbled over to the light switch. Up down, up down, up down – nothing. The alarm clock flickered and blinked as I pressed my back against the wall, my legs shaky with panic and my breath shallow and strained – I jerked awake. The alarm clock read about two in the morning. I tried to sit up, but my arms and legs struggled under the weight of the covers, and my body strained to flinch even one tiny insignificant muscle. It was coming for me. Like a hunter in the trees it slid through the room undetected yet somehow magnified. I tried to scream, to move, to kick, to flail – I cried out for Jesus to save me, but my lips quivered and my voice choked on itself. I jerked awake.

The alarm clock read about two in the morning. I jumped out of bed and flicked on the light. Up down, up down, up down – nothing. I threw open my bedroom door and padded out into the glow of the narrow hallway. Our tiny living room resembled a scene from Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas, and as I turned the corner, I spotted my roommate seated on the couch lit up by Halloween decorations. I was relieved to see her. Everything would be okay. I described the nightmare I’d just had and looked around the room somewhat confused as to when she found time to decorate. I waited for a response as she applied the final touches to her makeup, flashed me a broad smile, and then bid farewell slamming the front door behind her. I jerked awake.

The alarm clock read about two in the morning. I sat halfway up in bed and scanned the dark room waiting for my eyes to adjust, waiting for my head to clear. The light switch on the far wall triggered irrational fear in me as I focused on its downward position. What if it doesn’t work this time? Hesitantly, I pulled down the covers, slid out of bed and stumbled into the master bathroom where another seemingly innocent light switch awaited me. Artificial light illuminated the tiny room as I sighed a breath of relief, but the dream remained fixed in my mind like some prophetic vision of horror. I smoked a cigarette through the bathroom window and attempted to analyze what exactly it was that had me so spooked. When I laid back down, I kept the bathroom light on and the door cracked. Thirty-seven years old and afraid of the dark, so be it. I knew what was lurking in the hallway. I knew what was hiding under the bed. The boogieman was real that night.

The next morning, I still couldn’t shake the dream. It stayed with me all day and even that following night I had to force myself to turn off the bathroom light, but what was it? What was it that spooked a girl like me who could watch slasher movies all night and have no problem falling asleep, a girl like me, rather, a thirty-seven-year-old woman, to sleep with the light on? I wasn’t completely sure. I only knew that the dream inspired absolute terror, a nightmare played on a maddening loop, but the part that stuck out the most, the part that struck a chord in me was my inability to cry out to Jesus for help. I just couldn’t do it. I remember thinking, if I could just rebuke it, if I could just call on Christ to save me, but I couldn’t. Something was in the way, something far more evil than I could ever imagine.

It had been twenty-five years since my favorite celebrity, River Phoenix, died of an accidental drug overdose. I was sixteen at the time and about as directionless as a hippie hunting magic mushrooms in the woods, I know because I’ve been one. My step-sister and I were at a Halloween party which was actually more of a small get together of friends who really had only one thing in common: weed. The bong passed from person to person as we sat around the muted television red-eyed and too stoned to care that the CD player needed assistance. The disc coughed and spun itself out of control as two broken red lines blinked incessantly from the small digital reader. River’s face appeared on the 10:00 news and somebody ordered someone to turn up the television. It had been about five years since I’d heard his name or even seen his face. My preteen crush dwindled years before and River’s posters were long replaced with grown men stuffed into spandex with teased hair and makeup, much to my mother’s dismay. To this day, she harbors a deep resentment for Guns-n-Roses.             

1989 marked the beginning of my rebellion, and while it would be easy to blame Slash and his top hat or Axl Rose and his purple leather pants for my sudden decline, it would be misplaced blame. Heavy metal music was an outlet, a means for expression, something to nurse the anger and confusion, but not the root cause of my sudden transformation. To my mom, it would appear that the sweet little girl in piggy tails with the latest teen dream tacked above her bed changed overnight, and I suppose I did, but it wasn’t the devil’s music that did me in; it was the man in the suit and tie, my new father-figure, the sexual predator who was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

At just eleven-years-old, I began smoking cigarettes, wearing all black and disrespecting any and all authority, but I didn’t begin experimenting with drugs and alcohol until I was about fifteen, and even then, it was nothing too serious. It wasn’t until River allegedly overdosed on a lethal cocktail of drugs that I began experimenting with the hard stuff. It wasn’t until the brainwashing wore off and the reality of my disposition set in that I turned to substance abuse. I imagined River suffered the same phenomenon.

After his death I became obsessed all over again. I collected every magazine and newspaper article I could find and watched his movies on repeat. He even began appearing in my dreams, most of which I still remember. In one such dream, not long after his death, I was horrified to find his corpse stashed away in my closet like some well-kept secret. I kept thinking, why do I have River Phoenix’s dead body in my closet and how did it get there? I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just left it there. I remember the dream vividly. Twenty-five years later and it still haunts me, much like the Halloween dream. There’s a connection here, like a thick web decades in the making, there’s always a connection holding those dots in place.   

I’d been researching River’s death when the Halloween dream ripped me from my sleep. I was fairly certain that his accidental overdose all those years ago was just a cover story for ritualistic murder Hollywood style. Through photo shoots and interviews it became obvious to me that he was forced into climbing the masonic ladder at a very early age. This theory is nothing new as anyone in the conspiracy community will tell you that the freemasons/Illuminati control absolutely everything, especially Hollywood. As with any conspiratorial celebrity story, the same topics appeared on the radar: monarch mind control, sexual abuse, the handlers and the puppet masters, and a falling away from God and Jesus Christ. River’s story fit the bill perfectly.

The information piled up and I decided to start a blog exposing the details of my findings. I was onto something. Too many coincidences and clues were left behind for there not to be something more to the story. The further along I went the more worried I became that I’d stumbled over the line and that somebody might come after me, but I brushed those thoughts away as unfounded and altogether absurd. I’m just being paranoid, I thought. After all, my blog only saw about ten visitors a day and most of those were probably friends and family.        

River’s death kept me up at night. I’d even reached out to one of his friends on Facebook who was fairly vocal about his belief that River was murdered, but I never got a reply. I was consumed in my research. At one point, I even broke down in tears confronted with the horrors that I’d uncovered about his life and death. River’s story involved some type of treated water that appeared to cause forgetfulness and served as some type of tool used for hypnotism and mind control. It was a part of the story I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but knew, nonetheless, that it was of high significance. After posting about the water thing on my blog, I suffered what I believed to be the worst panic attack of my life. My heart pounded uncontrollably as I laid in bed trying to catch my breath. I tossed and turned for hours on end unable to breathe or even think straight and fearful I was having a heart attack. It lasted the entire night with me praying and trying to steady my labored breath. I had the thought that maybe it was spiritual, maybe I was under attack because of my research, but the idea seemed absurd to me. It must be something else, I concluded.   

The next day while I was on break at work, I noticed a blue town car slowly heading toward me. An older man with white hair nodded and waved before turning left onto the street that runs directly behind my office building. I told myself that if he circled back around, I would take shelter in my car. I speculated that the two things might be related, you know, blue = water. Colors play a huge role in this story – red, blue, black, white, yellow, purple, green – all the colors of the rainbow hold significance. It’s a form of communication. Everything is color-coded like Lucky Charms piled into a bowl soaking up the milk as you search for that pot of gold that remains just out of reach and always well-hidden. So, when the blue Lincoln circled back around I high-tailed it to my car.

The following weekend I discovered a dead dog in my garden. The familiar smell sent my own dogs on a scavenger hunt in the backyard, but the small brown puppy with the pink collar was in the front garden on the other side of the fence. Summer temperatures had reached around 106 degrees that year, and with no rain for at least three months, I figured the puppy had probably died from dehydration. I spent the rest of the day burying the poor thing in my backyard, a difficult task being that the ground was rock solid. Indeed, even soaking the area with a water hose proved futile as the water took several hours to filter through the top layer of our clay soil. Using two sticks from my yard, I made a cross to mark the grave while I waited for the ground to soften. It seemed like another bizarre coincidence had just visited my doorstep.

Dogs were a reoccurring theme in River’s story, and my blog contained numerous theories about their symbolic meaning. The worship of dogs traces all the way back to ancient Egypt with Anubis, the dog-headed god, as well as the Dog Star, Sirius, whose rising marked the flooding of the Nile River. The Guanches, who were the original inhabitants of The Canary Islands, also worshiped dogs. In fact, the name is derived from the Latin name Canariae Insulae, meaning, “Island of the Dogs.” According to historian, Pliny the Elder, the Mauretanian king Juba II named the island Canaria because it contained “vast multitudes of dogs of very large size.” The study of dogs in the Bible also paints a spiritual picture. When David confronts Goliath, the giant asks him, “Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with staves?” He then cursed David by his gods. As we will see, there is a correlation between the giants, dogs, and the concept of mind control. It’s also worth noting that occultists abide by something called The Law of Reversal. You know, Satan is god, the inverted cross, dark is light, dog god. I knew I was on to something.

The same week that I found the dead puppy in my yard, my mother’s cat was killed by the neighbor’s dog. Cats were also a reoccurring theme in River’s story. Anyone who has researched MK Ultra, monarch programming, or any of these mind control conspiracy theories know that cats are usually symbolic of something known as sex-kitten programming. I began researching an occult practice called sex magick. The infamous occultist, Aleister Crowley, was a huge advocate of this practice which is a ritual involving the use of energy from sexual arousal with the visualization of a desired result. The belief is that it can be harnessed to transcend one’s normally perceived reality. According to Crowley and his organization known as the Ordo Templi Orientis (OTO), “Our order possesses the key which opens up all Masonic secrets, namely, the teachings of sexual magic, and this teaching explains, without exception, all the secrets of Freemasonry and all systems of religion.” Remember that scene in the movie Pleasantville where the bored housewife fornicates in the bathtub and then all of the sudden her world turns to color and comes alive? That’s the concept here. Fornication, whether singular or plural, is the key.

It’s worth noting that I kept my blog set to private for a good while before I finally went public. In the days following my site’s unveiling, I experienced the alleged panic attack, the dead puppy, the blue town car, as well as mysterious taps at my bedroom window. I assumed they were probably just misguided bugs. Funny, I thought, I’ve never noticed that sound before.

The August heat finally gave way to fall temperatures as an overwhelmingly sweet fragrance coated the outside air. It was as if a football field arrayed with carnations had planted itself next to my house overnight. I became giddy over my findings, confident that what I had discovered would blow the case wide open and expose this thing once and for all. A much-needed rainstorm gathered on a cloudless day and flooded my backyard garden, torrential rain that only lasted for about fifteen minutes. It’s a sign, I thought. Something was in the air, a gut feeling that persuaded me to keep searching. I was on the right track. God himself had a hand in this thing. He wanted me to expose the enemy.