The next thing I remember is the smiling face of the orderly who was pulling a blood-pressure cuff from around my arm.
“Major Morehouse? Do you know where you are?”
“Am I in the hospital?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, but do you know which hospital?”
“No I don’t.” I felt a hand touch my shoulder, and when I turned toward it Debbie’s face came into view.
“You’re in Walter Reed, David. You’re safe now, and these people will help you. They’re not like the others; they care about you.”
“That’s right, Major. You look a little rough, and your wife says it’s been a while since you ate anything or bathed. How about a shower and some lunch before you see the doctor?”
I nodded.
“Great! That’s the spirit.”
I did everything they wanted me to do, and Debbie sat with me while I talked with a young air force medical student. He listened to me and then to Debbie and then to me again. He was taking notes almost faster than we were talking. Debbie chronicled my entire history for him, from Ranger battalion to the present.
“This is a very interesting case,” said the medical student when the attending physician came in. “I’ll let them tell it to you themselves—but trust me, you’re in for a wild ride.”
The attending physician, whom I’ll call Dr. Damioli, was a petite, intense woman, with diverse psychiatric experience in the government. Debbie began with the story of the bullet and the very first visions and nightmares, then described Sun Streak and the conversations with Dr. Barker and with Levy. She spent two hours detailing every event she could recall, and had dug up phone numbers for everyone she had on file. Some were friends. Some were not. But they would all have to confirm what had happened to her husband.
Dr. Damioli called the psychologist associated with the remote-viewing unit while Debbie and I sat in the lounge, then called us back into her office. The medical student was present as well.
“I spoke to the remote-viewing psychologist on the phone. Did you know he’s assigned to Fort Bragg now?”
I looked at Debbie, furious. He must have told all of them—the prosecutors, my superiors, everyone else involved—everything: what would set me off, how to get to me, how to get me to shut up.
“Well,” Dr. Damioli continued, “he confirmed the existence of Sun Streak. He also told me that he hospitalized another officer back in 1985 or ’86 for symptoms similar to yours. But then he suggested that your problem stemmed from a pending court-martial. He feels that you are probably malingering.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Debbie shouted. “He’s the man who got David involved with this in the first place. Now he wants to bail out on him.” She looked at me, her eyes aflame. “What kind of people did you call your friends? You used to call this man your friend, and he just politely stuck a knife in your back!”
The doctor leaned over and took Debbie’s hand. “Mrs. Morehouse, please! Just relax.” Her voice calmed Debbie. “I don’t care what he suggests. He’s only a psychologist, not a medical doctor. It was clear to me that he was anxious about something, and his comment about malingering only served to settle that thought for me. If what you’re saying is true—and I believe it is—then we have a unique situation on our hands.” She paused to look at me. “Why are you crying, David?”
I reached for my face, as surprised as I could be. “I don’t know. I didn’t realize I was.” My face was wet with tears.
“You’ve obviously been through a great deal. I want to keep you here indefinitely for now, to explore this issue further. Mrs. Morehouse, do you understand that?”
“I do. I’ve been trying to get David in here for nearly seven years.”
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. And Dr. Damioli not only understood what had happened, she knew what was happening within me now. Despite the counsel of her colleagues, she refused to medicate me, insisting that what I saw was explainable apart from biological problems. She was a hero. I paid little if any attention to what was going on at Fort Bragg—it didn’t matter to me anymore; what mattered was understanding the meaning of the angel and of the importance of the gift. For the first time in seven years I could speak freely and openly about what I saw and felt and heard. I didn’t have to worry about frightening family members, or making my peers shrink from me, or losing the respect of my superiors. Even at Sun Streak, I hadn’t been able to share everything, except with Mel. Here there was help, and partial answers. I was encouraged to sketch and to discuss what I saw in the ether. I became the subject of much controversy over whether drugs or even shock therapy was more in order than the counseling and reading assignments Dr. Damioli prescribed.
I was brought before the directors of Walter Reed’s psychiatry department. Eventually it was decided that I would be medically retired, as no longer being fit to do what I had been trained to do. They told me that I was too emotionally unstable to go on wearing a uniform.
The retirement process began. I filled out papers and endured more tests, but also enjoyed time with Debbie and the children, who came by every day. We were sitting in the hall one day in early June, when a familiar face appeared. It was a major from Sun Streak.
“Hello, David, Debbie. I was wondering if we could talk alone for a minute.”
I looked around at the children and Debbie. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’ll send the kids to get a soda, but Debbie is going to stay right here with me.”
“I wanted to talk to you about why you’re in here.”
“Are you still with Sun Streak?”
“No, I’m in a section of DIA headquarters that has limited oversight responsibility for it.”
“In other words, you’ve been moved up to the head shed to oversee some of the operations. Is that it?”
“Yes, and I’ve been asked to find out exactly what you’re telling them here in the hospital.”
“I see.” I was getting upset but didn’t want to show it. “I’m in here because something happened to me a long time ago that I should have taken care of. Instead, I played good soldier and did what I was asked to do. I tried to protect my career and be the best remote viewer I could; and now I’m here.” I smiled at him. “And yes, I’m telling them everything I can about the unit.”
He cleared his throat and crossed his legs, folding his hands in front of his knees. His thick glasses dwarfed his face and magnified his eyes. “I, uh, see. Then, I want you to know that I will do whatever is necessary to protect the unit. We can’t let you destroy it.”
Debbie jumped up from her chair and stood between Pratt and me. “What kind of human being are you? David’s not trying to do anything to your precious unit; he’s not here because of that. He’s here because the unit made what was already wrong with him worse.”
“Frankly, Debbie, I just don’t see how that could happen.”
“Don’t you? Did you and the rest of your cronies become medical doctors since I last saw you? Where do you get off coming to a conclusion like that—because you didn’t have any problems? You and the handful of psychics you’re here to protect didn’t have any problems, so nobody else can, is that it?”
“I can see you’re upset.” He stood. “I’ll do what I can; but my original statement stands; we won’t let you destroy the unit with any claims, regardless of what they are.” He nodded to Debbie. “Good day.”
“You can tell your friends at DIA that I won’t stand for any more shenanigans with my family,” I called as he walked away.
He stopped dead in his tracks and looked back over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said. First your boys broke into my house and ransacked my office; then they tried to kill me and my family. I won’t let that happen again, I might just have to put some of my old Ranger training to use. You know what I mean … old buddy?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about; that sounds like something you and Mel would cook up.”
/> “You get the hell out of here and don’t come back. I thought you were a friend, but you’re nothing but a weasel with an opinion. I thought I was part of a profession, but apparently I joined a fraternity, full of secret little clubs with special handshakes. Step out of line and your brothers pull a bag over your head and beat you to death. Well, you go ahead and swing away, but remember this: the bag is off and I can see who’s swinging the clubs.”
He looked at Debbie and me from over the tops of his glasses and smiled. “Oh, you have no idea who’s swinging, my friend. You really don’t have any idea at all. And you remember this: in this world, even when you can see who’s swinging, you’ll never see the one that gets you.” He winked, turned, and walked away.
A few days after that encounter, I had a relapse, falling back into the ether. The ceiling above me dissolved away in a blue-and-white swirl until a large oddly shaped hole appeared. In it I saw the darkness of the evil place I feared so much. I trembled violently and cried out for help. The darkness widened above me, and the phantoms of that dimension slithered out of the hole and across the ceiling to the walls; several dropped into the bed where I lay. I kicked and screamed to get them off me, yelling at the top of my lungs; I struck out at them, but my hands passed through their vaporous forms. They scratched at me, calling me by name and screeching to me that I was nothing in this form. They slashed at me over and over until I closed my eyes from the pain; at last the room grew quiet once again. I lay there quivering, waiting for the next blow.
“Oh, my God! I need some help in here! Somebody! I need some help!”
I opened my eyes to see the medical student screaming over his shoulder, his face pale, his eyes wide.
“Oh, my God, Dave—what happened? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said, still groggy from the nightmare. “What’s wrong?”
“Your face—it’s covered in blood. What happened? What happened?”
In seconds the room was filled with attendants. My body was covered with blood; legs, face, bedsheets, everything was covered with blood. Pages had been torn from my notebook, and sketches had been made on them in my blood. I felt my head to find blood was matted and caked in my hair. I nearly fainted. I dropped my hands to the sheets and I began weeping uncontrollably as they whisked me out of the room.
Two days later Debbie and I sat in Dr. Damioli’s office. My legs and head were bandaged, and I was now under constant observation. I didn’t go anywhere or do anything without an attendant present.
“I have to start you on medications now, David. I have no choice, and now you have no choice, either.”
I sat there with my hands folded in my lap and my head down, completely confused. “I don’t know what happened. They’ve never touched me before; I didn’t believe that they could.”
“You’re speaking of the dark ones?”
“Yes! I didn’t know they could touch me. How could they do it? How could they do it?”
Debbie wept softly. “He’s seen them for years,” she said to Dr. Damioli. “But they never did anything like this.”
The doctor’s eyebrows rose. “I’m certain they didn’t do it this time, either. I believe that what you see in the ether is very real to you, and I believe that there is a great deal more to the human mind’s capabilities than we have even begun to discover. But I don’t believe that something from another dimension lacerated your flesh.” She pulled out a plastic specimen cup, twisted the lid off, and poured a single razor blade onto her desk, then held it up for us to see. “Do you know where this came from, David?”
“No.”
She frowned. “Well, it was stuck in the table next to your bed; I believe it’s what cut you.”
The blade shimmered. “I still don’t know where it came from, Doctor. Why would I cut myself?”
“That’s what I can’t figure out, what worries me most. Something triggered a dissociative episode that ended—or began—with you carving your body. Perhaps—and I repeat, perhaps—at the suggestion of what you call the dark ones.”
“Are you suggesting that what he sees in the ether has that kind of power over him?” Debbie asked.
“I don’t know the answer to that yet. The problem is that I wanted to continue to examine and treat David without giving him antipsychotic and antidepressant medications. Now my hands are tied.”
“Doctor,” I said, “can you please try and tie all of this together for me? I’m missing a few pieces here; I think you have some idea of what’s going on, but I still don’t.”
“I’m not sure I do, either,” said Debbie.
“It’s both simple and very complex. You mustn’t let yourself believe that something came out of the darkness and lacerated you; that just can’t happen. However, what you see in the visions can affect you once you’re drawn into a dissociative state—what you call an altered state.”
“You mean, while I’m out of it, I can actually play a role in the nightmares? I can actually do something to myself because something in the vision tells me to?”
“That’s a little more simplistic than I’d like to make it, but it is pretty much my theory. I’m convinced that what you are experiencing is not chemical. My colleagues believe that the bullet made your brain stop producing some chemical it needs to function properly. What I believe is that the impact of the bullet, and the subsequent trauma, opened something you were not prepared for, and that there is a logical or philosophical explanation for everything going on inside your head. Everywhere I look there are indicators leading me to this conclusion; your sketches carry some very important messages about what is happening to you. You think they are images of what you see in the ether, and I won’t dispute that. However, I also believe that the images that come freely to you—the ones that pierce your consciousness at will and without provocation—are messages or symbols from deep in your limbic system.”
“But you believe that he cut himself with the razor blade?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“But where did I get the blade?”
“God knows. It could very well have been during an outing around the hospital grounds. If you were in a dissociative state you might have picked it up and hidden it without ever consciously knowing you’d done so. It appears that your altered states are linked in some way—you pick up where you left off each time. It’s quite fascinating, actually. The biggest problem people have with this, David, is that you appear quite normal; you’re sensible, intelligent, and articulate, which is not typical of people who are having experiences like yours. Consequently many people dismiss you as a malingerer. But you are indeed having real difficulties. And although you are not psychotic or delusional, what you describe fits the classic definition of someone who is. You see? You are a new type of patient, and you will require some modified treatment.”
Debbie took my hand. “Well, at least we’re getting somewhere positive. We really appreciate your efforts to unravel this, Doctor.”
“Well, it’s my job to help, not to pass judgment on David without exploring all the possibilities. Unfortunately, I fear that antipsychotics and antidepressants will hamper our progress.” Dr. Damioli pulled a book from the shelf behind her and handed it to me. “I want you to read this book; I’ll have several others for you later. I think it imperative that you grasp the full meaning of what I’m talking about, and I think you’ll find Jung’s account of his visions very interesting. Perhaps you’ll find that touching the darkness is not so unusual after all.” She smiled warmly. “You possess a unique quality—a gift, if you will. You can see what most of us will never see and, frankly, don’t want to see. The task is to be able to control it.”
“What about the remote viewing—is it affecting this, or will it be affected by controlling the dissociative states?” Debbie asked.
“For now, I believe they’re unrelated. I think that perhaps the remote viewing exacerbates the dissociative disorder, but I don’t believe they’re otherwise connected. If we can
learn to harness and control the dissociative disorder, then I think remote viewing can occur without incident; but we’ll have to see.” She picked up the file on her desk and opened it. “There’s one more thing that concerns me. David will be medically retired within a few days, so I need to arrange follow-up care at a veterans’ hospital here in the D.C. area. I want your promise that you will continue with his care, and work with me and whoever is assigned to you until you get control of this situation.”
“You have my word. And thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Yes, Doctor, thank you,” Debbie added.
I was given Halcion and Prozac, as well as a number of other medications, to stop what the “biological” psychiatrists believed were hallucinations. Their effect was devastating. I wandered about in a cloud, as if my mind were wrapped in a blanket that kept out the light. I had no visions, no nightmares, nothing but the haze of the drugs.
I met daily with Dr. Damioli and often with her more trusted colleagues; sometimes more hostile physicians would attend. Often, while I was alone sketching or writing, someone I didn’t know would sit and talk with me. These doctors would ask me questions about what I saw and what I did. They seemed more interested in information than in treatment, and I think a number of these visits took place behind Dr. Damioli’s back.
In late June, she called Debbie and me in to see her and dropped a bombshell. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Her hands were trembling. “You’re not going to be medically discharged.”
“What’s going to happen to him, then? This is terrible. What about your treatment plan?” Debbie asked.
“David’s going to be transferred to the psychiatric ward at Womack Army Hospital in Fort Bragg, where they can proceed with the court-martial as planned. I’m sorry. I’ve done everything I can.”
My heart fell to my feet.
Debbie cried, “How can they do that? How can they be so cruel?”
“Why won’t they let me get well?” I asked through the haze of the drugs.
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