 Paranormal Stories by Kurt Z Certain ancient petroglyphs and paintings—such as the so-called “astronauts” of Val Camonica in Italy, the Wandjina figures of Australia, anthropomorphic forms in Utah’s Sego Canyon and Horseshoe Canyon, or unusual humanoid shapes in Indian caves—have been claimed by ancient-astronaut theorists to show helmeted beings, antennae, space suits, or disc-shaped craft. Mainstream archaeology, however, interprets these images as representations of shamans in trance states, ancestral or supernatural spirits, warriors wearing ritual headgear or armor, mythological beings, or symbolic elements of local cosmologies and daily life. These interpretations are supported by cultural context, ethnographic parallels, and the broader patterns of prehistoric art worldwide; claims of literal extraterrestrial visits remain speculative and unsupported by physical or contextual evidence. DO YOU BELIEVE? #UAP #UFO #DISCLOSURE • #Starship • #Falcon9 (or #FalconHeavy if it was that) • #SpaceXLaunch • #RocketLaunch • #SpaceLaunch  Stories of the Paranormal
By Kurt Z The Ghost Murmur It didn’t happen in an instant. It happened without warning. One ordinary afternoon I put on headphones, settled in for a nap, and pressed play on audio from the declassified CIA Gateway Process. I’d spent years studying paranormal research, alien agendas, and multi-dimensional theories, so the tapes felt like a natural next step. What was meant to be rest became something else entirely. I drifted—not into sleep, but into a forbidden realm I was never supposed to enter. This is my story. A cautionary tale of unseen worlds that exist just beyond the edge of our reality. And a question that still haunts me: am I alone? Or are there others out there, quietly carrying the weight of the same experiences? The Gateway Process was declassified by the CIA in 2003. Developed with the Monroe Institute, it uses Hemi-Sync—binaural beats designed to synchronize the two hemispheres of the brain. The official promise was enhanced focus, out-of-body experiences, even glimpses into other dimensions. One declassified report claimed it could enable travel through time and direct communion with the intuitive knowledge of the universe. For me, it opened a door that refused to close. That afternoon, as the audio played, I slipped out of ordinary consciousness. Suddenly a familiar presence—the one I had come to think of as my “handler”—appeared. The figure warned me, then apologized, saying it could no longer protect me. Moments later another being—a “controller”—laughed and declared it would destroy me. Months later, in a timeless void, I felt my spirit dragged to the back porch of my home. An invisible force hit me like a death ray—a crushing vibrational energy that felt like it was killing me. It stopped just short of the end. At 10:30 AM my essence slammed back into my body. I woke up shattered. Afterward, life collapsed into stagnation: drinking, laziness, isolation from family and friends. I still feel a presence in the house. I don’t invent it. It’s been here long before any of this began. I am not alone. Online communities are filled with parallel stories. People who used the Gateway tapes for months only to experience out-of-body episodes so intense they stopped in fear. Others who describe near-death-like attacks during astral projection: sudden booms of energy, uncontrollable body vibrations, shadow beings appearing at 3 AM, electric fire pulsing through them, voices whispering, “This is how you connect.” Some speak of vast voids filled with entities that communicate in instant, overwhelming downloads of knowledge.I’ve read the warnings on Reddit’s r/gatewaytapes: don’t begin unless your deepest traumas are processed, or the risk of psychological fracture is real. Yet healing stories surface too—people overcoming addictions, even repairing physical conditions through subconscious reprogramming. Three accounts in particular stayed with me .One person described a pressure-filled awakening that left them half-processed and lost in contradictions until they found others online and realized they weren’t going insane. Another, during Wave 2 of the tapes, clicked out of their body and saw a shadow being watching them. Sleep paralysis attacks only stopped when they began invoking protection. “Gateway might be contaminated,” they said, “but it also opened doors I can’t close.” A third, after a near-death experience unrelated to the tapes, came to see ordinary life as a simulation. “If you’re entangled with these realms,” they advised, “declare your integrity clearly. Don’t wait in silence.”On an ordinary Thursday night I sit eating tater tots and fish sticks, drinking a Busch Lite, typing into the quiet glow of my laptop. I wonder aloud: Am I alone in this? I think about integrity—how even in everyday life, people should communicate if they can’t keep a promise. In the vast multi-dimensional unknown, perhaps the rules are different. I feel like an infant there, small and new against something ancient. Yet there is hope. You are not alone. Survivors find each other in places like Reddit’s Gateway Tapes community, in discussions on X about astral travel, and through programs at the Monroe Institute. Whether it’s a handler’s helpless apology or a controller’s cruel threat, these experiences bind a hidden community together. The Gateway may lead to the abyss. But shared stories—told carefully, courageously—can light the way back. If you’ve felt this too, know that others walk the same shadowed path.Proceed with caution.But know, too, that connection awaits.In the end I believe the government released the Gateway Process to the public so they could identify humans with the talent they are recruiting—or the ones they feel threatened by. Furthermore, the attack weapon was released by the CIA on April 8th, 2026. They call it the Ghost Murmur. #GatewayProcess #CIAGateway #HemiSync #ParanormalEncounter #AstralProjection #TrueGhostStory #MonroeInstitute #OutOfBodyExperience #MultiDimensional #GhostMurmur  Stories of the Paranormal
Shadows That Know Your Name By Kurt Z In the summer of 1973, the cranberry bogs of Warrens, Wisconsin, stretched out like a patchwork quilt under the endless sky. Desolate and quiet until the fall harvest, they were a forager’s paradise, offering tart red jewels to anyone willing to brave the damp, lonely marshes. Our family—Dad, my older brother Marc, my little brother Lee, and me—had come to the lake for a weekend escape. The unpolished aluminum skin on the 1960s Avion camper gleamed faintly in the sunlight, a silver fortress that always felt safe. Until that night I was 9 years old, Lee was 6, and the campground was nearly deserted. Only one other camper, a sagging tent, sat across the clearing, its occupants unseen. Dad and Marc had driven into town in the Bronco, leaving Lee and me alone in the Avion. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, the petrichor of the surrounding trees lingering like a memory of ancient forests. Twisted trees, bent by indigenous hands centuries ago to mark paths through the wilderness, loomed like silent sentinels around the lake. It was long after dark when something yanked me from sleep. Not a sound, not a dream, but a presence. Have you ever been shaken awake by something you can’t name? Something so real it claws at your soul, yet leaves no trace? If you’re nodding, you know the feeling. If you’ve got chills, you’re already with me. The Avion was quiet, except for Lee’s soft breathing in the back bed. But something was wrong. The air felt thick, heavy, like a storm about to break. I lay still, eyes wide, heart hammering. Then it came—a low, deliberate thud against the camper’s aluminum skin. Not the wind, not a branch. Something intentional. The trailer shook. Not a gentle sway, but a violent, angry jolt, like a kid shaking a soda can before handing it to an unsuspecting adult. The door rattled in its frame, the metal groaning as if something was testing it, probing for a way in. I clutched my blanket, too terrified to scream. Lee stirred but didn’t wake. I wanted to call for help, but my voice was trapped in my throat. I don’t know why, but I felt it was after me. Not Lee—just me. A dark shadow seemed to press against the trailer, an envelope of malice that wanted to swallow me whole. The aluminum held firm, its unyielding skin a barrier against whatever was out there. I don’t know how long it lasted—minutes, maybe hours—but it felt like forever. Lake Wazeda was our weekend haven growing up. When I’d return to school, my friends would lean in, wide-eyed, as I spun tales of fishing, campfires, and the strange, twisted trees that marked ancient paths. But I never told them about that night. How could I? There was no proof—no scratches on the Avion, no footprints in the muddy shore. Just a story that made me sound like a nut. Warrens wasn’t just known for cranberries. In 1973, whispers of Bigfoot sightings rippled through Wisconsin’s backwoods. Grainy photos, shaky stories, and half-believed encounters filled diner conversations. But this wasn’t a sighting. This was an encounter. Not a hairy beast caught in headlights, but something older, darker, something that lived in the spaces between what we see and what we fear. A quantum shadow, maybe, slipping through the cracks of reality. I didn’t dare look out the window that night. I didn’t need to. Whatever it was didn’t need to be seen to be felt. It shook the trailer like it was personal, like it knew I was inside, small and scared and alone. The wheels never left the ground—I think—but it didn’t matter. The fear was real. The intent was real.When Dad and Marc finally rolled back into the campground, the Bronco’s headlights cut through the darkness like a lifeline. I stumbled out of my bunk, tears streaking my face, and threw myself into Marc’s arms. He was only eighteen, but he was my big brother, my protector. He saw the trauma in my eyes, the way my hands trembled. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low, serious.I tried to tell him, but the words came out jumbled—shaking, shadow, door, something. Lee woke up then, confused, saying he hadn’t heard a thing. Dad checked the trailer, his flashlight sweeping the ground for tracks, scratches, anything. Nothing. Just the same muddy shore, the same twisted trees. “Probably a bear,” he said, but his eyes lingered on me, uncertain. Marc didn’t laugh. He didn’t call me crazy. He just squeezed my shoulder and said, “I believe you.” That was enough. I’m 61 now. About time I had the courage to write about this. Dad and Marc have now moved on to the Great Campground in the Sky and I never had the nerve to ask them to recount the event. Little brother Lee doesn’t remember anything…How does one recover from something like that? A moment that leaves no evidence, no witnesses, just a scar on your soul? I’ve carried it for decades, that night at Lake Wazeda. The petrichor of those trees still haunts me, a scent that pulls me back to a nine-year-old boy staring into the dark, knowing something stared back. I’ve read about quantum realms since then, about the spaces between what we can prove and what we feel. Maybe that’s where it lives—whatever it was. Not Bigfoot, not a bear, but something older, something that knows your name and shakes your world to remind you it’s there. I don’t go back to Warrens anymore. The Avion is long gone, sold or scrapped. But sometimes, when the night is too quiet, I feel it again—that envelope of shadow, pressing in. I don’t need footprints or scratches to know it was real. You don’t either, do you? Because you’ve got your own story, your own night when the world shook, and something called your name.  Stories of the Paranormal
Phil’s Watch By Kurt Z It was September 24, 2015, when my friend Phillip Stone died. I was at his side for the days leading up to that day. It was 7 a.m. His watch alarm was set and went off every day at 7 a.m. for years, and we could never figure out how to stop it. What happened that day still drives me to investigate paranormal science and study experiences.The night before his passing, his daughters and I sat in a hospice room with him. He was sedated from a fractured hip from a fall the day prior. Suddenly I imagined an angel over him simply saying “7 o’clock.” It was 6:30 p.m., and I assumed it was a premonition that he’d pass at 7 p.m. We all gathered around his bed to say our goodbyes. 7 p.m. rolled around and there was no change. About 7:30 p.m. I decided to get some rest and retire to my room. Before I left I kissed him on the forehead and said, “Don’t you leave here without saying goodbye!” I know he heard me. The next morning I was up early as always. I was watching the clock intently. When the watch sounded its annoying daily alarm I wasn’t surprised, but what followed changed my life. My coffee is more hot chocolate with a splash of coffee than it is traditional coffee. Already feeling somber I was looking over Lake Michigan, I suspected something—an indication or gut feeling. When the watch sounded its annoying alarm, an excited flush of energy rushed through the front door of the condo, through my body, and continued out the window and out over the lake! If that wasn’t intense enough, the phone rang within a minute notifying us that Phil had just died. What I saw was his excitement to be free from lifes restrictions (mostly from clothing)and couldn’t wait to get back out into the world like he was a kid again.His funeral was shortly after. It was simple and well attended. I was fortunate to have my brother and parents there to support me in the loss of a great influence in my life. He was the inspiration for many years of a character I created called the naked newspaper runner, and I miss that inspiration every day.My dad was called on a few times at the funeral dinner to tell a few jokes to a select few. I don’t remember his jokes, but they brought laughs. When my brother tucked my parents into the sedan to take them home later that evening, I had another feeling. I’ll never forget my last words to my father while hugging him intently: “I love you very much!” We had a basic room at the Pfister Hotel in Milwaukee that night. It was snowy and decorated for Christmas. Carol and I went for a walk through the streets before turning in. My dreams that night were chaotic, followed by an early rise. The feeling while I tried to go through my normal routine was so unsettled—something was clearly not right. We went down early for checkout and get the car back to the airport when the phone rang. It was my sister. “Something happened to Dad! We’re not sure. Something’s wrong.” We immediately got in the car when the same intense rush washed through me… and I knew. The phone rang again and we were told Dad had died.The 60-mile drive from the hotel to the hospital was so emotional. The fog was thick and there wasn’t much traffic on the two-lane Wisconsin farm road. We were nearing a spot my dad would forever warn us about—the police setting a speed trap at an intersection. A lifetime of traveling that stretch I never saw a cop car… until that day.Honestly, my eyes were so full of tears I could barely see the road. Add fog. I tucked behind a car heading the same direction and just followed the taillights through the dense fog. It’s still crazy to me that at that hour of the morning, on that day, the lights of a police car came out of nowhere on my rear bumper. I told him the same story I’m telling you and he let me go.By the way—the intense feeling I had earlier that day was at 7 a.m. and Phil’s watch never sounded off again.  Stories of the Paranormal
by Kurt Z Barefoot in the Snow Growing up in a small town, everybody knows everybody—but everyone has their secrets. As a small boy, a fond memory of sitting on my father’s lap watching Neil Armstrong take his first step on the moon in black and white tv really kick-started my imagination. That sense of wonder about space and sky still carries with me. Going to bed in those days was never an argument for me because even at a young age I enjoyed sleeping and dreaming and waking up early. That particular night before going to bed I sat with my mother and learned how to laugh watching a Jerry Lewis movie. I went to sleep with a smile on my face imagining what it takes to making people laugh. When I woke up, I was standing on the back porch… shoeless… in fresh ankle-deep snow. So confused. How did I get here? I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or what. The snow wasn’t cold, and neither was I. Startled for sure, wondering how long I’d been standing in the dark alone. I started pounding on the locked door. We never locked our doors when we left the house—only when we were home. I’m not certain we even had keys. An indoor light popped on and I could see Mom coming to the door. She turned on the porch light and at first didn’t see me standing far below the window. She looked angry, quickly flipped the deadbolt, and kicked the screen door open. “What in the world are you doing out here in the middle of the night? How did you get out there?” Truth is, I had no idea. Mom noticed there were no footprints anywhere else on the porch or on the stairs—just where I was standing. Like I had been dropped there. “Did you crawl out your bedroom window and down the porch rail? Why would you do such a thing?! Get in here before you freeze to death!” Wisconsin winters can be harsh. Heating a four-story farmhouse from the 1800s is tough. The single-pane windows provided little or no insulation, so back then they had a kit that installed see-through plastic wrap heat-shrunk on the inside of all the windows. None of the plastic was disturbed on any of the windows. So did I crawl out the window and down onto the porch from the second story? No. It wasn’t long after that night that I began having nightmares. Waking up screaming, night after night. Brothers and sisters really didn’t like sleeping in the same room anymore. Nightly trips down the stairs to sleep near Mom and Dad for safety were taking their toll on everyone. The recurring dream (long since stopped) is as clear today as it was back then. It was as if our house was built over the top of a missile silo. Every night a missile would launch—rumbling and growling to life as furniture and beds got crushed against the walls of the silo while the rocket came up through the floor. I could feel the heat from the flames as it moved in slow motion. Growing up in a large generational Catholic family, there wasn’t much leeway for conversation or reason for my nightmares. It was either demonic or a medical reason. So off to the doctor we went. I don’t recall much of the visit, but I remember Mom describing my issues to him. He asked me questions while looking into my eyes and ears—about falling or hitting my head, what I ate or drank before bed—and nothing pointed to something obvious. He then proceeded to take off my shirt, checking my front side for bruises or bug bites. It wasn’t unusual to have a few spiders inside the house year-round, but again, no bumps, bruises, or scrapes. Then he moved around to my back and immediately said, “What’s this?” Mom snapped to attention and came close. “Right here. The black mark on the back of his left shoulder.” Mom, perhaps angry she hadn’t noticed, scolded me for letting kids at school draw on me with markers. The doctor quickly corrected her. “This is not a marker. How long has this been there? We have nothing on file about a birthmark on you.” Mom agreed, with a face that showed concern and mystery. I lost track of whatever else was said as I was craning and twisting my head around, trying to see what was there. But it was too far around on the back. I couldn’t wait to get home and check in the mirror. I don’t think I waited for the car to come to a complete stop before I was running for the house. Turns out it’s not a single spot after all. It’s a series of small dots that make a saucer-like pattern about 1.5 cm by 0.75 cm. For decades it remained the only blemish on my body. The color and shape have not changed in over fifty-five years.  Florida Marsh RabbitsFirst time in 30 years we counted 8 rabbits on the trail in Clam Bayou!
The marsh rabbit (Sylvilagus palustris) is a semi-aquatic rabbit from the southeastern U.S. coastal plains, distinguished from cottontails by its darker fur, smaller ears, and a dingy gray-brown tail instead of a white one. It's an excellent swimmer, often found in swamps, marshes, and wetlands, and is known for its ability to swim to escape predators. These herbivorous rabbits are primarily nocturnal but can be seen during the day, feeding on aquatic plants and grasses.  ALL IS ONE
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AuthorKurt Zuelsdorf. Published author, Urban Tracker, Outdoor Enthusiast & Kayak Nature Adventures Owner Operator Archives
June 2026
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