1983 – Come for the Children
The year was 1984. I was sitting in the living room of a ground floor apartment/duplex in what I now believe is Philadelphia.
I was sitting on a love seat and my sister was across the room on a couch in front of a window that faced the back of the dwelling. Her young baby, little Wayne, was on a blanket on the floor, making soft cooing noises as he played. He was probably about seven or eight months old.
My sister and I talked about the baby, I watched his little round head moving back and forth as he rocked on his tummy on the floor, kicking his terry-cloth covered feet. It made me smile. I was not yet married nor did I have any children, so I just enjoyed hers.
As we talked there was a knock on the door. My sister got up to answer the door and invited in a woman that I used to work with. Her name was Midge. I got along with her well at work and we remained friends after my Christmas job was over, but here today, she was representation of something that left dread in my stomach.
Immediately the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood up. I watched her walk past me to sit in the couch next to my sister. They both began talking to each other as if I was no longer there, but Midge would occasionally look over at me with this smile, as if she were eating every bit of dread that was radiating off of me. She would smile, but it was not a pleasant smile, then she would turn her attention back to my sister.
My resentment was palpable to the point where I felt they could hear it crackling. Why did my sister let her in here? Why was this woman here in the first place? She knew how I felt about her but she seemed to use that to taunt me.
I ignored them and just watched the baby. Suddenly I realized why she was here. At the same moment that realization came, Midge again looked over at me with that smile that only seemed to be missing droplets of blood dripping from her teeth. Her eyes were not something you could look into for long without looking away.
She moved her eyes from me to the baby. “Hey there little guy”, she said in a sugary sweet voice as she moved from the couch to lean down and touch my nephew.
I jumped up between her and the infant. “Don’t touch that baby. Don’t you DARE touch that baby!”
Midge stopped and without moving her head, rolled her eyes slowly upward to look me in the face. I felt as if my insides were being scooped out with that look. Again that slow smile, as if she accomplished some goal. She slowly drew back, continuing to watch me. Our eyes locked in a death grip that was only broken with my sister’s voice.
“Bonnie, what’s wrong with you! Why are you acting like this?”
How do I explain something she cannot see? Midge and I continued to stare each other down. She looked away first with an expression of amused victory. I knew why she was here and it wasn’t to talk to my sister. There was always something about this woman I couldn’t put my finger on. Everyone liked her. No one else saw what I saw in her. Finally I answered my sister, “I don’t know. I must be just tired. Do you mind if I go lay down for a bit and you two can just visit each other, just . . . just watch the baby.”
My sister looked at me with the most puzzled expression. Midge looked at me with amusement. I didn’t return her gaze.
I walked down the hallway and climbed into bed, which was a water bed. I must have been on the edge of sleep when I heard the door open to the room some time later. I was facing the wall so I did not see who it was that came in. I was sleepy and kept my eyes closed. I felt the bed go down as someone, I assumed my sister, climbed onto it. Then I felt someone poke me in the ribs.
“Stop it”, I said, brushing the hand away, “I’m trying to sleep.”
Again the poke. I said nothing and brushed the hand away. Suddenly two hands were digging into my ribs, trying to tickle me. I started laughing, “Stop it, I’m trying to sleep”. I moved the hands away without looking at her but she began digging into my ribs rather painfully and I was getting mad.
I rolled over, and was about to throw her off the bed when I saw her face. She straddled me on the bed and put both hands around my throat. She began shaking me as hard as she could. Terror froze me as her muffled giggles and the look of madness on her face told me this was not my sister.
I knew what this was. I half expected to see that woman, Midge behind her but I did not. It was all I could do to keep some part of my airway free as my sister violently shook me by my neck as she sat on my stomach. I was screaming but next to nothing came out. Both my hands were on her wrists trying to pull her hands off but I could not break her grip as she continued to shake me. My throat was burning and I was getting nauseous.
After what seemed like forever, my anger got to me and I took the risk of releasing my grip on her wrists to try to get some momentum to throw her off. She was three inches shorter than me and probably about thirty pounds less in weight. Neither one of us were very big people, but I could always kick her butt and she was NOT getting the better of me!
In one move I released her wrists to take her throat and flipped her over on the bed. Now it was me who was straddling her as I shook her back and forth by her throat, “How do you like it, huh? How do you think this feels? Does it tickle? Is it funny?!!” I kept repeating as shook her back and forth. Her maddening giggles led me to believe that this didn’t hurt her as much as it was hurting me.
I heard the crack before I realized that we had worked our way toward the edge of the bed, where the wooden frame held the water mattress in its square home. My sister suddenly went limp.
At that instant I knew what happened. Her neck had broken, hitting the frame of the bed. I was still sitting on her but there was no life in her body from her neck down. It was like sitting on a sand bag.
I called her name. Her eyes turned up to me and she was again herself. She whispered a “Bonnie, I’m sorry”, before her eyes closed and the rest of her life went out of her.
I looked to the ceiling, threw back my head and screamed at the top of my lungs as long and loudly as the force of air lasted. This wail disintegrated into wracking sobs until I realized, “The baby . . . she came for the baby!”
Rage filled me and I jumped off the bed, half walking, half running down the hallway to the livingroom.
I was met by an empty blanket on the floor, a living room door that was wide open to the city street, and a black Doberman laying on the floor, left as a sentinel.
I stopped my screaming and looked down at the dog in silence. And he looked up at me, just watching me.
“Where is she!” I yelled at the dog.
He just looked at me, with his head on his paws. He would have ripped into me with no remorse, but he had his orders and that was just to watch me.
“WHERE IS SHE YOU SON-OF-A” (yes I said the whole word).
He just watched me with his eyes.
I kicked the dog, “Where is she!” And I began kicking him and kicking him.
Finally he let out a low, guttural growl that sounded as if he drew it up from the pits of hell. He got up slowly, moved across the room with his eyes on me the whole time as though he wanted to rip me apart. He laid back down and continued watching me. He treated my physical punishment as a mere irritant.
Rage and anguish again overcame me and I threw back my head and screamed, “Damned you!!!!” I whirled around and went out the open door, onto the streets of Philadelphia.
At a pace just short of running, I tore into the sidewalk, trying to find her and my baby nephew, screaming and yelling out to the evil that had taken that child.
I began hitting the sides of buildings with a closed fist as I walked at an impossible clip, (reminded me of the scene in the movie, Sybil) yelling out to the woman, the EVIL that was taking the children.
As I got to the corner of the street and the end of the building I was almost knocked over by a man coming from around the corner. He grabbed both my upper arms and pulled me back, shaking me.
“Stop it! Just stop! You are angry! You can’t fight her like this, stop!”
Before I saw his eyes, I saw his collar. He was a priest. My eyes slid up from his collar to his eyes. He was an older man with short curling and graying hair. He shook me slightly again, “You can’t fight her angry, or she will be able to get in.”
My mouth was open. He KNEW! I stood there in silence, digging into his eyes to see if I could find anything else. Tears started to blur my vision.
“You have to be in control if you are going to defeat her and this is not going to help you.”
I could see in his eyes that he knew I was calming down. I wanted to tell him my sister was dead, but he shook me slightly by one arm this time and said, “Come with me”.
He didn’t wait for confirmation from me. He turned with a firm grip on my arm and pulled me across a four-lane street to a big building halfway down the street we were crossing. It was a huge cathedral.
He drug me up the steps, into the lobby and turned us left, around to the hallway that led down one side of the sanctuary. We passed door and more doors, the hallway seemed to go on forever but after passing about four or five doors, he stopped me just in front of one of the door to the left. It was like an old school room door, with a frosted window. No writing. He opened the door and shoved me inside, putting his finger up in front of my face.
“Stay here, I’ll be right back”, and he shut the door on me.
I stood there staring at the closed door with the frosted glass when I heard sound behind me.
I slowly turned and found myself in what looked like a mail room.
There was a counter separating me from the workers behind it. There were counters behind that counter that probably came waist-high on most of the workers. Each wall had shelves that went up from those end counters and the counters consisted of boxes . . . mail boxes. All the workers were wearing white jackets and they were busy putting mail from buckets and baskets into these mail boxes. The odd thing about this was that all the mail was periodicals. No letters. Tabloids, news papers, magazines, flyers, but no letters.
I watched them working a feverish pitch, shoving the newsletters and tabloids and magazines into mail boxes by the tons! The mailboxes were glutted with them.
One of the white-jacketed people came around the side of the counter where a little entry door was. As he came out he was talking to me, very softly, almost too softly to hear him . . . it was almost hypnotic or maybe he was trying to be, but I was too wired.
As he approached me I noticed he had a hypodermic needle in his hand. He held it up as he was talking to me in that soft, pseudo-hypnotic voice, “you don’t have to fight, just let yourself go . . . yes, that’s it . . . it’s just like sleeping. It will be very peaceful, just close your eyes and let it take you.”
I began whimpering. As my knees gave way I slid down the wall slowly as I fought to stay upright. Every joint I had turned to rubber and fear had taken over. I began whimpering a prayer, but I couldn’t tell you what I was saying. I was giving up. I wanted God to just take me and let it be painless. I was done.
The man, who was bald with little, professor type glasses perched on his nose, continued to talk as he slowly followed me down the wall, “it won’t hurt you, you won’t even feel it when you stop breathing . . . this is the easiest way to go, just don’t fight it . . . you’re fortunate . . . they liked you. Just let yourself drift away. It will be blissful. I’ve watched so many go like this, you will be in peace, just don’t fight it . . .”
I continued to whimper my prayer, almost under my breath. I felt my bottom touch the floor, I had nowhere else to go. Both my hands were in fists up to my mouth. My knees were in my vision now as I was sunken to the floor. The mad doctor was now beside me, stooped down, still whispering his madness to me.
I waited for the sting of the injection, but it never came . . . or maybe it did and I just didn’t feel it. I waited for the “peace” but kept praying, but no – The needle was still held up in his hand with all the liquid in it. I could see it out of the corner of my eye. I kept praying but wondered what he was waiting for.
Slowly, "Dr. Demento" stood up without so much of a cracking of a knee, still whispering his madness, cajoling me into accepting an injection that he had yet to give me.
Robotically, still repeating the hypnotic propaganda that it would be peaceful, he began walking back to that little door on the counter, and around the back of it.
I watched him with my eyes without breaking my rhythm in prayer, wondering what was going to happen. I kept praying as I watched him pick up the receiver to a black, land-line phone. I kept praying as I heard him dial. I kept praying as I listened to him in the same hypnotic voice, tell someone on the other end of the phone, “Yes, yes . . . she’s here. Yes but I can’t. I can’t. You are going to have to come over here and do this. I can’t . . . she’s protected . . .” The last word faded out in my head as I woke up.
************* End *************
I had this dream in 1983 when my sister’s first child was less than a year old. I did not understand the dream at ALL when I had it.
Over the last two years, or more accurately, since January of 2010 when I started the blog and got serious with the research I was collecting, familiarity with what I was finding in my research would line up with symbolism in some of my dreams so I would include them on this blog, regardless of how long ago I had them.
This particular dream above had several key aspects to it:
- The periodicals, newspapers, magazines and tabloids.
- The church/cathedral and clergy
- hypodermic needle with a drug that would stop my heart
- a painless death
- An “evil” that was coming for the children and the babies
This dream did not seem to fit in with the other dreams I had during this time period between 1980 and 1986. There were other dreams I had with the same woman being the “avatar” for evil even though in real life we were friends. I never understood that.
Next week, this blog is going to tackle Michael’s “four years”, Daniel in the Bible and Revelation, but I also want to keep an eye on the news-before-its-news for the genocide they are planning.
Some highlights for next week:
The Death of Bill Cooper – 9-11 Whistleblower
His last broadcast
9-11 Prediction Cost Bill His Life
911 Commission Report
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William Cooper – Your Government is
Selling your children Drugs
Those Murdered Trying to Expose the Illuminati
We will cover more of them next week.
This “Michael Forever” Tribute is going to be a test. It’s not one we want to fail. As we have covered what it is that makes this world ill, we now need to concentrate on heal it, and heal us. We know what does that. Michael told us many times . . . so did God.
Have a good weekend. Keep praying and ask God to take over and give you peace to be still when we are supposed to be listening, and to move when he wants us to do what he put us here to do.
Take Over For Him
Help Him – School the World
Cry at the Same Time