My name is Nathan Walters. I was born in Boulder, Colorado, in 1984. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, so I went through a string of elementary schools before things settled down for a while in Memphis. I left school after the tenth grade, worked at a movie theater, later got my GED, worked at Hastings, and spent a good part of my adult life working factory jobs in Tennessee and Ohio.
I am a father and a grandfather. My family is a big part of why I am doing this. I have spent most of my life listening to music—The Beatles first, The Doors as a teenager, and later everything from classic rock to industrial. I read Stephen King and never minded the long books. For years I also called in to late-night radio shows like Coast to Coast AM, Ground Zero, and Fade to Black. People who have heard me there have heard pieces of this story, but never the whole thing in one place.
That is partly what this is for.
The first strange thing about the house was not a light in the sky. It was the paint.
Before we moved into the house in Middletown, we did some light remodeling—paint, carpet, wallpaper. My wife and I had chosen maroon wallpaper and paint for the kitchen and living room. Once it was finished and we started settling in, I began getting these flashes of déjà vu from it. I could not place them, other than a feeling that perhaps I had seen that room in a dream long ago. I seemed to associate it with a nightmare from some earlier point in my life.
At the time, I chalked it up to ordinary déjà vu. That turned out to be both right and wrong.
Strange things seem to have been part of my life since early childhood. That does not mean I walked around with one clear, continuous story in my head. On the surface, much of my life looked average. A lot of the memories were forgotten, blocked, scattered, or covered over. Then, beginning around September 2013, things started resurfacing—through dreams, déjà vu, synchronistic events, and manifestations I could not easily explain away.
That period changed everything. It also raised more questions than it answered.
A word about the cast, because you’re going to meet them by name and I don’t want you lost.
The short, stocky blue beings were first. They came in pairs, mostly to watch, and they’ve shown up in every era since — no matter who else was there. The Nordics I met as a small child in Illinois: tall, blond, paler than people, dressed in black. The Mantis types ran through my teens into my twenties, often around triangular craft. The Greys are in the record too, but they’re not the whole story the way television says they are. The tall, willowy white ones I met mostly in childhood, on a purple-and-gold disk I’ve seen a handful of times since — mostly then, but not only then.
The places are pinned to the encounters, so here’s the map: born in Boulder, Colorado; the Illinois years; Wisconsin; Memphis, where things settled for a while; Missouri, where the single most vivid night of my life happened when I was fourteen; McMinnville; and Middletown, Ohio, where maroon paint on a kitchen wall knocked the memories loose. Each of these gets its turn in the pieces ahead. This is just the legend for the map.
I want to be clear about something from the start: I am not writing this to prove extraterrestrials are real. I only have my experiences and the research I have done because of them. Much of what came through those experiences concerned my own personal life. Some of it went in many directions. Some of it felt less like a single lifetime and more like memories spanning many years, perhaps even different incarnations of my own existence. The visitors themselves showed me these things, but that does not mean I automatically trust every message or every messenger.
I take all of it with a grain of salt. You should too.
As I see it, there is not one catch-all answer. I believe there are nonhuman intelligences—entities of some sort—which I have come to break down into different categories, each with different attributes. Some experiences seem physical. Some seem dreamlike, spiritual, mental, or somewhere between those things. I do not know exactly where one ends and another begins.
I am not a mathematician or a physics major. I know what I have read and what I have lived through. I am not out to prove a thesis; I am attempting to understand it myself. I cannot escape it. It is part of who I am. That, I think, is the difference between most researchers and experiencers. A researcher can close the book and go home. An experiencer is still living in the story.
For a long time, I thought everyone might be susceptible to this. Maybe they are. Maybe this is what being psychic feels like. I do not know. I have seen enough to know that everything is very different from what we are told.
I am not asking you to believe me. I am asking you to think.
Think about the dreams that seem to know something before you do. Think about the memories that do not fit where they are supposed to go. Think about how much of reality might be happening just outside the part we are normally allowed to see. Think about what it means that an ordinary person can live most of his life before realizing how much of it may have been happening beneath the surface.
Human beings are capable of horrible things. I do not pretend otherwise. But at our best—in art, music, creative endeavors, and plain human ingenuity—we rise above that. Our individuality is part of our value. Our sense of self creates our creativity and makes us suited for it. Whatever else these experiences have taught me, they have not made me anti-human. If anything, they have made me more protective of what makes us human in the first place.
This blog is the beginning of putting the pieces in order. Some entries will be about my experiences. Some will be about the research I have gathered while trying to understand them. Friday the Livestream goes live.
We will not always move in a straight line, because that is not how these memories came back to me. Sometimes we will begin with an experience and work outward into the research. Sometimes the research will lead back into something personal. That is the nature of this subject. It is easy to get lost in rabbit holes, so I am going to try to keep bringing us back to the original question:
What has been happening, and what does it mean?
Next time, I want to begin with the record: what happened, when it happened, and the people who tried to make sense of it. That’s the room we walk into first.
For now, welcome to the edge of reality.
Pull up a chair. We have a lot to talk about.