William Edwards

It was a quiet evening, just like any other. Thirty years ago, I was driving home from work outside San Diego. I worked as a technician in a pressing plant, pulling late shifts that ended at 9 p.m. It was 9:30 when everything changed. I know what this sounds like. Crazy. But I’ve never needed to exaggerate or seek attention with this story—if anything, I avoid telling it, knowing most people think I’m delusional.

That night, the electronics in my car went dead. The music cut off, headlights dimmed, and before I knew it, there were blinding lights ahead on the road. It was a spaceship, massive and silent, descending right in front of me. I can’t explain it, but I felt pulled out of the car, like I had no control over my body. Before I knew it, I was inside. There were two beings. Not like the Hollywood aliens—more neutral, more... indifferent. They examined me, and though I couldn’t move, I wasn’t in pain. Just numb. Then it went dark.

I woke up in my car, parked right where I’d left it. I was trembling, my heart pounding. When I got home, my wife could see something was wrong before I even said a word. But when I told her, she didn’t believe me at first. Who would? The next day, we went to the police. They took down my statement, though it was clear they thought I was just another crackpot. But they mentioned that others had reported strange lights that night. They didn’t want to think about UFOs, though.

A week later, I got a call from a university professor who studied alien abduction cases. I wasn’t sure about talking to him, but eventually I agreed. He didn’t treat me like I was crazy. He listened, asked questions, and assured me that what I experienced was real—or at least, I wasn’t imagining it. That was something, at least.

Now, at 65, I think back to that night sometimes. I haven’t been abducted since, though I’ve always carried a quiet fear that it could happen again. The dreams are the worst, waking up in a cold sweat, remembering every detail vividly. But I don’t think they meant harm. Maybe they were just curious, like we are. Still, I’d rather not go through it again. Once was enough.