It was just after 4 AM when my dog Keisha began barking insistently, pulling me from sleep. An unsettling sensation crawled over my skin, as if something unseen was touching me. Drawn to the window, I peered out into the darkness and saw it: a luminous object hovering mere feet away. Its shape resembled an airplane, yet it had no wings, just a glow that cut through the night.
The light blinked unexpectedly—shadows seemed to flicker before it, like two figures passing by. Then, with a sudden flash, that intense light overwhelmed my vision, blinding me entirely for a moment. Keisha growled deep and low by the window, an uncommon sound reserved only for visits from deer on our property.
The craft adjusted position, tilting its nose skyward before vanishing in the blink of an eye. I returned to bed, but the strange events were far from over.
In the days that followed, I noticed a peculiar mark on my arm and a raised mole on my stomach that felt unnatural. The discomfort grew, compelling me to tug repeatedly at the mole over two years. One day, I pulled with such force that a long, noodle-like string emerged from my skin—an eerie, vein-like appendage nearly a foot long. It felt connected deep inside, pulling toward my stomach. Overwhelmed, I finally severed it with scissors and disposed of it, unable to bear its grotesque presence.
This encounter with a wingless, radiant craft outside my bedroom window was a haunting experience that left more than an impression on that quiet Kamloops morning. Even years later, the memory lingers—an indelible mark of something beyond understanding.