Category: Minnesota Mysteries

True stories of paranormal phenomenon which have occurred in Minnesota, as investigated and reported by freelance journalist Ken Korczak.

Tool of the Mind — Part 4 … “a left hand”

Note: Here it is, at long last, the final installment of “Tool of the Mind.” A reminder: The first two parts of these series can be found at Unexplained-Mysteries.Com. Part three you will find by scrrolling down on this blog! So without further ado — here is part four, and thanks for everyone’s patience and kind e-mails prodding me to get this last part online! The waiting is over!

Tool of the Mind: Part IV

By Ken Korczak

When I awoke, I could already make out the Big Dipper in the growing twilight. By habit, I followed the curve of the handle of the Dipper as it pointed to the orangy glow of the star Arcturus, the brightest star in the constellation Bootes, and the third-brightest star in the sky. I have always had a soft spot for Arcturus because it was the first star name I had learned as a child. And now, awakening from that mind-blowing “sun-bath-of-the-brain,” Arcturus seemed a gentle, welcoming friend, bringing me down to the peace and calm of a fresh spring evening. The saffron glow of Arcturus was a subtle light I could handle — it was centering.

A shivering breeze was blowing off the surface of Mille Lacs — also exactly what I needed — a sobering zephyr that could anchor me in reality. Yet, I did not give over the mantra. Not yet. My pact was to keep it up until I got home, and I was still some 200 miles away. Frankly, I had had enough of what the mantra was doing to me, and I was feeling “homesick” for my normal state of mind. Yet, I had that feeling that I wasn’t done with this particular experiment, and — what the hell — I hadn’t killed myself or anything so far.

Now, a yet another very strange happening:

As I stirred and stretched, I was surprised to find that, while I was out, someone had left a gift for me, with a mysterious message in it. It was sitting right on my stomach. It was a small pouch about big enough to hold two golf balls. It was made of extremely soft animal skin, possibly deer hide. It was tied with with a leather string. I opened it, and inside it I found a small cache of wild rice. Wild rice grows in the shallows of Minnesota Lakes, and has been harvested by Native Americans for centuries. The rice stalks protrude about 10 feet from the water’s surface. The harvest process consists of floating among the rice stalks in a boat, bending the stalks over and beating them till the rice falls into a basket.

But also inside this bag of rice was a slip of paper, and written on it was this cryptic message: “a left hand.” Extremely puzzling to be sure! What did the gift giver mean or intend to tell me by giving me a bag of rice including a line that said only, “a left hand”?

I looked around, but saw no one. Whoever had left the gift of wild rice along with the tantalizing message had done so while I was in reverie. Ordinarily, I would have started thinking very hard about the rice pouch and the significance of the message — I would have sweated bullets out of my forehead to fathom the meaning. How did it fit together? What does “wild rice” have to do with “a left hand”? and so forth. Ordinarily, a mystery such as this is like catnip to me. I’m very good at solving riddles and puzzles, and I normally can’t let something like this go until I have it figured out, but now the mantra had smoothed out such a desire. I knew I would think about it later — but little did I know that it would take me nearly 20 years to discover the significance of that bag of rice and what its message, “a left hand” meant. That’s right –I eventually got an answer to “a left hand” — but not until 20 years later!

I suppose you, my readers, will want to know what it meant also. I also suppose that you don’t want to wait 20 years, like I did, to figure out what a leather bag of wild lake rice and “a left hand” meant — so, what the hell, I’ll tell you what it meant at the end of my story.

It was time for me to continue, however. I was way behind schedule — I could have been home by now, and my mother would probably be worried about me — and it was getting dark. I climbed back into The Killing Machine. I hung the talisman pouch of native wild rice on the rearview mirror, and this made me feel very good, for some reason. In the old days, Catholics always had a St. Christopher’s icon somewhere inside their cars. St. Christopher was the patron saint of travel — until the Pope booted old St. Chris from the pantheon of saints, because, apparently, he had never really existed. Anyway, I now felt like I had a much better and more powerful good luck charm for travel — my tiki of sacred wild rice, with an excellent message, “a left hand”, given to me by a kind and secretive stranger!

I headed north again, skirting the vast shores of Mille Lacs, and went deeper into the pine-rich areas of central Minnesota. I opened the eyes of The Killing Machine by turning on its headlights. Inside, this created that faint cheery glow — “paradise by the dashboard light.” I’ve always liked driving at night, and now under the influence of the mantra, I felt the interior of The Killing Machine of was a kind of magical traveling womb, and I was warm and safe inside.

The drawback of the falling darkness is that it made the cheery vistas of the Minnesota countryside less apparent. Instead, my primary views were the feathering look of the pine trees on either side of the road, looking grainy and army green as illuminated by the headlamps of The Killing Machine. However, after another hour of driving, I reached the next spectacular Minnesota lake, with perhaps the somewhat unfortunate name of Leech Lake. A break in the trees revealed suddenly an enchanting cove, dotted with small islands, surrounded by inky black waters — but a gibbous moon was already rising and scattering the surface with ripples of gold-white light — making the nighttime surface appear a scintillating curtain separating this world from another.

As I followed a small narrow road that hugged the shores of Leech Lake, I was carried away with a sense of mystery — thinking about all-that-is beneath those dark waters, thinking about what it was like beneath the surface of lake under cover of the night — I sensed a whole inner life there, hidden and secret, unfathomable. Distracted by the hypnotizing view of the expansive moon-dappled lake, I veered off onto a gravel road that headed north from Leech Lake, and was soon deep into a heavily wooded and remote area well away from the main byways and highways. The Killing Machine roiled a violent plume of white dust behind me — it was tinted red by the tail lights — it was as if I was producing a wake of crazy dynamic cotton candy.

Driving on a lonely gravel road hugged closely on either side by sense trees and foliage, and in the darkness can create a claustrophobic effect, but as I traversed that road while also riding the mantra, I felt fantastically expanded. I could also see the twinkling spring stars above me, and they swam off into forever — mantra or no mantra, the night sky always holds the promise of an escape, eventually the ultimate escape for all of us — but again, I digress.

The shadowy shapes of trees flowed past me, and as I chanted the mantra, this tree-flow streaming past the illumination of the headlights took on a liquid aspect in my perceptions — but now it was time for something strange to happen again. That streaming fluidity of the trees blurring by suddenly gave way into what seemed an eerie, stark landscape of sharp, angular broken bones. The transition was abrupt and jarring. One instant, either side of the rode was a flowing ghostly, white-green moving smear, and the next, it was like some bizarre chemical reaction occurred, crystalizing the scene into sharp bony shapes.

What was going on was this: I had entered a large area of forest that is known as a “blow down.” This is when a tornado or a strong storm devastates an area of trees — breaking them over, snapping them in half, breaking branches — hundreds of jagged stumps jut up from the ground like stalagmites in a cave. Tree limbs, like broken arms, twisted and splintered, splay out at all angles. Once, I saw a man break his femur at a construction site accident — it was terrible to behold. The bone broke clean through and came bursting out of the man’s leg — to see that snaggled end of a white bone protruding right through the skin, looking stark and white, yet bloody in the open air is a sobering site. That’s what I thought about now amid the blow down at night — the headlights of The Killing Machine and the pale moonlight only augmented the skeletal appearance of the damaged and broken forest.

As I drove along, I had the feeling I was in some vast ancient bone yard — as if I had arrived after a battle had recently taken place, leaving thousands of mutilated corpses to gleam silently under the moon glow.

In this eerie atmosphere, The Killing Machine decided to spring a surprise on me. Suddenly, its headlights winked out, the spectral image of the gravel road disappeared before me! I pressed on the breaks immediately before I veered off the road and into the ditch. Since I was on a lonely gravel road with no other traffic, I didn’t bother to pull over to the side. I just stopped in the middle of the road, put The Killing Machine in neutral and sat there with the engine burbling. I fiddled with the light switch, turning it off and on, but headlamps would not come back on. Even in this peculiar circumstance, I continued to drum the mantra — “cows eat grass! … “cows eat grass!” … “cows eat grass!” … though I must say that at this point, the ease and automated effort which had characterized my entire mantra journey now seemed to become more forced and laborious.

I shut off the engine, fished a flashlight out of the cubby hole and got out to inspect the headlights more closely. Outside, the atmosphere was amazing. The dome of the sky was paved with glittering stars, although they were being washed out considerably by the waxing moonlight. The pine-scent of the all the broken greenery was enhanced by by sap that was more exposed than usual. I played the flashlight beam out into the wilderness revealing the silent chaos of the blow down. I popped the hood of The Killing Machine and began a rather unenthusiatic inspection of the wiring behind the headlights — under the influence of mantra, critical thinking tasks like these are the last thing you want to do. The mantra-state is decidedly nonlinear and creative, whereas working on the wiring of a car is a grounded, linear mode of human reasoning. And I said, at this point I was beginning to feel that I had reached the limit of riding the mantra, and since I was standing in the middle of nowhere on a dirt rode with headlights that needed fixing, I decided that it about time to collapse the experiment — just stopping after all this time was not so easy, however. Think of the momentum of a freight train. One can apply the breaks to a moving train, but it won’t stop on a dime. There’s too much mass and momentum to overcome, and the eventual stop will come after only so much distance is traveled.

I stopped fiddling with the lights and attempted to clear my mind of the mantra. The night had grown very cool and the chill on my face felt welcome and bracing. I craned by neck back and looked directly up at the stars. Even though it was spring, the late hour had already brought up the Summer Triangle — the stars Vega, Altair and Deneb — forming a commanding geometric signature in the sky. Presently, I began to hear something scruffling in the woods nearby. The dry grass was swishing and the branches were crackling — something was obviously approaching my way from the forest. It could have been just about anything, I knew — a wolf, moose, deer, raccoon — but in the dark, when you hear the sounds of something approaching from the woods, and something you can’t see, it’s a spine-tingling, unnerving feeling. You never know what it is — it could be Bigfoot for all you know. Also, one can assume that whatever critter s in the woods, it can probably see you before you see it, and you feel at a disadvantage. When you hear something coming toward you in the night in the woods, one’s imagination automatically kicks in, and you assume that whatever approaches is big, hairy and scary.

Whatever it was kept coming closer — I lifted the flashlight and played it toward the approaching sound — and there not more than 20 feet from me on the other side of the ditch I saw a large, amorphous shape, like a large black blob moving low to the ground, and this blob had a kind of blurry, shifting shadowy aspect as it moved along. It was very strange. What the hell was it? As it moved in and out of the brush, I caught glimpses of it, but my eyes refused to focus on it. I was far more curious that afraid now, so I walked toward it, trying to get a better look. I walked down to the edge of the ditch, which was filled with water from the spring run-off. The blob kept eluding me, moving is what seemed like a vary labored way among the brush and broken logs and branches — but then, finally, it stepped into a clearing and my flashlight beam caught it dead center.

Aha! It was a large porcupine! That explained everything! If you have never seen a porcupine under the glow of moonlight, you have never lived! When a porcupine walks, the quills on it’s back shift, roll and undulate — it gives the creature a very fluid appearance, and thus explains why it looked shapeless and blobby in dim light. This particular critter was probably having a field day here among the blow down — porcupines love to eat tree bark, and there was a lot of it here within easy reach. I watched the porcupine for several minutes, forgetting where I was and what i was doing — I was wondering around in the dark on the side of a gravel road in the middle of nowhere.

Coming to my senses, I turned and looked back — I had walked more than 50 feet from The Killing Machine. I shined my flashlight back toward it. The license plate gleamed unnaturally in the dark, and the rest of The Killing Machine looked like a giant, dark beetle resting in the middle of the road with the patience of a Buddha. As I looked back at The Killing Machine, a word suddenly came into my mind: “Fuse!” Aha! I said to myself. That’s probably why the headlights went out — I probably just blew a fuse. With this realization, I also noticed that I had stopped the mantra. It was a strange feeling, an almost unnatural feeling. It was like getting back on land after a long time on a boat, and you still have your “sea legs” under you. Just as your legs still feel the effects of the sea on dry land, the mind still jitters with the after effects of the mantra, even if you have stopped.

I walked back to The Killing Machine, feeling and hearing the pleasant crunch of gravel beneath my feet. Back in the car, I located a small box of fuses, and after a few minutes of fumbling, replaced the one that regulated the headlights. I’m no great mechanic, but this time I got lucky. I flicked the light switch and the eyes of The Killing Machine blazed to life. I turned the ignition, the engine roared, and I was soon off again — this time free of the mantra, and just feeling slightly fatigued and feeling vaguely apprehensive that my mother would probably be calling out the National Guard because I was so late in getting home.

I followed the lonely gravel road north until it eventually intersected with a black-topped county road. I still had about 2 1/2 hours to drive, and now I just stepped on the gas and let the miles roll by. I was no longer chanting the mantra, but it’s after effects seemed to make that last 175 miles blur by in about 10 minutes. It was about 4 in the morning when I finally turned The Killing Machine up the Main Street of my small home town. I drove past my mother’s small grocery store, which was dark and slumbering on the quite Main Street of Small Town, Anywhere, U.S.A.

In another minute, I was home. Of course, my mother was up, and scolded me for my odd arrival hour, and gave me the whole spiel about “not calling if you’re going to be late” and “worrying her to death,” and “yadda, yadda, yadda.” I was able to cut this expected, and not all-together-unpleasant ritual short by claiming I was dog tired, and before long, I was in my old bedroom, and I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I slept until about 10 o’clock the next morning. When I got up, I was delighted to see that my sister was also visiting at my mother’s house, and she had brought along with her two children, aged 2 and 3. As I walked sleepy-eyed into the kitchen, my little three-year-old nephew Monty ran up to me and shouted, “Uncle Ken! Cows eat grass!”


I suppose you all want to know, now, about the message — the curious note placed in a bag of rice which read “a left hand.” As I said, it was more than 20 years after my mantra journey before I finally got an answer as to what this meant. As I also said, I am pretty good at figuring out riddles and puzzles, and over the next 20 years, I thought frequently about what “a left hand” might have meant, if anything it all.

And the truth is, I never really did figure it out — but I did find out what it meant purely by accident and by dint of tremendous coincidence. But was it coincidence, or what it more an example of what the psychologist Carl Jung called “synchronistic?” The whole incident makes me think of what the great writer Hermann Hesse once said: “There are no such things as coincidences.”

Anyway, this is what happened: Some 20 years after my mantra journey, I was working as a VISTA volunteer at a homeless shelter in Grand Forks, North Dakota. Many residents of the shelter were people who were seriously mentally ill, most often with the dreaded brain disease of schizophrenia. One of the residents who was a “regular” and whom I came to know very well was a very large native American man whose forearms were covered with garish gashes and scars — these were healed over self-inflicted wounds from the many times he had tried to kill himself. With the help of a heavy load of medications, this tormented man was able to be somewhat normal sometimes, although his mental health and state of mind was always very precarious.

When I first met this man, he came into my office, sat down and started making small talk. Because he was a Native American, I naturally asked him what his tribal affiliation was. He told me that he was Ojibewa and had grown up in Wahcon, a small town on the shores of Mille Lacs Lake. Hearing that he was from the Mille Lacs area, I naturally told him about the gift of rice I had once received there, and about the strange message that was inside the rice pouch, “a left hand.”

Upon hearing this, the large Indian grinned broadly at me; laughed, and said: “Well, that’s my name, you know. Alvin Left Hand.”

Tool of the Mind — Part 3

IMPORTANT NOTE: Parts 1 and 2 of this true story can be found at I recommend you go there first before you read this entry — or not. It’s up to you, and your whims, I guess. This is the story of a young Minnesota college student — me, at one time — who experimented with the ancient mystical tool known as a mantra.

Tool of the Mind — Part III

By Ken Korczak
Driving north, ever north, I was now deep in Minnesota lake country. On the lesser-known blacktop roads, you’ll find twisty-turny-curvy lanes bordered on either side by fragrant pine trees, which occasionally break to reveal a charming, sparkling little lake — or sometimes, a gigantic magnificent lake that looks more like an inland sea. Mille Lacs Lake is a superlative example. It’s water that you “can’t see across,” so to speak, making it seem an ocean rather than merely a lake.

I was now more than an hour since I had encountered the grieving man on the grave. But the mantra had burnished and scoured him from my mind, and replaced it with a strange and growing obsession with sunlight. Suddenly, the road burst upon a stunning vista of the wide Lake Mille Lacs, and I nearly piled The Killing Machine into a tree! I mean, I wasn’t prepared for the abrupt and agonizingly lovely, majestic panorama of the endless expanse of blue water under an arching vault of spring-blue sky — and all across the water was dancing golden sunlight, like billions of chummy little elves frolicking and capering across the waves in a dazzling nature dance! I was still “with-it” enough to understand that I needed to take a break.

I know you’re not supposed to drive DUI, but there’s probably no law against DUM — “Driving Under influence of a Mantra.” But “DUM” is a decidedly poor acronym for the mantra-induced state of consciousness because it’s really just the opposite of that. It’s not like being in a trance, or mentally altered in the boozy sense, or like the high of a narcotic, such as cannabis. Those latter two modes just make you dumber. The mantra makes you sharper, scintillating aware, edgy alive. It’s true that under the deep influence of the mantra, you are not yourself: You are more than yourself. And discovering that there even is more is the kind of experience that no one should pass up, if one has the notion. But, anyway, I digress.

I guided The Killing Machine — or it guided me — to a sort of primitive rest area near the shore of Lake Mille Lacs. There was no one else around. Somewhat reluctantly I silenced the engine of The Killing Machine, sending it into slumber, I suppose — or who knows? I got out and stretched my legs. I walked up to touch the sacred water of Mille Lacs. I say “sacred” because the Native Americans considered Mille Lacs to be a place of intense spiritual energy. In the language of the Dakota Sioux Indians, the lake is called Mde Wakan, which means “spiritual or mystic lake.”

This being spring in Minnesota, the vast sheets of ice were not long melted from the surface, and the water was pleasantly icy cold. I cupped some water in my hands and put my face in it, but even this could not clear the fantastical effects the streaming sun was playing on my awareness.

I went back to The Killing Machine and sat on the hood, my feet on its fabulous chrome front bumper. I laid back and felt the solid metal of the hood firm beneath me. The warmth of the surface felt luxurious on my back, which was aching from sitting and driving for the past hours. The warmth sent a lush feeling of smooth relaxation throughout my body. I surrendered to the radiation of the sun. The sun’s white-gold rays seemed to stream through my body, infiltrate my brain, filling me with brilliance that was not bright and blinding, but crystal and clarifying. And now I began to experience the sun in a very novel way. The sunlight was less flowing like radiation and becoming more particulate, like a trillion teardrops, each a separate entity, yet each containing the whole of the Universe itself in microcosms, each infinite and complete, reflecting all the others perfectly.

It was almost too much, and I felt just a stirring of fear because I felt I was getting in over my head — but my tether-line to reality was my whimsical mantra. “Cows eat grass! Cows eat grass! Cows eat grass!” If I had become detached from mundane reality and cast adrift in a vast ocean of droplet sunlight, at least I was being carried out into that molten sea of pure energy came with a solid lifeline — which was the mantra itself. The mantra was like a beacon, or a signaling lighthouse, on the shores of “normal” reality, constantly beeping, centered in my physical brain, indicating the way back, telling me where my chunk of crude human flesh was languishing in solid existence. All I needed to do was follow the mantra like the proverbial trail of bread crumbs scattered on a forest floor if I wanted to return to the “land” of solid existence. But to swim in an ocean of molten, golden light is not a bad experience either.

The problem is, even when was does have a safety tether back to the dense physical reality that is our “normal” existence, one must have the will to use it. And when one is having every cell in one’s body massaged by the very fingers of the primal energies of light, the rapture, the ecstasy, the uncanny freedom of basking in the utter complete detachment of manumission, the ego-based will easily falters — but luckily, the natural order of things was my salvation, if you can call it “salvation” at all — perhaps “reverse-salvation” is a better description.

You see, what coaxed me back to earthly reality was a most mundane event — I had reclined in rapture on The Killing Machine until the sun set beneath the western horizon, releasing me from the golden prison of light. Flat on my back, my lids began to blink. Directly overhead, my eyes opened upon the first glinting stars of purple twilight. Extremely disoriented, it slowly dawned upon me that I had laid out there by the shores of Mille Lacs — of Mde Wakan — for more than six hours!

NEXT: My mantra journey is far from over. Now, I must travel the rest of the way under a velvet black sky paved with glittering stars! Little did I know that The Killing Machine had a surprise is store for me! Stay tuned!

The Land of 10,000 Foo Fighters

By Ken Korczak

A story about a flying orange globe over Grygla, Minnesota, I wrote about a couple of weeks ago produced a strong response from readers of this blog!  Thank you all for reading and your kind and insightful e-mails!

I also published this story in a local print publication, which generated a lot of calls from other people here in NW Minnesota who also say they have had enounters with firey, glowing UFOs in the Minnesota night skies.  I will now share some of these stories with you, as they were told to me:

One elderly gentleman from the tiny town of Skime, Minnesota, called to say that he and a friend were startled by a strange object which appeared suddenly to them above a line of trees. This is the way he told it to me, in his own words:

“This was about 10 years ago. We were playing cards at a friend’s house until about 11 o’clock at night. It was wintertime. There were no stars or moon…it was a cloudy night. We were driving home…just as we were crossing where County Road 18 crosses Number 9 this big bright thing just suddenly appeared.

“It was very luminous…a dull orange in color. It had a definite outline to it…I would say it was oval or egg shaped. It was about 400 yards from us. We were due north of it…it was so low we could see the outline of the trees in front of it.

“The strange thing about it was that it appeared suddenly…as if it had been there in the dark before and turned on its lights when we came upon it…like we had scared it up, or something.

“We were dumbfounded. ‘What the heck it that!’ we said to each other. We watched it for about a minute…and then a brilliant white flash went off…it was like a giant flash bulb from a camera…it was bright enough to light up the entire countryside and drown out my headlights… then it was gone.

“We were flabbergasted. The next day we read in the Grand Forks Herald that there were UFOs spotted in North Dakota that same night.”

“The more I think about it, the goofier it gets!”

Another man, David Danielson, an artist who lives in Roseau, Minnesota, called to say that the Grygla UFO story brought back vivid childhood memories of a frightening event which happened on his aunt’s farm about 20 years ago. In his words:

“I was a little boy…it was about 25 or 30 years ago… I remember my aunt coming over and telling my mom about this…one night they heard a loud humming sound outside…this was on their farm one mile north of Roseau…they looked out the window and saw a bright orange object hovering in their yard…she described it as a hat-shaped object, like a flying saucer…it was about the size of a haystack.

“It had a big effect on me as a kid. My aunt’s daughter had nightmares about the thing for many years after that…they were really scared by this thing. I still think about it all the time.”

David said that he recalls reports of orange-red UFOs being spotted near the town of Malung during this same time period, and that one woman even reported being followed by one as she was driving her car.


Flying red and orange globes are nothing new to pilots, especially fighter and bomber pilots of World War II and other wars. World War II pilots dubbed the objects “Foo Fighters,” using the French word for fire.

Foo fighters were commonly seen by pilots to rise from the surface of the earth, level off and fall into formation with airplanes. Sometimes the globes would “buzz” or harass airplanes. At other times they would come in groups of five or six and fly in tight formation beside, behind or in front of war planes.

Foo fighters were usually red or orange globes of fiery light. They were one foot to six feet in diameter.

The Allies believed Foo Fighters were some kind of technology being employed by the Nazis, while the Nazis were convinced they were something developed by the Allies.

Today, flying globes, or Foo Fighters, are one of the most common and persistently reported type of sightings classified as unidentified flying objects.

Here in northern Minnesota, encounters with Foo Fighters are plentiful.

Some scientists believe that Foo Fighters are a natural phenomenon caused by certain kinds of geologic formations beneath the surface of the earth. These formations rub together, scientists say, and occasionally cause the discharge of large electrical bursts, which may rise above the surface and float into the air.

Furthermore, scientists claim that much of northern Minnesota has exactly the kind of geologic subsurface that would be highly conducive to this kind of energy discharge.

But the scientific jury is still out on the geologic formation, electrical discharge theory, and most scientists would call it just that—a theory—until further proof can be obtained.

Another common natural explanation for flying globes of light is the famous “ball lightening.” But again, the existence of ball lightening is disputed by many scientists, some claiming that the law of physics would not allow electricity to act that way.

Furthermore, people who have seen Foo Fighters would tell you that they don’t act like natural objects—they follow cars, buzz farm sites, harass animals—and some sightings coincide with the appearance of “strange creatures,” as in the Grygla case.

So what are they? That’s unknown. What we do know is that they’re here. It’s a fact that Foo Fighters are spotted frequently and consistently by Minnesota residents. Perhaps a new slogan for the state is in order:

Minnesota: Land of 10,000 Foo Fighters!

E-mail Ken with your questions or comments: 

The Giant “Oreo Cookie” UFO

Ken Korczak:

A regular reader of my Minnesota Mysteries column called me and told me this story of a fascinating UFO sighting which occurred in New York about 35 miles north of Buffalo in October of 1974.  Here is what he said:

“It was just starting to get dark, and my children were playing out in the back yard. They came one by one to tell me something was ‘beeping’ up in the woods… I went to see what was going on and I heard ‘be-beep, be-beep, be-beep…’ I saw five or six areas where lights were hovering above the trees. Couldn’t figure it out at all. We watched for a while, and that was all that was going on. Just the lights and the be-beeping.

“I decided to get back to the house… it was almost dark. We walked back to the house and our large outdoor light suddenly went out! Just then I heard, ‘Mama, look!’ One of my sons was pointing and there it was! It was as big around as our house! It looked like a giant Oreo cookie! It had what looked like a metal top, a middle section that was partitioned off into what looked like darkened windows and the bottom was just like the top.

“No sound was coming from it. Nothing! It moved very slowly across our front yard, just kind of hovering. We watched it for a good five minutes while it slowly turned west and went across the road. When it was above the corn field across the street, it picked up speed, climbed high and shot off over the corn field like a bullet.

“Suddenly, all the little ‘be-beeps’ and lights that were in the woods were coming out of the woods and were headed toward the cornfield. We could only hear the beeps and see five or six lights because they were now very high in the sky. They must have climbed from the top of the trees in the woods to that altitude in a matter of seconds. They disappeared out over the cornfield just like the big Oreo cookie did.

“I called out local police department and told them what we had seen. Ours is a small town and everybody knows everybody. The police were at my house in 10 minutes. I knew them and they knew me well enough to know that I was telling the truth. There names were Ray and George. I was describing to them what I saw when, suddenly, from the south, we saw a huge white light in the sky headed our way. We watched it coming closer to us as it descended at the same time. Then we could hear the thing’s engine and Ray hollered: ‘Holy ——! He’s got his landing lights on!’

“It was a plane coming right over my yard with its landing lights on, and it was following the exact path of the Oreo cookie. It was at such a low altitude we could read the writing on the side of it. It said: ‘United States Air Force.’ It went out over the cornfield in the exact path the Oreo cookie had taken.

Within another five minutes the area over the cornfield was filled with planes and helicopters coming from all directions. All these planes were at a higher altitude now, so I don’t know whether they were Air Force helicopters or not.
“Well, that’s my story! Is this something the U.S. Air Force was involved in? Were they tracking a UFO? Was the Oreo cookie the so-called Mother Ship? Who knows? As a footnote, that same week, there were many reports of UFO sightings all over the East Coast.”

Note: This is not technically a “Minnesota UFO” story — but what the heck!  It’s an interesting bit of ufology!

e-mail Ken with a question or comment: 

Drunks Kill a River Monster!

By Ken Korczak

The Red River of the North forms the border between Minnesota and North Dakota and flows north into Canada, where it empties into Lake Winnipeg. When early settlers first traversed this wide, muddy river, they reported sightings of gigantic catfish bigger than their boats — fish as big as logs drifting in the river. But, occasionally, there have also been reports of a large, black, snakelike creature in the Red, a creature that resembled descriptions of the famous Ocopogo sea monster often sighted in British Columbia.

Well, here is a story told to me by an elderly gentleman who lives in northwest Minnesota. He claims that he and four friends not only got a first hand look at one of these mysterious giant water serpents — but they actually killed it! The events described here happened in the late 1950s. Please note: All names have been changed in this story at the request of the interview subject. So, without further delay, the story of the Red River Snake Monster awaits your read!

* * * * *

Once or twice a summer it was Wayne’s practice to brew a batch of his famous corncob wine. Here is how the vile mixture was made: First, Wayne scraped two dozen moldy corn cobs and put the kernals in a bucket of warm water. After letting this sit for a day in a humid shed, he added several pounds of sugar, a gallon or two of grape juice and about 20 gallons more of warm water. He tossed in a hunk of yeast, and then he let it ferment for nine days. After this time, Wayne strained the pungent liquid through a bolt of cheese cloth.

The corncob wine was now ready to drink. To help get this done, Wayne called up four friends—Howard, Roy, Forrest and Wally. Here is how Wayne served his concoction—he placed the galvanized steel tubful of wine on a picnic table. He gave each guest a tin cup. They stood around in a circle, dipped in their cups, and guzzled. It would be difficult to judge the strength of Wayne’s corncob port. It was weak, but it certainly had a few percentages of alcohol.

You had to drink a lot to get a buzz, but of course, there was a lot.

When the tub neared half-empty, the conversation became louder and more boisterous. The men kept drinking until the rims of their tin cups scraped loudly against the bottom of the galvanized tub. They left the dregs, however, because it was cloudy and stunk of yeast. On this particular day, much of the discourse centered around “huntin’ and fishin’.” As the tub neared empty and the day grew dark, the talk became more raucous, including a lot of macho bragging along replete with various sensational claims of physical and sexual prowess.

Then Wayne came up with a very bad idea for a group of men who had just polished off 20 gallons of corncob wine—he suggested they grab a couple of shotguns, some flashlights, take a boat and launch it out on the Red River of the North to see if they could blast catfish out of the shallows.

The technical name for this sport is shotgun fishin’.

Forty-five minutes later, the five men were boating on the muddy Red in Roy’s 18-footer. Howard and Forrest held powerful flashlights, and they played the beams across the inky water.Suddenly, a flashlight beam revealed a floating log which Roy mistook for a gigantic catfish. He let go a blast of his 12-gauge. The rotten log exploded into splinters. River water and bits of wood rained down upon the men. This caused them all to whoop and yell. The boat rocked back and forth and water splashed into the bottom of the boat.

Minutes later Howard’s beam glimpsed something shiny and Roy swung quickly around, only to bang the barrel of his shotgun against Wally’s forehead. Wally fell back and almost went into the water, but the boys caught hold of him before he could go over the side. Everyone thought it was pretty funny, except for Wally. Wally’s fun was over for the night, but not his part in the adventure. Yes, Wally would play a central role in the fantastic events that were about to happen.

Dazed and barely conscious, Wally leaned back in the boat and let his right forearm dangle into the water. A minute later, he felt a strong pressure squeezing his arm. Wally jerked his hand out of the water and let loose a savage yell. All four of the others turned at once to look at him. The two flashlight beams held by Howard and Forrest revealed an amazing thing—some kind of thick, black, long snake-like creature had attached itself to Wally’s arm! Screaming, Wally lifted his arm straight up into the air. The serpent creature curled around the length of his arm, wrapping it like a barber pole.

Here is how one of the men described the creature—“My best description would be that it looked like an electric eel, the kind you see in them undersea adventure TV shows… it had a flat head, shiny black skin, slimy, and I think we saw smooth fins on the thing. It must have been six, seven feet long.” Of course, it was difficult to see well because it was dark, there was so much pandemonium, and the men were considerably hazed by the fermented beverage coursing through their veins.

“Everybody was screaming and yelling at once,” Wayne said. “We were going crazy when we saw that thing on Wally’s arm! It was dark and flashlights were dancing around like crazy… we were rocking the boat so bad just about all of us were swamped into the river… it was nuts!”

Wally began to shout: “Get this ———- thing off my arm! O-o-o-w-w-w-w! Get this ———- thing off my arm!”

Roy grabbed his shotgun by the barrel, wound up to take a hard swing at the monster, lost his balance instead and fell backward into the river. In all the commotion his pals hardly noticed.

Wayne slipped out his pocket knife and made a vicious thrust at the giant river snake, but missed and plunged his knife deep into Wally’s arm. Wally howled in anguish. He thought the monster had bit him. He started to flail his arm around, and whacked Howard square in the face. Howard, face covered with slime, was hurled backward and only Wayne’s quick catch prevented him from going over.

Wally began slamming his arm against the side of the boat, but the snake only squeezed tighter. Wally was in full panic. He kept screaming: “Get this ———- thing off me! Get this ———- thing off me!” In desperation, Wayne recovered Roy’s shotgun from the floor of the boat. In a lucky glimpse afforded by a chance pass of a wild flashlight beam, Wayne noticed that some three feet of the snake’s body was dangling below Wally’s arm.

He pointed the shotgun in that general direction, pulled the trigger and unleashed a roaring discharge. The kickback of the 12-gauge knocked Wayne backward and out into the drink. He dropped the shotgun and it sunk to the silty bottom of the river. Luckily, he was able to grab onto the side of the boat and haul himself back in.

“I got real lucky,” he said, “‘cuz I blew the whole bottom part of that snake monster clean off.”

The truncated end of the creature’s body jerked wildly around like a loose high-pressure hose. Fetid black blood and slime spurted in all directions, spattering the men with rank gore. But the blow was enough to cause the creature to go limp. Wally heaved it from his arm and heard it splash down somewhere in the black water where it sunk to its death.

As soon as everyone had calmed down, they could hear Roy screaming and splashing around in the river. Their flashlight beams located him. They motored over and pulled him in the boat just seconds before he went under for the last time. At this point, the men decided that they had enough shotgun fishin’ for one night and pulled the plug on the adventure.

“We still talk about that bizarre night to this very day,” Wayne said. “I think the biggest mystery is what the heck that thing was. It sure as hell wasn’t no fish, and I never heard of any snakes that big here in northern Minnesota.” Yes, the identity of the creature does pose something of a mystery, but one must grant that much could be explained by the consumption of an entire tub of corncob wine. But as far as I am concerned, there is an even bigger mystery contained within this story—that all five of these geniuses lived to tell it.

e-mail Ken with a question or comment!

The Chatty Choppers — A Tragedy

By Ken Korczak

In the more than 12 years I have been writing my Minnesota Mysteries column, I have grown accustomed to getting a lot of strange calls from readers, and people from all walks of life with their own stories of the paranormal to tell.

But perhaps the strangest call I ever received was from an elderly man who would only identify himself as “Elden.” Elden told me he was desperate to tell someone his story — someone who would listen, believe him and not laugh at him. I tried to put Elden at ease. I assured him that after 12 years of writing stories of the strange, I had heard it all.

But I was wrong.

That’s because Elden proceeded to tell me that for the past 8 years, the four wisdom teeth in his head had each become a kind of conduit or receiving station which channeled the voices of four disembodied spirits from another world, or some other dimension.

Elden theorized that the metallic dental work in each of his wisdom teeth had somehow tuned into the electromagnetic signal of these four personalities, whom now transmitted their conversations through his teeth. At first, Elden was alarmed at these four new voices that seemed to be emanating from the back of his jaw, and which he could hear as clearly as any human voice. But his distress soon faded as he continued to listen to the conversations of these new ghostly “guests” being channeled through his teeth. In fact, he quickly grew to know and love each personality.

Elden said that each of his four wisdom teeth had their own name. The two wisdom teeth on the top were Carl and Boyd, and the bottom two Sal and Velma. Carl was clever and smooth, often making his points with a gentle and witty sense of humor. He also made excellent use of colorful anecdotes to make himself better understood. His remarks were well balanced and showed a clear understanding of world events. Carl projected kindness and intelligence.

Tooth Boyd was a basher. Boyd usually tried to force his opinions on the others with or without facts. He employed trumped-up statistics he felt the others could not refute. He interrupted frequently, especially when Carl or Velma had the floor, or in this case, the mouth. Still, Boyd’s bark was worse than his bite.

Velma, the lone female wisdom tooth, was smooth. She had a gentle southern accent which grew more sumptuous with each passing year. If she was less intelligent than Carl and less forceful than Boyd, she was more persuasive than both. Her charm and feminine wit were irresistible. Elden could not imagine his dental forum without her silky elocutions to make it complete.

Sal, it had to be admitted, was the least gifted of the chatty choppers. He typically made his points by grunting in agreement with Boyd or shouting “Yeah!” after Boyd listed some fact or statistic. Sal would then repeat that fact as if it were his own, adding a twist at the end to make it sound original. It was clear that without Boyd, Sal could not hold his end of the conversation. Sometimes, the others thought of Sal as an ordinary molar. Yet, Sal was harmless, and he filled the chinks in the jawboning nicely.

One more thing about Sal. Although he was the palooka of the foursome, he was not-so-secretly in love with Velma, a fact which sometimes slipped during the simmer of a strong debate. For example, during one particularly heated discussion about aging, Sal, forgetting himself, extravagantly described the way the gums still snugly hugged Velma’s “hard, sleek enamel, with grace and style.”

Blurting this out, Sal immediately halted and blushed. An awkward moment of painful silence hovered among the four grinders. But they soon recovered and were off to less controversial topics. Verily, Velma agreed most often with the cool-capped Carl, although this stopped well short of romance. After all, and interestingly, Velma was positioned opposite of Boyd, while Carl and Sal shared the food processing duties on the other side of the jaw.

Sometimes when Carl and Sal had a french fry pressed between them, Carl could feel Sal’s palpable longing to be smashing tubers against Velma instead of Carl. Carl said nothing about it. His detached deportment was the personification of discretion and dignity. As the years passed, the character of each wisdom tooth expanded, becoming more complex and profound. Because Elden listened to them while falling asleep, his vast unconscious mind brought greater dimension to their individual personalities. Eventually each became as real to him as if they were independent, conscious beings. Certainly they were beloved friends.

Then one day, tragedy struck.

Elden awoke one morning with intense pain in his mouth. It was a tooth ache; a bad one. He got an emergency appointment to see a dentist. Hours later he was in the chair, mouth agape. It took the doctor only minutes to find the problem. It was a wisdom tooth. It was rotten. It had to be pulled. It was Velma. Yes, the foursome’s only female member was facing the end.


Elden swooned in disbelief. After so many years he could not imagine life without this luxurious personality to enrich his daily existence. Deeply agitated, he pleaded with the dentist for options. “Doctor! Can she be filled, or crowned, or (and here Elden gasped) how about a root canal?” The thought of Velma being drilled to the base of her existence, and having her nerve destroyed by bits of whirling steel was a nightmare, but at least she would live on. Or would she? And how? What would be her quality of life? Would she still have her mind, or would she be a mere shell, an eerie doppelganger? In the end, no options remained. The dentist assured Elden that extraction was the only recourse.

Elden asked for a few minutes alone to masticate his circumstances. The dentist, mildly puzzled, and perhaps wondering why Elden referred to the tooth as “her” and “she,” nevertheless left the room. Elden mustered his strength and listened mournfully as Carl, Boyd and Sal said their teary goodbyes. Already, Velma, throbbing and shooting pain throughout the lower side of Elden’s face, was not answering. She was gone. Sal broke down and wept bitterly. Boyd and Carl grew silent, calcified with grief.

The extraction process was grim. Tongs of cold metal reached in like a demonic mantis grasping it’s prey with steel claws of cool precision — without mercy. In just seconds Velma left the warm, moist darkness of the mouth and was floating upward toward the light. She passed through it and was lost in the brilliance. Elden requested maximum gas to numb himself during the procedure. He dreaded that moment when he must again breathe pure air and face life without the velvety voice of Velma vibrating in his lower jaw.

After Velma was gone, Carl, Boyd and Sal seemed out of sync. The conversation just didn’t flow like it had before. Sal had gone listless. He was soon extracted as well. Carl and Boyd, alone now, had no chemistry together. Perhaps it’s not surprising that Boyd soon abscessed. Elden underwent dental surgery and requested that Carl be cut as well. He abhorred the thought of Carl alone at the back of his mouth, pining for Velma and the others.

After his four friends were gone, Elden told me the loneliness has been almost unbearable. Elden’s wife died several years ago and his children are all grown and live in other cities. The eight years he had with those four wonderful personalities channeling their bright spirits though his teeth were among the best years of his life. I felt at a loss for something to say to Elden, to comfort him. But said that just telling me his story helped, and that he hoped that when my readers heard about it, well, at least someone would know about the wonderful unexpected gifts that can come to any of us from a universe that is not only stranger than we imagine, but stranger than we can imagine.

e-mail Ken with a question or comment! —

Alternate Dimension Death Sentence! –Part II

NOTE: This is Part II of the Bosh story. To read Part I, just scroll down to find it! Also, a reminder, this story is true, according to the people I interviewed about these events.

By Ken Korczak

In the previous post, I introduced you to a group of people mostly from Kittson and Pembina counties who met regularly to discuss and practice paranormal activities. Using an Ouija Board, and sometimes via the process of automatic writing, they came into contact with a friendly and fascinating entity that called itself Bosh.

Bosh was not a “ghost” or “spirit,” but claimed to be a kind of “energy being” who existed in a dimension of reality that is higher than our own, a dimension in which our own dimension is contained. In other words, our world and even the people in our world are like “shadows” projected from this greater dimension of reality.

Bosh claimed that many people here on Earth were actually the children of the beings that live in Bosh’s world. Bosh called these beings “Source Souls,” because they project physical beings — ordinary people — into our dimension.

These Source Souls are actually our own souls, except, in most cases, we do not own those souls exclusively or as individuals. It would be more accurate to say that the Source Souls “owned” us because they are the ones who project us. Not only that, each Source Soul projects numerous people, not just one. This means that many people on Earth are actually members of the same Source Soul, and essentially, are one and the same being because they have their existence in the same Source.

To several members of the group, Bosh’s ideas were not only ridiculous, but insulting. Others thought Bosh was telling the truth, and was explaining a true reality. Still others didn’t believe that Bosh was even real. The discussion along these lines was often heated. Here is an example of what members of the group said about Bosh, and keep in mind, these are not the real names of the people:

BILL: “It’s obvious to me that Bosh is a figment of the subconscious minds of Margarita and Glenn because they are the only two who can contact him and channel him. When anybody else tries to talk to Bosh through the Ouija Board, it’s all silence, or all nonsense.”

Glenn: “There is no way that Bosh is a figment of my subconscious mind! When my hands are on the oracle, it moves absolutely by itself — I couldn’t think stuff like this up in a million years!”

MARGARITA: “I agree with Glenn. I’m not moving that thing either, and I just feel that Bosh is real — a real being in it’s own real world!”

LARS: “I think it’s extremely suspicious that Bosh’s so called Overworld sound so much like Plato’s idea about how everything in our Earthly dimension are just shadows of what is “real” in a higher dimension of perfect archetypes. Margarita, I’ve even heard you mention Plato’s ideas a couple of times. Couldn’t you just be subconsciously reformulating Plato’s theory in a fantasy form that manifests itself as Bosh?”

MARGARITA: “No way! There’s just no way! And maybe Plato’s ideas just adds more support for the existence of Bosh — Bosh exists in a world just like Plato said it existed.”

ALICE: “I agree with Lars, somewhat. I think it’s also suspicious that Margarita can channel Bosh through her automatic writing trance state, while no one else can contact him, not even Glenn who helps out Margarita on the Ouija Board.”

This kind of discussion disturbed Margarita because she had put so much of her personal life on the line for Bosh. In fact, her fiancee’ threatened to cancel their pending marriage if she didn’t give up channeling Bosh. Margarita refused to let go of Bosh, and her relationship ended.

It was just days after Margarita’s fiancee’ left her that Bosh got into serious trouble with the other Source Souls in the world of Ummm. In fact, Bosh now told the group that he was on death row, and that he needed them all to save him.

Lars told me this particular development supported his theory that Bosh existed only in the mind of Margarita, and somewhat in the mind of Glenn. He put it this way:

“Think about it. Margarita’s boyfriend dumps her, calls off their marriage because she won’t give up her crazy ideas. That’s a real crisis in her life. Then just as all this is happening, Bosh suddenly tells us he is on death row! How convenient! It’s obvious to me that Margarita is subconsciously trying to do what she couldn’t do up front — get rid of Bosh. Instead of simply giving him up like her boyfriend wanted, her subconscious mind has engineered a way for her to have it both ways. Bosh gets killed off, but remains real. At the same time, she no longer has to put up with him, and maybe her boyfriend will come back to her. It all fits!”

Well, that was Lars’ opinion, but other members of the group disagreed strongly, telling me that Margarita was a very “centered” person who was not capable of fooling herself so thoroughly.

Elton told me: “If Margarita and Glenn say Bosh is real, then you can bet your farm that he is real! Glenn used to be a cop, for God’s sake. He’s naturally suspicious and not easily fooled! He’s a real skeptic.”

As the debate on this side of the dimension went on, the group decided to get Bosh himself in on the debate over his own reality. Lars asked Bosh: “If you are really a Source Soul and a member of a world that is a higher dimension of our own, how come you have so much ordinary human-like strife? For beings that are supposed to be our very souls, you don’t seem to have your act together.”

Bosh answered, spelling across the Ouija Board under the hands of Margarita and Glenn: “First of all, you must realize that just because I have my existence here in the Soul Source level does not mean I or my kind are perfect and all-knowing. We’re not gods. There is a lot of controversy here, a lot of unknowns. Some think the projection of you human “soulings” or “subsouls” is a kind of mental illness — a fragmenting of the wholeness of the Soul Source personality — so to speak.”

He continued: “But others argue that the projection of subsouls is actually a learning process, that we Source Souls project “subsouls” into the physical realm as a way to work out certain metaphysical problems, and to grow in knowledge,”

One of the groups asked: “So, Bosh, do you have subsouls projected into our world?”

Bosh answered, again moving across the alphabet of the Ouija Board: “No, I am sterile. I am considered a kind of freak in my world because I do not have sindu or amma nature. I was born without them. Sometimes you humans give birth to sexual neutrals as well. These occurrences have their source on our level, and they happen for complex reasons.”

Lars asked: “Why are you being detained on death row? Why are you going to be killed by your companions in Ummm?”

Bosh told the group that many in his world considered a high crime to make contact and have conversations with “subsouls” — we people here on earth. As it turns out, the actual existence or reality of subsouls was a topic of heated debate in the world of Ummm. All beings of Ummm at least acknowledged the existence of human beings, but most consider physical human beings to be “unreal,” in the same way that we consider our dreams unreal, perhaps. Also, most Source Souls think that the perception of physical beings by any Source Souls was a form of mental illness, and that human beings are hallucinations.

But even while acknowledging that human beings were the “unreal dreams or hallucinations” in the minds of the Source Souls, it seems that hallucinations that are nurtured too much could somehow take on a greater reality and cause trouble in Ummm.

You might say that the Source Souls of Ummm feared human beings in the same way that certain people here might fear demons or ghosts, which may or may not be real, yet still have the potential to cause a lot of trouble if they are fooled around with. You never know.

Bosh was in trouble and had been placed on death row because it was his contention that we humans are not hallucinations, but real and legitimate creatures that served a healthy purpose in the minds of the Source Souls. Bosh believed that humans are the personification of the symbolic beliefs of the Source Souls, and that with our lives we act out the greater spiritual and subconscious dramas of his kind — and indeed, without us subsouls, Bosh maintained that a normal life for the Source Souls would be impossible.

It was for this that Bosh was to be executed.

Margarita put it this way: “He’s kind of like the Socrates of his world. Socratese was an advanced thinker — so advanced and controversial that others in ancient Greece feared him and decided that he must die. Socrates went willingly to his death, killing himself by drinking Hemlock. But Bosh does not want to be killed.”

One bitter cold January night when the group met at Margarita’s home, the first thing Bosh said when they made contact with him through the Ouija Board was:


As I said, some thought it was funny, but other were genuinely worried and deeply upset. Glenn asked Bosh: “But Bosh, how can we help? How can we prevent you from being killed? We have no power to affect what’s going on in Ummm? Or do we?”

Bosh answered: “Of course, the connection goes both ways. Your connection to me is obvious. Some of you have genuine feelings for me — love — just as if I was made from the physical flesh on your plain, on Earth. This feeling is your pipeline to me.”

Glenn said: “Okay, but how can we use that to help you? And anyway, I thought you said there was no such thing as death?”

Many in the room could almost feel the exasperation of Bosh, who was now in the position now of trying to explain the complex metaphysical ramifications of life and death, and that even though there was not such thing as death, he was still in some kind of trouble.

Bosh “yelled” through the ghostly Ouija Board connection:


Margarita asked Bosh: “Tell me if I’m getting this right … You are about to be altered against your will by the authorities of Ummm, right?”

Bosh pushed the oracle swiftly up to the “Yes” on the Ouija Board.

Margarita continued: “The result is that you will no longer believe in us enough to even communicate with us?”

Bosh again pushed swiftly to “Yes”

Margarita said: “And after you are altered, maybe we can make strenuous efforts from our side to initiate communication with you again, using as our guide beacon our love for you as a fellow intelligent entity existing in the universe?”

Bosh soared over to “Yes!”

And before Margarita could get another question out, Bosh pushed the oracle to: “Good-bye.”

Margarita and Glenn were stunned for a moment, and then, almost as if in denial, they began calling to Bosh, asking him to come through, again and again. But the oracle only sat motionless on the Board — Bosh was gone.

After Bosh died, Margarita quit the group, and shortly after that, the rest of the club broke up as well. Maragarita and her fiancee never reconciled.

E-mail Ken with a comment or question! —

Alternate Dimensional Death Sentence! A True Story (Part I)

multidimensional-human-300x248Note: The following story took place in Kittson (Minnesota) and Pembina (North Dakota) counties. Names have been changed at the request of the people who gave me this story. They swear it is 100 percent true. You decide.

By Ken Korczak


When this desperate message came through, none of the people gathered around Margarita’s kitchen table knew what to do. Some thought it was funny, but to others, it was deeply disturbing.

But even those who thought it was funny had to admit they were more than a little worried about their friend, Bosh.

Even the most skeptical of the group were surprised at how “real” Bosh had become to them. Some couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Bosh died. It would be like losing a dear friend.

Over the past six months, it was almost as if Bosh had become another “ordinary” resident of this small northern Minnesota community — a “regular” among these people who met once a week in each other’s homes to discuss the paranormal.

But Bosh was not from northern Minnesota. Not even close. He was not from this world. Bosh was an entity from another dimension.

The only way Bosh could communicate with his Minnesota friends was through a channel opened by an Ouija Board, and sometimes through one member of the group, Margarita, who had some skill with the esoteric art of automatic writing.

They originally set out to contact human spirits through the Ouija board, but one day, Bosh came through, and said that he was not human, and no spirit.

Where did Bosh exist? According to him, he lived in one of the numerous “Overworlds,” he called it — a dimension of existence which surrounds our own dimension. You might call it a parallel universe tangential to our own, and intricately interactive with our own.

Bosh calls his world “Ummm.” He calls it that because he says that all realms of the universe exist within certain vibration patterns, and the steady sound of “ummmmmmmm…” would best describe the vibration quality of his dimension.

Some of the beings of Ummm can see us, but we can’t see them. But actually, “see” is a misnomer because Bosh and his kind don’t have any eyes.

Perhaps the best way to describe Bosh is that he is an energy being who perceives his (Bosh is actually not a he or she, but a “multi-sex being, so from here on I’ll refer to him as he/she/it) universe through entirely different part of the spectrum than the narrow vibration band we live within.

Despite all their differences, the beings of Ummm are intimately related to the lives of people here on “our side,” says Bosh. In fact, they may be our creators.

When the group first contacted Bosh and started a dialogue with him/she/it they were delighted and sometimes laughed their heads off at the crazy things he/she/it told them. For example, Bosh said:

• All of us — we humans — have counter-parts of themselves existing in other realms, including Ummm.

• In Ummm, these counter-parts are “multiple beings.” This has major implications for us humans here in solid, physical reality. Bosh says that we humans, although we don’t know it, are actually multiple people, but we’re too blind and limited to see it or know it.

Bosh explains it this way: “Every one of you have a number of ‘soul-kin’ living on Earth with you. You all come from an individual Source Soul here in Ummm. There are many Soul Sources here. You are all individuals, but yet have the same identity in the fact that you share a Soul Source with perhaps 10 or 20 other people, sometimes many more.”

Each Source Soul lives as an integrated entity in Ummm, although each casts multiple personalities into our Earthly dimension. They do so — and this is weird — through mental illness.

In other words, according to Bosh, we human beings exist only as the products of mentally ill Source Souls who live in another dimension. It’s like we humans are their hallucinations — and naturally this was a very uncomfortable idea to many of the group who met regularly to channel Bosh.

But wait …

According to Bosh, it seems that other thinkers of Ummm argue that personality projections — we humans on Earth — are definitely not a result of mental illness, but rather constitute a healthy and even necessary unconscious learning experience for each Source Soul. In effect, we are like the dream characters of the beings of Ummm, acting out their subconscious dilemmas.

Either way, we exist as projections of the minds of the Source Souls of Ummm. Bosh belongs to the latter school, believing that we humans are healthy projections, and in fact, should be considered legitimate living beings in our own right.

As you will soon see, this belief of Bosh’s has gotten him into a lot of hot water. We’ll get to that later.

In the meantime, the fact that we humans share a Source Soul with several other humans on this earth accounts for a lot of what goes on here. As Bosh said, for example, one Source Soul can project perhaps 10, 20 or even hundreds of individual souls into Earth reality. According to Bosh, this soul sharing phenomena is what accounts for “love at first sight.”

Spelling it out on the Ouija Board, Bosh said: “Sometimes a man meets a woman and it’s like they are both hit with a bolt of electricity. They are instantly attracted to each other because they subconsciously recognize that they are one and the same Being — they both come from the same Source Soul.”

This explains how some lovers think: “It’s like I’ve always known you, all my life! It’s like we were meant for each other!”

This is probably where the human term “soul mate” comes from, Bosh said. It’s a subconscious recognition that they are actually two distinct manifestations of the same Source Soul located in Ummm.

Another amazing thing Bosh told the group:

Most human beings identify with just one sex, while some with both, as in bisexuals. But the fact is, all human beings are “multi-sexual” beings, although they don’t know it.

Bosh said there are actually seven sexes: male, female, tra, amma, sindu, jindu, tra’nn, and bal’nn. Each sex can express itself individually, or in multiple form.

For those among us humans who cannot imagine what a sex beyond male and female would be like, Bosh at least tried to give an explanation his human friends could grasp.

Bosh said: “Perhaps some of you have felt a sexual rush in a situation that wasn’t sexual in the normal way you think of it. For example, some artists when they deeply express their art may feel an actual sexual rush. A prime example are intense rock-and-roll musicians who clearly have an aura of sexuality about them as they play intense music on electric guitars. They feel sexual, as well as exude a sexual aura. That’s why young girls go wild over rock stars and why men love the sexy voice of a female, or another male, depending on their sexual orientation.

“Sexual excitement in connection with artistic achievement is a prime example of tra,” Bosh said. And then he made this astonishing claim:

“Indeed, no human reproduction can happen without the creation of music. On your level, you don’t realize that music is actually a biological process. Without music, there could be no fertilization just as there could be no fertilization without a sperm and an egg.

“Why else do you think music is so pervasive and makes you feel so good?” Bosh asked his fascinated Minnesota friends. “You need more than just a man and a woman. You also need the sex of tra, which manifests itself as music in your realm”

One of the group asked: “What then, is a jindu? What sex is that?”

Bosh answered, spelling methodically across the Ouija Board: “Jindu is religious expression. Reproduction on your plain would also be impossible with the generation of what you think of as spiritual experience.”

One person asked: “But if that is so, how do atheists reproduce?”

Bosh answered: “Atheists have spiritual beliefs and experience, but they convince themselves such feeling don’t exist, or represent something else.”

Another person asked: “What is the Bal’nn sex?”

Bosh: “Bal’nn in your world manifests itself as the love of the grandparent or great grandparent for the baby and children. Without this kind of love, there could be no fertilization and no reproduction.”

Again, a skeptical member of the groups countered: “But all of my grandparents were dead before I was born. So if what you say is true, how could my parents have created me? How did they conceive? I had no love from any grandparents.”

Bosh answered easily: “No one dies. Your grandparents exist in their Source Soul, outside of time, and also they remain in their own time, alive as individuals. So even if they are not physically present on your plain, it does not mean they no longer exist. They still helped your parents get pregnant, believe me.”

Bosh frequently reminded his Minnesota friends that they were truly confused and confounded about the subject of time, and that this was a major source of suffering for human beings.

While the subject of the seven sexes kept Bosh answering questions for many days, this was only the beginning of dozens of bizarre revelations and observations which he/she/it bestowed upon the group.

One of the things that struck the group as odd and controversial was the the idea that the Soul Source beings in Ummm only project human beings into the Earthly plain through “mental illness.”

As it turns out, this subject leads directly to why Bosh had landed himself on Ummm’s “death row,” and why he would soon be pleading with his human friend in Minnesota to help him avoid his own execution in the realm of Ummm.

NEXT POST: Bosh languishes on “death row” while his Minnesota friends consider ways to save his life!

Also, for more stories like this, see my full-length book:


Minnesota Wood Wizards

Editor's Note: The following story is true, as told to the author. The caller wished not to be identified by name, so fictional names are used.


By Ken Korczak
The rugged gravel road that winds like a serpent through the thick forests of Minnesota's Northwest Angle seems especially lonely when you travel it by night in a rattling old pick-up truck.

That’s what Duke Rialto was doing one humid summer night in August of 1991. He was headed for a cabin at the Northwest Angle Resort in Angle Inlet where was supposed to join his buddies whom had arrived ahead of him for a week of fishing.

It was after midnight and Duke was dead tired. He had started out early in the morning from Esther, Iowa, and had driven all day to reach the wilds of the northern peak of Minnesota — “The Angle.”

But now, after hundreds of miles, Duke’s ‘65 GM decided it had enough. A sudden loud clunking noise erupted  underneath, and the old pick-up lost momentum fast.

I don’t care who you are, it’s a scary feeling to have your truck go dead at night in the middle of the mysterious wilderness of The Northwest Angle. Duke had driven this road before, and had often seen large bears, moose and other variety of ferocious beast prowling the edge of the forest. Now he was faced with walking along this wild road in the inky blackness of night with God-only-knows-what manner of furry brute waiting in the dark to jump out at any warm meal walking by.

Duke pounded the steering wheel and cursed his old GM, but all the foul language in the world can’t fix a blown U-joint. He thought about waiting for someone else to come by, but anyone who has driven the Angle Road knows that the chances of another car coming by late at night is next to none.

Cursing his luck, Duke reached into his cubby for a flashlight and a .22 caliber pistol, which probably hadn’t been fired in five years. The thought of shooting at something in total darkness made him even more nervous.

Then suddenly, Duke’s luck seemed to change. As soon as he switched off his headlights, he noticed a faint yellow glow coming from deep in the woods on the east side of the road. “A cabin!” he thought.

He got out of his pick-up and walked toward the light. When he reached the edge of the forest, he could see that the light was a considerable way into the woods, but difficult to tell how far. It was also hard to tell what the light was. It might have been a cabin window, or maybe a campfire.

Reluctantly, Duke stepped into the woods keeping his eyes on the yellow glow. He told me:

“To be honest, I was so scared I was shaking…I mean, there I was out in the black woods with a dim flashlight in one hand and an old pistol in the other. I kept thinking I’d run into a bear. But the worst, I think, is what your own imagination projects out into the dark unknown.”

The woods were wet with dew. The pungent smell of rotting leaves and old wood hung in the air, as did patches of mist drifting up from the forest floor.

Branches tore at Duke’s clothing and slapped his face as he moved along. He stumbled often, and cursed every time.  All the while, he was filled with fearful uncertainty. He had no idea what the light was — his heart pounded and his mind raced with wild ideas — maybe it was a UFO! Maybe some murderous lunatic hiding out in a shack!

But as he got closer, Duke began to sense that what he was approaching was stranger than anything he imagined. About 20 yards away, Duke made out the shape of three men standing around some kind of large light. In Duke’s words:

“It definitely wasn’t a campfire,” Duke said. “I’m sure of that. It didn’t flicker like a campfire. It was a steady glow. It was like a large globe on the ground. And those men were just standing around it, stiff-like — they just didn’t seem right. You usually sit around a campfire, but these guys were stiff and just strange, somehow. Their body language was off kilter, not natural.”

Despite his fear, Duke called out to the men. Hearing the shout, the three shadowy figures jerked, turned and stood rigidly. Then, according to Duke, something bizarre happened:

“The light they were standing around transformed instantly  into a campfire … I mean, I didn’t see it directly, but one minute it was a steady, glowing light and the next it was a flickering, cracking, smoking campfire!”

Not sure what to think, and without options, Duke approached the men, squeezing his pistol hard in his sweaty palm, hiding it behind his back. When he got closer the weirdness got weirder.

“They were ordinary looking men, I suppose, but the way they were dressed was very odd,” Duke said. “I mean, one of the guys was wearing a cape! How often do you see anyone in northern Minnesota wearing a cape out in the woods!”

The man with the cape also sported a thick purple shirt with no buttons, and matching purple pants. He was wearing tall leather boots. His face and hair seemed normal. His cape was clasped at the shoulder with a magnificent gold ornament which glinted in the firelight.

The second man was wearing pants that were “like knickers” Duke said, and were “bunched up like riding pants.” The man in the riding pants had a shiny bald head, and he wore a loose black sweater tucked into his knickers, which were tight around the waist. He was wearing what Duke called “thin street shoes.”

The third man wore a long gray cloak that covered most of his body, hut he could also see that he wore purple pants and high leather boots. He had long brown hair and a heavy mustache.

They had no vehicle that he could see, and no camping equipment, no tents, not even anything to make a fire with, like an axe — nothing.

At first, the three men stared at Duke as if he were some kind of circus freak, but then they seemed to quickly recover and tried to act normal.

“They TRIED to act normal.” Duke said, “But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that these guys weren’t from around here. Either that, or they were playing some kind of weird game … I just don’t know.”

Duke stepped up to the fire and said hello, and started to explain that his pick-up had broken down on the road.

The man with the bald head stepped up to him, smiled broadly and said in stiff English: “You have lathed your feet and joined us here to be happy! All three!”

“I just didn’t know what to think about what he said,” Duke said. “It was a weird statement. I thought maybe these guys were Russians, or some kind of foreigners or something that were trying to enter the United States illegally through Canada and the woods of The Angle, or something. I don’t know. It just didn’t make much sense.”

Then the guy with the cape moved forward and pushed the bald guy aside. He asked: “The Aeon? Is it of, Sir?”

Duke said: “I’m not sure what you mean. What do you mean by Aeon?” 

The three strangers all gave each other inside looks, as if they were all part of some kind of conspiracy. Then the caped man said: “You more to say. We hear more to say!”

At this point, Duke was more certain he was talking to some kind of foreign smugglers, although he could not fathom their accents. They didn’t sound Russian or like any other foreign accents he was familiar with. They sounded like people speaking a strange form of true English.

Duke said: “I talked to them some more, but it was extremely awkward. I mean, they were nice, and everything, but nothing they said made any sense. They were speaking English, but it was all mixed up, like they were putting together words from a dictionary without really knowing what each word meant in proper context.”
There was nothing to do but take his leave. Duke said good bye to the three strangers and the man in the cape said: “For positive yes!”

So Duke made his way back through the woods and found the road again. He spent the next two hours tramping along in the dark, walking he figures at least 10 or 12 miles, finally gaining Angle Inlet without getting eaten by a bear.

“After I showed up I told my buddies about the strange guys in the woods and the teased the hell out of me, saying I was drunk or high or loony or something. I eventually just stopped talking about it — I don’t like to even bring the subject up anymore because nobody really takes me seriously. But it’s one of those things you just don’t forget about. It’s like an experience that was on the edge of being paranormal, yet there could be a logical explanation for it.”

One last thing: After a week of fishing, Duke repaired his pick-up repaired and he returned to Esther, Iowa. One of the words the bald man had said was “Aeon,” and it kept running through his mind. He looked it up one day in the dictionary and discovered that aeon was another form of the word “eon,” which means: “an indefinitely long period of time; an age.”

Duke said: “Why would he be asking me what eon it was?  Were they time travelers? Lost time travelers? They were certainly dressed like nobody I had seen before. Sometimes I think they were from another time. Maybe they were wizards. But then I think: Nah, they must have been smugglers, maybe from some obscure place like Transylvania or something. I just don’t know, but I’ll always wonder about it.”

Killer UFOs

By Ken Korczak
Police found the body of Laverne Landis deep in the Minnesota wilderness near Grand Marias, a small town on the North Shore of Lake Superior in the rugged Arrowhead country.

Her frozen corpse was discovered in December 1982 after four grueling weeks of searching the cold, snowy woods, according to Associated Press reports.

She was still in the front seat of her car, which had run out of gas a few hundred feet from a dirt road. The coroner determined Landis died of exposure — hypothermia, dehydration and starvation.

Landis’ boyfriend, 38-year-old electrician Gerald Flach of West St. Paul, was found semi-conscious on the famous Gunflint Trail, about 41 miles from Grand Marias. He also nearly died from exposure to the elements. He was treated for hypothermia.

While it seems strange that two people from the Twin Cities would drive to northern Minnesota just so they could die inside their cars, Gerald Flach’s explanation was even more bizarre.

What had killed Landis, and almost killed Flach was a strange, all-absorbing obsession with UFOs. They had driven to the northern woods to make contact with aliens.  For Flach, this kind of behavior was hard to imagine.

According to Flach’s friends, he developed a sudden fixation with UFOs that just didn’t make sense. They described him as an intelligent, gentle man who underwent an abrupt change of personality. One day he was a normal grounded individual, the next, he was a total UFO kook, who was convinced that alien beings could communicate with him by “channeling” messages through his companion Laverne Landis.

The latest messages they received told them to go to the end of the Gun Flint Trail where they were to await further contact from aliens. Landis was so convinced that she was in touch with superior beings from outer space, she literally starved herself to death, rather than leave the frigid Minnesota wilderness without further instructions.  Her boyfriend almost did the same.

Cook County Deputy Sheriff Frank Redfield said that there was no evidence of foul play in Landis’ death, and ruled her death “accidental.” No criminal charges were filed against Flach, who almost died the same way Landis did. He remains convinced that aliens — speaking through Landis — wanted them to rendezvous in the woods.

The case of Landis and Flach is a relatively rare case of a UFO encounter resulting in death. The vast majority of cases involve abductions, sightings, visitations and sometimes physical damage, but the media rarely reports incidents of lethal UFO contact.

But some UFO investigators believe that cases of UFO deaths have now become a regular aspect of UFO experience, beginning in about the late 1970s.

The case of Landis and Flach is an example of a “passive” death in association with UFO phenomenon, perhaps similar to the nutty Heaven’s Gate cult, 29 of whom killed themselves in the belief that they would wake up again inside a spaceship following the Hale-Bopp Comet.

While Landis did not commit suicide, her weird behavior certainly could be considered suicidal. Any Minnesotan  is well aware of the danger of stranding oneself in a car in the dead of winter. Landis either didn’t care if she lived or died, or firmly believed she was in contact with aliens.

Even though many cases are passive, as in the Landis case,  there are dozens of documented cases of “active” UFO deaths — that is, cases where UFOs literally hunt down human beings and kill them.

The Chupas

One of the most famous cases involve five deaths of deer  hunters near the small town of Parnarama, Brazil. In this small, very poor town among the jungles of Brazil, the residents hunt every day for food, not for sport. They generally hunt at night to escape the broiling heat of the day. Also, night provides greater opportunity to spot deer in the Brazilian jungles.

In October of 1981, several nocturnal deer hunters using flashlights were suddenly accosted by a rectangular-shaped UFO that moved just above the trees. It was about the size of a refrigerator, and did not look big enough to carry even one normal sized person.

Local residents are so familiar with seeing these strange box-shaped objects they have given them a name — the Chupas. While men hunt deer, the Chupas sometimes hunt men.

The primary hunting technique in this region involves the hunter climbing 10 to 15 feet into a large tree, where they rest in a hammock while waiting for deer to come by.  They use flashlights to spot game.

The local people have come to believe that the Chupas are attracted by the flashlights. When they find a man sitting in a tree, they zap them with bright beams of energy, which kills instantly. The victim is said to be left “drained of blood.”

Dozens of Brazilian night hunters report having seen or chased by Chupas. Many deaths have been officially labeled as “unknown” by Brazilian authorities, although the local people claim they are being hunted at night, just as they hunt other creatures.

Two men Parnarama men, Ribamar Ferreira and Abel Boro, were in the woods at night when they spotted a Chupas coming toward them. They quickly climbed down from their trees and began to run.  But the Chupas quickly caught up with them and sent a dazzling beam of light down toward them. Ferreira was luckier because the beam hit his buddy Abel Boro more directly. He reported that his body was surrounded by a glittering glow. Terrified, Ferreira ran for it. He returned a short time later with several members of Boro’s family, only to find him extremely white and dead.

Reports of Chupas sighting and the occasional death are reported to this very day in the deep jungles of Brazil. Several American investigators have traveled to these remote sights to investigate the Chupas, but find the extreme heat and harsh conditions of the jungles difficult places to conduct meaningful investigation. Also, much of the local population is uneducated and superstitious, and thus have low credibility with sophisticated scientists.

While some of the local Brazilians think the Chupas are UFO, many others are convinced they are American military experimental craft carrying on research which requires the blood of human beings! The Brazilians reason that no one cares about or would miss remote hunters of the deep jungles, so they prey upon the population with impunity.

The Chupas are a serious enough problem to have attracted the attention of the Brazilian military, which conducted extensive investigations of Chupas activity. The Brazilian military concluded:

(1) The UFO phenomenon deserves serious objective study.

(2) All possible information and witness reports must be gathered.

(3) Further public statements about the Chupas must be avoided.

Has the UFO phenomenon turned deadly in the past 20 years?  Some evidence seems to suggest so, although the majority of cases resemble that of Laverne Landis — compelling obsessions with space aliens that may have nothing at all to do with UFO, and a lot to do with human mind and its large capacity to deceive itself, even to the point of death.