Aliens in 1965?

A childhood experience revisited

The Ufo/Alien craze that has been sweeping across the internet in recent decades is confounding to say the least.  I have always kept a healthy amount of scepticism when reading reports of alien visitors and ‘things seen in the sky’.  We all know that video and photographic ‘evidence’ can be edited, photo-shopped and altered to look ‘alien’. Therefore I always apply caution when veiwing these kinds of data.  Whilst the subject of UFO’s may contain these kinds of flaws, the issue itself is certainly a phenomena that raises more questions than it answers.

Am I a believer?  Well, for starters I don’t set myself up for any kind of belief system.  My whole philosophy is based on what can be known or experienced rather than blind faith in what I am told about any aspect of life.   Therefore, the only truth that there is for me is based on experiential knowledge.  I have two choices: I can know or not know something to be true. Secondly, there is alot of disinformation out there from which money is to be made from unwitting subscribers who purchase dvd’s and books on every subject under the umbrella of ufology and alienolgy.  The whole subject seems to  be turning into a post-modern myth with theory after theory presented to the public from conferences and gatherings across the globe, papers written and presented.  Now even the psychologists have become involved with research papers emerging on the phenomena of alien abduction.  How does one sort through all this research to find truth?  My feelings are that there is some truth in what is presented but there is also much fantasising and opportunism out there.

This brings me to one of those experiences where one’s knowledge of a phenomena is either verified or disproved.  The event I am about to describe is one of those experiences.  It happened in the summer of 1965 in the North of England. A small market town close to a larger city whose landscape was dotted with textile mills and tall industrial chimneys.  Three young children exploring a disused branch-line railway station.  Looking for adventure to fill the long idyllic days of childhood school holidays, the three set out on their bicycles to investigate the now abandoned railway station...

There was no direct road access to the station.  Commuters in the sixties were a different breed and the station’s position reflected this.  Commuters walked to the station just as modern travellers walk to the bus stop.  From where we lived it was just a few minutes walk or two minutes on our bicycles.  A short flight of steps led to a narrow grassy path of about 50 meters in length, which led directly to the station.  My brother Gary aged 7, our friend David aged 8 and myself aged 9 wheeled our cycles up the short flight of stone steps, arrived at the station and parked our bikes on the lane outside.  It was quiet, the only sounds being the buzzing of nature coming from the now overgrown grassy banks and the twittering of birds from from nearby trees and crumbling rooftop.


We headed straight to the long shed.  Piles of wooden sleepers and rusting metal parts lined the once grand, Victorian platform.  Where the tracks had been, wild flowers and grass now sprouted.  Lupins in every shade, wild rose, campion, buttercup and livingstone daises now grew unhindered by the machinery of a lost age of local train travel.  This was one of many local stations closed down in the sixties; the end of an era when goods and people were mostly transported by rail and the roads and highways were quiet by todays standards.

In each of the corners of the shed stood a black, cast iron staircase spiralling upwards to the first floor.  We loved those staircases and they were always the object of our first adventure upon arriving.  Running up the steps we arrived at what had been the station office.  A few old filing cabinets and a an ancient desk were the only items left now.  The game we played was called dare.  Who hasn’t played variations of this game since childhood was invented?  The floorboards on the first floor were extremely hazardous.  Many were loose.  There were many gaps where they had split or rotted due to the invasion of the elements through holes in the roof. The creeks and groans of the boards echoed eerily as we tenaciously treaded across them and dared each other to take ‘just one more step’!  When the borderline of fear had reached its limit we fled back down the spiral stairways to the safety of the Yorkshire sandstone platform.  Climbing off the platform on to the track was also hazardous because of its depth.  Remember we were only nippers - two young boys and a girl - but we were determined to succeed.  Up and down we clambered as the time slowly slipped away. 

I don’t know what made me look.  It wasn’t sound for there was no sound coming out of the silence beyond the echoes of playing children.  Was it a movement out of the corner of my eye?  Was it a feeling of something?  Something sinister?  There was something weird and definately not right. Something unknown, unusual had entered the space around me. That’s all I know - all I remember.  I recall that as my head turned to the right I let out a long scream and for a few seconds I froze to the spot.  We were all on the track.  David shouted, ‘What’? and followed my eyes to the spiral staircase at the northwest corner of the building.  David let out a fearful yowl.  Gary was also now looking and I remember how he shouted to me in fear;

''Melody get me out''


And we all saw this event at the same time. 

Three figures were walking down the steps.  They were strangely identical in body, face and dress. Like identical triplets.  Cloned.   Black clothing from head to foot.  Even their feet were black.  They stood out against a background of crumbling white plastered walls.  They weren’t wearing coats or jackets. They had identical close shaved hair-styles.  Remember this was the sixties when young men sported ‘Beatle’ mops and beards.  Their clothing was either trousers and high-necked sweater or some kind of all-in-one leotard-type affair.  These three faceless rigid male figures stepped together in slow and synchronous steps as if they had been choreographed or set going by some mechanical clockwork device. The slow dance-like movements forever haunt me. Rigid arms and legs, they stared straight ahead without looking at us - expressionless, featureless zombie-like faces.  All of these things stick to my memory more than anything else.  They were perfectly identical in shape and form. They never spoke, they never looked our way.  We never heard the floor boards creek.  Minutes before, we had been up on the first floor and there was nobody else there.  We would have seen them enter from where we were playing as we had a 360 degree view of the whole of the ground floor.

Panic overtook us rapidly and we scrambled to climb back up onto the platform to flee from the situation.  I got up first, being the tallest, followed by David.  All I could say was, be quick, be quick – they’re coming!’  Gary being the smallest was struggling to get off the tracks and I remember the panic as we pulled his arms whilst trying to keep one eye on the staircase.  The three sinister figures continued their slow descent of the steps. Drawing on hidden strength that seems super-human now, David and I just grabbed Gary and hauled him up to safety.  Then we ran and ran letting our pent-up fear out as screams as we went.  We never looked back. 

David’s father worked nights shifts and when we got back he was up drinking tea. We blabbered out what had happened.  Roy was sceptical but agreed to go straight away to take a look around.  Fifteen minutes later he was back.  ‘’There’s no-one there kids, nothing.  I looked all around the place, upstairs and down, inside and outside and there’s no-one there.’’  We never went back there to play. 

Imagination?

Three children see the same event.  I’ve always felt that all children have the right to be believed.  I know what I saw and Gary knows what he saw.  My brother now lives in the South of England.  We lost contact with David after secondary school.  Sometimes when Gary and I meet up, one of us will suddenly glaze over and say,

‘’Do you remember the station?’’ 

‘’What do you think it was?’’

‘’I don’t know, but it was real wasn’t it?’’

‘’Yes, it was real’’

A flashback, a nervous laugh, a knowing grin.

Zombies? Aliens? Men in black?

Or just pranksters playing at being weirdos?

We know what we saw is the only conclusion I can draw from this event.  This is my testimony of things seen in an abandoned railway station in the summer of 1965.  This was my experience.  This is my truth.

David, if ever you read this blog please get in touch.  Your memory of the station would be much appreciated.