The Nye Incidents

by Craig Spector
Illustrated by Aadi Salman
Based on a screenplay by
Whitley Strieber

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The Nye Incidents
To be published April 2008
Update: Published as a single trade paperback edition rather than as individual (5 issues, 32 pages, B&W) issues.

Written by Craig Spector
Illustrated by Aadi Salman
Based on a screenplay by Whitley Strieber
Cover Art by Aadi Salman
Published by Devil's Due Publishing Inc., Chicago

Synopsis issue 1: Lynn Devlin is a medical examiner who thinks she has seen everything Nye County has to throw at her. She copes with methodical, rational logic. But when a grotesque murder of a supposed alien abductee occurs that cannot be solved with her scalpel and microscope, Lynn finds her detachment shattered and her dreams haunted by large dark, oval-shaped eyes. Now, only one thing is certain: There's a killer loose in the alien abductee community... human or otherwise.

Synopsis issue 2: The horrendous homicide that rocked medical examiner Lynn Devlin’s life leads her on a path that challenges her very understanding of the world. When her inquiries take her to a U.F.O. convention, her secret nightmares of large black eyes and horribly long, thin fingers seem to become a terrible reality… one that threatens to destroy her!

Synopsis issue 3: Lynn Devlin’s quest takes her to an alien abduction convention… what she finds there raises more questions and makes her nightmares rage even more out of control… who are these mysterious children that haunt her waking dreams, and how does all of this connect to both her painful past and the mutilated corpse in her lab?

Synopsis issue 4: TK

Synopsis issue 5: TK


Pre-publication comments about the graphic novel The Nye Incidents:
“My next journal entry will be about a new graphic novel I have created with author Craig Spector. It is a horror story about human mutilations, and I am going to be writing about why I produced it, and expanding on a whole theory about how to address the dark side of the close encounter experience.” (Whitley Strieber's Journal, 19 Feb 2008).
     “Rumor has it that Spector has teamed up with bestselling author Whitley Strieber on a new project called The Nye Incidents. A serial killer stalks the UFO/alien abductee subculture... and it's allegedly inspired by actual events! Originally developed in conjunction with Wolper Entertainment for the screen, Strieber and Spector are so taken with the material that they're thinking of doing the book version. (Courtesy of, 6 March 2007). Reference to Wolper Entertainment should be to The Wolper Organization.

Whitley's Journal: Monday April 14th, 2008
The Nye Incidents: the Scariest Story I Know

I have collaborated on a graphic novel about human mutilations called the Nye Incidents that is going to be out shortly. (If you want a copy, the best thing to do is to call your local comics shop and ask them to order it. It's by Craig Spector and it's from Devil's Due Comics.)
     Now, why have I done this? Most of you have realized by now that I do not think that our mysterious visitors are angels. I don't buy into the idea that they have to be either "good" or "evil," and no shadings in between. Human beings are not that simple, and the visitors certainly aren't.
     I think that their society is a lot more complex than ours, and ours is hardly good or evil. Human life is all shadings in between. Are your friends and family good or evil? Or, how about you? Have you never done anything evil? I know I have, and I doubt that there is a single human being alive over the age of ten or so without similar regrets.
     But it gets even more complicated. Some of the things that I’ve done that don’t seem evil to me certainly do to some of my victims. Take the hornets I once sprayed because they were getting into my bedroom. They would say that I'm a monster that spews deadly gas. I don't hunt, but if you do, then the deer or ducks you shoot consider you the devil incarnate. And a kitten, being given a shot by the vet, certainly considers him evil. He cannot know that, without that shot, he would probably die an early and painful death. He cannot know that it was altruism—love—that brought him to the vet, and that his owner had to work for hours to get the money to pay the bill. His mind is simply not wired to take those facts in.
     So, when I talk about good and evil when it comes to the visitors, I am talking about subtle, complicated issues that have no final answers.
     On the night I was taken by the visitors in December of 1985, I was forced by them to expel semen. A device called an electrostimulator was used, which causes an erection and involuntary ejaculation. We do this all the time in animal husbandry. In fact, back in 1985, before Viagra, such devices were routinely used in a medical context to help men who could not otherwise ejaculate.
     In my case, though, it was rape, pure and simple. I didn’t ask for it. I just had to endure the pain and humiliation of it. Later, because I knew that the existence of this level of the experience had to be important, and naively assumed that my suffering would be treated sympathetically, I left a brief mention of it in Communion.
     Then, I came face to face with some real, old-fashioned evil of the nastiest kind. I will take with me to the end of my days a deep, abiding loathing for the people who made a joke out of my rape. Who knows why the visitors do what they do? Maybe it’s for our benefit, like the kitten at the vet. More likely, it’s for theirs, but we’re not in a position to know.
     I do know this, though, the people who made my rape into a joke added immeasurably to the trauma I endured, and they should be ashamed of themselves.
     Given that my adult experiences with the visitors began with a rape, I am hardly one to see them as all sweetness and light. If their motives were good, why didn’t they explain themselves? Maybe because their motives were self-serving. Maybe for some other reason that I don’t understand. Or maybe because, like the kitten, I can't understand because our minds simply cannot grasp the meaning of their actions.
     In any case, I decided, despite what had happened to me, to refuse to be a victim and sit in my room and bitch and moan. I went out in the woods and tried to confront them, and it worked, and they ended up in my life for 11 years.
     Or rather, somebody did. Was it the same people who raped me? I don't know. I do know, though, that I went down an amazing path with them, intellectually and emotionally as well as spiritually. It has even changed my brain in some way, so that I have ended up with powers that I speak about not at all, but which afford me a new kind of insight into the world around me. In the meditation group I have created on this website, I am trying to communicate these powers to others.
     Which is the good side of the whole affair. But it has a bad side, and that's what the Nye Incidents is about. The reality that the visitors are a complex phenomenon must be accepted. To reject the good they offer because there is bad along with it is a great waste. At the same time, to try to pretend that there is no bad is dangerous.
     I first heard rumors of human mutilations in the mid nineties, but I discounted them because, out of all the hundreds of thousands of letters we had received about close encounter experiences from readers of Communion, there was not even a whisper of such things happening.
     But then Linda Howe told me a story of a case she had briefly investigated, of a man who had been found devastatingly mutilated, just like a cattle mutilation. I know, and knew then, of Linda's astonishing career and how hard she works to get the facts, so her story concerned me deeply. She had been called by a coroner because he had a human case similar to a cattle mutilation. But when she tried to pursue the matter, she was told that he had been officially silenced, and was unable to take it any further.
     Then there were other cases. In 2001, I heard of a coroner in the general area of my old cabin who had a number of such cases, and who had also been silenced. Then there was the Point Mountain case in Pennsylvania. This began when Peter Davenport of the National UFO Reporting Center and both received reports from people from this area, to the effect that they had observed a bright column of light come down out of a cloudy daytime sky and shine into a wooded area. There was a report of a human form rising up in this light.
     A few days later, a local man was reported missing. His 4 wheeler was found, but not him, and hounds could not locate a scent leading away from the machine. A few days later, his body was found in a wetland not far from his house, in what was described as a state of advanced decomposition. I wondered, decomposition or mutilation? But when Linda Howe tried to investigate, she was warned by the sheriff to leave town. Later, the FBI claimed that the man had died of a cocaine overdose.
     Now, I vividly remember rising up in just such a light back in '85. It felt like going up in a fast elevator, and I ended up in what looked like a tent full of giant insects, and was there raped, and had something injected into or removed from my brain, and had, frankly, a time so terrible that the fear is still with me, and wakes me up most mornings between three and three-thirty, shaking with fear. Afterward, when I got to know the visitors, I found sublime minds, I found humor, kindness, a tremendous eagerness for me to succeed in my attempts to forge what was for me an entirely new method of communication. I also found, when face to face with some of them, what seemed to me to be something appalling, that I have never been able to put into words.
     Perhaps the last scene of the Nye Incidents communicates something of the way this feels.
     During the last few years of my time with the visitors, there were a number of changes. I learned that they were afraid for my safety in the woods. I also learned from local residents that some folks were planning that I would be the victim of a staged hunting accident.
     The reason for this was that local people were not laughing. From the beginning, there had been rumors about what was going on, because people who worked on my place in various capacities saw things and were sometimes frightened off, and others saw lights hanging over my house at night. There were dark rumors that I was in league with evil aliens, or with demons.
     In 1996, the visitors posted a guardian in the woods behind our house. He spent time in the house, and also in lean-tos that he built in the woods. Although he was extremely shy, I saw him from time to time, and what I saw concerned me a good deal. He looked human, but oddly deformed, like somebody who had grown to adulthood without reaching puberty. From a distance, he had the look of a child. But up close, he seemed sort of weathered. Really very odd. He was also somehow frantic, as if he was suffering inside. He smoked constantly, and I could find places where he had been standing by the dozens of cigarette butts that he would leave behind.
     Was he a genetic experiment gone wrong, left behind to protect an asset? Or was he just—well—an alien?
     The grays now disappeared, and were replaced by a group of small but human-looking people who would come and meditate with me at night. On my last night at the cabin, I asked one of them to show me himself in his true form, because I knew that the shape I was seeing was not that.
     He turned into a tiny, glaringly bright star, the rays of which penetrated my skin and seemed to bring his personality inside me. It was simply incredible.
     Dead broke at this point, we gave up the cabin and moved to a condo in Texas. The guardian followed, but nobody else did, and about six months later, he, too left.
     I had a few small experiences in Texas, but nothing like the wealth that had been my gift at the cabin. At that time, I had abandoned my fear of the visitors and had decided that they were, pretty much, an angelic presence. In other words, my vision of them was still immature. It had gone from the “evil” model to the “good” model—that is to say, from one illusion to another.
     Then, in 2001, I began to hear of a large number of mutilation murders taking place in northern New Jersey—in fact, within about forty miles of my old cabin. These were absolutely terrifying stories, to say the least. At first, I thought they must be a hoax, but subsequently was forced to place them in the realm of the unknown.
     These stories involved the remains of street people being found mutilated like cattle, on the roofs of buildings . Worse, they had been drowned by being taken to such a depth in the ocean that their lungs showed pressure damage.
     So these street people were being taken, having their genitals and tongues and eyes and lips cut off, then being plunged into the sea a hundred miles away and drowned, then dropped back on the roofs of buildings.
     At first, it appeared that I had a direct line to the coroner involved. Then that collapsed, and I was left unsure about what had happened. I could not believe that the murders were done by some sort of serial killer, because how could a serial killer mutilate people, then drown them by taking them down in the ocean, then bring them back and put them on roofs? It just struck me as impossible.
     But, for the visitors it would not only be easy, it would be of a piece with cattle mutilations...and with the other stories I head heard.
     If I had been losing sleep before, my God, to know this and to know that my government was LYING and people were going through this—oh, dear heaven, it was almost more than I could bear.
     Again and again, I remembered some of the faces I had seen, the strange hunger that was there. I awoke sweating in the night, alert to any sound. And the thought of the fact that I spent years going out in the woods alone—it was unbelievably frightening.
     This fear and dealing with it was the genesis of the Nye Incidents. I wrote the story first as a film script, but I couldn’t manage it. I just could do it. I did ten drafts, twenty, finally over thirty. Then I got hooked up with Craig Spector, and to him it was just a story, maybe true, maybe not. He hadn’t had the experience, so he was something of an outsider. But he has a great skill in communicating fear, and once we started working together, the story started to take on the emotional impact of the actual experience.
     The coroner in the story is fictional. The particular murders described are fictional. But what is NOT fictional is the way the terror eats at her, because that’s how it eats at me.
     Why write about it? Because it’s healthy, that’s why. Writing about a thing like this gives it limits, and you can live with a fear that has limits. Also, reading about it encloses it in your own imagination, and the nameless fear that has been compelling you to find anything, no matter how silly, to reject the reality of the presence that is here, changes into something defined. And suddenly your mind becomes clear and you think to yourself — years of witness testimony, thousands of hours of film and video, carefully documented implants — OF COURSE it's all real.
     That’s why the Nye Incidents has been created: it is a mechanism designed to defeat fear by turning it into entertainment, and enable the reader to see behind the fear that creates the denial, and embrace the reality that, yes, this is terrifying, and we are very alone out here lost in the stars, but also, there is good to be hand, and wonder at hand.
     I will not say that, because of the Nye Incidents, I am no longer a haunted man. I am haunted, for sure, but not only by the horror. Along with it there is longing for the years of meditation, and for the wonder of what I saw that last night at the cabin, when one of my otherworldly meditation partners showed himself to me as a point of the light that, I believe, is the light of the world.
     I am well aware of the fact that some of you are aware of Isiah 14, 12: "How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!" But don't tell me that is who I saw, for the next verse makes it clear: "For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God."
     That was what I saw, and I knew it instantly, from the depths of my soul — it was a little star of God, and, in that sense, was just like you and me.
     Among the very few things any of the visitors ever said to me in words was uttered by one of them in the night: "have joy." Those words were uttered just a few miles from where the brutal mutilations took place, and what is to be made of that?
     Among us, there are saints and sinners, and the vast number of us who are — well — gray. And all of us know, to rise above ourselves, to put our shoulders to the work of what the poet Anne Sexton called so aptly "the awful rowing toward God," we must embrace our evil as well as our good, and find wherever we can within us, in among the evil and the losses and the mistakes, that little, pure spark of God that is our home and our truth.
     It is the same with the visitors, I have no doubt. ~

© 2008 Whitley Strieber