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The Wizard of the Wik

I was ten years old when my life was turned upside down by the disappearance of my Uncle Bruce. I will never forget the strange events which took place. I have attached in the appendix all the documents I have been able to gather regarding this incident. I was with my father and mother at the police station when they filed the missing persons report. He was last known to be driving from Goose Creek, SC to Hiltonhead. My father had spoke to him on the phone before he set out from Goose Creek. He never made it to Hilton Head, and he wasn’t answering his phone.

The next day, the Walterboro Police Department found his old LTD Ford abandoned on the side of I-95, with the keys still dangling from the ignition.

It only took about a month for my parents to completely give up all hopes of ever finding him. He was presumed dead, and eventually we all accepted that. But there was never any closure, and I still guarded a faint hope that one day he would turn up.

Ten years later I attended my own father’s funeral. Three years after that, I spoke at my mother’s. The only person left who is familiar with these events, besides myself, is my sister. However, she has chosen to distance herself from what has become my life’s work. To this day, I am unsure whether she even believes me.

I was twenty-five years old when, having almost forgotten the memory of my uncle, I saw his face in the newspaper(see appendix A). “Man Claims Alien Abduction,” the headline read. Though it had been 15 years since I last saw him, there was no mistaking my Uncle Bruce. He had not aged a day.

I immediately drove to Fenwick Hall, the asylum mentioned in the article. Before I was allowed to see him, I had to fill out some paperwork and speak with his Doctor, who seemed very happy I had come. They were unsure whether Bruce had any family who could take care of him; and they were about to transfer him to a state-run asylum. I assured them I had no problem relieving them of their uninsured guest.

An orderly escorted me to his room. When we entered, Uncle Bruce was sitting up in his bed, scribbling frantically in a black and white checkered notebook. A cold chill ran down my spine when I saw him. In 15 years, he had not aged a single day. He actually looked younger than I had remembered him. He looked up at me and squinted his eyes, trying to place me. “Uncle Bruce, it’s me, Daniel!” I said. When he finally recognized me, a warm smile stretched across his french-canadian face, which reminded me of my dad. And I must have reminded him of his brother, because that was the first thing he asked.

“Where is Robert?” he asked. I really did not want to be the one to tell him that his brother had passed, so I avoided the question by responding with a question of my own.

“Where have YOU been?” I said.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized I did not really want to talk about that, either; so I changed the subject. “Nevermind, Uncle Bruce,” I said. “Just give me a hug, man!”

I will never forget how good it felt to hug and be hugged by him. He had always been my favorite uncle. Even more, he reminded me of my Dad. It felt so good to have him back in my life! I did not care what scam he was trying to play with the alien thing. He had always been a con-man of sorts, so when I had read the article in the paper, I just figured he was trying to work his way into a disability check.

But I soon discovered he was 100% serious. “It wasn’t little green men, or anything like that,” he said. We didn’t talk about it much, at first. I brought him back to my tiny apartment in Downtown Charleston, where he made himself comfortable on my old beat-up couch. As soon as he sat down, he retrieved his notebook from his bag and started writing again. I remember thinking how peculiar it was, the way he would write and write. I would make coffee for us in the morning, and we would sit and talk for a few minutes before I went to work. But it seemed like he wasn’t really there. His mind was always on his notebooks, breaking only to sip his coffee and make small talk before he would pick up and start writing some more.

Besides the frantic writing, and the long dred-locks, he seemed to be of sound mind. Our first real conversation, of course, was about my parents, and the cancer which had taken my father. He cried shortly after I told him his brother had passed; but he quickly recovered and set his mind back to his pen and paper.

He would stay home all day while I was at work. Each night I would return to find him either asleep on the couch, or sitting up and writing. I knew we would eventually have to address the living situation. He didn’t seem interested in establishing his independence again, finding a job, or anything other than writing.

One day, when I had returned from work to find him awake and in a writing frenzy, my curiosity got the best of me; and I finally asked him what he was always writing about.

I will never forget the look in his eyes when presented with that question. He set his pen on the coffee table and looked at me in the strangest way. It was as though he was searching for something in my eyes. After a brief moment, which seemed like forever, he simply said “Why don’t you just read it?”. I told him I would, and he reached beneath the cushions of my couch and retrieved a black checkered notebook, the one I saw him writing in at Fenwick Hall. “Start with this,” he said.

I picked up the notebook, said goodnight, and took it to my room. As I climbed into bed, I flipped it open and skimmed the first page, which was titled as follows:


What followed was a first-hand account of what seemed to be an alien abduction of two men — my uncle Bruce, and a strange old man he called “The Wizard of Wik.” He described how he was driving down I-95, just south of Walterboro, when he saw an old man walking on the side of the road, bracing each step with a tall walking stick. When he stopped to offer the poor man a ride, the man refused and told him to go away. Out of pure concern for the old fellow, Uncle Bruce persisted in trying to help the man. “You can’t be out here on the highway like this,” he told him. “Let me take you home.” The old man refused again, this time shouting at Bruce and telling him to go away.

And this is where the story turned really crazy. When my uncle was about to get in his car and leave, a great black darkness began to surround his car. When he looked up he saw a giant UFO, hovering about 20 yards above them. The old man began to shout at my uncle, telling him to get in his car quickly and drive away. But my uncle couldn’t move, so stunned he was by the UFO. It was then that a multitude of humanoid like creatures surrounded them. He described them as “Giant Men.” They seized my uncle and the old man, and used some sort of antigravity device to lift them up and into a trap door on the underside of the vessel, which he described in great detail.

The story captivated me. It was written very hastily, and not well-structured, which made it obvious to me that it was not written with the intent to publish. It seemed to be inspired by real memories. The rest of the story describes events which transpired in a strange place, which I will spare the reader, for now. The story went into great detail about who my uncle believed this “wizard” was. According to my uncle’s notes, the man was “Enoch, Seventh from Adam.” He was abducted by an alien race a very long time ago, and has somehow eluded his captors, travelling through many dimensions on a quest to recruit “An army of storytellers.”

At the time, I did not know what to believe. Had my uncle gone completely mad, or did these events truly take place? The thought occurred to me to check to see if there were any independent reports of UFO sightings during the time in question. It did not take long. A quick Google search ended up setting me on a journey which would change my life forever.

About a week after I had read that first notebook, I was met by my neighbor, Mrs. Marley, as I was locking my car door and about to walk through my front gate. She seemed nervous about something as she approached me, looking back at my front door, then back at me as she told me there was a strange old man in my house, who was not my Uncle Bruce. I remember feeling relieved that Bruce had made a friend, and dismissed Mrs. Marley’s concerns as I unlocked and opened my front door.

But there was nobody in the house, and all of Bruce’s belongings were gone. All except a stack of notebooks, which had been placed on the coffee table by where he had slept. I searched the entire house. Nobody was home.

Mrs. Marley, nosy neighbor that she was, was now peeking through my front door. “I didn’t see anyone leave,” she said. I asked her if she could describe the man who she saw.

She said he was very old, peculiarly dressed in a dark brown robe, and walked with a tall walking stick, capped with a glassy opal sphere.

I could do nothing but stare out the window for hours that night. Once again, I was utterly alone. You must understand, all these things happened at a very difficult time in my life. I had only recently broken up with a woman I loved more than anything in the world, shortly before Uncle Bruce had returned. I had been having a very hard time finding purpose and self-worth. My parents were gone, my sister had married and moved to Ohio, and I worked so much just trying to make ends meat that I had no time for social activities. For a brief moment during my uncle’s stay, I was beginning to feel like a normal person again. But now that was over, and it hurt.

As I sat there on my couch thinking about my life, I couldn’t help but cry. Tears had always made me feel better during times like this, so I let them flow freely; and gazed through them towards the night sky as I pondered on which star my uncle may have been.

It was then that the brief flicker of a distant comet gave me the strange sense that he was answering me. At this, I turned and glanced at the notebooks on the table.

As I picked up the top notebook and opened the cover, a folded sheet of loose paper fell to the floor. The words “To Daniel” were written on the visible side of the paper, in my uncle’s handwriting. I picked it up and read the following:

“Nephew, please make me a promise. I have done my part. These notebooks will serve you well as a rough draft. My friend has shown me, and I understand, now, that the rest is up to you. I know, once you read my work, you will understand. You have been given the chance to answer a question which has intrigued mankind since the beginning. Promise me you will organize these notebooks into a readable form, and publish them for all mankind to read! Promise me! And do not be sad, nephew! You will see me again. I promise you… if you write it, the Wizard of Wik will come.”

And so, I began to read. And, just like my uncle’s note said, I understood. It was not long before I, too, was taken by a writing frenzy. I quit my job within a week and took to editing and writing full time. There were days I did not eat or sleep, and many weeks without a shower or a shave, as I labored to get this story finished. I dedicated my entire being to my uncle’s wish. But it was not just for him. You see, as I began to write, a mysterious presence began to fill my life. I would see the Wizard of Wik in my dreams, and often hear his voice as I struggled to organize his biography, guiding me, and showing me the best way to explain things. I no longer felt alone.

If you are reading this now, it means that I am long gone. I sincerely hope that you experience the same purpose and inspiration which has led me to this point, for it has truly changed my life in ways you cannot yet imagine.

There is a powerful Wizard who inhabits the realm created by the stories of man. His story, the story of his origins and existence, goes to the heart of the purpose of the existence of all life. He has been to earth many times throughout history, and has been called by many names. He has mentored kings, queens, and emperors; and has delivered entire nations from bondage. He has whispered into the ears of some of the most influential authors of all time, and has helped to shape the narrative of many enlightened generations.

He is back again, this time on a quest to gather an army of storytellers.

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