CHAPTER 15: UP THE DOWN - THE ROSWELL RABBIT HOLE
CHAPTER 15: UP THE DOWN - THE ROSWELL RABBIT HOLE :
By Steve Douglass:
Roswell, New Mexico is different. For decades, the story of the “UFO crash” was something people didn’t talk about. It was a dirty little secret—shared only in whispers, and only among those who had been there or knew someone who was. For most residents, it was safer to stay quiet and move on with daily life.
That silence began to crack in the early 1990s. Roswell suddenly became the focus of intense attention from UFO investigators, researchers, and curious outsiders from around the world. This wasn’t just another rumor or easily dismissed tale. The Roswell crash story had too many witnesses, too many inconsistencies, and too many unanswered questions to be explained away.
As more people came forward, the story refused to stay buried. Accounts from military personnel, local residents, and officials continued to surface, each adding another layer to the mystery. Even as the military made repeated efforts to explain—or bury—the incident, public interest only grew stronger.
Today, Roswell stands as a symbol of unanswered questions and enduring curiosity. Whether one believes a UFO crashed there or not, the story has become part of the town’s identity, proving that some secrets, no matter how deeply hidden, have a way of resurfacing,
Eventually, Roswell stopped pretending the story didn’t exist and decided to make friends with it. After decades of books, TV specials, documentaries, and movies retelling the crash from every possible angle, the citizens had a realization that was very down-to-earth: there was money to be made.
The opening of the International UFO Museum was the beginning of Roswell’s full transformation. Tourists didn’t just trickle in—they landed. Soon, Main Street was filled with T-shirt shops, souvenir stands, and gift stores selling everything from “I Want to Believe” mugs to glow-in-the-dark aliens. Alien-head street lamps popped up like they’d been planted overnight, watching pedestrians with wide, unblinking eyes.
And yes, even McDonald’s got involved. The alien-themed McDonald’s became a tourist attraction all on its own, proving that nothing says “intergalactic mystery” quite like ordering a Big Mac under a pair of extraterrestrial arches. Roswell had officially gone from hush-hush secret to full-blown UFO capital—and business was booming.
Now, every July, Roswell fully commits to its alien heritage with a three-day-long UFO Festival. Thousands of visitors flock to the town, ranging from mildly curious tourists to full-on true believers who probably arrived with homemade tinfoil hats.
The festival features lectures by acclaimed UFO researchers, which are a highlight for those eager to connect the dots—or redraw them entirely. Then comes the alien parade: a whimsical nighttime strut of glowing, alien-themed floats that roll down the street in a celebration that’s equal parts science fiction and small-town charm.
But beneath all the costumes, lights, and laughter, the core story remains. No matter how much fun Roswell has with it—and no matter how much the military might wish the whole thing would quietly float away—the mystery refuses to disappear. The story that once wasn’t supposed to be told is now celebrated loudly, proudly, and every July… just in case anyone was still hoping it would go away.
But all of this came later. Before Roswell became an annual event complete with parades and souvenir cups, my in-laws actually lived there. And while Roswell was interesting to me, it wasn’t exactly front and center in my mind—at least not until I met people who were directly involved in the story.
My father-in-law, Elwood Johnston, was a local businessman. He owned property, a home, and a used car lot, and—like most people who’ve been in Roswell long enough—he knew everyone, and everyone knew him. If Roswell had a human switchboard, Elwood was it.
One time, while I was down there for Roving Sands, he casually introduced me to some of the key figures at the heart of the Roswell crash story. And by “casually,” I mean the kind of introduction that makes you stop mid-handshake and think, Wait… did he just say that name?
Most notably, I met Walter Haut and Glenn Dennis—names that carry serious weight in Roswell lore. Suddenly, the UFO story wasn’t just museum displays and alien street lamps anymore. It was sitting across the table, shaking hands, and very much real.
To understand the Roswell crash story, you have to understand Walter Haut’s place in it. In 1947, Haut wasn’t a fringe figure or a rumor mill—he was a First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Air Forces and the public information officer at Roswell Army Air Field. His job was simple but powerful: communicate with the press on behalf of the base.
That responsibility placed him at the very center of what would become one of the most famous announcements in modern history.
On July 8, 1947, a press release was issued from the Roswell Army Air Field stating that the military had recovered a “flying disc.” The statement went out under Haut’s name and was sent to local newspapers and radio stations. Within hours, the story exploded nationwide. For a brief moment, the U.S. military appeared to be confirming what people had only speculated about—that something unusual, possibly not of this world, had come down outside Roswell.
Just as quickly, the story changed.
Higher-ranking officials intervened, and the flying disc became a weather balloon. The debris was explained away, photos were staged, and the narrative was reset. Haut later said he was ordered to issue the initial release and just as firmly ordered to help retract it. The message was clear: the subject was closed, and it was not to be discussed.
For decades, Haut stayed mostly quiet. Like many involved, he followed orders and lived his life. But later in life, he began to speak more openly. He maintained that the original press release was not a mistake or misunderstanding—it was based on what base officials genuinely believed at the time. He also stated that he had been aware that something extraordinary had occurred, even if he wasn’t directly involved in recovering the debris himself.
What makes Walter Haut’s role so compelling is not just what he said, but when and how he said it. He never sought fame, and he never changed his core account. To supporters of the Roswell crash story, Haut represents an insider who carried the weight of official silence for most of his life. To skeptics, his involvement highlights the confusion and pressure of a rapidly evolving Cold War military environment.
Either way, his name remains inextricably linked to Roswell. He was the man who stood behind the podium—literally and figuratively—when the story briefly slipped out before being forced back into the shadows. And once it was out, no amount of official explanation could fully put it back.
Glenn Dennis’s role in the Roswell crash story adds a very human—and unsettling—dimension to the mystery. In 1947, Dennis was a young mortician who ran Ballard Funeral Home in Roswell. His connection to the event didn’t come from the skies or the desert, but from phone calls that raised more questions than answers.
Dennis said he received a call from the Roswell Army Air Field asking about the availability of small, airtight caskets—specifically ones that could accommodate bodies much smaller than adult humans. He was also asked about preservation methods in hot climates. At the time, the questions struck him as unusual, but he answered them professionally and thought little more about it.
Things became stranger when Dennis later visited the base. According to his account, a nurse he knew—stationed at the base hospital—quietly warned him to leave and forget what he might see. She later told him she had assisted in an examination of non-human bodies recovered from the crash site. Dennis described her as visibly shaken, insisting that what she saw was not human.
Shortly afterward, Dennis said the nurse was abruptly transferred, and he was never able to contact her again. Records of her service have remained unclear, which has only added to the controversy surrounding his testimony.
Skeptics point out inconsistencies in Dennis’s account and the lack of documentation, while supporters argue that his story fits too neatly with other witness statements to be dismissed outright. What makes Dennis’s testimony particularly compelling is that he was never seeking attention—he wasn’t a researcher or investigator, just a local businessman who found himself brushed up against something extraordinary.
Together, Walter Haut and Glenn Dennis represent two very different vantage points of the same event. Haut stood at the official podium, carefully controlling words under military orders. Dennis stood outside the system, asking practical questions and being told—firmly—to stop asking them. One spoke for the military; the other was quietly pushed away by it.
And somewhere between those two perspectives lies the heart of the Roswell mystery—one that, decades later, still refuses to settle neatly into a single explanation.
I spoke with both Glenn and Walter at length—but not as an interviewer. Elwood introduced me simply as his son-in-law, and that alone seemed to mark me as an insider, someone they could trust. There were no notebooks, no tape recorders, and no agenda. Just conversations.
They spoke freely, and at times, emotionally. There was no hint of bravado, no performative storytelling, and no sense that they were trying to impress or persuade. What struck me most was how personal it all felt. They weren’t delivering rehearsed accounts—they were speaking from the heart.
I truly believed that they believed their experiences. Whatever the ultimate truth of Roswell may be, their conviction was genuine. It was also clear that they had been holding back from UFO researchers over the years. Whether out of caution, fatigue, or long habit, they seemed more guarded with investigators than they were in a quiet, personal setting.
In those moments, Roswell stopped being a spectacle or a festival. It became something much more intimate—a shared burden of memory carried for decades, finally spoken aloud without expectation or consequence. And that, more than any document or lecture, left a lasting impression on me.
When public curiosity reached its peak in the 1990s, the military establishment made a renewed effort to finally put Roswell to rest. First came the Mogul balloon explanation—a classified Cold War project conveniently revealed decades later. When that didn’t satisfy critics, a second explanation was added: test dummies, allegedly responsible for the reports of strange bodies.
To many, myself included, it didn’t pass the smell test. The explanations felt layered on, not clarified—each one raising as many questions as it answered. Rather than closing the book on Roswell, they seemed to confirm that something was being managed rather than explained.
By that time, Mark had shown me the official government handbook on how to protect a secret, and the pattern was unmistakable. The military’s responses followed it almost word for word: deny the event, disinform the public, and discredit anyone who won’t let it go. The shifting stories, the delayed revelations, and the dismissal of witnesses all fit neatly into that framework.
Whether Roswell was extraterrestrial, experimental, or something else entirely, the response to it looked less like transparency and more like textbook damage control. And once you recognize the playbook, it’s hard not to see Roswell as a case study in how secrets are kept—not uncovered.
Whenever Mark and I talked, I had a strong sense that he knew far more about Roswell than he ever let on. Still, I never pressed him. Our conversations ranged widely, touching on all sorts of topics, but they had a way of drifting—almost organically—toward government conspiracies: how they form, how to recognize them for what they are, and why they tend to unravel over time.
Inevitably, those discussions would circle back to Roswell.
It wasn’t dramatic or secretive. There were no dramatic pauses or whispered confessions. Instead, Roswell served as a kind of reference point—a shared example of how official narratives are shaped, challenged, and defended. Mark didn’t need to spell anything out. The implication was always there, hanging just beneath the surface.
And in a strange way, that quiet restraint spoke louder than any revelation could have.
Then, during one marathon conversation with Mark, he dropped a bombshell.
He said, almost casually, “You know there never was a crash near Roswell. It was a landing. And the bodies were—well, not alien. Something even stranger.”
He didn’t elaborate. Not then. And that, somehow, made it land even harder.
I knew better than to push. If there was anything I’d learned from our conversations, it was that pressing for answers shut doors, while patience sometimes opened them. If I played the long game, he might eventually say more.
Still, as intriguing as the statement was, it also set off alarm bells. I couldn’t ignore the possibility that I was being played—that I was slowly turning into a useful idiot, fed just enough to keep me interested but never enough to verify anything. Revelation and manipulation can look uncomfortably similar when you’re standing too close to the story.
And Roswell, I’d learned by then, had a way of blurring that line better than almost anything else.
By Steve Douglass:
Roswell, New Mexico is different. For decades, the story of the “UFO crash” was something people didn’t talk about. It was a dirty little secret—shared only in whispers, and only among those who had been there or knew someone who was. For most residents, it was safer to stay quiet and move on with daily life.
That silence began to crack in the early 1990s. Roswell suddenly became the focus of intense attention from UFO investigators, researchers, and curious outsiders from around the world. This wasn’t just another rumor or easily dismissed tale. The Roswell crash story had too many witnesses, too many inconsistencies, and too many unanswered questions to be explained away.
As more people came forward, the story refused to stay buried. Accounts from military personnel, local residents, and officials continued to surface, each adding another layer to the mystery. Even as the military made repeated efforts to explain—or bury—the incident, public interest only grew stronger.
Today, Roswell stands as a symbol of unanswered questions and enduring curiosity. Whether one believes a UFO crashed there or not, the story has become part of the town’s identity, proving that some secrets, no matter how deeply hidden, have a way of resurfacing,
Eventually, Roswell stopped pretending the story didn’t exist and decided to make friends with it. After decades of books, TV specials, documentaries, and movies retelling the crash from every possible angle, the citizens had a realization that was very down-to-earth: there was money to be made.
The opening of the International UFO Museum was the beginning of Roswell’s full transformation. Tourists didn’t just trickle in—they landed. Soon, Main Street was filled with T-shirt shops, souvenir stands, and gift stores selling everything from “I Want to Believe” mugs to glow-in-the-dark aliens. Alien-head street lamps popped up like they’d been planted overnight, watching pedestrians with wide, unblinking eyes.
And yes, even McDonald’s got involved. The alien-themed McDonald’s became a tourist attraction all on its own, proving that nothing says “intergalactic mystery” quite like ordering a Big Mac under a pair of extraterrestrial arches. Roswell had officially gone from hush-hush secret to full-blown UFO capital—and business was booming.
Now, every July, Roswell fully commits to its alien heritage with a three-day-long UFO Festival. Thousands of visitors flock to the town, ranging from mildly curious tourists to full-on true believers who probably arrived with homemade tinfoil hats.
The festival features lectures by acclaimed UFO researchers, which are a highlight for those eager to connect the dots—or redraw them entirely. Then comes the alien parade: a whimsical nighttime strut of glowing, alien-themed floats that roll down the street in a celebration that’s equal parts science fiction and small-town charm.
But beneath all the costumes, lights, and laughter, the core story remains. No matter how much fun Roswell has with it—and no matter how much the military might wish the whole thing would quietly float away—the mystery refuses to disappear. The story that once wasn’t supposed to be told is now celebrated loudly, proudly, and every July… just in case anyone was still hoping it would go away.
But all of this came later. Before Roswell became an annual event complete with parades and souvenir cups, my in-laws actually lived there. And while Roswell was interesting to me, it wasn’t exactly front and center in my mind—at least not until I met people who were directly involved in the story.
My father-in-law, Elwood Johnston, was a local businessman. He owned property, a home, and a used car lot, and—like most people who’ve been in Roswell long enough—he knew everyone, and everyone knew him. If Roswell had a human switchboard, Elwood was it.
One time, while I was down there for Roving Sands, he casually introduced me to some of the key figures at the heart of the Roswell crash story. And by “casually,” I mean the kind of introduction that makes you stop mid-handshake and think, Wait… did he just say that name?
Most notably, I met Walter Haut and Glenn Dennis—names that carry serious weight in Roswell lore. Suddenly, the UFO story wasn’t just museum displays and alien street lamps anymore. It was sitting across the table, shaking hands, and very much real.
To understand the Roswell crash story, you have to understand Walter Haut’s place in it. In 1947, Haut wasn’t a fringe figure or a rumor mill—he was a First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Air Forces and the public information officer at Roswell Army Air Field. His job was simple but powerful: communicate with the press on behalf of the base.
That responsibility placed him at the very center of what would become one of the most famous announcements in modern history.
On July 8, 1947, a press release was issued from the Roswell Army Air Field stating that the military had recovered a “flying disc.” The statement went out under Haut’s name and was sent to local newspapers and radio stations. Within hours, the story exploded nationwide. For a brief moment, the U.S. military appeared to be confirming what people had only speculated about—that something unusual, possibly not of this world, had come down outside Roswell.
Just as quickly, the story changed.
Higher-ranking officials intervened, and the flying disc became a weather balloon. The debris was explained away, photos were staged, and the narrative was reset. Haut later said he was ordered to issue the initial release and just as firmly ordered to help retract it. The message was clear: the subject was closed, and it was not to be discussed.
For decades, Haut stayed mostly quiet. Like many involved, he followed orders and lived his life. But later in life, he began to speak more openly. He maintained that the original press release was not a mistake or misunderstanding—it was based on what base officials genuinely believed at the time. He also stated that he had been aware that something extraordinary had occurred, even if he wasn’t directly involved in recovering the debris himself.
What makes Walter Haut’s role so compelling is not just what he said, but when and how he said it. He never sought fame, and he never changed his core account. To supporters of the Roswell crash story, Haut represents an insider who carried the weight of official silence for most of his life. To skeptics, his involvement highlights the confusion and pressure of a rapidly evolving Cold War military environment.
Either way, his name remains inextricably linked to Roswell. He was the man who stood behind the podium—literally and figuratively—when the story briefly slipped out before being forced back into the shadows. And once it was out, no amount of official explanation could fully put it back.
Glenn Dennis’s role in the Roswell crash story adds a very human—and unsettling—dimension to the mystery. In 1947, Dennis was a young mortician who ran Ballard Funeral Home in Roswell. His connection to the event didn’t come from the skies or the desert, but from phone calls that raised more questions than answers.
Dennis said he received a call from the Roswell Army Air Field asking about the availability of small, airtight caskets—specifically ones that could accommodate bodies much smaller than adult humans. He was also asked about preservation methods in hot climates. At the time, the questions struck him as unusual, but he answered them professionally and thought little more about it.
Things became stranger when Dennis later visited the base. According to his account, a nurse he knew—stationed at the base hospital—quietly warned him to leave and forget what he might see. She later told him she had assisted in an examination of non-human bodies recovered from the crash site. Dennis described her as visibly shaken, insisting that what she saw was not human.
Shortly afterward, Dennis said the nurse was abruptly transferred, and he was never able to contact her again. Records of her service have remained unclear, which has only added to the controversy surrounding his testimony.
Skeptics point out inconsistencies in Dennis’s account and the lack of documentation, while supporters argue that his story fits too neatly with other witness statements to be dismissed outright. What makes Dennis’s testimony particularly compelling is that he was never seeking attention—he wasn’t a researcher or investigator, just a local businessman who found himself brushed up against something extraordinary.
Together, Walter Haut and Glenn Dennis represent two very different vantage points of the same event. Haut stood at the official podium, carefully controlling words under military orders. Dennis stood outside the system, asking practical questions and being told—firmly—to stop asking them. One spoke for the military; the other was quietly pushed away by it.
And somewhere between those two perspectives lies the heart of the Roswell mystery—one that, decades later, still refuses to settle neatly into a single explanation.
I spoke with both Glenn and Walter at length—but not as an interviewer. Elwood introduced me simply as his son-in-law, and that alone seemed to mark me as an insider, someone they could trust. There were no notebooks, no tape recorders, and no agenda. Just conversations.
They spoke freely, and at times, emotionally. There was no hint of bravado, no performative storytelling, and no sense that they were trying to impress or persuade. What struck me most was how personal it all felt. They weren’t delivering rehearsed accounts—they were speaking from the heart.
I truly believed that they believed their experiences. Whatever the ultimate truth of Roswell may be, their conviction was genuine. It was also clear that they had been holding back from UFO researchers over the years. Whether out of caution, fatigue, or long habit, they seemed more guarded with investigators than they were in a quiet, personal setting.
In those moments, Roswell stopped being a spectacle or a festival. It became something much more intimate—a shared burden of memory carried for decades, finally spoken aloud without expectation or consequence. And that, more than any document or lecture, left a lasting impression on me.
When public curiosity reached its peak in the 1990s, the military establishment made a renewed effort to finally put Roswell to rest. First came the Mogul balloon explanation—a classified Cold War project conveniently revealed decades later. When that didn’t satisfy critics, a second explanation was added: test dummies, allegedly responsible for the reports of strange bodies.
To many, myself included, it didn’t pass the smell test. The explanations felt layered on, not clarified—each one raising as many questions as it answered. Rather than closing the book on Roswell, they seemed to confirm that something was being managed rather than explained.
By that time, Mark had shown me the official government handbook on how to protect a secret, and the pattern was unmistakable. The military’s responses followed it almost word for word: deny the event, disinform the public, and discredit anyone who won’t let it go. The shifting stories, the delayed revelations, and the dismissal of witnesses all fit neatly into that framework.
Whether Roswell was extraterrestrial, experimental, or something else entirely, the response to it looked less like transparency and more like textbook damage control. And once you recognize the playbook, it’s hard not to see Roswell as a case study in how secrets are kept—not uncovered.
Whenever Mark and I talked, I had a strong sense that he knew far more about Roswell than he ever let on. Still, I never pressed him. Our conversations ranged widely, touching on all sorts of topics, but they had a way of drifting—almost organically—toward government conspiracies: how they form, how to recognize them for what they are, and why they tend to unravel over time.
Inevitably, those discussions would circle back to Roswell.
It wasn’t dramatic or secretive. There were no dramatic pauses or whispered confessions. Instead, Roswell served as a kind of reference point—a shared example of how official narratives are shaped, challenged, and defended. Mark didn’t need to spell anything out. The implication was always there, hanging just beneath the surface.
And in a strange way, that quiet restraint spoke louder than any revelation could have.
Then, during one marathon conversation with Mark, he dropped a bombshell.
He said, almost casually, “You know there never was a crash near Roswell. It was a landing. And the bodies were—well, not alien. Something even stranger.”
He didn’t elaborate. Not then. And that, somehow, made it land even harder.
I knew better than to push. If there was anything I’d learned from our conversations, it was that pressing for answers shut doors, while patience sometimes opened them. If I played the long game, he might eventually say more.
Still, as intriguing as the statement was, it also set off alarm bells. I couldn’t ignore the possibility that I was being played—that I was slowly turning into a useful idiot, fed just enough to keep me interested but never enough to verify anything. Revelation and manipulation can look uncomfortably similar when you’re standing too close to the story.
And Roswell, I’d learned by then, had a way of blurring that line better than almost anything else.
UP NEXT: THE USEFUL IDIOTS
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