CHAPTER 29: TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT

CHAPTER 29: TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT 

By Steve Douglass 

I was just a child when I first saw it—a strange, shimmering light drifting silently across the evening sky. I didn’t understand it then, and at the time, I barely thought about it. But the memory never left me. It lingered, a shadow at the edge of my mind, faint yet persistent, like a half-remembered dream.

Life went on—school, friends, work, the quiet passage of days—but unconsciously, everything I did was shaping me for the journey ahead. My fascination with radio, photography, science, writing, and connecting with people quietly prepared me for a path I could never have imagined, a path that would lead to Roswell. Even my failures—a failed marriage, a body that betrayed me, wrong turns, dead-end jobs—somehow pushed me toward it.

And the people I met along the way… incredible. In-laws who knew key figures connected to Roswell. Writers, astronauts, pilots, historians, witnesses, fellow Interceptors, journalists. The odds of the stars lining up as they did seem mathematically impossible—yet somehow, they did.

I toiled away in obscurity, afraid to tell anyone what I was discovering. But over time, my work became something I could no longer keep to myself. I had odd hobbies—I watched the sky, scanned the airwaves, devoured every book I could find. I was fascinated by secrets—and somehow, it all came together.

In my family, I was always the “weird uncle.” I did cool things—worked in news, got free rides with the Air Force, covered true crime—but I was on my own path, one I couldn’t explain without getting that look: there’s something different about Steve. And they were right. I am different. I’m a digger, a layman scientist, a finder of truths, a technologist, a teller of tales.

I wrote many stories that no one in my family cared to read. It was all too weird, too far from the norm. It shook their ideas of what was “normal,” and maybe that was part of the point. But through that touch of nerdy weirdness, came an amazing full life.

My life has never been run-of-the-mill. I’ve seen and done things my family could never imagine. Those who work with me call me “The Shit Magnet.” Hang around long enough, and you’ll witness some truly crazy things—house fires, homicides, drug busts, plane crashes, tornadoes… even the occasional UAP or stealth aircraft. Somehow, they find me.

I love what I do. I’m nearing 70 and have no desire to retire. I’ve interviewed presidents, senators, housewives—over 5,000 people in total. With a little empathy and finesse, I can get anyone to tell their story. I’ve written books, more than a few people have read, and I type like a caveman. Once an idea hits, I have to get it out. Writing is hard for me. It's tedious, often painful and suck at it but I feel driven to observe and document the human condition. 

Of all the stories I’ve investigated, unraveling Roswell has been the most difficult—and the most enduring. I’m still searching—for the truth, for disclosure, for a kind of closure. Meeting Phil Patton and Mark took me most of the way, but the story is far from finished.

In 1964, my mom and I chased a UFO—and in many ways, I’ve been chasing it ever since. I’d like to think she’d be proud. Like her, once you’ve experienced something like that, your universe opens up. Maybe that’s why I’m not like the rest of my family. My eyes were opened to something bigger than myself—and once you see it, you can never unsee it.

I’ve never seen anything like that glowing sphere inside a cube—or maybe a tesseract—again. Everything since has been darker, sometimes menacing. The closest thing I’ve seen is in Close Encounters of the Third Kind—a kind of reawakening.

I’ll admit it—I’ve been a merciless debunker of UAP photos and videos. I’ve studied photography and image processing to know what’s real, what’s fake, what’s a misidentification, and what’s a hoax. Most true believers hate me. What they don’t realize is I’ve been searching the sky for the same things they are—just with my eyes wide open. You have to be a skeptic otherwise everything is a UFO. 

And yes, they’ll be the first to read my words and cry foul: This guy is part of the conspiracy. How can we believe him? He offers no proof, only a story about a man named Mark. And that’s fair. I don’t offer photos or videos, only what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned, and the story I’ve lived. The people I’ve met, the events I’ve witnessed—they are my proof.

Roswell Unraveled is not a classic “crashed saucer” story. If that’s what you want, find your own. This story is grounded in reality. It discards the myths and focuses on the essentials. The true believers will cry bullshit—and that’s okay. As long as a logical, grounded narrative exists, maybe more people will consider it. Maybe even scientists who shy away from these topics will pause and say: that actually makes more sense.

Meanwhile, UAP reports have skyrocketed, and the subject has gone mainstream. It’s become a profitable industry—fodder for bloggers, influencers, and online networks—often louder than it is honest. A long line of whistle blowers —from Bob Lazar to David Grusch—say disclosure is near. More people are coming forward with stories of encounters with non-human entities, and the sky itself seems busier than ever.

Hoaxes and AI-generated fakes only push the truth farther from the center. Even Hollywood sees the opportunity—especially Steven Spielberg, who’s working on one of the most anticipated films in modern history. Some believe he has insider knowledge, others are hoping for a sequel to Close Encounters. My guess? It will be less about aliens and more about the metaphysical.

Will we see anything like true disclosure in our lifetime? My hopes remain high, but my common sense says probably not. I’ve seen this dog-and-pony show before—in the 1960s—and despite all the noise, we’re no closer to the truth than we were back then. 

Besides, the truth means a loss of power. Humans have to be at the apex of the natural world, the center of the everything and especially anything more than just transitory conscious beings of at the mercy of a cold unfeeling Universe. 

And yet, I still look up. Every night, every chance I get, I scan the sky. The lights, the shapes, the unexplained—they’re still out there, teasing, calling, daring us to understand. I don’t know what I’ll see next, or if I’ll ever get the answers I seek. But I do know this: once you’ve glimpsed something beyond the ordinary, beyond what the world says is possible, you can never turn away. And I won’t. 

My mom wouldn't want me to. 

TO BE CONTINUED ...