by Richard L. Thornton, Architect and City Planner
The Shenandoah Valley of Virginia
“For God and Country“
I returned back to the Toms Brook Farm late in the afternoon of Sunday, June 9, 1991 carrying a certified check from a bank in Paris for 3000 francs ($570) which today would be the equivalent of $1160 for two days of consulting work. It was co-signed by the real Marcel Du Vall. My wife could think of no plausible explanation of the funds other than I did indeed have a project, designing a large French-style winery. That made her happy, since she incorrectly thought that she would get half the commission in a divorce settlement (not in the Southern states). I also showed her Polaroid photos of the land in Linden, VA that we had chosen for the new winery. On the south side of that Interstate 66 intersections was Linden Vineyards, which sold our cheese.
No questions were asked by either of us as to what the other person did over the weekend. It never dawned on her that any other woman would want me. She was delighted to continue assuming that I didn’t know what she did.
The week after the latest weekend with Vivi, I learned that the upper pasture of our former farm in the Reems Creek Valley was being used to film some of the most dramatic segments of a movie called, “The Last of the Mohicans.” Our former neighbors were hearing explosions, musket blasts and Indian war whoops echoing down Wolfpen Cove. They said that the sounds were surrealistic. Surrealistic? They had no clue how surrealistic my life had become.
Good Vibrations . . . Not
There was one facet of those surrealistic days of long ago that I never discussed in my Justice Department deposition. The story I had to tell was so, let’s say . . . unusual . . . I did not want to appear delusional. In late July of 1991, I did discuss the phenomenon with a psychologist, who had treated survivors of a satanic cult. That experience is discussed below.
Bumble Bee: Beginning in 1989, from time to time I would wake up during the night when the north wall of my bedroom was vibrating rapidly. This was the room that my wife made me sleep in alone. It was making a sound like a bumble bee. I found it very difficult to record the sound with a small tape recorder, but with the equipment I now have for making videos, that probably wouldn’t have been a problem. The sound was quite similar to that made in house when there is a minor trembler (2.5-4.5) in the region, but could last over an hour. I never found the source of this sound.
UFO-SciFi: About the time that night time attackers began killing our best dairy goats, a new, highly irritating sound was periodically beamed into our house. It was a loud, oscillating electronic sound that is often used in Sci Fi movies, when space aliens are operating some strange weapon or are analyzing a human victim. The sound rarely lasted more than 20 seconds, but was easy to record with my compact tape recorder.
The 1989 Leading Edge computer had a fascinating built in feature that is not found in modern computers. It could analyze sounds and music, then replicate them. The oscillating sound I recorded consisted of the musical notes A,B, C, D and F with 10 sliding increments in between. The computer was able to create a much more precise and louder version, which I recorded on tape.
Death Ray: From time to time a very powerful ultrasonic sound, just after sunset, would shake our house, creating harmonic frequencies that were audible. It was more like the feeling of an earthquake.
Then the Shenandoah County Sheriff’s Department made a mistake. They decided that they wanted me to hear the sound, but for my wife to claim that she didn’t hear the sound. However, when this happened on a sunny day, I was able to pinpoint the source. It was a machine, about the size and shape of a diesel engine in the back of a Shenandoah County Sheriff’s Department DARE Drug Education Van, which was parked in the rear pasture of our immediate neighbors to the north. I crept up to the van, without the deputies noticing . . . photographing both the van and the machine inside.
Now this was something that would not make me seem delusional. I showed the photos to the US Justice Department investigators. They recognized instantly, but wondered what a banned US Army weapon was doing the drug education van of a rural Virginia sheriff’s department. The machine was an ultrasonic military weapon that the Nixon Administration began using on Anti-Vietnam demonstrators. It caused severe brain and inner ear injuries on several peaceful demonstrators. Congress then passed a law banning the use of all ultrasonic weapons against civilians.
During the spring and summer of 2020, several major city police departments used LRAD sound cannons against demonstrators. In most cases, the demonstrators were peaceful, but of such large size that they greatly outnumbered the police. I seem to be the only person in the United States that remembered 30 years later that the use of such a weapon by police against civilians was a serious felony.
An X-file moment
In late July 1991, a longtime friend called me from Wilmington, Delaware with an unusual request. Diane Mullins was a psychologist. Four 17-year-old teenagers from Asheville, NC had showed up in Wilmington, shortly after graduation from Asheville High School, claiming to have escaped a Satanic cult. They had some “trust money” with which they hired an attorney to fight extradition back to their parents in Asheville. All four would probably be 18 by the time the case went to state juvenile court and therefore legally adults . . . not required to live with their parents. The Delaware Department of Justice Family Division attorneys didn’t know what to do with them.
Diane knew that I formerly had a high profile in the Asheville and possibly could verify some of the statements being made by the teens. They knew who I was, but never had met me. They said that I was known as a “holy man” and an enemy of Lord Satan. They knew that the occult leaders had been relieved to get rid of me.
The teens didn’t know what I now had learned from Bob and Sara. My wife had rendezvoused in Downtown Washington, DC with a high priest of the Satanists in Asheville, before I ever moved up to the Shenandoah Valley. The State of Delaware had agreed to pay my travel costs and a token professional fee for me to meet with the four teens.
Diane had a rather X-file story of her own. In 1973, I had befriended her in Columbia, MD while she was married to one of my co-workers. At the time, she was a counselor with the US State Department. In 1988, her world had dived into the Twilight Zone.
Back in 1977, George H. Bush was Director of the CIA. He had a tryst with a 19-year-old college summer intern . . . that evolved into one of his several mistresses. He paid the costs of her transferring to Catholic University in Washington – even paid her apartment rent and bought her a car. After graduation, he set her up with a prestigious position with the State Department. As long as she agreed to stay single and childless, his money enabled her to live a jet-set lifestyle, in return for a few nights a year sleeping with him. She continued to be one of his courtesans, while he served as Vice President under Ronald Reagan. Primarily, she accompanied him as his State Department advisor and bed partner on overseas diplomatic missions.
Just after the mistress turned 40 and the night before the beginning of the 1988 Republican Convention, several armed men-in-black entered her townhouse with a key. They handcuffed her and bound her legs. They told her that she had two choices . . . either she could accept a payment of $300,000 and leave the United States permanently or her body would be found floating in the Potomac River. One of the men was holding a hypodermic syringe, which probably contained curare. She took the money, but on the night that Bush officially received the nomination, she tried to kill herself with sleeping pills.
Once the ex-mistress was out of the hospital, she was assigned to Diane for therapy. Their sessions only lasted about six weeks, before the woman found employment in Paris, France then quickly moved there. Immediately, Diane became concerned for her own life. Very strange and threatening things were happening to her. The stress tore apart her marriage, so she eventually set up a practice in Delaware, to put more distance between herself and Washington, DC.
About a year later, Diane received a letter from her former client, thanking Diane for saving her life. The ex-mistress was extremely happy and in love with an American businessman. They planned to marry soon and move to California. That would break the deal with the men-in-black, however. About three weeks later, there was a death notice for the ex-mistress in the State Department employee’s newsletter. Diane asked around and learned that her former client had been found hanging from a ceiling fan in her Paris apartment. Paris police assumed that his was a suicide, but Diane knew better. Remember in Chapters One and Two, Vivi said that many mistresses in western Europe and North America ended up being murdered in a way that looked like suicide.
Back to the four Asheville teens . . . The two young couples superficially seemed like normal teens . . . no strange “Gothic” makeup or tattoos. They were very pleasant in conversation with me as they seemed more interested in my design work in Downtown Asheville. They claimed that when much younger, their parents had on several times introduced “foster brothers or sisters” into the family. Then after about a year or two, they were required to kill and bury their foster siblings. I told Diane that I had no way to verify their stories, but there had been rumors of such things going on in rural areas of Buncombe County, where Asheville is located. HOWEVER, then we got to the discussion of night time sounds and things got weird very quickly.
I had brought along the tape of oscillating electronic sound as an afterthought. Just before leaving the Toms Brook Farm, I remembered discussions of sounds being used in brain-washing and speculated that some of the teens might have heard more detailed information.
Oh yes . . . all four said that throughout their childhood, the “Bumble Bee” sound had been constantly present when they slept at night. I then turned on the tape recorder, but not very loud. Within a couple seconds, their eyes seemed to dilate. I thought that perhaps it was a facial response to an unpleasant sound.
I only had played the tape about ten seconds before all four teens jerked back and forth then stood erect. Their bodies began shaking spasmodically. In shock, I turned off the tape, but nothing changed. Freaking out, Diane began taping their shoulders and moving her hands back and forth in front of their eyes. The strange sound had caused them to go into a catatonic state. They were zombies!
In a panic now, Diane called the nearest hospital emergency center and begged for immediate help from SOMEONE! We had no clue what we were dealing with, so these teens should not be transported in an ambulance. An emergency doctor with skills in neurology should be dispatched immediately.
We waited for about 20 minutes, until a paramedic vehicle arrived with several specialists. The condition of the teens had not changed. They did not seem to have anything life threatening going on, but their brains had disconnected from their bodies. A psychiatrist recommended a drug used to treat schizophrenic catatonic states. It worked. He quickly diagnosed them as having schizophrenia . . . which saved Diane’s butt professionally. All of the professional doctors and paramedics had only seen the teens after I played the tape.
The teens were immediately made wards of the State of Delaware by a state judge on the telephone and transported to a mental hospital. Diane and the doctors agreed that no mention ever would be made about my audio tape and that the professional tabs for all parties concerned would be sent to the State of Delaware.
Diana handed me my check with a comment that she would never forget this day as long as she lived. She invited me to stay at the home of her new husband that night. On the way over to their house, I dropped by the largest Radio Shack in Wilmington and bought a portable boom box, seven motion detectors, a roll of speaker wire and three relay switches.
I thought, “Praise be to YHWH. Thou have givest me the sword of Gideon, with which I shalt paralyze thy enemies without slayingeth them.” Henceforth, most occultists, who approached the barn close enough to fire a dart rifle, would be turned into zombies. Those unaffected by the sound would have to drag their comrades back into the woods like stacks of wood timbers. Word soon got out about this change of events. The Nazi’s became terrified of this Injun with strange powers.
My handlers, Bob and Sara, were concerned that we needed a plausible means for Susan Karlson and I to meet. Although Susan looked like a college homecoming queen, she was very much a nerd. She did not do much else other than work, pray and study religious literature. She spent most of her emotional energy, trying to be perfect and without sin. Her long list of sins included about anything one does in a normal life other than work or sleep.
Don’t get me wrong. Susan had a loving, generous nature, but she didn’t have the common sense of a chicken trying to cross Interstate 81, while a convoy of tractor trailer trucks was passing through the Valley.
Susan had been raised a Lutheran, but in college became involved with an independent Pentecostal congregation. After arriving in Winchester, she had joined a tiny Pentecostal congregation that met in a shopping center store space. This caused her to quickly sink into the mythical world of Frank Peretti’s novels (See Part Nine). There were demons everywhere trying to make her sin, aka have an adult relationship with a man.
Some idiot in the main offices of the FBI in the J. Edgar Hoover Building had purchased a house for their covert agent in the middle of an old mill village on the edge of Winchester. It was primarily populated by high school drop outs from West Virginia, many of whom were in some Neo-Nazi organization or the KKK. As they say, she stood out like a sore thumb. This immediately caught the attention of the main criminal organizations in the region . . . aka local and state law enforcement. The placement of an affluent, beautiful, female lawyer with seven years of university in that neighborhood screamed, “Federal DEA agent.” I immediately sent word to Bob and Sara that Susan should be moved ASAP. Her location put her in grave danger.
Indeed, I happened to be the courier of a report on Susan Karlson by the VBI. Between the brief report and what she told me later, I know the whole story. They had planted a young highway patrolman in her storefront church, who claimed that his wife had left him and their young kids for a librul Democrat atheist. Actually, the VBI had sent his wife to a sister’s house for a week and planted electronic bugs in the trooper’s house. Being a good Christian girl, Susan never actually went inside that house.
After the trooper gave Susan his sob story in church, she went with him and his children to a Pondarosa Steak House Buffet. She cooked meals for the trooper and his two kids Sunday night through Friday night. She wouldn’t let the trooper touch her.
The trooper and Susan went to the movies on Friday night . . . to watch the excellent Billy Graham movie, “The Hiding Place”. It was about the Ten Boom family in the Netherlands, who saved the lives of many Jews. The trooper didn’t even get a kiss that night. Not only was he frustrated by the lack of physical contact, but he was also fed up with her constantly chatting about religion and demons. His bosses in the Virginia State Police decided that Susan was a nutcase, who couldn’t possibly be a Fed spy. The trooper called up Susan at Saturday noon to tell her that his wife had returned home.
Bob and Sara directed Susan to gather a group from her church to perform a religious ceremony at my farm to drive the demons away. The group was to include two special people . . . a spy for the VBI and a practicing satanic witch. I first met with the group at a Wendy’s Restaurant in Front Royal, VA.
On the appointed day, they anointed me with “holy olive oil” then sprinkled “holy water” along the boundaries of the farm. They then chanted a satanic warfare prayer, which would cause God to send down a squad of 30 feet tall angels to guard the periphery of the main barn. Susan intentionally stayed on the farm after the others left . . . so the two spies could report that Susan was “hitting on me.”
As planned, a couple of days later I drove up to Susan’s office in Winchester. We then went out to lunch at the Ponderosa Steakhouse in Winchester. She was then to call me up on the phone, being monitored by the local cops, to invite me to lunch again at the Wayside Inn and then suggest that we could go back to her house to get know each other better. As expected, a spy for the crooked cops was seated at nearby table and heard her invitation to go frolic. Actually, the meetings at her house were where I was supposed to teach Susan how to simultaneously make out and receive confidential intel. Vivi had been taught how to do this by French intelligence agents and so had first taught me. So far, so good.
Okay, I go to her house and she plops in a chair on the opposite of the living room from the couch. I am supposed to sit on the couch. She was shaking like a rabbit. I asked her if she understood what we were supposed to do. She said, “Yes, drive Satan out of the Shenandoah Valley! First, we must pray, though.”
I answered, “Well yes, that is a long-term objective, but our job is to covertly transport criminal evidence from some very brave people in the Valley to the US Justice Department Task Force on Local and State Government Corruption. We are do this in such a manner that no one in any of the corrupt law enforcement agencies or organized crime syndicates knows, who is giving the Justice Department evidence. Over and over again, local people in the Valley have been murdered after furnishing evidence on criminal activity to the Virginia Bureau of Investigation or the Virginia State Police.”
She responded, “Well then we must be prayer warriors so that the Holy Spirit will blind the eyes of those who serve Satan.”
“Susan, if you want to say that in your prayers, that is fine, but here is the problem. I was asked to ferry intelligence out of Shenandoah County, because my architecture projects and cheese deliveries take me all over northern Virginia. The problem was that after my second visit to the FBI field office in Winchester, the VBI started tailing me everywhere. The only reason I agreed to help out in the first place was that a friend of mine was murdered and our goats are being slaughtered to the point that we will have to shut down if this continues, due to the loss of milk production. I am not being paid one red cent. You are.”
“The reason that you were selected was the you are the only unmarried female FBI employee in northern Virginia, who does not have a boyfriend. The only reason that the bad cops would ignore us constantly meeting up would be that we were having a torrid affair. In fact, the only social life you have had at all was with Trooper Tom Gochenaur, who was actually a spy.”
Susan’s eyes popped open, “How did you know about him?”
“I read the report that he wrote about you. I had to deliver it to Washington, DC on a cheese delivery. The VBI now assumes that you are not a federal agent, because you seemed so naïve to Mr. Gochenaur. His wife didn’t leave him. It was a set up and you fell right for it.”
The sudden realization that she had been betrayed caused Susan to slip into her very irritating Pentecostal Tele-evangelist mode. Chopping her hand like the Atlanta Braves mascot, Noc-A-Homa, she started saying Pentecostal chants, repetitively . . . like a female Adolf Hitler. Below is a 45 second video clip of former Congressman Michele Bachmann of Minnesota, who also was a German Lutheran, who changed to being a Pentecostal. Her rants were almost identical in tone to those of Susan . . . only Susan was much prettier.
Getting down to basics
Enough was enough. I told Susan that it just was not going to work. Any crooked cop observing us would realize that we were not having an affair. That observation would ultimately get our informants and probably us also . . . killed. I stood up, thanked for her time and started walking toward the door.
Susan burst into tears. “It’s been like this all my life. First the boys and now the men, just walked away before they had time to know me. ” She hesitated for about five seconds, then announced, “I have never even been kissed.”
There we go again. I am sucker for women’s tears. I disliked Vivi as an obnoxious, whining, rich bitch, until she started crying. Now Susan was doing it. I turned around and said, “Okay, are you willing to practice what we have to do perfectly, every time I deliver intel?” She nodded affirmatively. I told her to go strip off that business suit and put on a loose blouse, shorts and sandals. When you get back, sit next to me on the couch, With her head hung low, she walked back to her bedroom.
Well, son of gun, she did somehow know how to dress sexy. I don’t think that she had ever worn the outfit before. Maybe she was saving it for her husband. We started with Introduction to Kissing 101.
At best the experience could be described as being like kissing a cardboard manikin. Her torso was quivering in terror. Her arms hung limp at her side and her head was held rigid and tilted a bit away from my head. It appeared to me that she had totally missed out on the period, when young adolescents gradually get to know the opposite gender by casual smooching and snuggling.
We had to find out if Susan was serious about growing up. I informed Susan that in the past, when drug dealers suspected that a woman courier was carrying information to good cops, the dealers would tip off their moles within law enforcement to stop the courier’s car to search it and the woman in broad daylight. I was taught by a professional French female spy how to hide microfiche negatives under a bra and very important messages beneath a woman’s underwear. Would she be able to do that? Susan shuttered then said, “Not today, but I will pray to Jesus to give me the strength to endure the pain. Maybe we can practice next week?” I said, “Sure.”
Susan was relieved and gave me a big hug. We were making progress. That was test number four.
Well, I don’t think that Vivi had anything to be jealous about. It was going to be drawn out process with Susan, before she was going to be able to fool anyone . . . but at least Susan had committed herself to learn . . . and she was a hard worker. Sure enough, the next day Susan rented three R-rated movies from Blockbusters.
As soon as I got back to the Toms Brook Farm, I instant messaged Vivi:
RT: Help Vivi! Just back from being with the Swedish girl. It could be a disaster. Not only is she a 25-year-old virgin, but she has never been kissed before. I tried to teach her, but it was like kissing a cardboard manikin.
VV: HA! Richard I told you that Bob needed a professional like me. Besides we could have a lot of fun playing Monsieur and Madame James Bond. I miss you so much. I dreamed the other night that we made love in the back of your pickup truck with the goats watching. Also! I want to make love to you on the hay in your barn. I have seen that in movies and thought it would be fun.
VV: I miss you so much. When can I come to Virginia again?
RT: Not until autumn. Remember I am supposed to be having an affair with the Swedish girl! Ha! Also, this summer my wife has asked me several times to find a younger woman for a girlfriend. I told her that the only young women I knew, worked at the cheese shops in Washington. So, I know she will have her witch friends watching the cheese shops.
On the home front
Surprisingly, that summer was the most pleasant that I known with my wife in many years. I was away from the farm constantly – either delivering cheese or visiting architecture project sites. That gave her a lot of free time, while not teaching school, to go where she pleased. She never asked for a divorce during that period, but on several occasions suggested that I find me a younger woman on the side . . . one that would like to have children with me in the future.
It seemed that having an open marriage was my wife’s immediate objective. I told her that there were some young women at cheese shops in the Washington Area that had flirted with me, but I would like to have an Open Marriage Agreement in writing. That made my wife smile with approval, but she always procrastinated about signing the paper. I still had to sleep in my own bedroom.
Actually, Chapter Four of A Woman’s Five Year Guide to Winning at Divorce recommended that after several years of making your husband miserable, then suggest to him that the two of you have an open marriage. After a while, he will not try to hide the outside relationship, since he thinks that you approve of it. That is the time to thoroughly document his recreational activities and file for divorce. Shortly after we were formally separated in 1993, I learned from friends in Asheville that during the entire 10 year period that we lived there, she told everybody she met that we had an Open Marriage. I knew nothing about it and remained steadfastly faithful to her.
Instant messages in late August 1991:
RT: I have good news VV, my love! I have been invited by the American Institute of Wine and Food to compete with other regional gourmet food producers around the United States at Union Station in Washington on October 14, 1991. Would you like to be my partner there? The famous chef, Julia Child, will be the judge. She speaks perfect French. You will get to meet her.
VV: Oui! Richard, I will be there. I love you! All my classmates and professors at l’institut Le Cordon Bleu will be jealous that I know Julia Child. Now I have four reasons to love you, mon chere!