Son's Account of Alien Contact, Memory, and the Mystery of the Hive Mind

 

"I Remember the Light": 

Some memories come back like dreams. Not quite clear, but undeniable. Like a rope pulled out of the dark—there’s tension, truth, and then the end just slips through your fingers.

That’s what remembering alien contact feels like.

I was just three the first time I saw them. I called them “raisin men” because that’s what they looked like—shrunk-down, wrinkled figures like the California Raisins from old commercials. They never spoke. Just watched. I tried waking my grandmother, but she wouldn’t move. I was wide awake. Frozen. The encounters happened a few more times, always vague, always terrifying. But they didn’t fully resurface until I was older—until I started talking to my dad.

What we uncovered changed everything I believed about my childhood—and maybe about reality itself.

My father, Roger Kvande, isn’t a man prone to delusion or drama. But he’s also carried stories he didn’t always know how to tell. In the summer of 1984, we went camping in Carver County Park, Minnesota, to watch a meteor shower with 40 or 50 other people. The sky was clear, the mood light. Then something happened.

He remembers walking in a line with the crowd, drawn by some invisible force toward a hovering ship. People were being lifted—beamed aboard. He says he woke mid-process and screamed. That scream broke the spell. People scattered. Some collapsed. My dad and I ran with another man, Dave, to a rundown storage shed in the middle of the park.

The light outside was unreal—like a giant fluorescent lamp flooding every crack in the wood. Dave panicked. My dad stared through the seams and whispered: “They’re taking everyone.”

I remember the fear. I remember hiding like a cornered animal. And I remember him saying something I didn’t understand until much later:
“You won’t remember anything anyway.”

But I did.

The second major memory surfaced when I was in my twenties. I started recalling what felt like a dream but unraveled into something real. I remembered being in my room at my grandmother’s house. The grays came in—thin, pale, about four feet tall with oversized heads. They led me to the front door. And there, standing in a trance, was my father.

I said, “Hey, Dad!”
He snapped out of it like someone waking from anesthesia. I had never seen fear like that on his face.

He told me to think bad thoughts. I was too young to know what war or death meant. Then he shouted:
“Kick them!”
So I did. I punched one in the head. Nothing happened. No reaction. I looked at him and said something that still haunts me:
“Don’t worry, Dad. They won’t hurt us. They’re our friends.”

We walked out into a field flooded with blinding light. And then, nothing. Blank. The rope ended.

Years later, I tested the memory with my dad. I started the story, stopping before the critical details. He finished it exactly as I remembered it. We had never discussed it before. That’s when I knew this wasn’t a dream. It was real.

My father eventually documented these encounters in a website called Hive Mind Odysseyand and a book—part memoir, part research archive. It includes references to MUFON fieldwork, journals by William McNeff and Craig Lang, and hypnosis sessions that helped people recover memories like ours. But what makes his account different isn’t just the abductions. It’s the idea that the timeline itself was rewritten.

He believes the beings who visited us weren’t just here to take us, but to edit what happened. Two weeks after Carver County Park, we were taken again, this time to what looked like our family farm in 1959. There, under a glowing moon, we were told the Carver event would be erased from history. That another timeline would be created. One where he didn’t interfere. One where the scream never happened.

When I asked him about it years later, he said something I never forgot:
“UFO abduction is like finding the beginning of a rope. You follow it until it just ends.”

The idea of the Hive Mind came later. My dad believes the grays are just biological drones—controlled by something far more complex. A collective intelligence. Maybe even interdimensional. He doesn’t claim to have all the answers. But he’s spent years compiling every shred of evidence, thought, and testimony that fits this bizarre puzzle. And now, for the first time, it’s coming together in a book.

It won’t be like the others. It’s not fiction. It’s not sensationalism. It’s the account of two people—father and son—who lived through something the world still doesn’t know how to talk about.

And maybe that’s what makes it so important.

We’ve stayed silent long enough. The world is more open now than it was in 1984. The stigma is cracking. People are paying attention. But for those of us who lived it, the story never stopped. The light never faded. And the rope is still there—waiting to be pulled again.

The book has been Released. I hope people read it not just with curiosity, but with openness. Because if our story is true—and I believe with every part of me that it is—then it changes everything.