Testimony of Criminal Acts 1945-2000, and How Dissociation Interferes With the Credibility of My Witness

Dorine Pratt’s Presentation at the Justice Studies Association Conference, May 2001

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The following was presented at the Justice Studies Association Conference on 5/30/2001, held at Wheaton College in Norton, MA. by Dorine Pratt. Some of the topics discussed may be triggering. This transcript is for educational use only and not intended as therapy or treatment. All accusations are alleged. Our providing the information below does not necessarily constitute our endorsement of it.

This presentation initiated my combined witness with those of Hal Pepinsky, of Indiana University, and Neil Brick of SMART , titled: Ritual Abuse and Mind Control, that included a 1 1/2 hour question and answer period that was not recorded. Neil presented, “Healing From Ritual Abuse and Mind Control.”

Testimony of Criminal Acts 1945-2000, and How Dissociation Interferes With the Credibility of My Witness


Hi, I’m Dorine Pratt. That is my real name. I have lived in Connecticut all my life, and at the same address for 35 years. My perpetrators know exactly where I am.

I am 56 years old. I married in 1966, am the mother of 3 and grandmother of 4. I was born into a multigenerational Satanic cult that had international ties. Almost from birth, one man who probably was the equivalent of a W.W.II Navy Seal, extended the cult’s mind control techniques. It is still hard for me to believe, how early he was capable of incorporating military style training into my life. He was a pilot, and we flew all over the U.S., as well as to South America. I traveled with him, often being presented as his niece, to the Philippines, China, the British Isles, Germany, and the Near East. I had weapons training, and essentially functioned as his backup from the time I was eight. Adults do not protect themselves against children. In my mind, I don’t separate him from any other perpetrator. He finally died in 1996.

My initial presentation was too long, and I couldn’t seem to edit it further, without changing the points I was trying to make. I think I have enough copies for everyone. It may have answered some questions in advance. But, I feel your opportunity to ask me what is on your mind, concerning victims of Satanic crime, was the most important.

Today, I represent only myself and my personal experience. However, I don’t think that differs much from other survivors. In my hand outs, I have mentioned some confirmation of my witness from other survivors. However, they are so involved with their own healing, none of them choose to join me in a combined testimony to law enforcement.

I am in my 16th year of recovery, and in that entire time, I have had only two weeks free of flashbacks. Each one is totally different. It seems as if I relive more trauma and discover new twists to my psyche almost every other day.

The toll of doing this type of work is hard enough. However, I never anticipated that the more I ceased to dissociate, the more of a threat apparently my perpetrators felt I was. I have absolutely no proof. I can’t even prove that some body evidence isn’t self-inflicted.

But, over the past 6 years, seeming to start with Valerie Wolf’s addition of my very limited testimony to the Senate Subcommittee on Radiation, I have suffered abduction and rape, as well as at least monthly attempts to access me. Their goal not only seemed to be to retraumatize me, but to test and reestablish mind control ties apparently I had been successful in breaking.

During this time, I have found that practices of therapists who try to assist clients like me are totally booked without waiting lists. So, I know I am not the only one.

Because I dissociate…can have physical signs of trauma, without knowing what happened for days and weeks…I have found that what attempts I made to get credibility from local law enforcement fell on deaf ears. I wasn’t mentioning that the men I knew the names of, could describe in the most intimate of details, and draw the faces of, were part of modern groups connected with SRA crime. I never even suggested my childhood memories. But, the fact I approached them days after the event, made me not credible.

So, I feel there is a great need to understand that any type of survivor can forget, simply because it is a common way to deal with extraordinary stress. For instance, people relive details of an accident sometimes years after it happens. I know a woman who had no recall of months she spent on a ventilator, despite the fact she was not given medication that should have interfered with her memory. Where did it go?

Some seem to understand the problem of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in relation to Vietnam combat veterans. A lot of SRA survivors are in the midst of their own physical battles to remain safe. There is a need to have some understanding about the way survivors store memory. There is a need to investigate when present day crimes are reported.

Maybe part of the problem is, people who have the ability to dissociate possibly appear better then someone who hasn’t used it as a coping skill since childhood. After all, most survivors attended public schools throughout their satanic perpetration, and no one seemed to notice.

I have a close friend who was raped and tortured with electricity by nine assailants on Fort Bragg, NC. She was drugged and abducted out of her college hallway. She dragged herself home, and didn’t report it for 5 days. She knew the names of her attackers. She could identify them all.

It was superficially investigated only because a friend knew someone in charge of security. They allowed her on base, and she identified the isolated building. When they entered, some of the equipment actually had been left behind. After that, security and the local police would not speak to her again, and as far as she knows, there was no further investigation.

Survivors need advocates who understand dissociation, and can support them through the legal system. I even tried to get therapeutic support through the federal Office of Victims’ Services, and was unsuccessful. I think part of my problem was I just didn’t have the energy to keep pushing.

Most of the time, a survivor is forced to handle the situation alone, in the same way he or she did as a child. That seems to me to be doubly criminal. And when crimes remain unreported, the general public continues in denial as to the enormity of the problem on a national scale.

I don’t want to alarm you. I have only heard the term “satanic panic” recently. However, I know my local group members were part of communities with a hub of central Connecticut. They would travel more then 100 miles to attend even one observance during years when the present highway system was not available. Now, the majority of Americans fly. I sometimes came to Cape Cod and Hyannis areas in pleasure craft across the Sound, as well as to Plum Island, and Long Island.

I wrote what I have to offer as if I was speaking to you. When you have a chance to read it, I want you to hear my voice. I want you to feel this type of connection with me. I am not much different then you are. I still try to hang onto similar hopes and dreams despite everything that has happened. I am talking to you today, because I pray my granddaughters will enjoy a better world.

During the question and answer period, I will attempt to answer everything, no matter how sensitive. If I am not clear, let me know. I want to be as honest as possible. I will be staying here tonight. Feel free to approach me, if your concern is not addressed. My material contains a way to contact me by e-mail.

Within a week after choosing to come here, my closest SRA friend in Connecticut, and my closest SRA friend in another state were both raped. Neither has chosen to report it. Since I believe all major local groups cooperate nationally, and since threatening others was a typical way for my cult to control me, the timing of this really bothers me. So, if there is even the remotest of possibilities my being here today is connected with their assaults, lets chose to make our interaction worthy of their possible sacrifice.

I really do appreciate you offering me this time to talk with you.


Hello, I am Dorine Pratt. I am a Satanic Ritual Abuse survivor. I have lived in Connecticut all my life, but my memories are international. Occasionally I may use the abbreviated term, “SRA” instead. I am speaking only from personal experience. But in my limited networking, I don’t believe my story differs much from maybe hundreds of thousands of other survivors across the United States.

I decided to label myself a survivor of satanic crimes, since it says something about my feelings at this time. The people I consider perpetrators in my life, whether I met them during ritual worship or not, whether they were family members, nuns, clergymen, bankers, teachers, medical researchers, politicians, military…doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs…they all were either consciously or unconsciously involved in serving a system that sucks life out of the world. I thought I would like to illustrate that point by reminding you of the old story of the frog meeting a scorpion on the banks of a river. The scorpion asks the frog, “Will you take me across?” The frog says, “Are you crazy! You’ll bite me and I’ll die.” The scorpion says, “Why, if you die, we’ll both drown. I wouldn’t do that!” So, they begin, and in mid-stream the scorpion stings the frog. The frog croaks, “Why!” The scorpion replies simply, “Because I am a scorpion.” I used to drive myself crazy trying to figure out why people in my life did the things they did. I don’t do that anymore. I just label them all “scorpions.” And, when I feel like I’m going down for the third time…I know, sometimes even at the expense of their own profits and safety…they are set at destroying the quality of life…even life itself… because they are scorpions.

I was born in 1945, married in 1966 after chastely courting for three years, and have raised three sons. I have four granddaughters. Prior to my head injury I was a professional who took substantial management responsibilities, and before I turned 40, absolutely adored my parents and other family members. I was extensively involved in a local Christian congregation, and still avoid horror films and ones such as The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby. Actually the life I was conscious of leading, was so content and happy, most people would consider it boring.

In October of 1984 I began to suffer anxiety attacks when someone became violent using alcohol. Within a month I began plowing through huge amounts of incest memories involving my dad and his mother. In subsequent years I have recalled abuse by my mom, her sisters and their husbands, her brother, my great-grandfather and his brother, as well as my maternal grandmother and grandfather. As a matter of fact, the only family member I haven’t recalled being abusive, regularly transported us to rituals. My mom had two close friends she had kept since childhood. Their families were involved. I have two group memories of being gang raped by members of a German club they belonged to that met on the outskirts of New Britain, CT. And, I attended larger meetings of the same club in Hartford where, after the regulars left, the others saluted the swastika.

I was also given over for training to a nun in a Polish convent. I have memories as early as six months old of her terrorizing my mother, and she and my mother routinely abused me in the convent after most sisters left to do nursing and teaching. I have discovered three SRA survivors who lived there as orphans. So this facility was criminally abusing children between 1935-1960. One survivor went on to become an Anton LeVey bride. In case you don’t know, Anton was the declared head of the legitimate Church of Satan for many years. You know, the one that gets its taxes deferred?

Orphans in my experience were brought to rituals and used pornographically in snuff films because I presume they were more disposable. I believe all orphanages closed in Connecticut around 1972, but I can’t help but be concerned about the day care facility that is at this convent now.

I met another SRA survivor of my age whose mother trained at the hospital these nuns ran, and was her priestess. She and I discovered we had shared common ritual sites. The sad thing is, the last time I saw her, she still was “mule-ing” drugs for a new generation of cult members. On the surface, she appeared to be leading a very ordinary life as wife, mother, and professional. Her husband seemed to have no idea what was going on. But, her group continued to control her even in her 50’s with drugs.

I was used pornographically as early as eighteen months and even was terrorized during the production of a snuff film as late as when I was pregnant with my second child. Years ago, an old, black-and-white, pornographic film cache was seized in Massachusetts, and I sent a list of the various plots I was familiar with to law enforcement here. But, I never heard anything back.

I believe my use for prostitution stopped when I was 15 after I tried to kill myself. At that time I had no memory, but felt totally hopeless in the middle of my personal holocaust. Cult members wrestled me to the ground and prevented it. You see, I was a commodity that was bought and sold, and had no right to destroy their profits. The punishment was severe, and I was hospitalized with a collapsed lung for three weeks.

Drugs were used for control during the making of films, and looking back I understand there were times my handler was an addict. My grandmother was called “the candy lady” in 1951. Because drug use was so prevalent at rituals to achieve an ecstatic high, despite the fact I don’t have memories of being used as a mule, my life was constantly influenced by the drugs and alcohol people used around me. I wonder who controls the drug trade now?

Now, I am briefly going to venture into an area I will refer to as, “What you may have always wanted to know about Satanism and were afraid to ask”? Now, I am only speaking from personal experience, and I know every group may have totally individual observances. I have spent some time trying to find out what label to put on myself, and even yet I am not sure. Southern island memories revolved around Voodoo, but that priest also came to Connecticut and Massachusetts. Their rituals involved animal sacrifice. He was mulatto. I shared his cult name and description with a survivor originally from Haverhill, MA, and she told me he was her father. Even registered, insured mail routinely was stolen as we tried to have a relationship, and she was abducted and raped the last time we tried to visit each other.

I do believe animals were killed just to traumatize children, however. I understand it is sort of standard-operating-procedure to encourage a “love bond” with both animals and people, before they are sacrificed. I guess it is the same mechanism employed in military training with a twist. If you can think of the enemy as a slang word such as “Gook,” “Jap” or “Kraut,” then you dehumanize him, and his death has less meaning. If you have supper with him and know his name, you have different feelings about his torture and murder. I was allowed to befriend animals. Sometimes they were the only kind experience in my life. I was allowed to enjoy the friendship of beautiful children of both sexes and many ages. I began to not risk loving anything or anyone, because I learned it almost immediately resulted in that individual’s death. It isolated me totally.

Besides my central European German/Polish/Nazi group who were out to breed their own version of the “super race,” I belonged to a cult that considered themselves Illuminati, and was introduced to my genetic grandfather and father who were of Irish/Druidic origin, despite the fact they were Jewish. Rituals in Ireland, England and Wales seemed to be attempting to invite Satan through high orgasmic experience. But, because they worshipped the mind and the intellect above all else, in the U.S., the brain seemed to be of particular importance for it’s magical potency. The majority of my experience with my genetic grandfather was in Farmington, CT, when he visited about every 3 mo., maybe similar to a Roman Catholic Bishop’s visitation of a local congregation, to check on their spiritual progress.

Some people will find a murder victim’s remains and state they feel that it was a Satanic sacrifice. But, in my experience the human body in it’s entirety was packaged, preserved and prepared in every way one prepares beef and pork. This would occur in rituals attended by 10-100 people, usually outdoors. But, my first memories were of small meetings in the vacant third floor apartment in a house I moved to at the age of 3. It remains on a residential street only separated by maybe 25′ of land. So, you see, it can happen anywhere. I got to the point I only trusted what my mother cooked for supper if it came in cans.

What is even more horrible to me is, my group reenacted the Christian concept of “3-days-to-resurrection” with a twist. Over and over, I saw them perform essentially a crude tracheostomy so victims could not cry out, and then proceed to torture them until they were mercifully sacrificed three days later.

I have found the majority of the sites that they used in Connecticut, and it bothers me to find evidence of fires and specific cult graffiti even today. My group always tried to return to sites they considered sacred. At first I thought the enormity of my memories couldn’t possibly be true. I seemed to know the names and ages of victims from pre-born to adult of both sexes. Each memory was totally unique. Then about 1987, I heard Sandy Gallant of the San Francisco Satanic Crimes task force describe how a well functioning group may sacrifice monthly. It bothers me to think that description fit’s this local cult. But, it does.

So you can imagine the impact on my life! I’m almost 40. I am deeply involved in my marriage, children, profession and community. I start suffering anxiety attacks that progress to ritualistic incest, that advances to reliving horrendous group experiences of torture and murder. I’m with a Jewish therapist remembering anti-Christian rituals with a Jewish twist. I am going week after week, saying I have no idea where this is coming from. I have never read or seen anything like this. Finally I am referred to the original Cult Awareness Network Convention in 1989. This was before they were bankrupted, and taken over by the Church of Scientology. There I sat through workshop after workshop where the speaker was describing things I had witnessed and they called it Satanism.

My personal reality at the present is, I was born into a generational group who was involved with several other groups, on an international level. I was totally mind controlled by the age of six. I imagine this was because they could not allow me to go to school until I had accomplished forgetting big chunks of my life. When I did check my school records, I was there less then two-thirds of the time. Wouldn’t it have been embarrassing if the little cult kid began telling teachers and friends about what was really going on? I was totally capable of separating my day life from my night life. And, I have only recently felt some sense of security that I don’t dissociate to that extent any more.

Now, I didn’t share these details to shock you. But, I do want to impress you with the shear total wickedness of the system. These are criminal acts that can be prosecuted. Particularly there is no statute of limitations on murder. However if the surviving witnesses achieve an extreme level of dissociation…total amnesia, it raises a huge barrier to prosecution. The cults know this.

I will attempt to describe briefly how those who know my cues and triggers continued to have power over me, even as I began to remember. As a child, if someone dislocated my right knee for instance, and that is the type of injury that doesn’t produce much visible evidence while attending school, I ran away from the pain in my knee, to another part of my body. Eventually I learned to do this so well, it probably was on the level of someone who can self hypnotize and go through surgery without anesthesia. Then, if the same abusing person wore a ruby ring, I would associate the ring with the pain and self hypnotize whether he caused additional injury or not. I would dissociate away from it in the same way someone can’t remember the moments of a terrible car accident. But, it remained in my unconscious. It progressed to the point that any man with a ruby ring who placed his hand on that particular knee could cause me to begin the dissociative process.

Now I have explained it simply. It takes years and years of practice under less then desirable circumstances to connect cues with trauma in this way. But, this is what I did. Auditory, visual, tactile, and olfactory cues were so laid down in layers in my unconscious they wove a total web of control. These were ordinary things, like red, the number 9, and the spicy smell of a carnation. I needed 3 of them in a particular combination to totally be operating only on an unconscious level. But, I would do this, return home, and have no sense of losing time. As a matter of fact, I used some of these triggers throughout my conscious life to achieve a sort of endorphin high when I was stressed. I didn’t need to abuse a substance. I could do it all in my mind. Apparently I must have looked and acted reasonably average. Nobody ever pointed a finger and said, “There goes the robot!” But, essentially that is what I was. And I would respond to anyone who had knowledge of my cues. Especially one man in particular.

This man I recall meeting even before I was one year old. I knew him as Joe. I met his family one Christmas in a home less then an hour north of New York City. But, I have no idea if I ever knew his actual name. He frequented ritual sites, but he wasn’t essentially involved in evil. He pushed and pulled me through the family events, the convent, and even had a relationship with my homeroom teachers in junior and senior high school, as well as with my directoress of nurses, who had just retired as an Army colonel in 1963. He waited until I was totally dissociated with the horror of something that was happening at a ritual site, rescued me…and then took me away to program me further. I’m not sure if he suggested the places I worked, But, he certainly was there, during lunch breaks, for instance. He permeated my life. He and two other men were even in and out of my home when my children were small. I had no idea what was happening.

Some of my childhood programming was in laboratory settings in Virginia. But, we entered through the window, so apparently it was not accepted practice. I had one survivor recently validate a 1960 experience at Langley was with her uncle. I have a few university and hospital memories as well. Some of my training was on military bases in New Jersey and Georgia. I had extensive military survival training in the desert beginning at six years old, and I was used as a courier in first grade. Joe had me practice killing with a knife to the throat of a mannequin as early as two years old. When I see how small a two-year-old is and how short an attention span they have, it is hard for me to believe. But, I could explain exactly how he accomplished it.

We had an extensive international relationship where apparently he felt safe with me as his backup. I was using firearms as early as ten, and weapons were especially made for me because of my size. He preferred high-powered, air rifles because of the reduced sound. I chose a few years ago to check out my pistol and rifle abilities at a gun range. That day I was a better marksman then my husband who has been hunting since he was 9 years old. It really shook me, and I haven’t picked up a rifle since. I can’t help but wonder how good I was thirty-five years ago when I had practiced, and before I became visually impaired. Of course I contain assassin programming. Adults don’t protect themselves against children.

I can only guess that other then the Grace of God, the programming began to crumble because I wasn’t in constant contact with Joe. He had chosen to retire from what I felt was the FBI, and his many military and Mafia connections, when I was 19. That same year I met my husband. My handler had been a father to me, and somehow I accomplished the usual psychological transference of affection from father to spouse. He continued in contact, but it wasn’t constant. He relied on programming he had installed that renewed itself over various dates in the calendar. It is still hard for me to believe that this worked. But, it did.

My marriage was not abusive. Without the constant trauma of cult life, I became less dissociative. In my personal opinion, the greatest healing factor for any survivor is love. The love I felt for my husband, followed by the love I experienced as a mother began breaking some of the unconscious emotional ties I had with Joe. I have all sorts of memories of being dragged off for reprogramming, but I don’t believe I actually ran for him after my children were born.

Apparently, when I began to experience flashbacks, this was threatening to him, because there was an increase in his contacts. At the time of my head injury in 1988, he had given me a knockout substance that couldn’t be detected in milk, as well as a syringe filled with something he said would create a heart attack. I remembered coming home with the syringe and the knowledge of how to inject it into my husband in a way that could not be detected. I remembered this one minute…and having no knowledge of why I had it, or what I was supposed to do with it the next. I discarded it…and then promptly forgot that too! Maybe if I didn’t have a head injury, which removed me from the workplace and easy access, he would have eventually reprogrammed me. I do not know. His wife had died, and he returned to his first love, blindly serving various masters. I have all kinds of experiences with him between 1988 and 1996, but the way he had to accessed me changed.

I believe it was in ’95 I added my witness to the group of survivor testimonies Valerie Wolf presented to the Senate Subcommittee on Radiation, because I had been exposed more then once. I was drugged and abducted within a day of faxing it to her. I severely injured my jaw fighting with Joe and the young man and woman who helped him, and the electricity they used in an attempt to permanently wipe out any memory left me with severe nerve pain for months. The room I was taken to was confirmed by one police officer, but it had been heavily used. I doubt there was any evidence. That officer has never responded when I have tried to contact him since.

In the summer of ’96 I was with Joe in New York City when two men killed him. I know they can fake that sort of thing. I have had my own heart stopped with drugs. But, I don’t think he could have faked the expression in his eyes when he understood what they had done.

Two months later, I was successful in keeping C. M., I’d known as Mafia in New Jersey, out of my car in Old Saybrook, CT. He had a weapon, but he never drew it. That may be his real name, because I have discovered one survivor who knows him. I found my car moved, but for a few days I didn’t remember why.

C. came after me again when I thought I was so visible, no one in their right mind would try anything! I had set myself up across from our local elementary school on Election Day with huge posters for the Reform Party. I brought cassette tapes, and food and was sort of camping out in my car. He was again armed, but I backed my car against him and chased him across the parking lot. Initially I had no idea why my car was moved and my posters were in disarray.

Within a month, he trapped me with his car in front of my rural home. This time he drew a gun from a roof clip, and as we struggled between the two automobiles I somehow knocked it across his front seat. When he dove after it, I slammed his leg in the door. I was lucky he didn’t chase me instead of the gun. He screamed, “You don’t ever think you’re going to see Roy alive again, do you?” My body ached, and my wrist was swollen where I had chopped his gun hand, but I didn’t know why until the next day.

I called the sister of the only “Roy” I knew. She told me her brother had mysteriously been missing for four days, after returning from a trip to Aruba. But, he was home now without explanation, and safe. The day after I called her, Roy was found dead in his car. The conclusion was suicide, because they discovered he had lost his entire business over several years through secret gambling. Since his death was predicted days before, don’t ask me if I think it was suicide!

On April 10, 1997, I was drugged and abducted out of an elevator after a medical appointment. I was vaginally and orally raped, as well as a major attempt was made to reprogram me. It was orchestrated by someone I knew as Max, who had been Joe’s supervisor. He was someone I did connect with occult evil. He used two young men and a woman, to place me into a specially prepared vehicle.

When I am traumatized in the same way I was as a child, I handle it psychologically in the same way I did as a child. I forget. After the abduction a couple of times a day, pain would sort of float to my consciousness, and I would think about making an appointment with my gynecologist. I was seeing a physical therapist that realigned my jaw, but we didn’t understand the circumstances of my condition. Three weeks later, I was horrified to relive the entire event as a flashback.

Despite the fact he had used a condom, I was devastated to think I may have contracted disease. I went in for an exam, and there was traumatic evidence even after 3 weeks. It is very difficult to face laboratory technicians for AIDS testing. I blamed myself. I don’t know if I still do. I couldn’t break my programming quick enough…I wasn’t smart enough…I wasn’t strong enough. I brought this whole wicked situation into my marriage.

Within a day or two, during a miraculous short lift in my mental fog, I decided I had the rights of any ordinary citizen to report my crime. I went to the parking garage, hoping that they may have videotapes from that day. Garage security, called a Hartford police officer who said he would hand over my case to a detective. But, he told me flatly he knew it would not be investigated. I didn’t go into the extensive details of my abduction. It was so complicated I was afraid it would reduce my credibility. But, no one even interviewed me. I got a case number and a name. I wrote a note to the detective giving him a very detailed description of my perpetrators, as well as drawings of their faces and the names they had called each other. I never got a call back.

In October of the same year, I was herded in my little Festiva by four large vehicles down a highway exit. Max was there, but the man who orchestrated it was the son of a man who I knew in Syria when I was a teen. When I attempted to use my car phone, one of the young men laughed and held up an electronic jamming devise. I counted 10 men in total as they surrounded my car in a cul-de-sac ringed with American flags in front of an Iwo Jima Memorial. It seems fitting, because they were all wearing camouflage fatigue outfits. I decided I would just keep my doors locked. If they broke glass and I survived, at least I’d have some evidence that something had happened. He simply walked up and unlocked my door with a prior made key. After he dragged me out, my 150 lb. dog was maced, and my car searched. I wonder if they knew I had a pistol permit and they were looking for my gun?

That dog doesn’t travel with me now, because he attacks young males he doesn’t know, and so defends me when cars pull around me at stop lights, I can’t control him. Until I had the memory a week or so after the event, I had no idea what had radically changed his behavior. He wasn’t dissociated…I was! I recalled one of the pistols used during the abduction. I went to a gun dealer, who showed me a picture of the one in my memory. It was an Israeli Desert Eagle, which at that time was more rare. The gun’s finish I had described was only on ones of military issue.

I was penetrated and reprogrammed, but not essentially raped. I had a new gynecologist who didn’t want to see me. This time I utilized a local rape crisis center, saying I understood advocates were doing sensitivity classes with the police. I was given the name of a therapist who was doing that type of work, and contacted her with the intention of at least asking for someone in New Britain who had taken the training. I didn’t even give her the minimal sketch I shared with you when she called back. She told me not to report it. She said, “You are going to walk in there, and they are going to look at you as if you have two heads. Besides you weren’t raped.”

Within a month, I was trying to walk to the post office from my physical therapist, when this same man managed to grab me from behind, and expertly dislocated my right elbow. This time I warded off his reach for my belt pack. I still don’t know if he was looking for my gun. But then after that, I drove to a job interview, having no idea why my right arm hurt. I made the Thanksgiving turkey that weekend in agony. When I got to a chiropractor on Monday, I was astounded when she asked, “Dorine, how did you dislocate your right elbow!”

I was getting more and more depressed. They were too many with an unlimited budget. They were too young, and too strong. I would come home bleeding, and with bruises and puncture marks, having no idea for days how they got there? I started taking pictures of the abuse, and even the films disappeared during processing. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that my ability to dissociate was breaking…yeah right! I wasn’t fifty years late with my witness, but being a few days late was just as bad.

I contacted a Patriot and said, “For God’s sake. They must have my phone tapped? I have no idea how they know where I am unless they do.” Apparently he had connections with someone with equipment. He validated my phone was being accessed between the substation and the satellite. Realizing how much money was being spent to keep track of me, when I had no idea why I was a threat to anyone since I have absolutely no proof, was even more depressing.

I was trying to find a therapist who wouldn’t label me crazy! After all, I wonder how much credibility I have with any of you right now? I sound crazy don’t I? I was so indoctrinated by my group that no one would believe me if I talked. When I was nine they even continuously molested me with men in different local and state police uniforms to discourage me from seeking help. Part of me was saying, “You survived this type of thing before when you were a kid, and you made it.” Another part was confessing I didn’t think I can make it through even one more attempt, maybe not even one more day.

It takes so much to overcome that kind of programmed fear. It takes so much to report rape. The statistics are only one rape in 4 is reported. I have no idea how they arrive at the unreported figure, if they are not reported. Do you? Almost 70% know their assailant. One out of four takes place in a public area or parking garage, and a third take place in broad daylight. It wasn’t as if I didn’t fit a profile? It was simply because I was late in reporting. People seem now to understand that Vietnam vets have dissociated under fire, and may not relive that segment of their lives until years later. But, the fact this is a common way to deal with extraordinary stress does not seem understandable. I felt like I was in a war, and I sure knew who had been winning recent battles! I decided to enter therapy.

Within a couple of months, I was abducted at knife point right outside his office by someone I knew as George, also previously of the Mafia and Atlantic City. He had a driver, who didn’t participate, but I was wire tied to the side of the van and anally raped. As in prior situations, he even washed me afterwards. My therapist dropped me. My psychiatrist wouldn’t order the necessary blood tests. I had to make myself vulnerable with a strange doctor. I gave up and didn’t even to try to report this abduction to the Glastonbury police.

In between all of these successful accesses, there were many others that were unsuccessful. Before I went through the expense of changing my auto and house locks, I found George at the side of my bed, and my dogs drugged. I managed to get the upper hand with a shotgun. At another time, the group went so far as to cut my electricity at the pole while my husband was away. I got them out of my house with a .357 magnum. But, their hell envelops you when you have to survive on their terms.

I am glad to report that my last access attempt was February of 2000 by a person in his early twenties, and George’s driver. Thank God it was unsuccessful. These last 15 months have given me some healing time so I can begin to regain some level of physical and psychological strength. When I was in the middle of it, often the attempts were so close, I didn’t even record them all. I kept a pad and camera in my car. I would write down license numbers, but when a friend checked them, they were not in any database. I wasn’t able to use the camera much while trying to drive defensively. I didn’t even have the strength to keep people on a national level that did believe me posted. So you can see, how apparently the more I was able to reduce my dissociation, the greater their efforts became. It started out with intimidation of friends and a death, and progressed through group abductions while drugged, and group intimidation with weapons. It hasn’t essentially changed since the ’40’s. Of course, they always wore gloves, and left almost no evidence. I don’t know why I am alive.

I am very thankful to a trooper of the Massachusetts State Police, now medically retired, and Capt. Thomas White, also of Massachusetts, now deceased due to a long-term illness. They were extremely knowledgeable, and psychologically supportive. But, they had no one to refer me to in Connecticut. You see, there is no such thing as Satanic Ritual crime in Connecticut…right? I wonder where all the cults will go as other states become better informed!

I hope I have impressed you with how rich, huge and criminal these groups are? Perhaps the basis of the mind control techniques used to create my dissociation go back thousands of years. I do not know. I do know they instilled interesting modern twists. I understand that children of the present generation can be programmed more quickly with electricity, even during day care attendance without their parents’ knowledge. I shudder! It seems more humane, but it still produces hundreds of thousands of victims of occult crime, and witnesses that can’t remember. They tell you as a child that no one will believe you. You find as an adult, that most do not, because of the immensity of the evil. You see the adults you know from darkness, leading normal appearing lives in the light of day. You meet their children…hundreds of children, just in my experience. You know that the ones who are allowed to grow up will be like you, forever touched…haunted by a personal holocaust that goes on in probably the majority of communities. Their groups, whether they are aware of it or not, are linked to international authority, a percentage of the money made from prostitution, drugs and pornography… especially snuff films…being fed to a higher level. Participants all look so average…so normal…like I said before, from the old children’s chant…”doctor’s, lawyer’s, Indian chiefs.” They are all scorpions.

As a postscript, I would like to add, that some months ago, I wrote a short story called “The Haunting.” It actually details a technique that began dissociating my upper body from my lower body, and how I was taught not to cry as early as three months old. But, maybe the larger crime is how it affects me today. It is available, and is labeled with my name and e-mail address.

Sometimes I lag behind in answering posts, so if it returns to you as “bounced”, please send it again a few days later.

Thank you for listening.


The bones of the three-story maple planted by my great-grandfather rattle in the icy, March wind. It weeps its way to the ground outside Grandma’s kitchen window. Mama is rocking with an, “Ah, ah, ah…ah,” the sound blending with the warm milk in my throat, in a dreamy path to my tummy. It is 2:00 a.m. I used to wake the house at this time of night, tucking all my limbs in a spasmodic effort to ease the agony of colic. But, I don’t do that anymore. The tick-tock of the clock in the bathroom, the creak of the slipper rocker in it’s own pendulum swing, and Mama’s soft crooning, are the only hypnotic sounds that lull my very sleepy, contented brain.

I came East rocking to the click of the railroad ties sliding by, cradled in my mother’s womb. She didn’t want to come. She loved the desert where the Air Force planted Father. The war is ending, but even so, Daddy is needed in England. So, Mommy returns to the house were he spent his boyhood, to the rocking chair handed down by ancestors. She introduces me to the world on a January day, when streets are clogged with snow drifts and the world is white cold. She exclaims, “My God! Is that what I did all that work for? She looks like a red, shriveled prune!”

But, I have gained from my 8 1/2 lb. entry weight. I seem heavy to her arms as she softly seeks to rise without disturbing my almost-asleep state. Half in a dream, I think I hear the water running in the old set tub next to the kitchen sink. My body moves a little with what excitement I can muster. Water is my friend? I like my bath? But, my mind is just too tired, still being rocked back-and-forth, back-and-forth, in the crook of Mama’s arm.

The water sound is almost annoyingly present, as I think I feel the blanket being drawn away from my legs. I relax even more completely as she lets me down onto her long thighs. She is sitting in one of those red kitchen chairs beneath a candle’s glow, coming from a gray plastic cup hung on the wall. I see it through the fringe of my lashes. She is quietly continuing, trying to take off my diaper. A chill brushes my skin with the removal of warm pee, and I curve a little in her lap. She is loosening the strings of my undershirt, gently pulling it and my gown up over my very bald head. The movement intrudes into my almost-slumber. I am getting angry. I twist slightly, but am quickly lulled by the warmth of her breast and the wrapping of her long arms. Her body rocks back-and-forth. Her breath still hums the “Ah” rhythm I am part of her breath as she rises to stand at the edge of the tub.

Suddenly there is no breath or warmth! I startle awake as cold water rises to my armpits! I start to scream, but just as suddenly, I am flipped upside down, the water stifling my effort. I sense air is unavailable, and get quiet. We have done this before, and I am a quick learner. Almost immediately I get my reward of reversed position, and now wet, cold air. I take a hesitant gasp, suspended in mid-air, and then I am back in the water up to my navel! I get angry again, but the fire is quenched when I am flipped upside-down as before. Over and over, to the sound of the, “Ah, ah, ah…ah! The top-to-bottom rocking becomes part of my world…part of my mind driving the anger deep.

It is finished. The arm-cradle moves near the heating part of the old gas range. The towel envelops me like a tender cloud. The, “Ah,” continues. I stare at the candle flickers on the wall. A warm nipple is gently pressed between my lips. I suck greedily, trying to warm the essence of whoever I am as I try to escape into sleep. I pee.

A half-century has passed, and a younger maple weeps outside my door. It is 2 a.m. and I cannot sleep. My rage is a dark pit in my gut, and I don’t know how to cry. I ignite the gas under a noisy pot. I pass it to-and-fro over the flame while trying to rest the side of the soft milk carton on its edge. As I pour it half full, I am puzzled as my eyes become transfixed on the propane’s flicker, like a candle in some primal blackness? I hear my mind say, “Ah, ah, ah…ah.”

I leave the pot congealing, to bring my cup back to my rocking chair. I tuck my limbs inward in a spasm to ease the pain as I sit. “I need my wrap,” I think, irritably. “I really need my blanket.” I cocoon myself into the rocker again, as my hand searches for the hot milk on the side table. Back and forth…back and forth I move, sucking at the cup’s edge, trying to somehow put warmth into that cold pit inside me. Back and forth…back and forth in a night when an icy wind whines it’s way outside my window and around my heart. I create my own pendulum swing as the world sleeps…”Ah, ah, ah…ah. Ah, ah, ah…ah…”

Dorine Pratt

March 2001