In April 1967, I was a teenager living in Pomeroy, Ohio, right across the river from Mason, West Virginia, about 20 miles north of Point Pleasant, where the Mothman legend began. Growing up in the 1960s, life was laid-back, and kids like me had the freedom to explore. The previous November, stories of a winged creature with glowing red eyes chasing cars near the old TNT plant in Point Pleasant had spread like wildfire. Locals called it “the bird,” though my dad insisted it was just a giant crane. We knew better—this thing was no ordinary bird. It was said to be eight feet tall, capable of flying nearly 100 miles an hour, with eyes that burned like fire. The excitement drew teenagers from all over, including my boyfriend and me, to cruise the backroads, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Mothman or the mysterious lights in the sky.
1967 Mothman Witness Story: On April 15, 1967, my boyfriend picked me up around 7:15 p.m. in his ’56 Chevy. It was a warm spring evening, still light out, with no leaves on the trees. We crossed the Pomeroy-Mason Bridge and took a gravel road about a mile and a half outside Mason, winding up a hill to a farmer’s field where my boyfriend sometimes helped with hay. We parked in the field, facing the road, with a grove of trees to our right and a wide view of the sky ahead. The Ohio River lay out of sight down the hill. We spread a quilt on the hood of the car, climbed up, and sat talking, getting to know each other.
About ten minutes in, as twilight settled, my boyfriend noticed a strange “star” in the sky near the grove of trees. It wasn’t high up, just above the horizon, and it pulsed, growing slightly larger each time. We watched, puzzled, as it pulsed brighter. Suddenly, it surged through the clouds, painting the sky in shades of pink and red, like a boiling supernova. To me, it felt like something breaking through from another dimension. The object grew enormous, like a super moon, glowing reddish-orange with a halo of light. It moved silently, without heat, and we sat mesmerized, too enthralled to be afraid.
The object drifted from our lower right to about one o’clock in the sky, stopping at treetop height near the gravel road. It was massive, a silent ball of light. My boyfriend urged me to get in the car, but we were frozen, staring. As it glided slowly toward us, about 50 yards from the road, it transformed. From a sphere, it flattened into a disc with a dome, still glowing red. Then, I experienced a gap in time—something I wouldn’t fully understand until years later.
The next thing I remember, we were inside the car. I was in the passenger seat, windows down, leaning out to see the object above us. It made a soft sucking noise, bathing the car and field in light. My boyfriend struggled to start the car, desperate to leave. As he pulled forward, a figure leapt into the air in front of us. It was man-like, about eight feet tall, grayish-black, with wings tucked back like Superman taking flight. It didn’t flap or make a sound, just soared from left to right, nearly grazing the hood before vanishing into the trees. I shouted, “What was that?” My boyfriend, focused on the UFO, insisted he hadn’t seen a creature. Panicked, he sped out of the field, gravel flying, as the UFO moved down the hill and the creature perched in the trees, watching us.
We drove to an abandoned strip mine nearby to calm down. I described the creature—its height, its wings, its silent flight—but my boyfriend hadn’t seen it. Shaken, I checked my watch: 8:30 p.m. We’d left home at 7:15, driven 15 minutes, and spent maybe 10 minutes in the field. Where had the time gone? As we debated what to do, another object appeared, smaller, white, and iridescent, about the size of a Volkswagen. It hovered three feet above the road, following its curves. It stopped parallel to us, then drifted to the hood of our car, silent and glowing. It felt like it was trying to communicate, not threatening but alive with purpose. We sat in awe for five to ten minutes, debating whether to approach it. Suddenly, it shot upward and vanished, filling the car with blinding light. I found myself on the floor, my boyfriend slumped over the wheel.
We drove home, shaken. Crossing the Pomeroy-Mason Bridge, I felt strange, like something had been “uploaded” into my mind, a sensation my boyfriend shared. We stopped at a parking lot overlooking the river to process what happened. My parents, waiting on the porch when I got home around 8:45 p.m., were frantic. They’d seen a light rise over the hills across the river, near Wahama High School, just where we’d been. My grandmother, living up the hill, called to report two UFOs heading our way. That night, we realized we’d encountered something extraordinary—a mothership, a smaller craft, and the Mothman itself.
The aftermath was profound. That summer, UFO sightings surged along the Ohio River, from Huntington to Charleston. Over 100 people reported seeing the Mothman, including a girl who saw it rise from a road near a golf course and a man who watched it glide over river bottoms near a cemetery. In December 1967, I had a disturbing dream of water, headlights, crashing metal, and Christmas packages floating, with cries echoing from ambulances. The next evening, December 15, while decorating for a school dance, we learned the Silver Bridge had collapsed, killing 46 people, including a friend’s father. Others, including journalist Mary Hyer, later shared similar dreams, linking them to the Mothman sightings.
Weeks before the collapse, while Christmas shopping in Point Pleasant, I encountered two eerie men dressed in black, wearing sunglasses at night. They stood motionless, one outside a store, another by a lamppost, their ashen skin and stillness unnerving. The cashier said they’d been there all afternoon, and police dismissed them as harmless government types. They gave me a deeper chill than the Mothman itself.
The experience haunted me. I struggled in school, plagued by psychic dreams and a sense of unease. As an adult, I sought answers through the Mutual UFO Network and the Roundtown UFO Society. In 2017, I underwent hypnotic regression to uncover what happened during the lost time. Under hypnosis, I relived the night vividly: the quilt slipping off the car, landing on the ground, and finding myself at the feet of the Mothman. Its legs were smooth, dark, and it gently lifted me, unafraid, placing me back in the car beside my dazed boyfriend before leaping into the trees. The regression was emotional but healing, confirming the creature’s presence.
As a part-Native American with Cherokee ancestry, I feel a deep connection to nature, perhaps amplified by this encounter. It awakened my psychic empath abilities, allowing me to sense others’ experiences and help them. I’ve met people across the country, sharing my story and theirs, from Arizona to Bimini. My book, Beyond the Pale Moonlight, details these events, and I continue to speak at UFO and cryptid events, like the Mothman Festival. My message to others: you’re not alone. Seek safe spaces to share your story, whether through therapy or communities like the Roundtown UFO Society. For me, the Mothman opened a door to a calling—to connect, heal, and embrace the unknown.
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