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Published by Bear & Company
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
Table of Contents
About The Book
• Looks at research from early pioneers in the field of alien contact, including Greta Woodrew, Leo Sprinkle, Whitley Streiber, and John Mack
• Shares case studies of individuals who have undergone near-death experiences that coincided with extraterrestrial contact
• Tells the story of the author’s own near-death experiences, the unexpected knowledge they offered, and their revelations of the author’s past lives
Near-death experience (NDE) researcher and spiritual counselor P. M. H. Atwater draws upon decades of scholarship, personal experiences, and testimonials from the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) to explore the connections between NDEs and alien contact.
The author presents the research of pioneers in the field of alien interaction, including Greta Woodrew, Leo Sprinkle, Kenneth Ring, Whitley Streiber, and John Mack. She also shares 38 case study interviews with people who have had alien encounters and NDEs. Her findings reveal that people experiencing these phenomena report similar experiences of interactions with “beings of light,” telepathic communication, and journeys to otherworldly realms.
Atwater also reports on her own NDEs from the 1970s, revealing how they may demonstrate her past life as a space-traveling extraterrestrial named Arrakkus. The author provides transcripts of recorded conversations that Arrakkus had by speaking through her while she was in a trance state. She explains how her personal experiences and research have yielded conclusions that bear upon the fields of psychology, neuroscience, philosophy, and theology, and she discusses the implications of these findings for a deeper understanding of our potentials.
• Shares case studies of individuals who have undergone near-death experiences that coincided with extraterrestrial contact
• Tells the story of the author’s own near-death experiences, the unexpected knowledge they offered, and their revelations of the author’s past lives
Near-death experience (NDE) researcher and spiritual counselor P. M. H. Atwater draws upon decades of scholarship, personal experiences, and testimonials from the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) to explore the connections between NDEs and alien contact.
The author presents the research of pioneers in the field of alien interaction, including Greta Woodrew, Leo Sprinkle, Kenneth Ring, Whitley Streiber, and John Mack. She also shares 38 case study interviews with people who have had alien encounters and NDEs. Her findings reveal that people experiencing these phenomena report similar experiences of interactions with “beings of light,” telepathic communication, and journeys to otherworldly realms.
Atwater also reports on her own NDEs from the 1970s, revealing how they may demonstrate her past life as a space-traveling extraterrestrial named Arrakkus. The author provides transcripts of recorded conversations that Arrakkus had by speaking through her while she was in a trance state. She explains how her personal experiences and research have yielded conclusions that bear upon the fields of psychology, neuroscience, philosophy, and theology, and she discusses the implications of these findings for a deeper understanding of our potentials.
Excerpt
2
Turning Life Around, Again and Again
Could there be anything more important to a woman of eighteen than great lipstick, gorgeous hair, and clothes that revealed all you had to reveal?
Forget extraterrestrials and their ships. I wanted guys to whistle at me and think “beautiful chick.” My beauty parade ended flatly when I had an opportunity to take up skiing at the South Hills—I mean way south. I rented equipment and joined friends, determined to have a Saturday like no other. There was a rope tow up Magic Mountain. Nothing fancy for beginners like me. Just grab that rope and up you’d go. The fancy stuff was for those who knew what they were doing and skied like pros. I just barely managed to hold on to both slats of wood. When I jumped off the tow, challenge number one was to pretend that I knew what I was doing. Not hard to do, actually. Down. That’s where I wanted to go, down that really big, wide bank of snow spread out before me. How? Just do it. That’s what others did. They just cut loose, and off they went. Well, if they could do it, I could, too. So, I did. Just like that. Down I went.
You might know some crazy idiot would stop in my path to adjust his boots. I screamed. Too late. I can honestly say when my soon-to-be husband and I first met . . . we fell for each other. He spent the rest of the day teaching me how to curve around the slope without killing anyone.
If you love adventure, just get married. Ours was a big church wedding followed by police cars chasing us as we broke all laws, scooting out of town and zooming right onto the tarmac to a Cessna waiting for us to board. The pilot helped us as we managed to close doors, aim for the runway as a flank of police cars chased us right up to take off. We thought for sure there would be a crash. Nope. The police held back as we flew away, headed to a car waiting for us in Nevada. A good friend piloted the plane. We made it free and clear. Had we hesitated, even for a minute, my dad admitted he was going to jail us overnight—just as a joke. He never got the chance. We made it out of Idaho and into Nevada, where our car waited for “the honeymoon couple” to catch up. Our drive to Las Vegas was great, including time off to visit Nellis Air Force Base and collect rocks.
Beginnings are like that. Magic. Wedding gifts handily filled our new kitchen and bedroom, all kinds of dishes, even two toasters. They were identical. We gave one away. A promise from landowners in Illinois guaranteed us a farm in Sucker Flats, just outside Filer. They were called “Sucker Flats” because no one thought this scrub brush would ever be worth anything. Only those silly folk from Illinois. Bankers. As things turned out, scrub brush could be tilled, worked with. The uninformed made millions. If you could rent a farm there, show the owners what you could do, this was a chance of a lifetime. Prayer answered. We got one of those rentals, and we were ecstatic!
We moved into a wonderful house with a large basement, garage, lawns, place for a garden and flowers. In two years, two kids—“Pete and Repete” my husband called them. Funny. Then one winter it rained nonstop. The cattle we bought as feeders to fatten for the winter wound up mired in mud, every day, every week, every month. We lost our shirts in payoffs—selling cattle for less than we paid for them. Our landlords felt sorry for us, so they built a state-of-the-art barn, one made-to-order for milkers. We bought enough cows to guarantee calves with just a few bulls. Milkers indeed. With the milking system we now had, and if you tended the times right and were willing to work hard, you could have enough milk and cream to make a good living and establish yourself as someone to be trusted.
Our dream of good crops finally paid off. We hired help, had a house for a man and his family, tractors, everything we needed to enlarge our spread and impress owners for a land contract. My muscle drove tractors (which terrified me), mowed large lawns (which was beyond my ability to handle). Two babies, house cleaning, baking everything from scratch, dealing with a washing machine that only worked on occasion, a clothes dryer that defied description, pet dogs, pet cats, plus extra farm work. I folded. A really tough broad I wasn’t. Folks claimed I was too citified.
One day a range fire broke out. Maybe around 10 or 11 a.m. Out our large living room window, I could see flames eating up range land in the far west. A growing dark. I ran out the back door and managed to unpin a large wash hanging on long lines, grabbing kids and pets, stuffing everything I could inside, shutting doors, windows. Then it happened. Twelve noon and everything turned black. No sky. Black. Nothing there. No cars. No people. No trucks. No hope. Only a solid black nothingness. I’ve never seen the likes of this before or since. I’ve seen range fires before, forest fires, barns ablaze, but nothing like this. The terror stays with you.
When we lost our farm, I felt bad at first. I knew how much we tried, people we hired, worked from dawn till dusk. Everyday. Neighbors were for real back then. Everyone helped each other. One guy smothered to death when a haystack collapsed. He couldn’t get out. We lived close enough that we went to help. Too late. Such grief. Middle-aged. Had a wife, kids. Don’t know if he had insurance. The next morning, I brought enough cooked food to feed everyone: muffins, fried eggs, fried potatoes, greens. All of us did this, helped each other. So we lost our lease. Gave everything our all, but as things turned out, it was not enough. Good friends won our prize farm. Landlords didn’t understand the crux of our story, but our friends did. We had managed the soil, built it up year after year. Got it to the point when you could at last make a profit from the place. Not us, though. Friends got the place. Illinois bankers didn’t understand soil and what it takes to build up a rich loam.
So we tried custom farming. Used our equipment to help other farmers bring in their crops, bale hay, whatever needed doing. Seemed to work well, yet it didn’t take long before what we put out in energy and commitment never added back to even a living wage. In a huge farm sale, we sold off everything. Even with a top-notch auctioneer and a good crowd, hardly an extra cent bought a thing. The two of us, plus our kids, stood there, watching, as everything in our world disappeared.
We found acreage near the railroad tracks, halfway to the city of Twin Falls. We tilled it some, but finally my husband got a job driving a taxi, and I got a job with a bean-broker (yes, you read that right, beans replaced money in large purchases). Our main source in the company I worked for—brokers in Cuba before Fidel Castro’s takeover of the country. Our kids went to a one-room school, all grades in the same room, same teacher. Yes, it worked. That teacher really did a great job, and the kids really learned. A third child came, so small we kept her in a doll cradle. Had a huge garden. Practiced no-till gardening with flowers fencing off the good stuff from bugs who had other ideas. I always left a tenth of everything for the bugs so they could eat, too. I canned and froze so much food from our garden, plus leftovers gleaned from orchards, that we had plenty of food. Plus we almost always got an elk tag in the annual statewide drawing for a ticket to kill one. This meant our food bill for a family of five was never over fifteen dollars in any given month including December. Plus, we either raised or shot our own meat. If we were lucky, the whole family could be there when a kill was needed. Barnyard. All of us sitting near the animal to be shot and always giving that animal our thanks and our love. And every time we did this, the animal stood still, died quickly, its meat tender and sweet. If you honor your food, it will honor you.
We lost everything again. Just couldn’t make enough money from that acreage to pay our bills and have a life. So we sold the place and moved first to Nyssa, Oregon, then to Boise, the state capital. My husband worked for a gas distributor in Nyssa who charged more to those who had more, and less to those who had less. He manipulated all prices accordingly. That struck us as wrong. You can make deals, but the base price should be the same for everyone. Advertisements—same deal. We couldn’t handle his way of handling money. He bragged about being a good Catholic. Said he took care of everyone. Oh?
Living there gave us an opportunity to experience winds of around a hundred miles per hour or more. Usually more. Took off roofs. Sometimes it collapsed buildings. We were saved because of the unique structure of the house we rented. When the front door blew open, so did the back door. Winds blew straight through. And those winds were unique. You could walk outside, up to the road, and stand there untouched as winds right in front of you tore up everything, while not a hair on your head even wiggled. More than once did we encounter such wind—a wind with a mind of its own.
Turning Life Around, Again and Again
Could there be anything more important to a woman of eighteen than great lipstick, gorgeous hair, and clothes that revealed all you had to reveal?
Forget extraterrestrials and their ships. I wanted guys to whistle at me and think “beautiful chick.” My beauty parade ended flatly when I had an opportunity to take up skiing at the South Hills—I mean way south. I rented equipment and joined friends, determined to have a Saturday like no other. There was a rope tow up Magic Mountain. Nothing fancy for beginners like me. Just grab that rope and up you’d go. The fancy stuff was for those who knew what they were doing and skied like pros. I just barely managed to hold on to both slats of wood. When I jumped off the tow, challenge number one was to pretend that I knew what I was doing. Not hard to do, actually. Down. That’s where I wanted to go, down that really big, wide bank of snow spread out before me. How? Just do it. That’s what others did. They just cut loose, and off they went. Well, if they could do it, I could, too. So, I did. Just like that. Down I went.
You might know some crazy idiot would stop in my path to adjust his boots. I screamed. Too late. I can honestly say when my soon-to-be husband and I first met . . . we fell for each other. He spent the rest of the day teaching me how to curve around the slope without killing anyone.
If you love adventure, just get married. Ours was a big church wedding followed by police cars chasing us as we broke all laws, scooting out of town and zooming right onto the tarmac to a Cessna waiting for us to board. The pilot helped us as we managed to close doors, aim for the runway as a flank of police cars chased us right up to take off. We thought for sure there would be a crash. Nope. The police held back as we flew away, headed to a car waiting for us in Nevada. A good friend piloted the plane. We made it free and clear. Had we hesitated, even for a minute, my dad admitted he was going to jail us overnight—just as a joke. He never got the chance. We made it out of Idaho and into Nevada, where our car waited for “the honeymoon couple” to catch up. Our drive to Las Vegas was great, including time off to visit Nellis Air Force Base and collect rocks.
Beginnings are like that. Magic. Wedding gifts handily filled our new kitchen and bedroom, all kinds of dishes, even two toasters. They were identical. We gave one away. A promise from landowners in Illinois guaranteed us a farm in Sucker Flats, just outside Filer. They were called “Sucker Flats” because no one thought this scrub brush would ever be worth anything. Only those silly folk from Illinois. Bankers. As things turned out, scrub brush could be tilled, worked with. The uninformed made millions. If you could rent a farm there, show the owners what you could do, this was a chance of a lifetime. Prayer answered. We got one of those rentals, and we were ecstatic!
We moved into a wonderful house with a large basement, garage, lawns, place for a garden and flowers. In two years, two kids—“Pete and Repete” my husband called them. Funny. Then one winter it rained nonstop. The cattle we bought as feeders to fatten for the winter wound up mired in mud, every day, every week, every month. We lost our shirts in payoffs—selling cattle for less than we paid for them. Our landlords felt sorry for us, so they built a state-of-the-art barn, one made-to-order for milkers. We bought enough cows to guarantee calves with just a few bulls. Milkers indeed. With the milking system we now had, and if you tended the times right and were willing to work hard, you could have enough milk and cream to make a good living and establish yourself as someone to be trusted.
Our dream of good crops finally paid off. We hired help, had a house for a man and his family, tractors, everything we needed to enlarge our spread and impress owners for a land contract. My muscle drove tractors (which terrified me), mowed large lawns (which was beyond my ability to handle). Two babies, house cleaning, baking everything from scratch, dealing with a washing machine that only worked on occasion, a clothes dryer that defied description, pet dogs, pet cats, plus extra farm work. I folded. A really tough broad I wasn’t. Folks claimed I was too citified.
One day a range fire broke out. Maybe around 10 or 11 a.m. Out our large living room window, I could see flames eating up range land in the far west. A growing dark. I ran out the back door and managed to unpin a large wash hanging on long lines, grabbing kids and pets, stuffing everything I could inside, shutting doors, windows. Then it happened. Twelve noon and everything turned black. No sky. Black. Nothing there. No cars. No people. No trucks. No hope. Only a solid black nothingness. I’ve never seen the likes of this before or since. I’ve seen range fires before, forest fires, barns ablaze, but nothing like this. The terror stays with you.
When we lost our farm, I felt bad at first. I knew how much we tried, people we hired, worked from dawn till dusk. Everyday. Neighbors were for real back then. Everyone helped each other. One guy smothered to death when a haystack collapsed. He couldn’t get out. We lived close enough that we went to help. Too late. Such grief. Middle-aged. Had a wife, kids. Don’t know if he had insurance. The next morning, I brought enough cooked food to feed everyone: muffins, fried eggs, fried potatoes, greens. All of us did this, helped each other. So we lost our lease. Gave everything our all, but as things turned out, it was not enough. Good friends won our prize farm. Landlords didn’t understand the crux of our story, but our friends did. We had managed the soil, built it up year after year. Got it to the point when you could at last make a profit from the place. Not us, though. Friends got the place. Illinois bankers didn’t understand soil and what it takes to build up a rich loam.
So we tried custom farming. Used our equipment to help other farmers bring in their crops, bale hay, whatever needed doing. Seemed to work well, yet it didn’t take long before what we put out in energy and commitment never added back to even a living wage. In a huge farm sale, we sold off everything. Even with a top-notch auctioneer and a good crowd, hardly an extra cent bought a thing. The two of us, plus our kids, stood there, watching, as everything in our world disappeared.
We found acreage near the railroad tracks, halfway to the city of Twin Falls. We tilled it some, but finally my husband got a job driving a taxi, and I got a job with a bean-broker (yes, you read that right, beans replaced money in large purchases). Our main source in the company I worked for—brokers in Cuba before Fidel Castro’s takeover of the country. Our kids went to a one-room school, all grades in the same room, same teacher. Yes, it worked. That teacher really did a great job, and the kids really learned. A third child came, so small we kept her in a doll cradle. Had a huge garden. Practiced no-till gardening with flowers fencing off the good stuff from bugs who had other ideas. I always left a tenth of everything for the bugs so they could eat, too. I canned and froze so much food from our garden, plus leftovers gleaned from orchards, that we had plenty of food. Plus we almost always got an elk tag in the annual statewide drawing for a ticket to kill one. This meant our food bill for a family of five was never over fifteen dollars in any given month including December. Plus, we either raised or shot our own meat. If we were lucky, the whole family could be there when a kill was needed. Barnyard. All of us sitting near the animal to be shot and always giving that animal our thanks and our love. And every time we did this, the animal stood still, died quickly, its meat tender and sweet. If you honor your food, it will honor you.
We lost everything again. Just couldn’t make enough money from that acreage to pay our bills and have a life. So we sold the place and moved first to Nyssa, Oregon, then to Boise, the state capital. My husband worked for a gas distributor in Nyssa who charged more to those who had more, and less to those who had less. He manipulated all prices accordingly. That struck us as wrong. You can make deals, but the base price should be the same for everyone. Advertisements—same deal. We couldn’t handle his way of handling money. He bragged about being a good Catholic. Said he took care of everyone. Oh?
Living there gave us an opportunity to experience winds of around a hundred miles per hour or more. Usually more. Took off roofs. Sometimes it collapsed buildings. We were saved because of the unique structure of the house we rented. When the front door blew open, so did the back door. Winds blew straight through. And those winds were unique. You could walk outside, up to the road, and stand there untouched as winds right in front of you tore up everything, while not a hair on your head even wiggled. More than once did we encounter such wind—a wind with a mind of its own.
Product Details
- Publisher: Bear & Company (May 5, 2026)
- Length: 208 pages
- ISBN13: 9781591435518
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Raves and Reviews
“Blending memoir, rigorous investigation, and vivid witness testimonies, P. M. H. Atwater masterfully unveils profound patterns linking alien encounters and near-death experiences. A groundbreaking book that challenges us to expand our place in the stars—much like the enigmatic visitors it illuminates.”
– Keith Thompson, author of The UFO Paradox
“A powerful and deeply moving exploration of the farthest frontiers of human consciousness. With fearless honesty and poetic clarity, Atwater weaves together personal experience, scholarly depth, and spiritual insight to reveal a universe far more interconnected and mysterious than we imagine. More than a groundbreaking contribution to near-death studies and ufology, this book is a compelling invitation to expand our very understanding of reality. This book is profound, accessible, and an unforgettable essential read.”
– Jeffrey Long, MD, author of Evidence of the Afterlife
“Atwater ventures into one of the most overlooked and yet vital frontiers of human experience. With her characteristic courage and clarity, she brings together two phenomena long treated as separate and reveals their deep structural relationship. This book expands the conversation far beyond survival after death or extraterrestrial contact. Atwater has given us a work of lasting importance—courageous, integrative, and profoundly illuminating.”
– Jim Bruton, author of The In Between
“Aliens and the Near-Death Experience by P. M. H. Atwater is genius. While there are scores of books about NDEs and alien abductions, there has never been a book about people who have experienced both these phenomena until now.”
– Mark Anthony, JD, author of The Afterlife Frequency
“Atwater takes an unblinking, bold look at how the nature of the NDE opens us up to communication with aliens and the aftereffects of that contact. Her never-before-released conversations with Arrakkus give us a rare insight into into her, as well as our own, alien history, biology, and technology.”
– Scott Taylor, EdD, America’s foremost facilitator of near-death and shared death meditations a
“This book provides profound insights into the relationship between NDE and ET/UFO experiences. At this juncture on Earth, humanity deserves to know deeper truths regarding who we are and how we fit in the cosmos. While information in this book may be jarring and shocking, its wisdom of authentic personal experience is essential now for humanity’s global awakening. It’s brilliant!”
– Cynthia Sue Larson, author of Quantum Jumps
“Destined to become a classic—a groundbreaking work at the crossroads of the mystical and the mysterious. P. M. H. Atwater continues to blaze trails where few dare to look, shedding compassionate light on the most unconventional, yet profoundly transformative, intersections of human experience.”
– A. J. Parr, spiritual journalist, podcast host, and coauthor of An Urgent Message for Humanity
“Atwater’s book is a must-read for anyone interested in the topics of the relationship between NDEs and UFOs as well as the relationship between consciousness and the contact modalities. Highly recommended.”
– Reinerio (Rey) Hernandez, director of Consciousness and Contact Research Institute (CCRI)
“Atwater masterfully weaves together anecdotal insight with scholarly research, validating the well-documented correlation between alien encounters and near-death experiences. This is a paradigm-shifting volume for the ages!”
– Alexis Brooks, journalist and author of Conscious Musings
“In Aliens and the Near-Death Experience, P.M.H. Atwater saves the best for last. She describes in stunning detail her experiences under hypnosis in a prior lifetime, as a member of an ET civilization called the Arrakkus, located in the Sirius star system. Spellbinding! I suggest you brew a pot of tea and allow yourself to explore the experiences of P.M.H. She is a legend in the field of near-death experiences.”
– Michael A. Quinn, co-author of The Journey Home
“Not having ‘absolute’ certainty in these matters does not prevent me from learning more about them and moving from the blind faith of organized religion to a true conviction that we live on in a much larger world than the one we can see and sense. This book has much to offer anyone searching for that ‘larger world.’”
– Michael Tymn, author of The Afterlife Revealed
“A fascinating exploration of hidden realms and human potential. This groundbreaking work invites readers to expand their consciousness and rediscover humanity's cosmic heritage. Prepare to be inspired, enlightened, and forever changed.”
– Mary Grace, parapsychologist and author of Talking to God & Grandma
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