Worker in the Light : Unlock Your Five Senses and Liberate Your Limitless Potential
George R. Noory is the host of America's top late-night radio talk show,Coast to Coast AM, which is broadcast to more than 500 radio stations in the U.S. and Canada and streamed over the Internet to millions of people each night. Noory truly believes that there are forces, both good and evil, at work on Earth, forces that can be harnessed by human beings. Fueled by a transcending experience at a very young age, Noory turned his life into an investigation of the possibilities and influence of such forces, and how we can use them to enhance our lives.Now George Noory has woven his life's work into both an amazing memoir and a miraculous key that you can use to unlock the secret of your own sensual transcendence and liberate your limitless potential. Through Worker in the Light, George Noory will show readers how to:*Unlock the secrets to unlimited spiritual growth*Transcend all doubts and fears*Shatter the prison walls of their five senses*Deploy the power of intuition to see the future*Free themselves from the confines of time*Facilitate the power of lucid dreaming Through easily understood, step-by-step instructions, and examples from his own life, George Noory shows you how he has surpassed his own limitations and frustrations, how he has freed himself from doubts and fears, and how he glimpsed the right way out of life's desperate straits. He will teach you how you, too, can overcome fear and doubt and find happiness and success. By the end of this book, you will no longer be alone. You, too, will be a worker in the light. At the publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied.
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September 01, 2007
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Excerpt from Worker in the Light by George Noory
The Ouija Board
It came in an old nondescript box addressed to me.
A fan had sent it.
With a simple, "Here," a studio technician handed me the box just before I went on the air.
I had no idea what it was. Maybe it was a gift given in good conscience. Maybe someone sent it to me on a dare. I'll never know for sure. Whatever the sender's intention, the weathered and worn Ouija board inside the box ultimately took me to the very edge of reality, from which point I looked over the brink into an unfathomable black pool of chaos.
Why is it that such an innocuous piece of cardboard with its triangular-shaped planchette holds the threat of becoming a force for evil? This was not a question that came to mind that late-night in the KTRS studios in St. Louis as I was hosting Coast to Coast AM back in 2002, filling in for the legendary Art Bell.
I was taking calls, as usual, from listeners who had experienced their own encounters with the paranormal: ghosts of loved ones, voices offering help or consolation from the other side, cats or dogs whose behavior mysteriously foretold of danger, shadow people you could see just out of the corner of your eye, Big Foot, the giant bird, Mothman, UFOs of all shapes and sizes, and flying triangles. People were calling on open lines about abductions and other traumatic events that had shaped their lives. And then I told my audience about the Ouija board in the antique box. Should I use it on the air, I asked the listeners?
Calls came pouring in, jamming the switchboard, the first-time caller line, and all the wildcard lines: "Do it!"
I slid the Ouija board out of its box.
Now, for anyone who has never seen the inside of a modern radio broadcast studio, the sight of so many switches, dials, flashing indicator lights, and phone hookups, all set around a table festooned with standing and hanging microphones and computer monitors for reading e-mail can be intimidating. On those very few occasions when I have hosted in-studio guests, I always tried to let them get acclimated to the array of equipment well before we went on the air so that there'd be no dead time between questions and answers in an interview because the overwhelming presence of technology had distracted a guest's attention.
This amount of technology is comforting to me, because I know I'm hardwired into the rest of the universe. However, for every diode, switch, and electronic circuit there are probably a hundred things that will cause them to fail. That's why you have redundant and back-up systems and why you have a studio engineer as well as a producer backing you up and reading the dials to make sure the system's working the way it's supposed to. It's complicated, but it's only electronics. It's science.
For every equipment failure, there's a physical reason. And for every failure there's a fix. That's what you learn on the job. That's what your engineer signals to you when a piece of equipment goes dead and you stare blankly through a glass window at the producer. That's what you have to rely on when nothing is coming through your earphones.
On this particular night in St. Louis, amid the mass of electronics and blinking lights arrayed all around me like a nice warm security envelope, I unfolded the Ouija board and set it on the studio desk. I felt a hesitation. Should I or shouldn't I? The listener calls kept flooding in. Voices in my earphones were egging me on in front of a ten-million-person audience stretched almost 5,000 miles diagonally across the entire continent from Halifax in Canada to National City, California, on the Mexican border.
"Hi, George, this is Josh from Watertown. Ask it a question."
But I remembered The Exorcist, as well as countless other movies, when the person about to become the innocent victim finds that the pointer is out of his or her control and the demonic voice speaks through that person's fingertips. Sure I hesitated. Who wouldn't?
My audience was insistent.
"I have a question, George."
"Can it talk to the dead?"
A truck driver phoned in from somewhere along an interstate outside of Lawrence, Kansas. He, too, had a question begging for an answer.
I took the planchette out of the box.
Okay, I thought, maybe just once. I told the audience what I was doing, placing my fingertips lightly on the planchette so as to let whatever force was present guide the reader across the letters laid out along the board. Ask a yes or no question, the planchette will direct you. Ask for a name or a word, and the planchette will spell it out. Remember every B horror film you've ever seen where the camera does a close focus on a pair of hands being guided by something out of their control, and you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
"Okay," I said to the audience. "I'm ready. Call in with a question and let's see what this baby can do. The numbers again are . . ."
Darkness, sudden and terrifying. Not even the diodes were blinking.
Before my eyes could adjust, the lights came on again. The back-up generators had kicked in and the studio came alive.
"What was that?" I heard one of the engineers say through my earphones.
"You're supposed to know," another voice said. Maybe it was my in-studio producer, Howard Morton. "Are we on generators?"
There was a lot of background chatter as I stared down at the planchette on the Ouija board. It was pointing to "No."
"Hey, George, I got a question," a caller's voice crackled through the earphones. He was on a cell phone, I could tell.
"Go ahead," I said. But just then my earphones went dead.
I signaled to my producer on the other side of the thick glass window that separated the control room from the broadcast booth, "Are we on?"
He gave me a thumbs-up back, but I still couldn't hear anything coming out of the earphones. I pointed to my ear and gave him the cut sign across my neck. Audio was dead to me. I could see him check his board and shake his head. Then the sound came back.
"So what do you think, George? Can you ask it?" The caller's voice said.
"Hey, my friend, you broke up out there," I said, hoping that it was his phone and not our audio. "Run that by me again?"
I looked down. The planchette was still sitting on "No," only this time it seemed as if it had moved a little. My hands were resting on it, but I felt nothing.
My caller began speaking when, as suddenly as the lights had gone out moments earlier, all the dials on the panels in front of me dropped to zero as if somebody had pulled the plug. I still had sound in my earphones, but none of the instruments were registering. And, again, I shot a what's up look to my producer, who only shrugged and then gave me a thumbs-up.
"We're having some difficulty here with the line," I said to my caller, who, by now, was getting impatient. "So I thank you for dialing in." And I cut off the call.
"Why?" I could lipread my producer through the glass.
I shrugged again. I didn't know. It was as if some poltergeist were playing tricks with the equipment. But I went back to the Ouija board as another call came in with a question, this one really spooky, about, "Who was the spirit attending to the board?"
"What do you mean?" I asked the caller.
"The boards have spirits sometimes," the caller said, assuring the audience that she had used Ouija boards many times and had communicated with spirits speaking through them and guiding the planchette over the letters. "You can ask it a question and it will identify itself."
My producer's attention was riveted on the caller as she explained that I had to concentrate my full attention on the board and ask the board to spell out the name of the spirit.
As I began to focus, the entire studio went black again and, this time, even the computers lost power. I could hear a multitude of voices in my earphones, lots of yelling, and the frantic sounds of engineers shouting to technicians. Then the auxiliary generators kicked in, the lights came up, dimmed, and then went out again. The studio was dead.
Next thing I knew, amid the darkness that seemed blacker than a moonless night, the door from the control room burst open with a crash and in flew Howard Morton, my producer.
"Give me that damn thing," he said, without even telling me what he meant. But I sensed it anyway.
He took the Ouija board out of my hands, stuffed it back in the box, threw the planchette in after it, and folded the flaps closed.
"Now I'm getting this thing out of here."
And he tossed it through the control room door to another technician.
The lights came up. I could hear the hum of the generators' winding motors, and suddenly the dials on the panels in front of me shot up to their nominal levels. Diodes and LEDs began to flicker, and I heard the soft sound of the computer hard drive heads engage. We were back.
"You know what, caller from Texas," I said into the mike. "We just got rid of the Ouija board. It was the darndest thing you ever saw."
"I copy that," the caller said. "I was gonna warn you about it but you beat me to it." And with a click the caller was gone into the vast great link of people who comprise the Coast to Coast audience, invisible except for their presence over the phone.
The rest of the show, all three and a half hours of it, proceeded as if nothing had happened. It was normal--if you can call my shows normal--as any other night with callers talking about ghosts, aliens, creatures like Big Foot, and other paranormal encounters. Truckers phoned in from the road about mystery truck stops that served home-cooked meals at 1950s prices with real homemade mashed red-skin potatoes and then couldn't be found again on that same stretch of highway when the truckers went back to look for them. And other people talked about angels. My guest that night talked about the ancient pyramids and the theories of the Sphinx, and my producer performed as he did on every other night. And at four in the morning when we signed off, he handed me the Ouija board in its box and told me, in very specific terms, to keep it out of our studio. He never wanted to see the thing again. And I told him that's exactly what I would do.
It was close to five in the morning by the time I got back to the house, and even though it was still dark in St. Louis, I could hear the first trills of birds in the trees near the house. Early traffic--food trucks, and newspaper delivery vans--was already on the street. But for me it was time to go to bed.
Doing a late-night talk show is just like working a night shift. You're going to bed as the world is waking up. And St. Louis, like Detroit, Chicago, and other industrial cities, is a town of early risers. So, if you have to catch your requisite sleep to be sharp for the next night's show, you have to learn to sleep through the noise of trucks backing up outside your house, car horns blaring because someone was too slow to jump through a light that's just changed to green, and the crack-of-dawn trash pickup that clatters garbage can lids across the pavement.
This was a skill, sleeping through a cacophony of morning noise, that I had honed over the years as the St. Louis "Nighthawk." But this morning, with the Ouija board still on the backseat of my car, every little sound got me up. I turned over, pulled the covers up over my ears, told myself to go back to sleep. But at the next sound I was up again, noticing through the window that the sun was edging up to its 9 a.m. position. This was going to be more frustrating than it was worth. So I got up, cleaned up, and headed down to the KTRS studio. They had the best tea in town, anyway.
I had a disquieting feeling that I couldn't shake off, a feeling that I had peeked over the edge of normal reality into another world. I had a sense that there were things out there, bad things, that were bouncing against the closed door of our reality, looking for a way to slip through a crack. It was the Ouija board, I was sure of it, that had become a crack. Had I let something in last night? Had the individual who sent me the board in the old box tempted me with a Trojan Horse to bring something potentially lethal into this world? And had something escaped, which was now linked to me?
Then my rational voice took over. Ouija boards had been around for over a century. And this one was just a piece of cardboard. Look at the box. It had a manufacturer's trademark on it. It was printed somewhere in Illinois, not in Styx or in Hades. It was a Ouija board, nothing more. But it brought back memories of other times I'd looked over the edge of the world into an abyss of mystery, like the time I first realized there was another reality.
I was eleven or twelve when it happened.
I think I must have had a fever at the time. But all I remember is that I felt very tired and was on the verge of sleep. I felt my body vibrate strangely and I couldn't move any of my muscles. Then when I opened my eyes, I was on the ceiling looking down at myself.
I had no feeling of levitation. No sense that I was moving. No sense of the passage of time. One second I was lying in my own bed, I felt a shaking, and the next second I was looking down. There I was, in two places at once. I was on the ceiling and there I was on the bed, a little kid with a face like the comedian Buddy Hackett.
"This must be a dream," I told myself as I saw myself on the bed below. But it felt like no dream I'd ever had. And even now, remembering it, I cannot call it a dream.
But human beings do not normally float in air except in dreams. So when the realization struck that I was actually outside my body looking down, in an instant, I found myself back down in my own body and was looking up at the ceiling again. There was no sense of movement and no feeling that I had awakened from sleep. I was one place, then I was in another. Life had returned to normal, or so it seemed.
It would have been easy to have written this off as a dream or a kind of hallucinatory state between waking and dreaming brought on by either a fever or just plain fatigue. And for a few seconds after I realized what had happened, that's just what I tried to do: deny it had happened. Call it a dream and pack it up. But I couldn't shelve it that easily, and it has stayed in my memory ever since just like a warning light, telling me that there was something beyond the four walls, an existence outside of one's own body, a piece of personal evidence that human beings can float in the air, can fly, can look down at their own three-dimensional bodies and acknowledge that there is another state of being.
At that moment I was not bound by the limitations of gravity because I was on the ceiling looking down. I was not bound by the physical limitations of my own body because I was outside of it, looking at it. I was not even bound by the limitations of time because I seemed to be outside of it as well. It was only when I was aware that I was looking down that I floated back into my body. Maybe those old Road Runner cartoons had it right when Wiley Coyote runs over the cliff, stays poised mid air, then looks down and plummets to earth. This ultimately became a life-changing experience for me, an introduction to a reality in which what was supposed to be was not.
I do believe that it was my momentary out-of-body experience that launched me on the quest to find out about the other reality that I had experienced. And, the lure of the other reality was so tantalizing that decades later, when I was on the radio, I decided to try an experiment, one with the dark side that taught me a lesson I almost forgot when I opened the Ouija board box.
This exercise in the transmission of negative personal energy, what I call the "dark side," took place in St. Louis about a year and a half before I received the Ouija board from a fan. I can't say for sure what made me play games with forces far more powerful than I, but even though my intentions at first were noble, it turned into wanting something so badly that I was willing to gamble with my own health to get it. It was honor, I thought at first, which then became love for a very beautiful woman. But in the end it was really an infatuation that suckered me in. We're all human, you know.
The escapade began simply enough with a desire to protect a young woman from a group of lounge lizard vultures, all of whom were behaving very badly. But as I became more deeply involved, I became possessive. I became so attracted to this woman that my emotions turned me around until my means became my ends. And when I finally achieved what I was after, it brought me no pleasure, only an empty feeling of triumph that quickly faded.
It all started one night at a party when I first spotted a gorgeous woman surrounded by a bunch of guys. She was petite, blond, and very young. She was as bright as a candle in a darkened room, and around her like so many birds of prey were the typical guys that populate the outer fringes of the entertainment industry. I recognized some of them: ad guys, promo guys, a couple of nerdy types, and a few rock band hangers-on: people around the periphery of top-40 radio. They hung on her like a blanket. But this young woman was poised. She ate up the attention she was getting. And yet I thought she needed my protection because she couldn't possibly know what these guys wanted. At least that's what I believed. So I was St. George, these were the dragons, and she was the damsel in distress.
I moved in on the cluster of guys, chatted her up, and then became part of the queue of men around her. And as I stood there, volleying with the conversation and fending off other guys getting their two cents in. I became just one of the group. Couldn't she see that these were guys after only one thing and I was protecting her from them? My intentions were honorable. Theirs weren't.
I felt territorial at first, natural male hormones at work. Then I got possessive. I was her knight in shining armor. Then I got angry that the guys around her didn't back off. It wasn't a hot anger and my blood didn't boil. Worse, it was a cold anger, cold and calculating and revenge-seeking. And it was self-serving, too. I got her name that night and, of course, knew who the other guys were who were trying to score a few points with her. And then I settled in to figure out what to do about them. Maybe put a white circle like a halo around her so that she would be enveloped in my protection. But my emotions took over.
The idea I came up with, in good faith at first, but calculating and possessive at the end because I'd given in to anger, wasn't very smart. But it was very effective. And it's not something anyone should do on his or her own because--and I say this from firsthand experience--it is sure to backfire. I located myself in a darkened room where I settled into a thick-cushioned easy chair with a high back and nice padded arms. I closed my eyes and focused on each of the men I wanted out of my way. I repeated each one's name to myself as I saw his face in my mind. And then, with all of the power I could muster from the depths of my psyche, I sent out the most evil thoughts I could imagine, specifically aimed at the individual. And this was not just a one-time exercise. I repeated it each night, deliberately and with the full understanding of what I was doing.
I willed evil to befall each individual. I conjured up each face as I closed my eyes and sent the most negative thoughts I could directly to the person represented by his face. I'm not proud of this.
I told myself at the time it was only an experiment, an answer to a question: If I sent negative thoughts out, would I achieve my aim? Then this became a nightly ritual, and soon the results began to pay off. Some of the men lost their jobs, others incurred severe financial reverses, and still others began to suffer medical problems. And the more I heard stories of the success of my negative energy, the more it fed on itself. One of the individuals got himself into a bizarre traffic accident. Still another began to have back pain so severe that it laid him up for over a month without any doctor being able to treat it because the reason for the pain was undiscoverable.
And as for the young woman, I sent out thoughts to influence her as well, isolating her from friends and family in the hopes that she would turn to me. In part, what I tried to do was based on a story I heard from another sailor who told it to me when I was in the Navy years and years earlier. This sailor, on a night we were swapping stories, told of a friend of his in college whom I'll call "Doom" and who practiced dark rituals in his dormitory room. It was the kind of story I would have had on Coast.
Doom was a sad but foreboding character, not the kind of guy who could walk up to a girl and ask her out. He was so introverted that it was almost impossible to pry him out of his shell. He simply walked along the halls, made his way to class, head hung low, eyes on the ground, and interacted with no one. But that didn't mean he didn't have feelings, deep urges about the girls in his classes to whom he was too shy to speak. Every so often, this sailor told me, he would see Doom pick up his head and eyeball a real cutie as she floated by him. If she were animatedly talking amid a flotilla of boys, a look of evil would cross Doom's face. But on the surface he would do nothing. And woe to the girl who befriended him or innocently flirted with him. And that's the point of this story.