Why I Believe the Dead Are Alive By William Dudley Pelley


Chapter V

I ATTEST that in necessitates a peculiar temperament to explore the higher manifestations of life and deliberately seek to acquaint one’s self with the aspects of existence above the mortal.

The average curiosity-seeker who “goes in” for psychical research, automatic writing, clairaudience or metaphysical phenomena of any kind, lands in all varieties of snarls because he expects higher manifestations of life to accord with those on this earthly level, and when they do not do so, he becomes suspicious or discouraged. Then too, there are cases where the inability to correlate the methods, manners, customs, and thought processes of the different levels, preys on the mind of the amateur investigator; he attributes these inconsistencies to the prankings of devils; he thinks he has “sold himself” to evil forces and continually brooding over it causes a rupture in his reason.

THERE are many students who have gone further into phenomenal phases of psychical research—the so-called “supernatural”—than I profess to have gone. But over several years of intensive study and exploring, I have come to this conclusion—

If the various levels of life were not different in their manifestations, there would be no necessity for life to exist at different levels.

It is because they are different that we have Research—to find out wherein they are different, this, as well as to prove that those various levels exist.

The profoundest thinkers and investigators in these matters agreed—and their experiments go to prove—that people do not alter their temperaments in the slightest by “dying”, but they do awaken to a world vastly different in environment. In orienting themselves to that environment—or in the combination of these two factors, temperament and changed environment—some phenomena are produced that are often confusing on this mortal level.

I QUOTE from a manuscript that came into my office for publication in later

Why I Believe the Dead Are Alive

issue of my magazine: “People on the earth are much disposed to herd together according to their kind. The rich seek each other, the poor huddle into crowded tenements, and the thieves and gangsters have their resorts. Every city has its Four Hundred section, its Bohemian Quarter, and its slums. In the Land Beyond the Veil, people are also separated—on the basis of their moral development—into levels, more commonly called “planes” or “spheres” that surround the planet.

“The ‘spheres’ of lowest vibration—though of a vastly higher vibration than what we know on earth—are closest to the earth—in fact, the lowest intermingles with the earth’s surface. In a regular ascension from the center are spheres of higher and higher vibration, and in each of these spheres reside people—ex-human beings—of various degrees of evolutional development, the ignorant and the sinful occupying the lower spheres and attaining to higher spheres as they advance in love and wisdom.”

TO QUOTE further: “ When a truly good man dies he is usually not conscious in the full sense, for quite a space of time. He passes somewhat quickly through the lower spheres, to about the Fourth—or whatever corresponds in vibration to the moral development he had attained. Those of wicked lives remain in the First Sphere, being what is known as Earth-Bound spirits. They are unconscious for a long while after death, and when they arouse, find themselves in a region of almost total darkness, bate of vegetation and inhabited by the lowest of the low and the vilest of the vile. This condition corresponds to the Purgatory taught by the Roman Church. Swedenborg speaks of it as ‘The Hells’ …

“Those who are simply ignorant and weak, rather than downright depraved and vicious, find themselves in the Second Sphere, where it is lighter, and there is more opportunity to gain knowledge of higher and better things. “The great mass of everyday, ordinary people, not very wise, neither good not bad, just full of blunders and stumbling along—these find themselves in the Third Sphere. Here is where Raymond, son of Sir Olive Lodge, tells us he landed, and though his intelligence and moral development very shortly permitted his rising to the Fifth Sphere, yet he announced that he was going to stay in the Third and await his parents, and so not chance going beyond them and missing them when they came over.

“THE VERY best of mortals, men and women whose lives have been developed to the service of mankind, go to still higher spheres, each sphere being thus inhabited by beings of parallel development, and therefore harmonious and happy. The higher the sphere, the smaller the population, is the condition that follows, and the numbers in the higher spheres are reduced by the custom of those advanced soul’s spending most of their time in spheres below their own, where they go to teach and help the les s advanced and weaker members of the race. Wherever they go they are at once recognized by

Why I Believe the Dead Are Alive

their brightness. There id no uncertainty as to their mortal standing. No hypocrite in the ‘heaven world’ can pass for better than he is, and no saint can fail to be known.

“A real Master, resident of the Ninth or the Tenth Sphere, is a most splendid object to look upon, with serene and lovely countenance, superb beauty and dignity, and a brilliance dazzling to the eyes.”

I MENTION these matters because as one advances in research, he finds they account for much of the inconsistency in phenomena, and confusing reports of the “after-life”, as given by those who have shuffled off their mortal coils. They also account for the inability of certain souls to communicate at all, while certain vile souls, on the very lowest planes next to earth, spend most of their time raising the Old Harry with the lives of sensitive people whom they can control and obese as soon as the psychical centers have been awakened without full knowledge of how to utilize them.

The question is frequently asked me, why is it that I am expounding so much about the Earthly Revisitation hypothesis, life on life, when hundreds of other sensitives, equally as good recorders, who make contact with those in higher planes, do not get confirmatory statements about the process at all?

I REMEMBER once, in my own development and lack of knowledge of these matters, crying out in anger and exasperation: “I wish these people on the Other Side would get together and agree on their fundamentals to tell those of us on this side!”

Now I know that there are literally millions of discarnate souls on the Other Side, inhabiting the lower spheres where they have no difficulty in making contact with their friends in physical flesh, who know no more about the great life principles than they knew while they were mortal men and women. Souls who know about the process of earthly rebirth are high and advanced, on planes well away from the earth’s surface. They are the ones most completely apprised of the phenomena at work in letting souls get down into earthly bodies—so that they are able to tell us in detail about it. Those below them find themselves behaving at the behest of Force that to them are as blind and unexplainable as those that catch a mortal person in the whorl of a Kansas windstorm. He would not be able to tell where the wind came from, what brought it about, or where it was blowing him. He would only know that he was going along.

But by the same token that there are expert meteorologists who know all about how these natural storms are caused, where they came from and where they will expend themselves, so there are the Great Souls up in the Lofty Sphere, who take much time and trouble to explain to those still in earthly bodies who will listen and profit, just what happens to them, in and out of life, cycle on cycle.

FOR THE information of the sincerely curious, I might say that I have reason to

Why I Believe the Dead Are Alive

believe that in my discarnate experience, which I called “My Seven Minutes in Eternity”, I attained to the Seventh Sphere—where I found many of my friends residing in the most colossal beauty and harmony of environment and relationships. I say this for what it is worth to those who enjoy knowledge of such matters. But it seems to be rational and reasonable, because of the machinery that I feel I have developed, that I am cutting through the reaches of the various lower levels and getting my instruction that I am passing on to my fellows now from Great and Wise Mentors who are residing upon the Ninth and Tenth Sphere of activity.

It is really a form of super radio, that I believe I—and many others—have developed within our organisms over the cycles of lives we have lived and the many descents we have made into flesh to become masters of the process. Be that as it may, I had to attain to conscious knowledge of these vital facts in a new earthly body this time, by trial and error with the lesser developed entities, by instructions over the automatic pencil, and by the final development of my Inner Ear, before I was able to penetrate up to that Thought velocity where I could get simon-pure instruction.

It is a process that seems to be necessary to perfect all over again in each life cycle, although I know now that I did bring much through with me subconsciously when I entered my present body nearly seven decades ago. I had to reach that stage of cosmic learning by definite experiencing, so that I could recognize to what Level of Thought any given soul had attained who communicated with me, by the knowledge of cosmic facts that they had to communicate.

I HAD gone through an agonizing period of disillusion up to the time the Master Message began to be delivered to me. Whenever I became depressed or fretted, I had opened up my sensitive equipment to persons One, Two, and Three Plane high—in a manner of speaking. They were the ones who were tricking or confusing me.

And yet I did have a subconscious realization that there was something higher and better to contact, and that by keeping on I would contact it. I a manner of speaking, I was “remembering my own kith and kin” back up there on those lofty levels of Thought and Service. I knew that they would not let me down. Ultimately I had to win through to my goal.

That subconscious faith, it was, that kept me going, when otherwise I would have ditched the whole business as the work of sheer evil.

It was to awaken me to this subconscious knowledge that I found now that I had been brought back to New York. I had been put in funds, and I had traveled back to Manhattan from California, not to be hoaxed and disillusioned by those on the first two planes of life who had found they could make themselves known in my affairs, but to meet certain members of my own group in mortal flesh who were more fully awakened that I was, propinquity with whom soon began to bestir my own subconscious as to our group missions.

Why I Believe the Dead Are Alive

All this time I had steadfastly kept from writing about my discarnate experience in California, and I had told few friends about it. I continued to write clairaudiently, night after night, to meet people more awakened than myself, to feel the dim stirring of recollection in my mind and heart. The weeks began to go by.

I remained in New York, living at the Commodore Hotel, writing many stories and articles for the national magazines, trying to absorb the realization of the stupendous things those High Masters were occasionally getting down to the Group.

December passed.

One morning in January, I got a queer, sharp command I shall never forget.

THE EDITORS of the American Magazine had again and again suggested that I write the story of my “rejuvenation”, but as I have said before in these pages, I had no desire to emulate Sir A. Conan Doyle and “spoil” my writing career by “going Spiritualist” … Really, I never expected to write of my experience—and what was following it in clairaudient development—unless it might be for private distribution.

One morning early in January, I had come up from breakfast and had prepared myself to write a fiction story, when a semi-audible voice spoke to me in tones of terse command—

All is propitious. Write the story of your Dispensation today. You will find that it will be accepted with alacrity and will have the repercussion in enlightenment that we want to produce in society at this special time.

I was cheerfully willing to cooperate then. I sat down at my machine, twirled in paper, and wrote “My Seven Minutes in Eternity” in slightly less than two hours. Some of the pages seemed literally to “write themselves” … I finished the manuscript, jogged it up, clipped it in a folder, took up my hat after hurriedly reading what I had written, and went up to the American Magazine offices. It was then about noontime.

“Well, I’ve written then article that you wanted,” I said. “Here ‘s th e story of ‘getting out of my body’ that night six or eight months ago.”

The editress before whom I laid down the manuscript had already pinned on her hat—they pinned their hats on in those days—and was ready to go to lunch. But she delayed in order to read the first two or three pages of that “Seven Minutes” article. Suddenly she sprang up and went into the office of the editor-in-chief. She was gone forty minutes. In those forty minutes I cooled my heels and wondered if I had made a supernal ass of myself. But Merle Crowell himself came in. There were tears on his face.

“I’ve just read the story of your discarnate experience,” he said. “We’re buying it from you and dispatching it to the printing-plant in Springfield, Ohio, this afternoon to catch the current issue of The American that’s now about to go to press.”

What they actually did was to stop the presses in Ohio and insert my Seven

Minutes in Eternity story, beginning with page one, ΨllingC~łıe featured article that had already ~aώened[~łıe March 1929, issue of the magazine. Two weeks later, some three million people read my account of the hyperdimensional visitation I had made out of my Altadena, California, bungalow some eight months before.

The Crowell Publishing Company paid me $1500 foe the contribution.

Within a week it had sold out the current issue of The American Magazine, and a mail comparable to Col. Charles Lindbergh© after he had flown to Paris, began to show up in the offices of the publishers. I had thrown a major switch in my personal career 0