In the House of the Forest People with Karen B

Interviews | New | The Unexpected Cosmology


THE TALL, DARK, AND HANDSOME standing on her doorstep was the very tall, dark, and handsome from her dream—quite literally. To put it in slightly other terms, she had dreamed of this very scenario earlier that morning. Even his clothes were indistinguishable. Karen was going through a divorce when the man whom she’d met in high school, and who she cares not to name, entered her life again. It was October of 2008. Karen was living in Sacramento. He was in the navy, stationed in San Diego.

‘Synchronicity,’ she thought.

It was the very first thought that entered her mind as he entered through the door of her home and into her life again—otherwise translated, I’m going to marry this man.

‘That’s really weird, Karen, why would you think that?’ thought Karen.

Maybe, just maybe, because this was a real life fairy tale. He was good looking. He had his life put together. He had a great career in the military. He was smart. He said all the right things. He opened doors for me. He paid for dinner. He was tall, dark, and handsome.

They never really argued.

Oh, and another thing. He was never violent.


“It was there,” Karen said in hindsight. “I just never saw it. I’d never been in an abusive relationship before. I didn’t know the warning signs.”

They were married for a couple of months before the honeymoon came to a close. The first incident materialized over Christmas 2009 while they were staying at her mother’s house. “We got into an argument over something really stupid.” Come to think of it, every single verbal altercation which ended in physical contact was stupid—they all were.

Synchronicity looked in his bag and realized she hadn’t packed enough socks to last the trip. He may have been onto something had she actually packed his bag. “But for some reason it was my fault,” she said. Synchronicity insisted that her negligence was to blame. And so he yelled across the yard in front of her mother.

It wasn’t Merry Christmas.

He initially apologized, Karen said, but later that night, with the door to her bedroom clamped shut, the argument continued. She doesn’t remember anything that was said. Like so many insignificant confrontations to follow, Karen simply cannot recall any meat or substance—so many senseless syllables. But the fact that she suddenly found herself on the floor, pinned down, with her husband’s arm across her neck, and he was choking her, that was real.

“I couldn’t breathe, and whenever I told him to get off me he choked me harder so that I couldn’t talk. And he had me pinned down like that for at least fifteen or twenty minutes.”

The man from Karen’s dream only released her on the promise that she wouldn’t try to nab the attention of her parents, who were on the other side of the house. “Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, and I didn’t understand why it was happening. But I accepted his apology, because I loved him—a lot. I thought I was supposed to be with this man forever.”

As 2010 rolled around another round of irrational arguments only seemed to invite his hands upon her neck or an arm twisted behind her back. “He was really good at not putting any marks on me. You see all these women who are victims of domestic violence. I never had any of that. I never had a black eye. I never walked around with a busted up face, because he was really good at doing things that didn’t leave marks.”

He knew.

“He knew better than to leave marks on me.”

Perhaps Synchronicity’s success can be amounted to Karen’s skewed perception of herself. She couldn’t possibly be one of them. “I thought this is something that we could both get over. Because I loved him so much, if I expressed to him that this wasn’t okay that maybe he would stop doing it. I don’t know—very naive thoughts. If you’re not around abuse, or haven’t been around it before, this is what you think. I was never abused as a child. I never had anyone close to me abused. I never witnessed abuse. It was all very new to me. I knew what he was doing was wrong, but I think I thought I could make him stop, and I was wrong.”

His own mother would watch it happen.

She did nothing to stop it.

Karen has even lost count as to how many of those arguments, almost always something different from the last, ended in physical altercation. “You go through one experience where something triggers the abuser, and they get set off and do things to you, and so you think, ‘If this situation comes up again, I’ll handle it differently.’ But what you don’t realize is; you don’t know what’s going to set that person off. You don’t really know. You never know. I never knew, and it was always something so trivial. They were so insignificant. There are things which you would never think sends someone sailing off the edge like that.” But she knew when those moments were about to happen—when senseless syllables manifested themselves into matters of the flesh. “His eyes glazed over, and his pupils were—he looked like a different person, almost like he was possessed. And he’d be coming after me and I’d be running, literally running away from him.”

If his mother made a disapproving gesture towards her son, Synchronicity would keep on running right past her. “She couldn’t do anything. And now looking back, why—why didn’t she call the police?”

“You shouldn’t say things that make him so mad”—his mother.

It is indeed strange that Karen’s husband watched his own father beat his mother. If his mother was powerless to stop it then, she certainly did little to nothing to stop it now. “And I didn’t know that until well after the fact. He never touched me that way before we were married. It was like after he married me I became his property.”

Then again, if and when Karen went for the police, and “don’t think I didn’t try,” he’d unplug the landline from the wall, or take her cell away. If she tried to drive, and she tried, he’d jump onto the hood, reaching through the driver’s side window to rip the keys from the ignition.  Tall, Dark, & Handsome controlled everything in her life—even the escape plan.

It’s your fault. You’re the reason my son acts that way.

After her husband’s military career came to an end, “switching to the civilian life, because he was a nuclear machinist mate, he ended up getting a job in a nuclear power plant on the east coast in North Carolina,” Karen said. “He wanted to control every aspect of my life—our life. I didn’t want to be that far away from my family, but I agreed to it because he convinced me that this was the best for us. Now looking back, it’s like he had the perfect excuse to isolate me, and get me away from all the friends and family that I knew.”

And that, she said, is exactly what happened.




SEVERAL WEEKS BEFORE THE BIG MOVE, Karen remembers the sushi. She remembers the drive home from eating sushi. And she even remembers standing in her living room. But she remembers nothing of what happened between. She cannot even think to rationalize what could have possibly been said in the fine print that set him sailing off into the throes of madness. What Karen remembers most about that night however; when Synchronicity started coming at her in the living room, the look in his eyes had returned.

“I recognized that look in his eyes—when the flip switched. You know, when it goes from a normal argument to, it’s going to get violent. His face would change, and I recognized it.”

Get the hell out of here, Karen.

She took her own advice and made a beeline for the front door.

Her husband did too.

Karen managed to escape the threshold. In a jiffy she would make it down the concrete walkway—in another jiffy to the car or the street. And in yet one measlier jiffy—this time she was quite certain of it—she might make it into the cradle of the world beyond.

He caught up to her in a jiffy, exerted little effort in picking her up, and then in another lickety split altogether, thrust her down upon the concrete walkway which she had hoped to use as the tarmac of her plight.

Karen climbed up to her feet again, determined to run.

“I didn’t even know where I was going to go. I was just running away because I was so scared.”

He caught her again.

A second meeting with the concrete walkway nearly knocked the wind from out of her. Still, breath remained. Karen climbed to her feet and ran. He caught her a third and final time, and then slammed her body into the ground.

Every breath in her chest was gone.

“I literally could not breath,” she said.

If her husband allowed Karen to climb to her feet again, and indeed he did, it was only because she had agreed to return to the house, humiliated, gasping for air—utterly defeated. Over the next twenty minutes, she attempted to recollect her breath alone in the bathroom.

North Carolina, here we come.

The next day it felt like she had been hit by a big rig. As always, he apologized. He was sorry for chasing her out the door, grabbing her, and then hurling her onto the concrete. He was sorry for doing it again. And once more, he was sorry for doing it again. Maybe he was even sorry for doing it again, thrusting her down a potential fourth time, had she not agreed to return home. And then, just to let her know how sorry he truly was, he threw money at her.

In the end, despite her threats to stay, they moved to North Carolina. “I did it voluntarily, because I thought we were going to build a life together. I gave up everything—everything. We wanted to have children.” He apologized. But Karen didn’t care if he was sorry.

She wanted him to stop doing it.



THEY MOVED TO NORTH CAROLINA in desperate hopes of starting over again. Karen B and her husband even purchased an additional 20 acres of land, directly across the street from their own residence, in further confidence that their fairy-tale life might be erected upon it. From this foundation they could have more children, raise a family—forget the quarrels of their past. But it was 2011, and they would not begin clearing trees, nor laying down their dream foundation, for an additional two years. It wouldn’t take nearly that long however for Karen to learn that something lived in the woods. In fact, the creature, whatever it was, would make itself known in as little as four months after their arrival.

In time, she would learn to call it, or rather them, the forest people.

It was eleven o’clock at night and Remington needed on final potty break before bed. “I was trying to walk around the perimeter of the yard, because that’s what she likes to do normally.” Karen started following her dog towards the tree line, and the dog stopped dead in her tracks. “She wouldn’t move. She was frozen, looking into the woods.”

What is wrong with my dog?

 “I smelled this smell, almost instantly. This horrid smell just filled the air. It was like dirty nasty wet dog smell times one-hundred—it just filled everything. It wasn’t there one minute, and then the next minute it was everywhere.”

Karen took a step towards the trees.

That smells awful. What is that?

She then heard footsteps within the woods—Huge footsteps.


 “I can’t imitate it,” she said. “But whatever it was, it had huge feet. It was big and it was heavy, and it took two steps into the woods, and my heart fell out of my chest.”

“There’s something in the woods,” she told her husband.

“Maybe it’s a deer,” he shrugged her entire experience off.

That’s no deer.



SHE WAS 2,400 MILES AWAY FROM EVERYBODY that she loved and nobody knew. Karen was standing in the shower, six months pregnant with child, when her husband entered with his hands around her neck. They knew nothing of the abuse.

 “It’s not like it happened daily, or even weekly. Sometimes he could go even months without laying a hand on me. And it would get to the point where I would finally be comfortable, and I’d think: ‘He stopped—he stopped.’ And then something would happen, and it would set him off again, and it would be back to square one.”

People often ask: Why didn’t you just call the police?

“Because it’s not that simple—it’s never that simple. It’s not that simple when you’re already married, and you have children, and you’re pregnant—I was pregnant.” He was arguing about something she couldn’t even recall—those eyes. “I’d be naked and pregnant in the shower with his hands around my neck.”

He did this many times, she said—many times.

If only I told somebody.

“I didn’t even tell my own mother. Nobody knew this was happening to me. Nobody could see it. So I didn’t tell anybody. That’s something I regret. I should have told my mother.”




MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, BIGFOOT doesn’t EXIST after all. It was a begrudging conclusion which Karen B was forced to contend with on her move to North Carolina. “I grew up in California,” she explained, “which is where the Bigfoot name came from—Willow Creek and all that. I lived there my whole life and I never had any sort of experiences with them, and I finally got to the point where I started to think, maybe this isn’t real, even though I was really obsessed with it growing up.”

But then one night Remington needed to sniff out the perfect potty spot, and afterwards, it just never really slowed down. More and more stuff just started happening. “I had them tapping on my windows. I heard them talking in the woods.” As the years slowly passed, she thought they may have even left her gifts.

In 2015 Karen B was outside watering the grass surrounding the fairy-tale house which she and her husband had broken ground on only one year earlier, having shaved off a clearing of trees on their 20-acre estate, with her three year-old daughter who’d been born into their family just across the street. It was six o’clock in the evening. “The sun’s still out, perfectly still summer day,” Karen recalled, “no wind.”

Her daughter grabbed her leg.

“Mommy, there’s the Bigfoot over there. Don’t let it get me.”

But when Karen looked up, she didn’t see anything.

“Don’t worry. Mommy’s right here,” Karen grazed the thought away as any parent might when the monster is reported under the bed or in the closet. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The watering continued while her daughter remained glued to her leg. Then Karen saw something. A tree inside the wood line, perhaps 40 feet tall, was shaking violently. “It was shaking so bad that I could hear the wood crackcrackcrackcrackcrack; and it was the only tree shaking. And it was a big tree.”

Oh, that’s right. My daughter said she just saw a Bigfoot.

“And if you study anything about Bigfoots, when they shake trees—that’s a common thing to see. It’s almost as if they’re telling you: We’re here.”



THE DAY CAME WHEN SHE FINALLY GOT AROUND to telling her husband that she didn’t love him anymore. Synchronicity cried.

“He was so upset,” Karen said. “I told him why. He knew why. That’s when he finally agreed to get counseling, when I told him I didn’t love him anymore. And the shitty part about that is—it was already too late.”

They would only attend as many as four sessions together.

In the first session, while filling out a questionnaire, Karen made it clear to their counselor that they were attending because of domestic violence, “because he can’t keep his hands off me.” Their counselor looked at him and said: “While you’re seeing me for counseling, you don’t do that. You do not touch her. And once you do touch her, it becomes a different issue and the police get involved.”

When he did touch her, Karen didn’t tell the counselor.

Counseling made him even angrier, “because it put him in a position where he had to face himself. He had to start to own up to what he had been doing to me all these years. And instead of getting better, things got worse. The arguments got so bad, he would try to get close to me, because that’s what would happen when it got bad, he would stand right over me and yell into my face to intimidate me.” Whenever he started yelling, Karen would attempt to flee. Her husband however had all the moves of a running back.

 Their children watched as Karen attempted another plight, desperately rounding the kitchen island. The children continued watching as he chased her. “I knew if he was able to get his hands on me then that would be it—it would be over.” Their children saw it all. They observed their father jump up and over the island in hopes of nabbing her. They watched as she opened up the kitchen door and made a beeline for the woods. When he vaulted upon her with his full body weight and tackled her to the ground—they saw that too.

A couple of weeks later, their counselor knew nothing of the fact that he’d pinned her up against the front door, choking her neck.

Then again, Karen didn’t exactly love her husband anymore.

She therefore tried to knee him in the balls.

As soon as he realized she was trying to defend herself, her husband picked Karen up and threw her down to the ground.

Karen wanted to tell their counselor. She desperately wanted anybody to know, “but he’d get very upset.” She just wanted the violence to stop. “I remember going out to the woods, asking for help. I was begging anyone who was listening—you can say God or the Creator or whatever. But I couldn’t take it anymore. And I said, ‘Please God, please help me,’ because I couldn’t do it anymore.’”

The years had finally caught up to her.

“And I just cried and begged to the universe for help.”




“I CALL THEM forest people BECAUSE OTHER researchers—the general consensus is that people tend to agree they’re a people. They’re a people, and they live among us, just like everybody else, but they aren’t controlled like we are. They aren’t messed with as we are. They live unencumbered. They live freely. And they have abilities that we don’t have. Or if we do have these abilities, then we don’t know about them. But it seems like they can change their vibration and slip in and out of the visual spectrum for us. One researcher said he saw it walking and it disappeared right before his eyes and then reappear in another area. And I had heard people talk about that for years, and thought anybody who said that was crazy. And yet so many people have seen that now, and it’s a repeated eyewitness account. It makes me think about how my daughter could see it and then I didn’t.”

Sometimes they even talk.

“My mom will fly in and stay at my house, and she’ll hear them.” After taking a walk in the woods, her aunt reported hearing a man talking. “Because that’s what it sounds like,” Karen explained. “It just sounds like a man mumbling.”


“You can’t understand it. It’s almost like they’re speaking an audible language—a native langue.” Though Karen has never spoken with Bigfoot, “a lot of people report on, they call it mind speak. They hear the voice in their head and it’s the forest people communicating with them telepathically.”

“Have you ever seen Bigfoot?” I asked.

“I’ve never had a full on class A sighting, where I saw it as a Bigfoot,” Karen paused, “but I have seen glimpses of them.”

Remington was going nuts, barking mad from the back door. Karen walked outside and saw a something walking into the trees, and it looked like a person. “I couldn’t make out any details, but it was like a figure walking into the woods.” If this was a man, he was an intruder. “I live on 20 acres, so if I can walk out of my house and see someone in the woods, somebody’s trespassing—you’re on my property,” which is exactly what she told her visitor.

It never responded.

Karen stood there, narrowing her eyes on the place it entered the woods, listening and waiting.

Her visitor howled back at her.

That howl

Had Karen been the protagonist of a Washington Irving novel, she might have rightly concluded that her visitor was the devil. “I’d never heard anything like it before.”

She then saw that something running out from the woods towards the power line. “I saw the very top of its head. It was dark, but it was bounding across the dirt and out of the woods.”

Three years earlier, her husband had shrugged the creature in the woods off as a deer. And now Karen stood there, perplexed at what she’d just seen and heard. Men don’t run like that. And they definitely don’t sound like that. The forest people, or maybe even the devil, do. But either way, one thing was certain.

That’s no turkey, she said.



“I DON’T IDENTIFY AS A CHRISTIAN,” Karen said. “And I don’t get into religion much. When I was very young I was going to church, and I was baptized and all that, but something about the whole organized church religion never sat well with me.”

I asked Karen, “Which denomination?”

After a time she said, “It was the church of the Nazarene.”

“I’m not really well versed on all the different denominations. Even as a young child, it didn’t resonate with me. I would see people in church singing praises and being really into it, and I never was. For whatever reason, I don’t know why, I didn’t understand.”

Karen often thought, is there something wrong with me?

How come I’m not into it like everybody else?

Karen wasn’t exactly an atheist, “but there were times when I saw so many bad things happening that I was like, ‘what’s the point?’ There was just so much negativity, and I thought, ‘why does God allow this to happen?’ I didn’t understand it at the time, I guess.”

And then the flat earth came along.

“But now I understand it a bit more, and I get it. To me a creator is self-evident. To deny a creator is to deny yourself, your whole self-existence.”

On January 28, 2017, Karen B uploaded her very first flat earth YouTube video. Footage of her children running about the tree line of her North Carolina property, backed with a cool soothing voice that is unmistakably hers, introduces Karen to the community.

“Do you remember when you were young, when your thoughts were untainted, and you were curious? Life was about exploring, playing in the sun, laughing. You were asking questions about everything. Getting your answers and then having that feeling of accomplishment when you were the one answering the questions? It’s really a wonderful, magical time of our lives. We build memories and learn how to exist within the human condition. And if we’re lucky we even form bonds with others that will last throughout our whole lives.”

Karen said, “I wanted to start a channel because, at the time, there wasn’t very much out there, and Patricia was the only woman. And so I felt like it needed more women, because it’s still very male dominated, but at the time I felt like it needed more women. And for me, my biggest motivator was my children. I have three of them and, one of the things that I agonized over when I realized this was: ‘What do I tell my children? How am I supposed to raise my children? What am I supposed to tell them about the world they live in?’”

I can’t lie to them.

It’s the world that’s lying to them.

“I have a more positive outlook on life now. I don’t get stressed out as much. I don’t have that doom and gloom. I don’t worry about stuff as much. Every month is a different meteor that is coming to earth—dangerously close. You see all that horrible stuff in the news and finally you can disregard it because you know it’s a lie. It’s never going to happen. Now I know it’s never going to happen. Earth is never going to be taken out by a giant meteor from space.”

Kids, they’re lying to you.

“So that was a big motivator for me, reaching out and trying to get more women talking, figure out what to do with my children, help the conversation move along, because there’s a whole lot of things that come into play when you realize the world is not what you think it is. It affects everything.”

Meanwhile, as Karen began to be noticed and appreciated for her contributions within the flat earth community, in reality she was very much alone. The only reality which threatened to destroy her was the world within.



FROM THE OUTSIDE, THEIR HOUSE looked like a fairy-tale. “But when the doors were closed,” she said, “it was a nightmare.”

One night in the end of June 2017 Karen found herself in yet another argument with her husband, “because he said I wasn’t paying him enough attention. He wanted to go into the bedroom to talk with me, but I didn’t want to, because whenever we went behind closed doors it got bad. But I did. I ended up going into the bedroom to talk with him.”

The children listened in while their father’s screams escalated. Even Remington was coerced to howl in Karen’s defense. He kicked the dog out of the room and then blocked the door. “And I said: ‘Okay, now that you’ve said your peace. Now you need to let me out of the room.”

And he said, no.

“You need to let me out of the room.”

No, you’re going to listen to what I have to say.

While the dog howled furiously and the children listened in, he talked on. Karen still wasn’t paying enough attention to him.

“You said your peace. Now let me out of the room.”

I will not.

“Please, let me out of the room.”

I’m not letting you go.

Karen reached for the knob.

It was at that very moment, she said, that he took both of his arms and pushed her so hard that she flew across the room. Karen collided with the wall on the far side of the room. Her head may have only hit the plaster, but her wrist shattered. After falling back upon the floor, a sense of vertigo came over her.  “My head hurt. It knocked me dizzy there for a minute. I couldn’t get up. I was laying on my right side, and I didn’t know why I couldn’t get up, and then I felt this pressure on my right arm. And I just said: ‘I think you broke my arm.’”

No I didn’t.

“You broke my arm. I can’t get up.”

Her husband grabbed her only free arm to pull her up and off the floor, and probably to prove her wrong. You’re delusional. He can drop wives on the concrete like it’s nothing. He can choke them in the shower while they’re pregnant with his child. He can even tackle them on their plight into the woods. But he’s been doing this for a very long time, nearly ten years, and one thing he was absolutely certain of—he doesn’t leave bruises. When Karen’s other appendage came into view, they both saw it at the same time.

A bone was sticking out of her arm.

His face went ghostly pale white, she said. His jaw dropped.

This time, he’d finally done it. He bruised her.

Remington was howling outside the room as she cried, “Take me to the hospital,” and only one thought overcame him.

They can’t know.

Nobody can know.

Karen B




BEFORE ANYTHING COULD BE DONE about the bone sticking out of her arm, Karen had to gather their children and safely deliver them to his mother’s house, who lived now just around the corner. “And here’s the best part. Once the children are dropped off with the grandma, and he and I both get into the car and he starts driving me to the hospital, and I’m sitting there in the passenger seat, tears pouring down my face, bone sticking out of my arm, blood running down my arm—he’s worried about what I’m going to tell the hospital.”

You can’t tell them what happened.


“Tell them you fell down the stairs.”

“He was trying to make up all these excuses. I’m sitting there holding my broken arm and he says to me, ‘Don’t do this to me.’”

“And I said, ‘Don’t do this to you…?’”

I just started yelling FORK you over and over again—only she wasn’t talking about kitchen appliances. A proper translation would thusly read:

FUCK you. FUCK you. FUCK you. FUCK you.

“I was so over it. I’d been through so much already. And all he could say was, ‘Don’t do this to me. Don’t tell them what happened. You can’t tell them what happened.’ I told him to shut the fuck up and drive.”

Even while they were walking into the hospital, bone and blood slathering her, Synchronicity was desperate for an answer:

What are you going to tell them?

Meanwhile, hospital staff was trying to check Karen in—you know, fill out a customary form. “The nurse was getting an attitude with me, and I was in so much pain, and I was like, ‘I don’t fucking know, I’m in so much pain—the bone is sticking out of my arm! I can’t sit here and answer these stupid ass questions!’”

While her husband finished the grizzly paper work, another nurse walked her back into the ER.

What happened? How did this happen?

Karen refused to answer.

But as soon as the doors closed behind her—the very moment in which Karen was absolutely certain that he wasn’t able to hear her; even read her lips from down the hall; ten years of anguish gushed out of her: “Please, you have to call the cops. My husband broke my arm. He did this to me. And I need the cops called right now.”




“AND THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME IN TEN YEARS that the cops had actually been called on him for what he did,” Karen said, “All those times I tried to call the cops, all those times I tried to get help on my own, and I couldn’t do it. And then finally—finally—finally got the police called on him.”

“I now have a plate in my arm with ten screws. And my right arm will never be the same. It will never be the same. It hurts now. Any kind of weird weather or—and sometimes it feels like someone is sticking an ice pick in my wrist, just from the nerve damage.”

 And it’s so silly, she recalls. “I have a lot of tattoos.”

While Karen was going down for surgery she told the doctor:

Put my tattoo back together.

“And he actually did do a pretty good job. He put it back together.” It was her husband, Karen added, who “ruined my favorite tattoo. I have a giant four inch scar right in the middle of one of my favorite tattoos now, and I kind of go back and forth between fixing it and not fixing it.”

Speaking of which, her husband, who is not to be named here, was finally arrested. He spent the night on jail. He finally went to jail, Karen said. He should have gone to jail a dozen times. And yet, rather ironically, while Karen spent three days in the hospital, he was out on bail.

Karen had called her mother on her first night in the hospital. She purchased a plane ticket that very hour and was there on the following day. If only she’d told her years ago. Upon Karen’s release, her mother drove her to the bank so that she might buy the children groceries.  Therapy had done wonders on her husband’s own ability to deal with the self, apparently, because while she was recovering in the hospital, he drained all the money. “He had a bank account with tens of thousands of dollars. He went to the one bank account that I had access to—it had about six thousand dollars in it—and he drained it. So before I could get out of the hospital because of the arm that he broke, he went to the bank and took out all the money that I had access to, because when you’re a controlling, abusive, narcissistic, son of a bitch, you just can’t help yourself.”



woman looking at a fallen moon

This article was a segment from THE UNEXPECTED COSMOLOGY: Rise of the 21st-Century Flat Earth Awakening, and is now on sale on Amazon and eBay.

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