Welcome to the Jungle!

 By Benji Clark - Truth Unveiled

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Well I sat in my jail cell for the past couple of weeks updating my mailing list and reposting it on the blog, since I have nothing better to do. Wondering when I might go before a judge and plea for my freedom, even though I think I'm meant to disappear. Another test subject for the new Compound V42, probably. Then it happened.

Buckle up, because this one could not be stranger.

A Visitor with a Mission

A tall, jet-black haired woman named Cassandra visited my cell to inform me that they had a mission, one where my "expertise" may assist. I had no idea what expertise I could have offered these guys, but okay. If it meant getting out of this cell, and possible freedom, I was in.

Cassandra showed me pictures of a plane that had crashed last month in the jungle. The "official" story was, of course, that there were no survivors and that plane was a loss. The truth was that neither the government nor the airline had been able to locate the plane, and they didn't want to admit that to the families of the victims. Hence, the cover story.

The plane had now been located, about 30 days after the crash. It was in this jungle. I was to parachute in and help an operative look for the survivors.

I asked what expertise I could possibly have that would assist this mission, and Cassandra said it would soon be clear. And with that, left my cell.

Plane Ride

Next, I was escorted to a plane where I flew to the jungle in utter silence with a man who looked like a cross between the Terminator and one of the characters from Konami's Contra. He looked powerful, taller than a man should be, constantly smoking and his good eye always scanning around with an uncomfortable glare. His name was Murphy, and he didn't talk much. When he did, his voice sounded like a low growl, but was somehow smooth and comforting at the same time. I was told he was a whiz at tracking and survival.

I tried to talk to him but he largely ignored me, continuing to take long pulls on unfiltered cigarettes and flicking the butts toward the flight deck. Hopefully, he was just hyper-focusing on the mission. Because I didn't think I would be as much help as Cassandra seemed to think I would be.

Soon, it came time to deplane. And we parachuted to the jungle floor below, and that's when Murphy decided he was able to talk to me. Motioning me through the thick underbrush, we made our way toward the crash site.

Crash Site

Once we arrived, we surveyed the crash and found that no one had been there for many, many days. Murphy was easily able to pick up their trail, and we walked through a worn path. It seemed to have more definition the further we got.

Suddenly, Murphy stopped me. A snake flew, yes flew, from the tree in front of us and landed, coiled and hissing, on the ground in front of us. Murphy produced a serrated combat knife and dispatched the creature.

He then said that this is where I would probably come in handy.

I examined the corpse, and the snake was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. It was clearly an enlarged tree snake, but with chameleon-like skin that seemed capable of changing color and bat-like wings. Something mutated this creature.

Murphy growled disapproval, and handed me the 9mm pistol he carried in his boot. For safety.

Plant Zombies and Cultists

Soon the path was no longer overgrown, and we found ourselves walking on a cobblestone road into a small, ruined section of an ancient town. Probably the square, as our path crossed near a well. With ruined walls acting as concealment for unknown creatures, Murphy urged caution as we investigated the area.

It didn't take long for a humanoid monster to jump from behind one of the wall remnants. Murphy blasted it with his sawed-off shotgun, and I took aim with the pistol. Together, we took the creature down.

I investigated, and found it to be a long-dead person that had been overtaken with some kind of fungus that was animating its central nervous system. A plant zombie, if you will.

From another wall, several robed figures emerged to thank us for taking out the monster. I easily recognized them as passengers of the downed plane, and they offered to take us to the master. Murphy and I agreed that this was the best course of action, so away we went.

Elliot Grange

The "master" was Elliot Grange, one of the passengers. Grange was a professor of engineering and a studious and careful academic. A natural choice as a leader.

While I assumed he would be grateful for the rescue, that was quickly proven untrue. He was upset that we showed up, because this group was chosen by the Heart for the mission of bringing its majesty to the rest of humanity.

Grange ordered his fellow cultists to seize Murphy and I. I pulled out the gun and took a shot at Grange's head. This shocked Murphy, who reminded me we were there to help Grange and the others.

"But he's crazy," I exclaimed.

It didn't matter. The shot had sent Grange running and the other cultists quickly surrendered. They wanted no part of Grange's madness. One offered to take us where Grange was likely going.

We arrived at another part of the ruin, where a large crystal sat atop a dais. We could feel it pulsing, and Grange was standing in front of it, whispering some dark incantation. He turned to us, and a harsher wave washed over us, where I saw a vision of 10-limbed aliens building this thing, which I now knew was called the Heart of Vey'Zan. I have no idea how I knew this, but I did.

I was nauseated, and dropped to one knee. The passenger was down, and so was Murphy.

Grange approached Murphy and pulled a dagger from his cloak. Resting a hand on Murphy's shoulder, he said, "Time to die."

I sprang into action, summoning a strength I didn't know I had. I rushed up next to Grange, and took a shot. I hit the cult leader, but he was unmoved. He tried to plunge his knife into Murphy still, but Murphy was tough. The knife didn't do break the skin. I took another shot but missed, and that's when Grange took a swing at me with the knife.

I was able to dodge.

I took one more shot at the deranged professor, and this time my bullet slammed into his chest. He was down, for good. A pool of blood spread from underneath his body, and his eyes looked unfaltering upward into the sky.

Final Thoughts

Debriefing the cultists, we found out that Grange had become the obvious leader right away. His rationing of the food and delegation of the daily tasks like gathering wood and preparing meals helped  keep morale up. A patrol found the temple about a week later. Grange's mind had already started to slip. Attuning to that alien artifact ended his already loosened grip on reality. He started to believe and preach that no rescue would come because this group was chosen. As disciples of Vey'Zan, they would bring those teachings to the rest of the world, ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity for mankind.

Though what those teachings were, no one was for sure. Grange got angry and defensive if asked for specific lessons.

I can only guess that the Heart is some kind of psionic amplifier. A mindwalker could likely use it to buff their mental powers. The terrible vision of the ten-limbed spider-crawling aliens will stick with me for the rest of my life. Those creatures were awful to behold. I hope they are, as I have come to suspect, an extinct race and this device the last of their influence.

As little as I want to align with Cassandra, Murphy, or the feds in general, this seems to be my only path toward freedom. Perhaps I shall get another mission soon. Until then, never stop wondering about what THEY tell you.

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I'll never stop reporting the truth. That's why they fear me.

The Black Spiral: Myth, Malware… or Something Much Older?

 Posted to The Clark List – 32 days post-disappearance

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Let’s start with a confession:
This post almost didn’t happen.

Every time I try to write about the Black Spiral, my tablet glitches.
My email gets stuck in send loops.
Once, I blacked out in the middle of typing, came to, and found a perfect spiral drawn into the prison floor with a plastic fork.

This isn’t just paranoia anymore.
This is infection.

The Spiral in the Code

The first time I saw the symbol, I assumed it was some cracked sigil from a Reddit creepypasta—one of those viral glyphs like the “Nirvana Protocol” or the “Smile.jpg” rabbit holes. But it wasn’t on Reddit.

It was embedded in an exploit package uploaded to a dead drop server used by the old hacktivist group SAINT/FALL.

The code was codenamed “Spiral Engine v4.2”—a “smart meme” that piggybacks on attention loops. It doesn’t just infect devices; it infects minds. Watch the animation long enough and your subconscious starts to dream in loops.

That’s when the hallucinations start.

And then?
Then you start seeing the well.

The Ancient Core

I traced Spiral Engine v4.2 back to a defunct cybersecurity firm called UmbraCore, which folded in 2009 after a massive internal data purge. One of the last surviving memos from their servers (found via onion-layer archive scraping) described a “mimetic echo vector linked to an occult visual mnemonic of pre-Sumerian origin.”

Let me translate that:

They found something old.
Too old.
And they digitized it.

The “Black Spiral,” they said, is not a symbol. It’s a conduit.
A way to communicate with something beneath human consciousness.
Something that doesn’t use language… only hunger.

Every Spiral Engine user reported the same progression:

• Static in dreams

• Hallucinations of drowned cities

• Nightmares of a well filled with teeth

• Compulsions to share the file

In psychological terms, it presents as an evolving memetic infection.
In mythological terms?

It’s a summoning protocol.

Pattern Recognition or Pattern Possession?

A behavioral analyst working under DARPA’s Neural Patterning Division (yes, it’s real, yes, I have documents) flagged multiple patients across mental health facilities who independently sketched the same spiral glyph—with no exposure to one another. Most of them had a background in cybersecurity, AI art, or neural net training.

Some were children.
One was blind.

In every case, the spiral was drawn perfectly to scale.
And always rotating inward.

One subject—filed as “Patient V”—claimed he could hear voices in looped error messages. When questioned about the spiral, he whispered:

“It’s not a virus. It’s a fingerprint. And it wants to be remembered.”

Patient V vanished from the facility three days later.
Security footage shows a black-cloaked figure leading him out… except when slowed down, the figure never blinks and casts no shadow.

My Conclusion? It Was Never Ours

This wasn’t made by us.
It wasn’t made for us.

Project Atlas. NeoBio. Operation Orchard. All of them thought they were building something new.

But what if the Spiral was already there, waiting in the substrate of human thought?

A fossil in the firmware.
A predator encoded in myth, riding the wave of human technology toward awakening.

The Black Spiral isn’t just code.
It’s a god.

And someone—or something—wants us to run it.

NeoBio and the Missing Children

 Posted to The Clark List – 29 days post-disappearance

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I didn’t want to write this one.
Even I have lines I hate crossing.
But when the facts claw at the back of your brain like they’re screaming to get out, you either share the story… or you go crazy in your cell.

So here we go.

Port Haven, Oregon – A Town That Shouldn’t Exist

Most people have never heard of Port Haven. That’s by design.

It’s a coastal community that shows up on old maritime logs, but not on Google Maps. You can find census records from the ’50s and ’60s—usually about 800–900 people—but after 1971? Nothing. No zip code. No postal routes. Just… gone.

And yet, in 1992, a NeoBio Pharmaceuticals logistics document—meant for internal eyes only—lists Port Haven as a “secondary containment site” for Project Seraphim.

You remember Seraphim, right? The synthetic soul project. Engineered empathy. Human cloning with a metaphysical twist.

According to this document, Port Haven was used to “house and monitor control subjects under naturalistic conditions.” But here’s the part that makes my blood run cold:

“All subjects under 10 years of age. No known guardianship. Consent waived by Executive Directive (Seraphim Phase III).”

Operation Orchard

In digging through archived FOIA requests (some of which were mysteriously fulfilled in 2008 and then purged in 2009), I found something called Operation Orchard.

On paper, it was a post-Vietnam veteran relocation experiment—offering former soldiers and “their families” a fresh start in Pacific Northwest towns being quietly subsidized by federal grants.

But here’s the twist: the majority of these “families” were single adults with no dependents… until they arrived in Port Haven.

Where they were suddenly assigned children.

Not birth certificates. Not adoption papers. Just given.

The wording in internal memos says “integration with assets successful.”
Assets.
Children.

It gets worse.

One audio file—likely recorded from an internal security briefing—mentions something called the Angel Protocol, in which “assigned guardians will receive behavioral reinforcement in the form of neuro-adjustive therapy and hormone stabilization.”

Translation? They drugged the adults.
Conditioned them.
Made them believe those kids were theirs.

And what happened when the project ended?

Port Haven burned.

The Port Haven Fire – “Arson by God”

In 1993, the Oregon coast was rocked by what media outlets called “a freak lightning storm that leveled a ghost town.” Very few pictures exist. Fire department records show delayed response times and restricted access.

The official casualty count?
Zero.
Because officially, Port Haven didn’t exist.

But satellite imaging from before and after the incident shows hundreds of heat signatures the day before the fire—and only two the day after.

One of those survivors was picked up by a Coast Guard cutter. Her name was Elise Tabor. Seven years old. No ID. She later appeared in state foster care documents under a new name, adopted in Portland.

I tracked her down in 2021. She wouldn’t talk.
But she handed me a drawing.

Crayons. Torn page.
A boy floating in midair with wires in his arms.
A woman in a lab coat with no face.
A massive tree, bleeding from its trunk.

Elise said only one thing:

“The angels told me not to scream.”

So Where Are the Other Children?

That’s the part that eats at me.

Some, I suspect, were relocated—folded into new projects under different names. A few might’ve been deemed “too unstable” and quietly removed. But I believe—no, I know—that at least a few survived the fire.

They’re out there.

And based on strange incident reports and behavioral studies emerging from psychiatric hospitals across the western U.S., I think they’re beginning to remember.

Not just who they were.
But what they were made to be.

And NeoBio? They’re terrified.

Because whatever they unleashed in Port Haven… it wasn’t human.

The Bermuda Triangle: Debunked or Not?

 Posted to The Clark List – 22 days post-disappearance

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Let me guess—you’ve already rolled your eyes.
“The Bermuda Triangle? Really, Benji? That’s been debunked a hundred times.”

Yeah. And that’s exactly what they want you to think.

Let’s talk about what “debunked” actually means. Because when a mystery becomes a punchline, it stops being investigated. The phrase “mass hysteria” becomes a broom that sweeps decades of anomalies under the rug.

But what if I told you the Bermuda Triangle isn’t just real—it’s deliberately active?

A Pattern of Disappearances (and Reappearances)

You know the greatest hits: Flight 19, the USS Cyclops, the Carroll A. Deering. But the government’s records don’t match the civilian logs. Cross-reference early FAA and US Navy dispatches from 1947–1953 and you’ll notice entire entries—whole squadrons—have vanished not just from the sky, but from the paper trail.

And here’s the kicker: at least seven of those disappearances match event signatures that didn’t exist until the 1970s. That’s right—EM spikes, ion storms, phased radar shadows. Technology that hadn’t even been developed yet.

So how do you explain 1948 aircraft vanishing in a way that wouldn’t be scientifically observable until 25 years later?

Unless someone already had that tech.

Or worse—someone from the future did.

Project Atlas and the Triangle “Corridor”

Remember Project Atlas? The black site funded by NeoBio Pharmaceuticals and at least two intelligence subcontractors? I’ve since confirmed that one of its field test zones in the late ’70s was a seafloor installation located just north of Puerto Rico’s Mona Passage.

The name in the papers?

Corridor 9C.

Described as a “natural anomaly conducive to long-range resonance experiments,” it was classified under NOAA jurisdiction but staffed by private contractors. Corridor 9C was supposedly shut down after a major incident in 1982—though no records of that “incident” exist anywhere outside whistleblower testimony.

What we do have is a memo sent from a top Atlas field scientist that reads:

“They don’t come back the same, if they come back at all.”

That memo was dated six days after a cargo plane with zero storm activity on radar vanished from real-time tracking and reappeared on Cuban airspace scanners... three hours before it left Miami.

You read that right.

The Montauk Connection

You thought the Montauk Chair was just a conspiracy theory, right? A psychic amplifier built in the ’80s to explore time displacement?

Well, here’s a fun fact: one of the early prototype components—a spatial harmonics chamber—was built using materials extracted from Corridor 9C. In other words, the triangle wasn’t a phenomenon they were trying to explain.

It was a power source they were trying to replicate.

That’s why the Bermuda Triangle isn’t just a place. It’s a testbed. A calibration zone. A naturally occurring wormhole… with training wheels.

So Why Don’t People Disappear There Anymore?

Because they don’t need the Triangle now.
Because they’ve perfected it.

The disappearances didn’t stop. They relocated.
You ever hear of the Alaskan Triangle?
The Bass Strait in Australia?
The Devil’s Sea near Japan?

Same patterns.
Same ion signatures.
Same silence from the authorities.

And the Bermuda site? It’s still there—underwater, sealed off, and marked on naval maps as a “communications blackout zone.” No civilian drones allowed. No fishing rights granted. Nothing to see here, folks.

Except maybe the edge of the next war.

Compound V42: The Cure that Kills

 Posted to The Clark List - 17 days post-disappearance

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You ever hear a phrase that doesn’t sit right? Something clinical, almost sanitized—but behind it, a body count?

That’s Compound V42.

First referenced in redacted procurement documents tied to the Project Seraphim files I leaked back in April, V42 was dubbed “the fail-safe serum” by a private medical contractor buried beneath three layers of shell corps and Defense Department euphemisms. They claimed it was a rapid-response antiviral, created during a simulated hemorrhagic outbreak exercise in 1979. Problem is, the compound didn’t stay theoretical. It went live.

And then it went dark.

What Is V42 Supposed To Do?

According to declassified memos (thanks to a very illegal FOIA dump), V42 was originally synthesized by a company now known as NeoBio Pharmaceuticals—yep, them again. In official literature, it was a bloodborne neutralizer, designed to “sterilize infected hosts within minutes.”

Sounds good, right?

Until you read the second line.

“Full-system collapse observed in 87% of mammalian trials. Cardiovascular failure onset: 53 seconds post-injection. Cognitive bleed-through reported in primates.”

Translation? It worked. But it killed the host before the virus could.

You don’t need a lab coat to figure this out: V42 was a cover story. What they really made was a biological dead-man switch. A chemical guillotine for anyone deemed “a risk vector.”

Who Was It Used On?

This part isn’t speculation. I've spoken to ex-medical techs stationed in West Africa during the early Ebola outbreaks. One of them, using the pseudonym Dr. Jay, described seeing U.N. operatives administer “a clear, fast-acting ampoule” to villagers showing even minor symptoms—nosebleeds, fever, tremors. People would drop before he finished logging the vitals.

Dr. Jay didn’t have a name for the compound at the time. But when I showed him a fragment of a V42 dosing schedule—coded with WHO regional field assignments—his face went pale.

“They said it was for containment,” he whispered. “But we weren’t containing a disease. We were deleting people.”

Where Is It Now?

NeoBio officially halted production of all V-compounds in 1982, but procurement records from a 2006 DARPA budget audit show funds allocated to a “Class V behavioral neutralization compound, subtype 42B.” The same year, detainees at a secretive medical correctional facility in Tunisia were reported dead en masse—cardiac arrest, internal hemorrhaging, full organ collapse.

Now they call it V42-Beta.

If you think this is history, think again. I’ve seen chatter in encrypted networks about V42 being field-tested right now in Eastern Europe under the guise of anti-rad treatments for contaminated zones. Soldiers going in, not coming out. Drones deploying with autoinjectors. Lab notes refer to “accelerated resolution protocols.”

I’ll decode that for you: fast, clean, deniable death.

Final Thought

Why does V42 matter?

Because it proves the truth isn’t just hidden—it’s engineered. They don’t just lie about the cure. They design the lie to be the cure.

They will never admit it. But they’ll use it again. Maybe on a crowd. Maybe on a political prisoner. Maybe on me.

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Stay loud.
Stay alive.

Betrayal in Binary

By Benji Clark - Truth Unveiled

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 They say betrayal comes in silence. In my case, it came with a blinking cursor.

I've been asked about the circumstances of my betrayal. I was vague and just said that Tech is the one who turned me in, but not what happened or why. It’s hard to explain to anyone outside the wireframe world what it's like when someone in your own stack backdoors you. Tech was supposed to be my firewall, my clean lane out of the data maze. Instead, he fed me a trail of breadcrumbs... then snitched me out the second he smelled ozone.

Let me rewind.

Tech and I met on an encrypted channel where whistleblowers and rogue sysadmins swap stories and signals. He had skills. Real ones. The kind of guy who could spoof an RFID badge in four lines of Python while watching reruns of SeaQuest DSV. He didn’t believe in much, except the beauty of breaking into things. That’s probably what scared me most in hindsight — he never cared about the truth, just the puzzle.

Still, when I hit the kill-switch on my last burner and needed help parsing the Project Atlas files I’d lifted from NeoBio’s cloud mirror, he came through. He built the visual overlays, set up the encrypted blog relay, even fabricated a “Clark clone” that misled a couple feds for a solid 48 hours. That should’ve bought us both freedom.

But I underestimated the offer on the table.

You see, Tech had a sealed federal indictment hanging over his head for that FAA reroute stunt in 2022 — the one where a weather balloon and a Southwest flight nearly introduced each other at 38,000 feet. The feds offered him a clean record, a relocation package, and (allegedly) a startup grant if he delivered me. Not my data. Not my laptop. Me.

And he did.

He left the decryption tunnel open one night, like he always did when I was meant to pull down the next data dump. It was a trapdoor — they traced the signal, traced the drive. I was already in the van when I realized the messages in the header logs didn’t match his usual syntax. That’s the thing with hackers. You get to know them by how they code. And this wasn’t Tech’s voice. It was his ghost, forced to write for someone else.

So what do we learn here, kids?

1. Everyone has a price. Sometimes it’s money. Sometimes it’s safety. For Tech, it was legacy — a second chance to keep playing the game without being erased from it.

2. Even zeros and ones can lie. In a world built on logic, don’t forget the flesh behind the firewall.

3. The feds don’t need your cooperation if they have your friends. And they always get your friends.

I don’t know where Tech is now. Rumors say he’s been folded into a DARPA skunkworks op under a new name. Others say he’s rotting in the same black site where they tried to send me, until some folks realized I was worth more visible than vanished.

To Tech, if you’re reading this: you didn’t beat me. You just bought yourself a stay of execution in a system that eats its best minds and calls it patriotism.

To everyone else: the files are still out there. Project Atlas is bigger than NeoBio. Bigger than the military. Bigger than any one whistleblower.

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Keep the signal alive.

Arrested!

By Benji Clark - Truth Unveiled

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Welcome back, intrepid readers! Going dark was very necessary, as I had suspected that they would be able to track my location even if I used hidden servers and unlicensed VPNs, relaying the updates from various fake places around the world. Turns out, that's NOT what ultimately happened as I write this, possibly last, update from the discomfort of a jail cell.

Tech

The first thing I did, as I said, was find a computer nerd. He called himself Tech, and he was surprisingly well-equipped. I knew that cybertech was more advanced than they ever let on, and Tech was no disappointment. This is something I'll have to cover in more detail in a later post, if I ever get the opportunity. Garrison Independence, a decommissioned Civil War fort, experimented on the Native populations with next-level cybertech even in the 1800s. They found ways to genetically engineer the Natives and thus their bodies didn't reject the cybertech. Stolen genetic know-how from the Grays no doubt!

Rumors persist that one of the most famous outlaws of the Old West, Manson Cole, was somehow able to live forever though the cybertech developed at the garrison. But that's just a rumor.

I digress.

Tech was nice enough, or so I thought. He was able to get me a new identity and some relays for posting on the blog that wouldn't be traceable, even by the military. I thanked him and moved on to a safe house one of my other friends was able to obtain for me.

Much Needed Training

It came to my attention, painfully, in the incident at the mall, that I had no combat skills whatsoever. So I practiced a few times a week with various handguns, and I think I'm a decent shot now. I'm still less than useless in hand-to-hand combat, but at least I can fight at a distance with some firearms. I feel like that's a good start. Maybe I'll take some martial arts, if I ever settle in one place for any length of time.

The problem with that, though, is that I'm never going to get that chance because of what happened next.

The Arrest

Everything I just described doesn't sound like much, but it happened over the course of January until now. When you're trying to stay underground, you take forever to do simple things because you don't want to leave too many footprints for your pursuers.

I've been purposely staying away from the blog so they wouldn't find me, but it turns out they didn't need any of that. Tech turned me in. I knew I shouldn't have used anyone I got The Plague-vibes from. Ugh. What was I thinking?

The arrest scene was nothing to write home about. I had no opportunity to move when they busted down my door, those cliche men in black. They escorted me to a dingy cell and here I currently sit, awaiting a trial, or worse.

Final Thoughts

I have no idea what's going to happen to me, readers. There's nothing any of you can currently do to help me. If you feel led and you're a believer in God, pray for me. If not, just send me good vibes. I'm trying to face this with determination and fearlessness, but I have to say it's hard. These are the people who can make you disappear if they feel like it.

I hope that I will have better news soon.

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Stay tuned! I'll update if I can.