DISCLAIMER: Yesterday, when I originally posted this story — from the pages of my memories, and my drawings, from some 30-something years of keeping to myself. Well, I contacted Mr. Patz so that if any of the information I picked up years ago would be of interest or ring some sort of bell; I just wanted him to know. This was not wise. I offended him. And I, in no way, wish to add to the pain of the Patz family. They have been living with this tragedy for 30-something years.
Thus, first, my public apology for contacting Mr. Patz. I really should have left him to his privacy. And apologies for anything I published or said that has and/or will offend you.
Mr. Patz (Stan) contacted me, same day, and said he preferred I take down the whole article; and corrected me on information (from my cloudy memory) which I quoted incorrectly.
I wrote him back to let him know, I’d like to keep the article posted and remove the parts that offended him most — the YouTube links bothered him [and I understand why — they have sales ads] and me misquoting him, also understandable.
Mr. Patz informed me there has never been a lead, reference or even a thought of Etan being in Syracuse, NY. So, there you have it — it is just my dreams, impressions that picked up Syracuse.
As a psychic, this case, which happened when I was just a teen [living my high school life far away – Phoenix, AZ], really developed my psychic crime-solving gift. I have only told a few friends about my early images of how Etan Patz was killed, his age at his death and where his body might be.
In those years, I had never been in New York City – my first time would be 1984 – this case moved me. Soon after it was public, I had dreams of being in a car, with other children, on the West Side Highway [at that time I didn’t know it was the West Side Highway, either]. I just dreamt of being on a semi-circular roadway looking through a window at a big city…surrounded by water and bridges. Although, I am not sure it is related to Etan Patz.
One night, all those years ago around 1981 (the year I graduating high school), I had a dream [this was also more recognition of my medium gifts]:
In my dream, I found myself sitting on a ratty old couch in a messy old single room apartment. Sitting beside where about four to six children, boys and girls. When I “awoke” in this drab, dirty room I immediately stood up to face all these children – ages 6 to 12 – and asked them who they were and why they were here. All of them were very silent and had the large hungry eyes of starving children in Third World countries. Their clothes were tattered and their demeanor that of abused children – no tears, just large, sad eyes. Not one of them spoke.
I kept questioning, wondering why no one would answer me. Then, one of them, about 8-years-old, sitting between the other children was familiar to my eyes.
“You’re Etan Patz!”
The boy nodded that he was, indeed, Etan.
I looked at the other children and it came to me, “Oh my God, you’re all dead, aren’t you?”
The children nodded.
For whatever reason, they were unable to speak to me out loud. I found they could hear my questions in their mind and would answer with their yes and no head nods.
I looked at Etan and said, “This is where you all are? This apartment?”
Etan gave me the affirmative.
“Can you tell me where ‘this apartment’ is located?”
Etan stood up and walked to the front door. Right beside the door was a light switch. Etan pointed to it and it turned into a moving, virtual reality map – similar to today’s touch screen computers [this was 1981, though] – and I could see maps moving quickly until it landed on New York. Etan pointed at a name on the map. I expected New York City, but it was different.
Etan pointed harder at the name on the map, which I had trouble reading: I didn’t know New York names and places well, at that time, at least. I saw the word Sycamore. Etan disagreed with his head nod.
I asked him, “It sounds like Sycamore, right?”
He seemed disappointed, it was the only way I could read the word,at that time.
“Etan, is your body in this apartment? I want to tell your parents.”
Etan told me no . . . with his head. And again pointed on the light switch. The picture went from the map of this place I was calling Sycamore, NY – like a film. I saw two brick buildings, white, a few stories high, side by side, same size, same look. In front of it were some fields of grass/dirt and one tree [perhaps, a sycamore tree?].
Etan pointed to about the third story window, to show me where this apartment was from the outside of the building. Then, for where his body was, he pointed to the field area, very near the one tree.
I asked him how old he was when he was killed. He was 8-years-old, although he disappeared at age 6. I picked up more information telepathically from Etan and the other children.
The man who killed them lived in the building in which they were [in my dream]. Etan confirmed [in my dream]:
Etan was familiar with the man when he intercepted him in New York.
The man abused boys, mostly, yet would hurt girls, too.
I promised to remember the information given when I woke up – I had realized it was a dream.
So, when I woke up, I asked Etan Patz to draw through my hands about all the information.
I have had these drawings for years and was always scared to share it with anyone:
I was a teenager and who would believe me
It would be awful if law enforcement dug up a campus and found nothing just based on my impressions
I would be accused of being an opportunist.
Yesterday, number three happened. Etan’s father thought I was just seeking instant fame and/or God knows what. I’m not, at least, not about this situation. If my impressions can find Etan Patz, fine. And if my impressions do lead to him, I don’t care if they ever say my name or not. As for money, I don’t ask for money for missing children cases; nevertheless, if a reward or business compensation [where businesses are involved] is offered, I would accept monetary compensation should my impressions directly lead to the recovery of a child and/or solving a crime.
>> Yes, I am in the Psychic/Medium business, as well. Since I cannot take on every case, I will help when and where I can [with missing children only]. As I did for the Maine Police Department in finding a missing child (deceased). My name was never mentioned, I never visited Maine or Canada (where I told them they’d find the missing child — and they did), and I have not received one bit of money from that case. <<
Still, this is NOT my goal or purpose in posting or sharing my findings [financial gain or fame — although, I am, with my blog, advertising my gifts for profit]. I am sharing these [drawing and insights] for FREE so a missing child can come home and/or a crime can be solved.
Thus, I kept them [the drawings, psychic impressions & dreams] all these years and now it’s time, with a place (my blog) for me to finally share them.
THE DRAWINGS: They are drawn from a child’s hand, Etan Patz, as I, basically, in 1981, channeled him to draw them for me. I have found, since I have actually helped in a couple of cases with the police in recent years, I can draw pictures based on what I pick up from dead children.
BACK TO THE STORY: Years later, when I moved to New York to attend college (1984) – I learned my mistake with Sycamore. Because I hadn’t heard of it, a friend whom I showed him the drawings, told me it is in Syracuse, NY.
The information from my friend:
It is the college campus and the buildings were part of the college there.
The room I described, he told me, was what the dorm rooms look like inside.
The building was where the staff would live.
The field has since been built-up and I didn’t hear of them finding bodies or remains.
Although, Etan told me he is buried near this building(s).
My friend told me that these buildings, the original college buildings, were torn down.
It wasn’t the case, though, in 1981, when I drew these pictures.
If these impressions and drawings help solve the crime, I would be glad to work, even anonymously, with anyone out there working on the case.
Coming up, in another blog postings, my drawings from the Jon Benet Ramsey case and the recent case of Lauren Spierer (which I should post next so they can, possibly, find her).
I did contact AMW.com and they informed me they do not take psychic impressions on cases.
Train tracks which bisect the city are two blocks from the dorms.
Even though this is a house, it is sort of how I saw the building(s) in my dream. This photograph and the above caption was taken in Syracuse, NY.
The other photo, from Syracuse, NY (near the dorms) is a pretty good image of the field I saw where the children are buried [should my dream have any truth in it]. I saw only one tree and remember, my dream took place in 1981.
The Law of Attraction works in the pursuit of spiritual desire just as it does for worldly things. Christianity emphasizes total submission of one’s will to the will of God. Christian mystics have understood how the twin engines of faith and belief could merge the spiritual self into alignment and even unity with its Source. Some say that through divine grace they entered transcendental realms and moved closer to God.
Mystics of all religions have exhibited paranormal powers, gained knowledge and perceived truth through an inner knowing. That is not to say that all mystical experiences are pleasant. However, the understanding that mystics come away with from time spent in transcendental states have sometimes enabled them to manifest or create from spiritual desires (often to help others).
Today, my Daddy, Michael Egic, would’ve turned 97–years–old…
…he made it to 73-years-old, nevertheless. He died on February 4th, 1987. The same day as Liberace. My father died that morning, Liberace died that evening.
Get this…my father was born on June 5th, 1913 in McKeesport, Pennsylvania. At that time, it was almost all immigrant families from Yugoslavia. Daddy’s family was no exception. Grandpa, Petrov Egic and Grandma, Anna Svilokos Egic spoke little, if any, English. In fact, whatever port they arrived on in 1912 or early in 1913 (we think Grandma was pregnant with my father on the ship) — our last name was changed by the English-only speaking port authorities.
As far as I understand, our last name, was Egich. And from what I learned from Daddy, he was the first-born American; we were from Belgrade, Yugoslavia. There’s rumor that one of my grandparents may have been Croatian. And look, with some geneology, we may even be Russian Jews somewhere in the line.
Nevertheless, Grandpa and Grandma were Serbian Orthodox (Christian) as was my father. In fact, that’s how my father met my mother … at the Serbian Hall in Phoenix, AZ in 1962.
My father was the first, as stated, of eventually eight (8) children: Peter (a real-life gold prospector), Samuel (yes, I had an Uncle Sam), Nick (ended up an NYC businessman), Violet, Mary (adored her, most of all), George (everyone’s favorite) and the youngest, Angelina (changed her name, though — to Dorothy).
I really didn’t get to know many of them well . . .with the exception of Peter, Mary and Violet. I barely met Nick and as a child, I spent some time with Dorothy, Sam and George (mostly on vacations).
In fact, Uncle Pete was the first death I experienced at a conscious level. I was only 7-years-old. Uncle Pete lived in the very rural, desert area of Wickenburg, AZ in a shack. My cousin, Vincent (we were raised together from 1965-1973), and I loved Uncle Pete. In his shack, I may have developed my phobia of old and dirty bathrooms — but, he had all sorts of animals; living animals in cages — rabbits, snakes, prairie dogs, etc. He generally let them free after a while. But, he collected them to show to Vince and I. We loved it.
Uncle Pete, on his gold-prospecting trips into the deep desert of Arizona, he also brought back lots of different rocks, stone, minerals, etc. including our favorite “fool’s gold” and some parts of Arizona’s famous “painted desert”. The stones turn colors due to pieces of crystal-like covers on them. All natural! Every now and again, Uncle Pete found real gold. Somewhere, all of us were given an ounce of real gold by my uncle. Still, I think in the 1970s one of my foster sisters stole it when she ran away.
In 1971 or 1972, Uncle Pete went prospecting, as he often did. On his trips, Pete would check in with his closest neighbor and tell him how long he’d be gone and to watch his shack. About two weeks after this trip, my father received a call from the neighbor saying that Uncle Pete was overdue by one whole week.
All I remember is both my parents being very upset that the neighbors waited so long to call them — and that, considering it was the desert, Uncle Pete was gone. Nevertheless, my family and I drove the two hours or so to Wickenburg — to an area Uncle Pete frequented on his trips — and Daddy and some area residents went on a search party for him.
I wanted very much to with Daddy. I felt I could find Pete, because, even then, I had this psychic connection to people. In fact, I remember telling Daddy I knew where Pete was waiting. Of course, not sure I understood he was dead. Dad wouldn’t let me go as I was only a small child. Mom, Vince and I sat in the car — with lots of water and drinks — while Dad went out walking.
Vince and I did love playing out in the desert — throwing rocks at the Jumping Chola Cactuses. Jumping Chola’s are fun — they will actually jump at you, if you come too close — and insert the needles under your skin like a fishhook. Painful as hell. If you throw rocks at them, you can hear the needles trying to lodge into the stone! It’s like a Venus Fly Trap! Vince and I thought that was so much fun.
And you know, we both had our share of needles in our arms, etc. Mom would have to pull them out as we screamed and cried.
Dad came back, not too long, really, with tears in his eyes. I remember this because it was the first time I saw Daddy cry. They found him, only about a mile from the nearest ranch. Apparently, Uncle Pete left his van (mistake #1) and tried to make his way to this ranch he knew about. Pete had forgotten his water (mistake #2). As Uncle Pete walked in the right direction — he must’ve grown tired and decided to sit underneath a tree (mistake #3) for a minute. He died of exposure.
As I listed those mistakes, let me tell you why. When you grow up in Arizona, in school, they teach us desert survival. Desert survival comes with rules — 1) If you are with your vehicle: NEVER LEAVE YOUR VEHICLE. It’s easier for rescue to find a car than a person, in the desert. 2) NEVER FORGET WATER (brings jugs and jugs for you and jugs and jugs for your car) and 3) Once you are walking — NEVER STOP UNTIL YOU FIND WATER and/or PEOPLE.
Uncle Pete knew all these rules too well. Why he forgot his water or why he left his vehicle, we’ll never know. Or even why he stopped only a mile from his destination.
A short while later, I attended my first funeral. A Serbian Orthodox funeral in the middle of a desert cemetary in Wickenburg, AZ. Uncle Pete loved the desert. I remember kissing the cross on the casket (closed) and feeling like Uncle Pete was watching us and told him “I’ll see you later.” My father was devastated. My father inherited Uncle Pete’s purple heart from World War II. Today, I have that purple heart and it’s very dear to me.
After that, I was closer to my Daddy than ever. I wanted him to never hurt again and I wished Uncle Pete would come back. We also inherited his panel van. My Dad put our little rocking chair in the back of it and Vince and I loved riding in them. We’d flip the rocking chairs on purpose while on the road.
As I think back to the 1970s, when that was illegal and there were no laws about child seats, etc. — it’s amazing we never were injured in that van! LOL! This is also before safety equipment was used while riding our bikes or roller skating on the cement. I have plenty of scars to show how dangerous our world was then . . . and lived to talk about it, as you can see!
As the years went by, I tried to learn more about my father. He married my mother when he was already 49-years-old and only knew her a year or so. Thus, he had some sort of life for 47 years before Mom and me and Vince.
My father never really went to school — yet, he could read and he loved to write and take pictures. Daddy was an avid photographer and I still have camera’s of his dating back to the 1920s! By the time Daddy was 12 or so years old, in McKeesport, PA, he went to work in the coal mines with his father. The family was poor and my father may have attended a school for a short while. He never could remember if he did or not.
Daddy had severe asthma or developed it in the coal mines. At some point, probably before he was even 18 and having no diploma, he was still able to join the Army. In those days it didn’t require any formal education. By the time he joined the Army, maybe he was 16 or 17-years-old, he could read and write. He served during peace time and had his honorable discharge.
In this interim, he attended Air Conditioning School. Then, a doctor told him, if he didn’t leave Pennsylvania, his asthma and the air would kill him ten to twenty years early. My father was told he had to move to Death Valley, California or Phoenix, AZ. This was probably in the 1940s.
I have a picture here, of my father with a radio microphone in his hand. This may be from the Army days or the 1930s. But, he once told me, he worked at a radio station. I think it was in Pennsylvania.
My grandfather died young (heart attack or black lung from the coal mines?), in Pennsylvania, maybe in his 40s. So, after that, my father had to support his mother and the seven remaining children.
Somewhere in there, Daddy moved to Phoenix, AZ and applied for and was hired by the United States Post Office. A job he would hold from 1940-something until 1985. He was hired as a Letter Carrier, a job he loved and kept him going his whole life, really.
In Phoenix, and remember he never had a high school education or diploma; he was smart enough to land a job with the postal service. He once told me he probably learned to read at the coal mine or someone taught him somewhere along the line. My father loved words, reading and writing. He kept journals for years, which Mom and I have in storage in Florida.
Late in the 1940s, my father met a woman named Jeannie. She was a divorced woman with two children. She was American Indian. My father went to a place for Army veteran’s, called “The American Cantina” — but she had TB (tuberculosis) when it was still incurable. Jeannie was placed in an asylum, as they were in those days, to die. What we would call a hospice, now. Although, these asylum’s were quarantined and no visitors that were healthy could get close w/touching or kissing — TB is much too contagious.
Somehow, my father married Jeannie. Jeannie died eight months later in the asylum. My mother and I do not believe there was any way for that marriage to have been consummated in the time they knew one another. Of course, there’s no way to know previous to Jeannie’s illness. Sex was not spoken up in those days.
In the storage, of my father’s life, there were dozens of letters that my father wrote to Jeannie while she was in the asylum. At some point, I think my mother threw most of them away — but there’s a couple that were saved.
In fact, a year after my parents married, my mother discovered that every year, since Jeannie’s death — my father placed an ad in the Phoenix Gazette saying “We miss you, Jeannie.” My mother made him stop when she found out.
Mom and Dad met at the Serbian Hall. My mother had gone from the Roman Catholic Church to Serbian Hall because they would let her sing solo. She had to learn how to sing in Serbian by sounding out the words, though! She did well! Daddy was the only single guy left, so she kept putting herself in the front seat when Dad drove all the single ladies home.
According to Mom, Dad was not a romantic or very smooth. In fact, she really set everything up. The way he proposed was interesting . . . not necessarily romantic. Mom and Dad had been doing the “driving home from choir” thing and had dinners. She said Dad would drive her to her apartment and on occasion tried to get together with her — but Mom, at the time in her late 20s, wanted to wait until marriage for that and would stop Dad’s advances. He respected her (he would often say that as the years went by — that he respected my mother) and didn’t try again.
One day, they were walking in downtown Phoenix and were walking by a jewelry store. Not sure, but Mom may have stopped to admire the engagement rings or look at something. Anyway, while looking in the window with Dad, he said, “Which one do you want?”
That was his proposal.
They were married on October 13, 1962 in the Catholic Church (St. Mary’s, I think) in downtown Phoenix. Dad was 49-years-old, which Mom did not discover until they were filling out their marriage license! She had never asked his age . . . Mom was 30-years-old and would be 31-years-old on December 23rd of that year.
For years and years Mom told me she was 29-years-old, but her math was off — because she was born on December 23, 1931; thus, she was already 30-years-old in October 1962.
I was born 11 months later, on September 28th, 1963. My father was 50-years-old and I would be his first and only child.
Today, I honor him by saying “Happy Birthday, Daddy“. And I wonder what he would be like if he had made it here to his 97th birthday.
On another note — Today, in email, I heard from my cousin, Clara Collins. . .
A few years ago, Clara lost all four of her children to foster care. It’s a long messy story. Anyway, her two oldest were adopted out by the state of Arizona. She contacted me and said she found those children on the internet and send me updated photographs.
Her oldest child, Sadie and her 2nd child, Tyson. I have a photograph of Tyson and my mother together from when Clara still had him.