Faces Of Death Page #7

and continued his escape by foot.

One of the many alternatives in the realm

of transportation is the locomotive.

This unexpected accident occurred when

the engine of a passenger train exploded,

causing all the other cars to derail.

Rescue crews

worked feverishly to free survivors.

As blowtorches

burnt through the twisted metal,

lifeless parts of bodies

were all that remained.

The modern traveler

makes a choice

each time he decides to enter

the domain of public transportation.

Although accidents on the rail systems of

the United States are relatively infrequent,

when they do occur, the chance of survival

becomes questionable.

Each year, more than 53,000 people

lose their lives

on the highways

of the United States.

Since this is the most common

means of transportation,

the death rate is also the highest.

When death is caused

by these machines,

When death is caused

by these machines,

the witness can suffer

extreme psychological damage.

In this accident, a woman was riding her

bicycle when she was hit by a semitruck.

Crushed by its heavy wheels,

her body became unidentifiable.

Staring at her remains, I couldn't help

but think that human technology

has once again

created a monster.

Speeding and carelessness

have been the basic code

of most drivers

around the world.

The woman who died in this accident

wasn't even driving a car.

How long will it be before the pedestrian is

banished from the sidewalk and the street?

Since the Wright Brothers

invented the airplane,

the entire planet has become a vacation

ground for those who can afford the fare.

The pilot of this plane

had just been certified.

To celebrate his new achievement,

he took three friends up in a rented aircraft

to show off

his newly acquired skill.

He began doing stunts -

nosedives and huge turns.

In the midst of one of his stunts,

he was going at such an excessive speed,

he ripped the wing off the airplane.

Losing all control,

the small plane crashed in a nearby field.

Arms and legs were strewn

throughout the wreckage.

Nobody survived

this particular stunt show.

We all wish to be recognized

and respected by our peers.

When we turn to our machines to gain

this recognition, as this young pilot did,

disaster is not an unlikely ending.

Abuse can sometimes introduce

the human being to the final curtain.

This certainly was the case

for this novice pilot and his friends.

Lindbergh, PSA182.

PSA182.

PSA182, Lindbergh Tower.

Traffic twelve o'clock.

One mile. A Cessna.

OK, we have it there.

There we go.

How far will you take it in when 182 comes

and traffic's waiting for departure?

- Probably about three to four miles.

- OK.

PSA182 clear to land.

- Tower, we're going down. This is PSA.

- We'll call the equipment for you.

On that warm September day,

there were no survivors.

A commercial 727 airliner

collided in the sky with a light plane

and both came crashing down

in a residential section of San Diego.

Many of those who witnessed the crash

and the aftermath which followed

are still to this day

under psychiatric care.

Living through this nightmare

is an experience one cannot easily forget.

When a woman heard the crash

and went to her door,

a body came flying through the window,

covering her in blood.

It would be a long time before the people of

this area would ever board a plane again.

From the massive impact,

bodies were strewn in every imaginable

area throughout the neighborhood.

The stench of the dead turned this

peaceful community into a virtual morgue.

Screams could be heard

as new victims were discovered.

Viewing the bodies

mutilated beyond recognition,

I had the painful realization this disaster

could be the most gruesome face of death.

Throughout my studies of death,

there was still one theory I had neglected -

the concept

of life after death,

where the deceased had left

this realm and the physical form,

but their souls had remained.

Skeptical of this whole concept,

I went in search of a situation that might

prove the existence of one's immortal soul.

Joseph Binder's remarkable story

presented the perfect situation.

My name is Joseph Binder

and I'm an architect.

About eight months ago, my five-year-old

son Mark was hit and killed by a car.

After that,

about three weeks later,

my wife Diane

committed suicide.

It was a very emotionally rough time for me

and I thought

I was gonna go mad.

But after a few months,

I had begun to pull myself together

when this house

just turned into a living nightmare.

A living nightmare? What was it that

caused Binder, a perfectly sane man,

to hear chilling sounds

echo through his house

or suddenly view

an apparition in human form?

These incidents brought me to the next

step in verifying this man's testimony.

With Binder's approval,

I brought in specialists -

two men trained in the field

of supernatural phenomena.

Utilizing the most sophisticated

equipment available,

the parapsychologists

wasted no time.

They set up their machinery

around areas in the house

where Binder had reported an attempted

communication by his wife and child.

Even with their equipment,

the professionals resorted to techniques

developed by ghost hunters

of centuries past.

Flour spread on the floor was still the best

method of preserving a ghost's footprints.

After two weeks of waiting,

the dead had chosen to end their silence.

Sensitive parabolic microphones

began to record Binder's lost family.

Cameras photographed

apparitions of two ghosts,

while recorders captured

their haunting sounds.

The flour revealed footprints

of an invisible being.

It was now time to bring in a medium,

a willing soul that would allow Binder

to communicate with

the people he missed and loved.

Are you ready, Mr. Binder?

Then let us proceed.

Your hands.

Everything is fine.

I left too soon, Joe.

Diane?

I tried to make contact with you.

I thought it was you.

But I'm still not sure. Is it you?

The white rose, the one you gave me

the night we found out I was pregnant.

Oh, Diane, I love you.

I love you, Diane.

Daddy. Daddy.

Oh, my God! Mark?

Daddy, I'm scared.

I don't know where I am.

I miss you.

It's OK, Mark. I miss you.

It's all right, Mark.

It's all right.

When I studied the pictures that were shot

of the ghost of Binder's wife and child,

I began to reexamine

my whole outlook on death.

I realized that when we die,

it really isn't the end.

Somehow, I feel the soul in each of us

remains a traveler forever.

During the past 20 years, I know that

my compulsion to understand death

was much greater

than just an obsession.

My dreams

had dictated my mission.

But now it is time

to witness the final moment,

to discover a circle

that forever repeats itself.

The end of the beginning,

or the beginning of the end?

I'll leave that decision to you.

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