When Ryan Hammons was 4 years old, he began directing imaginary movies. Shouts of "Action!" often echoed from his room.

But the play became a concern for Ryan's parents when he began waking up in the middle of the night screaming and clutching his chest, saying he dreamed his heart exploded when he was in Hollywood. His mother, Cyndi, asked his doctor about the episodes. Night terrors, the doctor said. He'll outgrow them.Then one night, as Cyndi tucked Ryan into bed, Ryan suddenly took hold of Cyndi's hand.

"Mama," he said. "I think I used to be someone else."

He said he remembered a big white house and a swimming pool. It was in Hollywood, many miles from his Oklahoma home. He said he had three sons, but that he couldn't remember their names. He began to cry, asking Cyndi over and over why he couldn't remember their names.

"I really didn't know what to do," Cyndi said. "I was more in shock than anything. He was so insistent about it. After that night, he kept talking about it, kept getting upset about not being able to remember those names. I started researching the Internet about reincarnation. I even got some books from the library on Hollywood, thinking their pictures might help him. I didn't tell anyone for months."

One day, as Ryan and Cyndi paged through one of the Hollywood books, Ryan stopped at a black-and-white still taken from a 1930s movie, Night After Night. Two men in the center of the picture were confronting one another. Four other men surrounded them. Cyndi didn't recognize any of the faces, but Ryan pointed to one of the men in the middle.

"Hey Mama," he said. "That's George. We did a picture together." His finger then shot over to a man on the right, wearing an overcoat and a scowl. "That guy's me. I found me!"

Ryan's claims, while rare, are not unique among the more than 2,500 case files sitting inside the offices of Jim B. Tucker (Res '89), an associate psychiatry professor at the U.Va. Medical Center's Division of Perceptual Studies.

For nearly 15 years, Tucker has been investigating claims made by children, usually between the ages of 2 and 6 years old, who say they've had past lives.The children are sometimes able to provide enough detail about those lives that their stories can be traced back to an actual person—rarely famous and often entirely unknown to the family—who died years before.

Tucker, one of the only scientists in the world studying the phenomenon, says the strength of the cases he encounters varies. Some can be easily discounted, for instance, when it becomes clear that a child's innocuous statements come within a family that desperately misses a loved one.

But in a number of the cases, like Ryan's, Tucker says the most logical, scientific explanation for a claim is as simple as it is astounding: Somehow, the child recalls memories from another life.

"I understand the leap it takes to conclude there is something beyond what we can see and touch," says Tucker, who served as medical director of the University's Child and Family Psychiatry Clinic for nearly a decade. "But there is this evidence here that needs to be accounted for, and when we look at these cases carefully, some sort of carry-over of memories often makes the most sense."

In his latest book, Return to Life, due out this month, Tucker details some of the more compelling American cases he's researched and outlines his argument that discoveries within quantum mechanics, the mind-bending science of how nature's smallest particles behave, provide clues to reincarnation's existence.

"Quantum physics indicates that our physical world may grow out of our consciousness," Tucker says. "That's a view held not just by me, but by a number of physicists as well."

Little Controversy

While his work might be expected to garner fierce debate within the scientific community, Tucker's research, based in part on the cases accumulated all over the world by his predecessor, Ian Stevenson, who died in 2007, has caused little stir.

Michael Levin, director of the Center for Regenerative and Developmental Biology at Tufts University—who wrote in an academic review of Tucker's first book that it presented a "first-rate piece of research"—said that's because current scientific research models have no way to prove or debunk Tucker's findings.

"When you fish with a net with a certain size of holes, you will never catch any fish smaller than those holes," Levin says. "What you find is limited by how you are searching for it. Our current methods and concepts have no way of dealing with these data."

Tucker, whose research is funded entirely by an endowment, began his reincarnation research in the late 1990s, after he read an article in the Charlottesville Daily Progress about Stevenson's office winning a grant to study the effects of near-death experiences.

"I was curious about the idea of life after death and whether the scientific method could be used to study it," Tucker says.

He began volunteering within Stevenson's department and after a few years found himself a permanent researcher in the office, where his duties included overseeing the electronic coding of Stevenson's reincarnation cases.

That coding took years—Stevenson's handwritten case files reached back to 1961—but Tucker said the work is yielding intriguing insights.

Roughly 70 percent of the children say they died violent or unexpected deaths in their previous life. Males account for close to three-quarters of those deaths—almost precisely the same ratio of males who die of unnatural causes in the general population.

More cases are reported in countries where reincarnation is part of the religious culture, but Tucker says there is no correlation between how strong a case is deemed and that family's beliefs in reincarnation.

One out of five children who report a past life say they recall the intermission, the time between death and birth, although there is no consistent view of what that's like. Some allege they were in "God's house," while others claim they waited near where they died before "going inside" their mother.

In cases where a child's story has been traced to another individual, the median time between the death of that person and the child's birth is about 16 months.

Further research by Tucker and others has shown the children generally have above-average IQs and do not possess any mental or emotional disorders beyond average groups of children. None appears to have been dissociating from painful family situations.

Nearly 20 percent of the children studied have scarlike birthmarks or even unusual deformities that closely match marks or injuries the person whose life the child recalls received at or near his or her death.

Most children's claims generally subside around age 6, coinciding roughly with what Tucker says is the time children's brains ready themselves for a new stage of development.

Despite the otherworldly nature of their stories, almost none of the children exhibit any signs of being particularly enlightened, Tucker says.

"My impression of the children is that while a few make philosophical statements about life, most are just typical kids," he says. "It might be a situation similar to not being any smarter on the first day of first grade than you were on the last day of kindergarten."

Other Explanations

Raised as a Southern Baptist in North Carolina, Tucker has weighed other, more earthly, explanations to the phenomenon.

He's looked at fraud, perhaps for financial gain or fame. But most claims usually don't net a movie deal, and many of the families Tucker's met, particularly in the West, are reluctant to speak publicly about their child's unusual behavior.Tucker has also considered simple childhood fantasy play, but that doesn't explain how the details children offer can sometimes lead back to a particular individual. "It defies logic that it would just be a coincidence," he says.

Faulty memories of witnesses are likely present in many cases, Tucker says, but there are dozens of instances where people made notes of what the children were saying almost from the beginning.

"None of those possibilities would also explain some of the other patterns, like the intense emotional attachment many children have to these memories, as Ryan exhibited," Tucker says.

Tucker believes the relatively small number of claims he and Stevenson collected during the last five decades, especially from America, is partly because parents may dismiss or misunderstand what their children are telling them."If children get a message that they aren't being listened to, they will stop talking," Tucker says. "They see they aren't supported. Most kids aim to please their parents."

How exactly the consciousness, or at least memories, of one person might transfer to another is obviously a mystery, but Tucker believes the answers might be found within the foundations of quantum physics.

Scientists have long known that matter like electrons and protons produces events only when observed.

A simplified example: Take light and shine it through a screen with two slits cut in it. Behind the screen, put a photographic plate that records the light. When the light is unobserved as it travels, the plate shows it went through both slits. But what happens when the light is observed? The plate shows the particles go through just one of the slits. The light's behavior changes, and the only difference is that it is being observed.There's plenty of debate on what that might mean. But Tucker, like Max Planck, the father of quantum physics, believes that discovery shows that the physical world is affected by, and even derived from the non-physical, from consciousness.

If that's true, then consciousness doesn't require a three-pound brain to exist, Tucker says, and so there's no reason to think that consciousness would end with it.

"It's conceivable that in some way consciousness could be expressed in a new life," Tucker says.

Robert Pollock, director of the Center for the Study of Science and Religion at Columbia University, said scientists have long pondered the role observation might play in the physical world, but the hypotheses about it are not necessarily scientific."Debates among physicists that center on the clarity and beauty of an idea but not on its disprovability are common to my mind, but are not scientific debates at all," says Pollock. "I think what Planck and others since who have looked at how these very small particles behave, and then made inferences about consciousness, are expressing a hope. That's fine; I hope they are right. But there's no way to disprove the idea."

Associate Professor of Psychiatry Jim B. Tucker
Tucker says his hypothesis is based on more than just wishful thinking.

"It's much more than a hope," he says. "Having direct positive evidence for a theory can have value, even if negative evidence against it is not possible."

Ryan's Past Life

Cyndi Hammons wasn't considering any of that when her preschool son was pointing himself out in a photo from more than 80 years ago. She wanted to know who that man was.

The book didn't provide any names of the actors pictured, but Cyndi quickly confirmed that the man Ryan said was "George" in the photo was indeed a George—George Raft, an all but forgotten film star from the 1930s and 1940s. Still, she couldn't identify the man Ryan said had been him.Cyndi wrote Tucker, whom she found through her online research, and included the photo. Eventually it ended up in the hands of a film archivist, who, after weeks of research, confirmed the scowling man's name: Martin Martyn, an uncredited extra in the film.

Tucker hadn't shared that discovery with the Hammons family when he traveled to their home a few weeks later. Instead, he laid out black-and-white photos of four women on the kitchen table. Three of them were random.

Tucker asked Ryan, "Do any of these mean anything to you?"

Ryan studied the pictures. He pointed to one. She looks familiar, he said.

It was Martin Martyn's wife.

Not long afterward, Tucker and the Hammonses traveled to California to meet Martyn's daughter, who'd been tracked down by researchers working with Tucker on a documentary. Tucker sat down with the woman before her meeting with Ryan. She'd been reluctant to help, but during her talk with Tucker, she confirmed dozens of facts Ryan had given about her father.

Ryan said he danced in New York. Martyn was a Broadway dancer. Ryan said he was also an "agent," and that people where he worked had changed their names. Martyn worked for years at a well-known talent agency in Hollywood—where stage names are often created—after his dancing career ended.

Ryan said his old address had "Rock" in its name. Martyn lived at 825 North Roxbury Dr. in Beverly Hills. Ryan said he knew a man named Senator Five. Martyn's daughter said she had a picture of her father with a Senator Ives, Irving Ives, of New York, who served in the U.S. Senate from 1947 to 1959.

And yes, Martin Martyn had three sons. The daughter of course knew their names.

The meeting later between Ryan and Martyn's daughter didn't go well. Ryan shook her hand then hid behind Cyndi for the rest of the time. Later he told his mother the woman's "energy" had changed. Cyndi explained that people change when they grow up.

"I don't want to go back [to Hollywood]," Ryan said. "I always want to keep this family."

In the weeks that followed, Ryan spoke less about Hollywood. Tucker says that often happens when children meet the family of someone they claimed to have been. It seems to validate their memories, making them less intense.

"I think they see that no one is waiting for them in the past," Tucker says. "Some of them get sad about it, but ultimately they accept it and they turn their attention more fully to the present. They get more involved in experiencing this life, which, of course, is what they should do."

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