Duplicity and Duress: Snap Factories in the Making

By Erin Vans

It came in a flash but didn't end that way--this was a news story headline during an historic snowstorm hitting Philadelphia in January, 2011. With that storm came a barrage of mysterious events, people, theatre, harassment, intimidation, and psychological manipulation all which were seemingly in a struggle with the faint hint of a benevolent force this narrator up into a whirlwind of activity, a vortex, she never knew existed. Take the conspiratorial ride along with author Erin Vans in a quest to find out who, what, where, why and how this thing, this seeming ambush, was pulled off in plain sight in a city claiming to be known for Brotherly Love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483592114

Book preview

Warriors

For survivors, it is like being a completely sane person in an insane asylum run by doctors and nurses who’ve become the modern form of The Stepford Wives who, with an air of superiority, dole out fluted paper cups filled with candy-colored pills to the rest of us who watch in amazement at how backwards this world has become. A world where pills, chemicals and synthetic substances reign supreme, while love, compassion and good, wholesome sustenance do not."

-Anonymous

~Intro~

A Step into Confusion and Distrust

LATER I WOULD DECIDE eight different factions were involved. That’s my best estimate. Eight different factions, or groups of people, each of which is well organized, not necessarily connected and all predatory by nature hailing from all walks of life—all races, all creeds, all genders and orientations. It seems they decided to choose a human target, for lack of a better word. God how I despise the word ‘target,’ I really do. They picked me—a survivor and a warrior—the recipient of their abuse, to bat around in a cat and mouse game of terror and harassment. Only for me, it’s been never ending torture. The little one who’s been tossed around, thrown upside down and psychologically threatened in ways subtle, candid and down-right nasty. I could try not to personalize it, or internalize it, as my counselor would say, but I mean, who would I be if I didn’t? Introspective ones, we are like that, aren’t we? Thoughtful. Willing to consider how we wind up in messes like this. Sometimes, particularly in cases such as these, a target, or survivor, is completely, 100 percent, no doubt about it, innocent. The reasons for these attacks are a complete mystery other than the possibility of crossing the wrong person inadvertently, being related to someone who wants to take us down, or simply being born into some sort of government-run program like MK-Ultra or Project Paperclip. Being warriors like us is in no way some bizarre attempt of self-immolation, like people from around the world who publically burn themselves in ceremonial fashion to protest a wrong. Instead, warriors may be among a population innately picking up on deceit and trickery occurring en-masse within our society. Maybe we see the holes in stories related to momentous events like the assassination on John F. Kennedy on 11-22-63. Maybe we are the kind of people who won’t simply ‘let it go,’ because ‘letting it go,’ means allowing the worst kinds of criminals to get away with perpetrating incredible deceit in plain sight. A wise person once said that by turning back the clock on those pieces of our history that just don’t add up—personal or not—we undermine the plans of the more evil powers that be who try to deceive us. We force them to change tack. We raise necessary questions, which presses them for answers. In other words, criminals get away with their crimes when no one calls them out or exposes them. Our goal as survivors is to minimize their history of success in ‘getting away with it.’ On our planet exists very dark powers attempting to push a ruinous agenda. They love to tease, to see the absurdities we fall for. In a perverted kind of way, as convoluted as it sounds, I sometimes wonder if they want to be called out. Like petulant children they are.

These nefarious groups, they want to exercise their strength and will. For sure, they want to demonstrate to higher level mysterious powers-that-be exactly who has the strongest force, the largest following, and the highest-ranking leadership skills. The most superior displays of teamwork. Maybe they needed to exercise their fragile egos, too, I say, which would mean they required just the right kind of person to use. A pawn. Some kind of sensitive soul who stands solidly on one’s own, not losing herself within a specific group, not affiliating with one side or the other in a polarized reality. Someone who considers any and all perspectives, who finds space within the gray area on issues of true substance and, despite his or her quietude, chooses not to acquiesce to masses of destruction. I am not a full-on religious person; I never joined a Satanist club, no Masonic affiliation here, no extremist cabal, no religion, no cult, nothing. Just a regular person who thrived more independently rather than within coteries, cliques, cadres and groups, but still wanted to socialize with those who love gathering for good food and fun conversation without hardcore agendas to harm others in their presence. I sought healthy relationships. Not ones wrought with people working a little too hard to one-up or undercut others.

How to best begin this story and how to most effectively describe all that has occurred, well, that is quite a challenge. A small example of the ongoing tactics I’ve personally experienced, after an initial terrorizing series of events, include having people blatantly cut in front of me in line at, say, a Starbucks. In fact, it’s happened so often, I reached a point of frustration, calling out one such ‘line cutting criminal’ saying, I’m documenting everything and I’m reporting you, to which the woman replied with overzealousness and extreme enthusiasm, so that the entire store turned to look, GREAT!!! OK. GO AHEAD!!! She then began laughing hysterically. It was weird. I was dumbfounded. The Starbucks employee, who witnessed everything, had nothing to say, even though she saw the woman come rushing out of nowhere to hurry up and cut in front of me. All she said was, What can I get for you today?

While the line-cutting has died down to some extent, orchestrated stalking and harassment, which involves a plethora of tactics, many much worse than line-cutting, still occurs today. Those tactics include, but are not limited to, the following, which are carried out in the survivor’s presence: coughing, spitting, yawning, eerie whistling, key jangling, trash at the survivor’s doorstep, neighbors who operate their lives in sync with a survivor’s comings and goings from home, orchestrated skits and false conversations in coffee shops, grocery stores and bus terminals, frequent hacking of computers and phones, turning off of a survivor’s computer or phone, horns honking when a survivor turns on a computer or phone, the wearing of clothes with brands or hand-written phrases or comments that relate to a survivor’s experience by aggressors who pass them by on the street or stand near them. Targets also experience, relentlessly, trucks backing up with their safety beepers blaring when survivor’s pass by, the release of air brakes on trucks when survivor’s pass by, home alarms going off unexpectedly or not disabling when the code is entered while in homes a survivor might frequent (if a survivor is a dog walker or house cleaner or similar, this tactic is used quite often), and crowding at the bank while in line for the teller, crowding in front of products a survivor might often purchase while in a store, mocking of how a target dresses by wearing the same clothes in the same way (especially if a target wears something that stands out, is unusual or flawed). There exists some mysterious tactics not so easily explained, which makes matters worse. For instance, it seems they can cause their ‘targets’ to look at certain things, like, say, a T-shirt in a window alongside the walking path of the survivor which might read something very negative like I hate you, the intentional playing of music in coffee shops or grocery stores that could incite sadness or anger for a survivor once he or she enters the store. For instance, if a survivor’s partner just broke off their relationship, a song such as The Rose—a somewhat sad song with lyrics about It is the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance, will suddenly come on the minute a survivor enters the store. Some survivors report being attacked by Electromagnetic Field weapons or Directed Energy Weapons (DEW), with skin lesions to prove it. Sound frequency devices can be used to alter people’s brain waves. Some believe this technology, along with bizarre witch-like rituals, result in spirit cooking. Often survivors are referred to as having been cooked, fried, baked, snapped, crackled or popped. The list is endless, frightening and very disturbing. I once wondered, after an endless stream of people passed by my apartment window singing songs and reciting words relevant to my life, if some of these stalker people could somehow tap into my brain. That they didn’t need to hear me via possible bugs and microphones in my apartment. I put it to the test, thinking only of the book A Million Little Pieces by James Frey—the book Frey wanted to market as fiction, but was heavily urged, besieged even, to market as nonfiction. Within 15 to 30 seconds, a man with two ladies waltzed around the corner near my building to head north past my window. The man described his life as being in ‘a million little pieces.’ Stunned, I stared through my window while seated at my table wondering how in the world it could be that, yes, someone repeated what I thought within 15 seconds of me thinking it. Shocked because this instant replication of something I just thought in my brain happened so quickly, no group of orchestrated harassers could’ve had sufficient time to meet in order to discuss walking past my window so as to repeat what I’d just thought silently in my head. At least, I don’t think so. Most of what I’ve experienced, however, does seem orchestrated and not in connection with thoughts I’ve had privately in my brain. My case might be slightly different in that I experienced bizarre activity at a slow rate prior to 2011, but it then escalated to a major shock and crescendo, eventually progressing with an ongoing series of inexplicable events involving unrelenting psychological terror and mind-manipulation games perpetrated by people I knew and people I didn’t who stalked within close proximity to me wherever I went. I once read that there are great artists, or even protestors, who inspire others through actions of great beauty and integrity; and then there are those who simply enjoy shocking people. Artists who don’t do much of anything but harm as opposed to inspire. You see the difference. Were some of these people part of some radical art movement that gets off on harming others? Could such movements be complicit with diabolical research going on at nearby universities or medical institutions?

There are days I believe this task of telling such a story about orchestrated harassment seems a goal for which I’m not best suited. But here I am. The job was chosen for me, not by me. I’m not that unique, after all. There are many of us. All you have to do is research online to discover the thousands who have been at the receiving end of what can only be described as a form of ‘death by a thousand cuts.’ An onslaught of actions that chip away at the cells in your body and your brain constantly creating dissonance designed to disassemble optimum life energy, clear thinking, health and sanity. All the more reason this story needs to be told and so I have done my absolute best to detail what has happened in my case, for it is clear, too, that not all survivors experience exactly the same initiation into this murderous crime. The basic harassment, however, is very similar among most targeted individuals, or TIs, as we call ourselves. I was fortunate. Some of the stories I hear about are more horrendous, possibly involving rape by strangers and constant break-ins into TIs’ homes by perpetrators who creep, poison and rearrange targets’ belongings while targets are out. It seems maybe a few helping hands are behind me because even with the sheer terror experienced during a full two to three years after my ‘initiation,’ I found a way to apply to a fine arts program in hopes of escaping the web of fright and mind games in which I was entangled. I’m still walking dogs, still able to pay the rent and still able to eat. The writing program was not free of the harassers, but I endured and was lucky enough to find a supportive writing group consisting of three strong women who helped me focus-in on the core of what initially happened. They encouraged me to tell this story as if writing a deposition about what catapulted me onto a path which has been wrought with psychological attacks, abusive harmful pranks, community-style harassment, trickery, extreme mind manipulation, attacks on the human heart and last but not least, threats of homelessness, death, institutionalization or incarceration—as if I’d be thrown out on the street on a moment’s notice, killed, driven completely insane or charged with something heinous for which evidence could be manufactured and fabricated. This all sounds very macabre, but orchestrated intimidation, and modern forms of strong-arming, is a reality existing within the darker recesses of our society. It operates like a shadow government of sorts, carrying out its own vigilante justice or vendettas without proper checks and balances, allowing the more sadistic to rise up in the world of power and control. A man named Max Spiers, now deceased, was considered a Super Soldier in the world of MK-Ultra Mind Control Subjects. He spoke extensively on his experiences and revelations that ‘they,’ the attackers, attack a survivor’s humanity with the most hurtful tactics they can conceive. For most of us, this is easily done by creating situations involving betrayal, rejection and anything that will place us in the greatest heartfelt pain possible. They want to defeat humanity. But humanity will always be superior. We must believe this to keep it true.

Please know, transmitting fear is not my intent. Awareness is. Inducing paranoia is also not my intent. Reaching others who experience life as target, and even reaching those who couldn't fathom such a thing, is my intent. If it is true that knowledge is power, then I hope TIs, use as much of this account as they can to reduce fear and anxieties. To lead a life as normal as can be considering this new reality. I want to add, again, that the term ‘targeted individual’ is not of my liking. It connotes victimization. People singled out by these acts are survivors of the strongest kind. Little changes in words and syntax like this—from target or victim to survivor—is very important for one’s mental health. It matters. Consider this positive change in vernacular the polar opposite of what the aggressors are doing. They know exactly how much it matters to go out of their way to slight survivors in both subtle and subversive ways, to mock them, to chip away at their internal organisms of cells and synapses through negatively inspired bizarre and creepy behavior. Look at professional sports teams. They play head games with their opposition all the time. They psyche them out. Why? Because it works. That’s never changed.

In this light, subtle humor is sprinkled throughout Duplicity and Duress to aid in the ability to rise above the circumstances. This is not meant to minimize what goes on out there. What is happening is very serious. It is serious for those surviving, it is serious for those close to the target, or survivor, it is serious for the country and possibly very serious in regards to the world as we’ve experienced until late. The types of disastrous events unfolding almost daily, well, I mean, they’re outrageous. But a laugh here and there can only improve the situation for us survivors. The gang stalking pill would be too bitter without it. Besides, how else can one take back his or her control in a seemingly uncontrollable situation? In fact, here’s an idea: find a way to laugh at them! They can’t stand it! I think in this situation, God, the universe, or whoever, is totally OK with survivors laughing in response to those who creep, stalk and play childish games around them. The humor infused in this story is a way to transmit life force, and love. They’ve always overcome. Language, just like aesthetics, music and food, when they are prepared with love, taste and sound so much sweeter. And that sweetness affects every single ounce of our beings. The cells in our body, the life-giving blood running through our beautifully arranged arteries, the synapses in our brains, the cute finger nails on our thumbs and our toes, those little hairs poking out of our chins or our ears, even our noses! All of these life forms are affected by every single little thing that goes on around us—from the obvious to the subliminal and the subversive. OK, yes, I’ve thrown in a few digs aimed toward the aggressors and I’ve tried to fall on the healthy side of sarcastic. Sometimes these digs are funny, sometimes maybe not, but in crises like these even the most kind among us must defend thy dignity. Assertion without harmful aggression. That’s OK, isn’t it? As long as it promotes life. It keeps the world turning, the flowers blooming, the food nourishing, and all those wondrous aromas as scintillating as they were designed to be. No one ever died from a book, whether it is deemed a good reading or not. Lest we forget, a well-timed joke has a funny little way of transforming those pesky aggressors into insignificant splinters that sit just under your skin and with careful tweezing are discarded from our souls once and for all. That is what I am after, shining the laser light on them, tweezing ‘em out and tossing them aside to disintegrate into the atmosphere. Those insignificant little buggers. They are nobodies, I say!

I must admit that, of course, a great sense of fear was experienced initially. Intense fear. It was bad. Really, really bad. I know I was set up for this and that these seeming eight cliques were the plotters. But somewhere along this bizarre road I decided to grab hold of trust. Trust in a higher power or something, for God’s sake, anything, you know, to get through it. That ‘something’ in the universe is always at work for the good. I believe it now. That something way, way up there in the sky beyond this earthly plane where we live, work and play. It’s up there watching after us all. Ready to step in when sadists go berserk. It was about truly appreciating the little things. The beauty of a clementine while peeling back its skin to examine every cell filled with sweet tasting juice, breaking down in tears at the marvel of it all. Recognizing the wisdom in an old book—There is a Tree More Ancient than Eden by Leon Forrest—and feeling an overwhelming sensation of relief that Forrest broke all the rules of writing. I ultimately placed complete faith into reaching out to someone who’d crossed my path only once before. Someone I’d met briefly several years before this mess. Some who affected me so greatly, I never let go of the belief I’d see her again. I sought her out during the worst of this experience, wondering if she knew anything about it. Innately believing, she just might. I found her through Twitter and, at the time, she was panhandling for stamps on the streets in Seattle using only a pay-as-you-go Smartphone as her lifeline to the world. It made no difference to me that she’d found herself in a shelter, willing to ask strangers for bus fare. She was the most beautiful person I’d ever met. It was at this moment I placed complete faith in her and things very high above. I trusted she would show up to meet me even after many years had passed. It was about recognizing, even with her means, how lovable and intelligent she is. The way she holds her hand to her hip, the way she wears an out-of-fashion, second-hand sweater from the 90s with panache topped off by a pair of used Vasquez hiking boots and knee-length shorts—all provided by the shelter she lived in at the time. The way she blows her nose and falls on the floor laughing in hysterics over something silly and ridiculous. The way she walks down the avenue like a queen, with modesty in-tact no less, after having paid .02 cents for the Pay What You Can day at the museum. She showed up for me. She was where she said she’d be while I endured this mysterious fiasco. No fancy car or impressive display of wealth or clout needed. All of this took a lot of opening up on my part—the trust that she would follow through that is. This surrender to the faith that someone would do what she said she’d do, was a surrender to all that is truly powerful, positive and good.

This whole survival business amidst organized harassment is about other stuff, too. It’s about treating yourself right and with respect. Eating healthy, it turns out, is a miraculous healing tool that keeps the mind, body and soul stable and resistant to attacks from the outside. The uncool ones are intent on destroying a survivor’s nervous system. Provoking us at every turn, which, as benign as it might sound, helps to suppress a person’s immune system, making him or her more susceptible to disease in the mind or elsewhere. Especially if that person has been terrorized to the level of acquiring Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just know we do have control over protecting our nervous system as much as possible. It is really hard work, but worth it. The proof is in the pudding. Yoga, meditation, going vegetarian, green juicing and engaging in activities like school, workshops or similar endeavors, only adds to one’s strength against the death junkies, as I call them. Even if they do show up to your classes, and they do, whether that be yoga, Zumba or a bike spinning class.

Believe me. I sought answers to who, what, why, when and how this terrorization could be carried out. I did so for a long, long time. Anywhere and everywhere. Via online, books, acquaintances, research papers, Youtube.com disclosures, people on the street. Yes. I’ve actually approached strangers on the street seeking answers. And I still do to sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. Conspiracy theories, the supernatural, the Five Eyes, electronic harassment, gang stalking, mobbing, spirit guides, shamanism, psychic shields, hauntings, possessions, the truth movement, get me some Orgonite please, you name it, I’ve read the book, bought a T-shirt and listened to it online. Hotlines are out there, too, for all Tis worldwide. They offer some comfort and support, but listen too long and they can rattle the nerves more than need be. In my humble opinion, of course. It’s that old saying about how joining an Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) group is helpful to some extent, but spending time with people who never rubbed shoulders with AA, is just as empowering because they don’t rehash life as an addict. Everything in moderation, as they say.

Why this topic has been a secret to so many for so long, I don’t know. There are those out there in the public eye who’ve had to deal with it for many years, decades even, long before online information was so readily available. Gloria Naylor knows all about being a targeted individual. Do you know her? She’s the woman who wrote Women of Brewster Place, which was published in 1982 and later made into a film. I knew of her from childhood reading, but stumbled upon her name in search of answers. She also wrote a book called 1996 of all things, it is in the same vain as 1984 by George Orwell. It turns out, during 1996, Naylor encountered an onslaught of manipulative experiences that would turn her world completely upside down. A blatant sense that her privacy had been 100 percent, no holds barred, breached. All this in addition to intimidation tactics and harassment. But back in the 90s, there weren’t many helpful or supportive sources to which to refer. No Youtube.com, no Facebook sites, no blogs where people could share their stories from the safety of their homes (even though sharing online can sometimes induce more harassment). She was left to hide out in libraries seeking any sanctuary she could from the bizarre activity going on around her. She says she can only guess that it started with the accidental death of her neighbor’s cat. One she ran over in her car mistakenly. At least, that’s when the unusual harassment seemed to begin. She believes the cat belonged to someone possibly employed by the National Security Agency or similar. She simply couldn’t know for sure. After all, she apologized profusely, feeling great sadness over what happened. A few of her personal and professional connections were close enough to the world of intelligence to provide her with theories and some documentation of modern forms of technology and intimidation tactics used by people in-the-know. This thing, well, it’s the kind of thing that can really change a person. Alter their personalities. She ultimately documented and reported her observations and beliefs in 1996, which was published by Third World Press. Not a lot of attention was placed upon it. Probably because of its nature. It’s a difficult read. Let’s face it, nobody wants to believe this could go on, unleashed as it does, upon unsuspecting people. And it is not for lack of talent or ambition that the book doesn’t go down easily, but because, justifiably, anger is ever present. An acclaimed fiction writer forced to write a nonfiction account while being taunted the entire time under deplorable conditions. I ask you, what could be worse for the world of artistry. Another not-so-well-known person is a survivor of similar tactics used specifically by a large group, which isn’t a government agency, but an influential religious sect. That group called their attacks ‘Operation Freakout.’ Her experience was well documented, she’s been on local news stations to tell her story and wrote a book about her story. Her name is Paulette Cooper. She’s still alive and resides in Florida.

There was also a Youtube.com video in which a French researcher Jacques F. Vallee, revealed his findings after talking to hundreds of people claiming to be abductees, or at least having experienced the inexplicable. Some of the ‘inexplicable’ he chalked up to less-than-ethical governmental actions. Maybe rogue or down-and-dirty agents playing around, recklessly, with peoples’ lives. He mentioned most of them, the abductees I mean, lived life very differently after the core event of terror took place. That they experienced an ‘awakening’ to other forces ‘out there,’ leaving them with a better respect and concern for the earth, and for life. Leaving them with a greater sensitivity to everything in their surroundings, not to mention a developed sense for things like ESP, or extrasensory perception.

All I can say is that in my case, some kind of switch was flipped and all those factions I mentioned at the beginning of this Introduction began sending mixed messages, behaved inconsistently, poked and prodded me, first with small provocations, then later with more significant ones, all of which began to mount and build up to a point of eruption. One that pulled me into a vortex of self-doubt, fear and questioning, which catapulted me into a freakish time warp. The first seven days of this eruption is chronicled in this book, along with the main characters who seemed to be in-on whatever this ‘game’ was. I’m saying ‘was,’ but the truth is some of the activity from this game still occurs. Not at the level it once did, but it still goes on. I think I’ve developed some of that ESP, and, overtime, immunity to much of the taunting. It’s been the only way to survive. The personality of this here narrator is very different from what it was prior to 2011. Her voice has changed and protective walls have been built. On the upside, appropriate boundaries have been set in regards to work and relationships. And details in regards to getting paid or the kinds of words people use when conversing with you, well, they must be scrutinized to ensure people don’t get away with shorting us or taking advantage. Speaking up at every turn to stand one’s ground when details seem off or inconsistent, exhausting as that can be, is well worth the effort. It seems to work, somehow, against this harassment. Maybe it’s about believing in oneself and not letting others get away with too much. Unfortunately, being a survivor of this means being surrounded by people who take great pride in trying to get away with taking advantage of others. The sense of freedom and light-heartedness I once had is gone. No one should have to ward off blood lusters like this! Not in these numbers.

This road has been filled with mimicking, mocking, intimidation, harassment, ridiculous coincidences, not-so-naturally occurring synchronicities, extreme lack of privacy, hacking, bullying, strong arming, and rejection. Complete and utter rejection, with layers of rejection on top of the rejection and reminders of each rejection at every turn. In regards to friendships or any significant relationship. That hurts the worst. Even staged acts by pseudo couples-in-love planted on the street to rub in my own personal rejection that much more. Survivors ultimately recognize fake from real in these situations and others. Along with all this comes a sense of objectification. Imagine the humility of this network, through innuendo on the street, letting you know that they know you tripped and fell on the stairs inside your home, or that you overbaked your cake. Or maybe they creep behind you on a quiet street and take a picture of your back, and you happened to have a very unfortunate stain on your backside. They think things like this are extraordinarily funny all the time. It doesn’t seem to get old for them. Sophomoric pranks don’t seem to get old for them. Like they are stuck in a never-ending loop of pettiness.

But in the end, giving in to the fear, the hurt and the pain, and the constant annoyance, is not an option. And boy, there’s been a lot of it, but this girl, she’s still here and thriving more than ever. Five years, now working on six almost to the day as I write this. Only now, can I observe these people at play and pity them for their inability to control their own actions. Puppets they are!

There will be elements in the story that makes the contactee look like a moron. The invalidation of the experience is an inimical part of the experience. Almost as though the entities are saying you may tell this story if you wish. But if you tell it truthfully, you will be taken for a fool. There is nothing wrong with being taken for a fool except that it does seal the phenomenon away from the very sober ladies and gentlemen who are making careers in science. They are not interested in investigating the kinky, the anecdotal and possibly pathological.

-Terence McKenna on experiences with the otherworldly and UFOs.

Day One

Street Names Passing

January 25, 2011

THERE’S THIS DEEP penetrating ache that eclipses my heart every single day for countless hours at a time. It’s a dull, emanating pain that begins just under the left side of my chest and reaches out to the curves of my rounded shoulders. It is my heart crying out to mankind for the sake of humanity. For God’s sake, it moans. Why won’t they say anything! My shoulders slump, my eyes cast downward to the ground. These people, these zombies. They’re all brainwashed. They know what’s happening, but they won’t speak. Why won’t they speak?! My head angles to the sky seeking an answer from above as if the gods high up over the clouds would communicate something, anything. They just don’t care, I report to them. They just don’t care about Love…about Life…

While this pain is like that of a lonely heart, it is mostly born of disappointment. Or, rather a shattered illusion that awakened me to what many have chosen to become. Followers without a voice. Spineless beings frightened into submission amidst a new breed of loyalists whom they follow—a cabal willing to carry out incredibly heinous, occult-like crimes against their fellow man, or woman. All for the sake of belonging. While only the rarest among them are true psychopaths, many of the rest have disgracefully fallen into a groupthink trance. Sleepwalking among us. Some of them are just compromised souls while others go on wishing they could be among the elite while digging themselves deeper into a pit of emptiness. All this for acceptance within a group considered to be, to them only of course, of the most almighty and powerful. Praise be to God! Cadres like this are neither of these things—almighty or powerful. Religious, I am not, but this I know as a normal human being with a healthy conscience who would never go out of her way to inflict excruciating pain upon another living creature. Such a junta and its followers are not almighty or powerful and the consequences of their actions, so help them God, will be disastrous in time if they don’t save themselves. Every action they take against another with mal intent is action taken against themselves. But they don’t seem to grasp that reality, and what a dangerous denial that is. But they will grasp it. With help from God above, they will, and it will be the result of a wrath of fury unlike any other we’ve seen in this lifetime on this planet. It’s coming and there is nowhere they can hide.

The computer snapped on all by itself, there was a clanking of metal on the bike stand outside my window and there was this plain white van with a yellow siren light atop its roof. The van idled on the street in front of my brownstone apartment building and near my bedroom window. The driver wore a headset with a mouthpiece on his right, and he peered directly into my eyes once I’d pulled the curtain back to get a better look at the commotion going on outside. His grin, sinister. He jerked his body in subtle laughter, sadistically watching me peek from behind the curtain with timid, sheepish caution. If I could’ve heard him, a deep guttural laugh would’ve belt out with an echo and a ‘muwhahaha,’ sound, like the kind you’d hear from a Christopher Walken character in one of the creepy films in which he’s acted. Stunned, I let the curtain drop back into place, my mind reeling, seeking an explanation because what I knew, what I really knew, was that someone or something completely engineered this moment. There was no doubt about it. I imagine I knew like frightened souls trying to escape a fire by arson, only to notice all firehose cabinets on the floor were emptied of their hoses and extinguishers beforehand, knew. They knew their death was engineered when all doors to the fire escape were suspiciously locked. Someone set this ‘fire’ and wanted the trapped person to know she’d been set up while others watched on, salivating at the bit as the sacrifice was about to begin. For someone unaccustomed to orchestrated events, the idea of why this would be happening to me was beyond comprehension. Why would this happen to someone like me? At the time a dog walker and freelance writer who walked dogs more than freelance wrote. You know what’s really weird? Somehow, someway, my body and soul knew something was coming my way. Like a sacrificial lamb who picks up on the scent of a vicious, hungry predator hiding behind the tree over the hill.

Let me explain. During the few hours leading up to this moment, I was restless, on pins and needles, almost waiting for something to blow. Maybe for a bomb to drop or for an ominous storm to crawl in from beyond the west river only to stall over the city without hope of traversing toward the East. Here’s what I know: there was a confluence of negative energies predating this night. Anxiety, uncertainty, and the sense I’d been purposely destabilized by newfound friends was building up within for weeks, merging into a mushroom cloud of darkness slowly forming within my own inner universe. Awareness brought me to the precipice of this dark cloud. Awareness that the conflicting messages friends were doling out, a little here and a little there, were diabolically intentional. They were setting the stage for a mental and psychic attack. They created absurd drama, frequently changed plans, and began placing me last on invitations to social events. All nuanced indicators of malicious, sneaky, and slimy agendas. It was their actions, the loss of a few dog walking clients and a recent escape from a drunken housemate that put me on edge about my future well-being. In retrospect, I believe these evil-minded people were purposely building me up for maximum terror because only then does the adrenalin run wild creating the kind of energy they love to siphon off their perceived victims. That is their life blood—fear-saturated coagulates of the purest O-negative blood. This was the last week of January, 2011. The week I say every ounce of life for me was shattered. Life being that energy we think of with its natural ebbs and flows. The ride some call it when it’s going well. It was walloped, stricken and bludgeoned. First with something blunt, then with something sharp. So sharp, in fact, life fell to the earth just like a wall of broken glass would fall to the earth with a trillion shards and particles cascading to the ground before it would billow up into the air like embers from a fire that is accelerated by a brief puff of air or gust of wind. The remaining dust and debris dispersing everywhere until it all descends into a deep, dark abyss that exists right here on this very earth, yes it does, I don’t care what people say. The abyss exists. I didn’t get pulled down into that abyss along with the vacuum created by the shards and the scraps, the dust and the debris. Instead, I’ve been suspended right here above the earth, gliding just over the surface with my feet barely scraping the ground ever since.

Day one began just before the break of dawn on a Tuesday. Tuesday, January 25. But jumping into Tuesday would make no sense without discussing the evening of Monday, January 24, 2011. It was Monday evening when I paced the floor in anxious suspense looking for anything to keep me busy, to calm my rattled nerves. Calling my sister to pass the time seemed amenable. Sometimes we talked about everyday things—the weather, our parents, crazy news on T.V. The time, though, the conversation proved to complicate matters because the topic of conversation after the weather fell upon the death of a high-ranking Pentagon employee whose body was found mangled in Delaware’s Cherry Island Landfill. He lying there dead along with the usual fare for that site—discarded refrigerators, air conditioners, deserted microwave ovens and similar broken-down modern appliances. His death boggles the minds of the intrigued. He had been acting out of character one fateful day, oddly roaming around a parking garage like a puppet, removing his shoes and then disappearing off camera before his body turned up some time later. Wheeler was his last name, as I recall. The more my sister spoke about the mysterious conspiracy surrounding his death, the more I experienced a high-voltage surge running through my body like an electrified pulse. His last moments so inexplicable, the dubiousness of it all left me speculating about what had been building up in my own reality. The distress I began to feel because of this conversation was mounting with every minute. In a way, it felt like a rogue freight train was barreling toward my consciousness, and that every cell in my five foot two frame braced themselves for an explosive impact. I rushed my sister off the phone, making up an excuse about needing to use the restroom. Then I washed my dishes, folded the clothes, unpacked some belongings from boxes left over from the recent move to this new apartment, took a shower, swept the floor, brushed my teeth and finally decided there was nothing else I could do as the night drew on but to oh-so-carefully crawl onto my bed, curl up with my gray and white cat, Ashes, delicately tuck myself under the covers, glance in the direction of each and every corner of my apartment and… wait.

The year of 2011 would see four partial solar eclipses, the first occurring on January 4, 2011. The remaining occurred on June 1, July 1 and November 25. This historical year, historical to me, also experienced two full lunar eclipses occurring on June 15, and December 10, 2011. There are those who believe solar events such as flares and eclipses, are being used by the elites not only for time travel but for timeline manipulations through which elite beings can move through dimensions. I wonder if that is what happened on this night—a timeline manipulation of sorts.

You see, says MrCati, a YouTube.com conspiracy theorist who, in my opinion, is a master of decoding ritualistic events, The sun is a powerful energy source and, ultimately, creates gravity. Hell, the sun could actually be a ‘super computer’ of sorts and if it is used for information transmission, it could be used to mind control the rest of us down here on earth. It could explain what happened because what I’m about to tell you is bizarre, and mind control seemed at hand. According to MrCati, and other dissenting voices, people as high up as the Bush family are determined to see The New World Order come into fruition while they are still alive. Can members of the highest of echelons, alter time to ensure they remain alive to see such a thing?

It would be hours before my tensed muscles finally gave way to relaxation in bed that evening upon which time I resigned to the first stage of sleep. Then it happened. At the moment I’d just surrendered to sleep. My computer snapped on. Zzzzt! Zzzzt! Just like that, all by itself. In shock, I bolted up out of my deep unconscious state, taking a moment to gather composure. Ashes skirmished off the bed to seek refuge in the small space between the radiator and my quilt, a down comforter with a brand new gray and white cover sack from West Elm. The volume of my Dell laptop was set to a seemingly wretched decibel number 11 as its happy jingle prompted a sign-in. The yellow daisy icon brightened on the screen, chipper as can be. As cheerful as the flower is, in that moment it looked more to me like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, poised to utter demonic commands in multiple tongues as if some character in a psychedelic cartoon movie. How the computer zapped on is unbeknownst to me because I know it had been completely shut down. I can say with absolute certainty that my computer was off before I closed my eyes that evening. I know it was off because I worried about it overheating against my fluffy new bedspread. So, yes, I am sure. Let me correct that. I’m certain, one hundred percent certain, my Dell laptop was shut down all the way. But it was at that darkest hour, after most bars close their doors to sweep the floors and send their employees home, before the early morning sun begins to rise and the first jogger passes by, just at the most silent hour, when my computer snapped on all by itself, with no press of the button.

With trepidation, I leaned toward the keyboard to gently place my thumb and pointer finger on the mousepad when all of a sudden a loud, startling ruckus erupted just outside my window. It was the sound of metal clanking against the metal of one of the bike stands fitted securely in the ground just in front of my apartment. The sound sent my spine into an upright position, stiff and on guard. My eyes quickly shifted to the curtains, as if I could see right through them to whatever could be standing on the other side. I sat as still as the quietest lake on a cold and creepy night staring at those curtains, listening intently for any new sounds or movement. But there was nothing. Dead silence. Suddenly, I heard the slight rumbling of a muffler idling. It sent my heart into a raging fury. Blood rushed through my veins, launching me into an even greater state of fear. With every inch of my body now trembling, I gathered up the courage to stretch across my bed, reach my arm up to the curtain, pull the cotton fabric aside, then, very carefully insert two of my fingers between the slats of my blinds, just enough to peek outside. What I saw was the white van I mentioned earlier. It was running, but sat stationary in the street directly in front of my apartment. The man with the headset leaned across the seat to peer through the passenger side of the van—the side which was closest to my apartment. He grinned a Joker’s grin with an evil smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. His lips parted to make way for a sickly laugh escaping his mouth. Something was terribly off about this whole scenario, like I mentioned. In fact, it was downright creepy. I quick ran through a checklist, which I will do with you again:

My computer snapped on,

Metal clanked on the bike stand,

A white van was idling outside my window with a creepy driver inside.

I yanked my fingers out of the blinds and jumped back across my bed to stand on the opposite side of it, distancing myself as far away from the window as possible, breathing heavier with every passing second in this most harrowing moment of my life. My apartment is so small that when I say I was standing on the other side of my bed, I could just as easily say I was standing in my kitchen. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. My feet and legs shook as I stood on the icy cold tile, terrified out of my mind, desperate to process what was going on when a hushed whisper of realization escaped my lips.

I’ve been set up.

My eyes moved from left to right, left to right and left to right, scanning my apartment, unsure of what to do next. Panic set in. My heart began to pound even faster out of my chest. A new truth began to take shape—one which my prefrontal cortex computed all on its own and this is what it came up with:

I’ll call the police even though it won’t matter but because this is a set-up. Something is going on. I don’t understand what it is, but it was arranged. I’ll just go ahead and call to see what happens.

My fingers barely punched out 911 on my cell before a profound sense of awareness or a telepathic knowing told me my call was being routed elsewhere. I would’ve bet money on it then, and I would bet money on it now. Whatever was going on was so sophisticated, even my call to the police wasn’t really going to the police. A man with a stereotypical, old-fashioned south Philly Italian accent answered.

Hello, 911, heh, heh, heh, The operator’s voice was gruff but it pitched high at the end of ‘911’ before the menacing ‘heh, heh, heh,’ part. My face fell.

Not only did the operator sound like a psychopath, but it sounded as if, on a separate line, he was hedging bets and writing numbers, maybe about what was going on in my situation. A personal bias, yes, but Philly is Philly. There is some truth in stereotype. I say this in an endearing way. The operator was a fake and a fraud. Besides, what I was thinking and believing, and really, what I knew, was something most people would discredit: that a sophisticated agency or mob of sadistic people, one that would be above the law, was involved in some kind of nefarious, complex game of which I was just about to become a target; and this was their way of letting me know the game was about to begin.

They wanted me to know that my call was being routed elsewhere. Paranoia? Please, I’ve been down that road a million times. This is what I know to be true based upon intuition and what was being revealed to me at the time. Anyone would have drawn the same conclusion. I’m simply reporting my experience as was perceived during the wee hours of Tuesday, January 25, 2011. Nonetheless, I remained on the line with the suspicious 911 operator, telling him about the van and the noise outside of my window. I also told him what else I began to believe was true—that someone had broken into the basement through the cellar windows—another possible explanation for so much clanking. What I didn’t tell him was that I was convinced, one hundred percent without-a-doubt convinced, I was going to die. That someone was methodically calculating his every move as he executed a meticulous plan to ascend the stairwell from the cold, dark and damp basement, home to a family of super-sized cockroaches, to kill me. There was some clicking on the phone, and a couple sighs, a few more ‘heh, heh, heh’s’ and a grunt or two before the operator said a police car was on its way.

There in the southeastern most corner of my apartment I stood, trembling, next to my bed, which didn’t fit flush against the walls because of the old-fashioned radiator’s juxtaposition. That corner is the point in my studio as far away from my door as possible. My studio with only one way in, and one way out. This cozy, tiny home was all but a trap. Ashes darted from his hideout next to the radiator and shimmied across the floor, as low to the ground as possible, to reach the closet where he tucked himself behind a pile of clothes, and three pairs of shoes, his whiskers barely showing behind my Shitake-colored Keen Presidios at the door’s edge.

This is it. I'm really going to die, my breathing becoming heavier as I inched my feet towards the kitchen. I then froze up, turned around and tip-toed toward my bed, unsure where to go. A knitted gray Columbia sports cap with an embroidered red flower covered my skull, and I wore a loose maroon sweatshirt and old, baggy jeans with a tendency to slide down my backside. I often fell asleep in these clothes. It was just the way I was. Family and friends joked about it all the time. Why don’t you just wear pajamas, boxers, anything else? I don’t know, I’d say. I’m fine like this."

I can just imagine the bobbing of my head with that gray cap on while I jumped from one end of my apartment to the other, on top of my bed, back down to the floor, scanning my surroundings, scared out of my wits. I was absolutely convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt someone was on his way up the stairs, or was lurking by the basement door at the top of the steps waiting to charge through my door, break in and kill me. For certain, I was the prey being circled by the sharks, readied as a feast for the beast that would swoop down to feed off the tremendous fear produced as a result of, probably, two or more years of slow-brewing, diabolical preparation. Two or more years of a contrived reality designed to create the absolute highest level of peak distress. And what comes with the absolute highest level of peak distress? A victim with so much adrenalin and cortisol running through her veins she emanates into the atmosphere what the evil spirits know is the finest ‘wine’ available this side of the living.

My brain ran into overdrive seeking all possibilities for escape. If no escape was feasible, a plan needed to be hatched to prevent the intruder from entering my personal domain. These thoughts occurred at warp speed, mind you. In a flash, racing around as I continued to leap from one end of my apartment to the other, opening drawers in my kitchen fumbling around for a knife, then rushing to my closet where Ashes recoiled farther back into my clothes as I sought out a broom with a long, sturdy handle. One I could use to jab the intruder, maybe put him in a choke hold and smash him up against the wall as if some superhuman strength would emerge from within. All of this in a race to save my life while mentally preparing to face whatever was ascending the basement stairs—no doubt my deadly assassin. In that moment, in the heightened fear and desperate fight for survival, an interesting thing happened. I fought and surrendered all at once. If that makes sense. I realized in those lightning fast seconds, that the two, both of them—fighting and surrendering—could exist together, at the same time, when the body prepares itself against an unknown threat of violence. Turns out surrendering does not necessarily mean giving up a fight.

I continued strategizing. I’ll open my door, really quick, rush to the front door of the building then make a break for it. I can do this.

I considered the options.

No. No, that’s no good. Whoever’s coming up through the basement could easily jump out from the stairwell to grab me. I have no choice. I’ll have to stay in here, here in my tiny apartment. Save my life by staying in here. One choice doesn’t seem better than the other.

I realized, on a higher plane, one choice really wasn’t better than the other and there was no certainty one could possibly pan out with a better outcome than the other.

In the next nanosecond, I approximated the distance between the basement stairwell door and the front door of the building. My door being almost equidistant between the two. I’ve since measured the space. From my door to the front door of the building is twelve feet three inches. From the basement door to my apartment door is seven feet seven inches. Just about twenty feet from the basement door to the front door of the building.

As I considered my break, I couldn’t help but recognize that the unfolding of this bizarre seemingly coordinated cascade of events—events I had a distinct feeling were headed my way to begin with—felt highly professional. Coldly calculated by an emotionless ruler of sorts. As if someone, with no reservations for humankind whatsoever planned out this entire scenario, convincing his or her minions to fall in line. And that this person, or someone of similar nature, who was one of them, was going to very matter-of-factly key into my apartment, strangle me, stab me, shoot me, put a sack over my head, drag me down to the floor without a sound and snuff out my little life without so much as a flinch, before exiting my apartment quietly, leaving no trace of evidence behind. They wanted me to know this was coming, so that I would suffer until the final act. The evening of January 24, 2011, leading into the early morning of January 25, 2011, might have been a demonstration of power not just by a sole tyrant, but by some of the most sadistic people, dare I say psychological terrorists, alive.

I reached for the phone in the back pocket of my raggedy jeans. Maybe my sister will answer, I hung on to hope. The Palm Smartphone I owned at the time fumbled in the cradle of my fiercely trembling hands. With fingers shaking violently, I touched and activated everything on the screen, Facebook, no, twitter, no, email, no, weather, for God’s sake! Until finally finding the speed-dial for my sister. It was now approximately 4:30 a.m.

Hello? Cadence answered in a scratchy, questioning voice, half asleep, groggy. She’d just become my lifeline.

What I remember most about that conversation was the fear and urgency of the moment. Staring at the door from the opposite wall, waiting for someone to break in, with my hands and wrists barely strong enough to hold the three ounces of the phone to my ear. I told her what happened and that I thought someone was on the basement steps.

You got one of those security stick things to stick up under the doorknob? Cadence asked, alert, but yawning to come out of dream state. She realized the urgency, but was helpless miles away in our home state of Delaware. It’s too bad if you don’t. Maybe you can stick something else up under the knob like a chair or something?’

I had no security stick, but I could use a chair. Not a bad idea, I thought. This would mean I would have to move from the farthest point in my apartment to the door with the chair, which I was terrified to do. Still plastered up against the far wall, I watched, and waited for whoever was on the other side to come bursting through. In a split second I decided to hurry up and go for the chair. I lunged toward the table, reached for the chair—a small, wooden Ikea chair—yanked it out from under the kitchen table as fast as I could, took a deep breath, then ran up to the door at warp speed to place the back of the it up under the doorknob. I then jumped back away from the door to, once again, stare at it, anticipating the jiggling of the handle from the other side. The inexpensive, lightweight and delicate mass-produced Ikea chair, which looked more like a pile of neatly assembled toothpicks held together by Elmer’s Glue and a few small screws, barely stood a chance against a cold-blooded killer. The seemingly brilliant idea now appeared hopeless. Ashes peaked out from behind a pair of boots and stuck one paw out from the closet as if testing the waters. His tail shaking up and shimmering behind a pile of folded jeans and Dickie pants.

The police arrived while I was still on the phone with Cadence. It was only when they approached that I gathered up the courage, just barely, to make a run for my door, cautiously remove the chair, reach for the doorknob and twist it with the same zealousness of someone quickly yanking a Band-Aid off the skin instead of slowly peeling it back hair by hair, skin cell by skin cell. Then I darted the twelve feet three inches toward the front door of the building, fumbled to quickly push down on the door’s push handle so that I could stumble outside into safety and into the cold winter air. Never once did I glance over my shoulder back towards the basement door. I told Cadence I’d call her back, returned my phone to my back pocket and waved to the officers who were standing at the base of the steps.

One male and one female police officer stood outside of my building looking up to me standing atop the stoop. Their car was pulled up very close