War of the Worlds

By Prince John Chaber

War of the Worlds is a book designed to spark the imagination and curiosity of readers of every age. It tells of the author's terifying and horrific experience when his home one evening was invaded by an indescribable creature from the unknown and of a most revealing conversation he had with the creature. It speaks of matters that took place at a time before time. A time before human life began; a time before the heavens and the earth came into existence; a time when there was no God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jun 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426950537

Prince John Chaber

Prince John Chaber is the author of Voices of My Soul a popular book of sonnets, verses and philosophical short stories. He combines a unique talent for poetry and philosophy with a striking gift for story-telling.

Book preview

ONE

THE VISITOR

One memorable late December evening, not long after the egrets had made their daily trek westwards to their nightly haven in the sharp jagged rocks in the cliffs overlooking the tranquil Caribbean sea, I encountered a man whose words were so terrible to my ears, and whose voice so rattled my senses, that even unto this day, I am unsure whether it was a case of my tired mind playing games with my reason, or if that which I called a man, was not some terrible image in a dream, or just an awful figment of an imagination gone awry.

But the more I think on him, and more particularly, the more I reflect on the awful import of his words, and the nightmarish ordeal of the encounter, the more I am convinced that I really did meet such a man, and if not actually a man, then some terribly misshapen creature from the dark and dismal unknown.

Admittedly, it was on one of those days when I was completely stressed out. To say I had had a hard day, would be an understatement. My mind was a whirl and the pounding in my head was reminiscent of those days in the height of summer when the humidity was so thick you could cut it with a dull knife. At such times, I would invariably experience one of those terrible headaches, the pain of which was so violent, I felt as if I would go out of my mind.

But on that day, there was little humidity. The temperature was a pleasant 78 degrees and the steady Atlantic breeze, swept over the mountains above the Town, before dying in the calm, blue waters of the Caribbean sea, leaving a refreshing coolness on the atmosphere.

Yet by 4.00 o’ clock, my headache was so bad, I decided to go home early, to try and relax and get some sleep if possible. But relaxation was clearly not on the cards for that afternoon.

My house was set on a hill overlooking the town. On the East was the Central Hills standing like a majestic giant sending its cooling breezes over the town and providing a natural source of cool air which permeated the whole house, making it unnecessary to turn the air conditioning on even on the warmest day. The evenings, were fresh and cool. As I lay in bed, late afternoon, in the middle of this tropical paradise, I was able to cover from head to foot with a light blanket and still feel comfortable. If only my head was not pounding so!

It was about six o’clock when I finally decided that sleep was not going to come to me, at least not in a hurry. After tossing and turning and agonizing in bed for a little over an hour, I got out and walked to the verandah and dropped myself heavily unto the lazy chair.

Immediately, a draft of cool air rushed through; and I noticed, for the first time, that it was quite dark, although it was only a little after six o’clock. True, this was December and the shades of night sometimes get drawn quite early; but it did occur to me that the darkness seemed a little too intense for the time of day.

However, I did not pay too much attention to the gloomy surroundings since within minutes I began to relax. It was the kind of relaxation I only get when I lay, face upwards in the large netted swing which now stood empty and invitingly before me. But I was stretching out in the easy chair and I was feeling too comfortable to move.

Within minutes, I felt better. My headache vanished as suddenly as it had started. I felt as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My head, moments before, an exploding minefield of pain, was now as cool as a cucumber and as light as a feather. I closed my eyes and began to luxuriate in the quiet, soporific tranquility of the peaceful surroundings.

The temperature was down to about 69 degrees and with the stress and the headache gone I felt as if I could fall into a deep sleep right there and then.

Early to bed early to rise was not a particularly favorite tenet of mine at that time. For me, early to bed was always followed by early to wake. If I went to bed at anytime before 10.0 pm I would wake around midnight and sleep would elude me for the rest of the night. I did not suffer from insomnia; it was just I did not need a whole lot of sleep. When I was in my twenty’s I could go a whole week with no more that two or three hours of sleep. I was now closer to forty and four hours of sleep per night was plenty for me. My ideal time for going to bed was around 2.0 a.m. I would then sleep without waking up until 6.0 a.m., which was my ideal time for waking up.

If I had to be up before 6 o’ clock, say 4 or 5 o’ clock, I would just go to bed a couple of hours earlier. When I was about 22, I read Tolstoy’s War and Peace, all 16,000 odd pages of it, in about 90 days, which meant working 6–8 hours per day, and reading the rest of the evening through the wee hours of the morning before going to bed.

So now, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and stretched myself.

This feels good. I feel good. I told myself. I was prepared to let my body, not my brain, dictate the course of the evening. I stretched, and let out a tired yawn. After all, I was all alone and one could do things when by one’s self that one would not dream of doing when someone else was around.

As I sank more deeply into the easy chair, a voice out of nowhere asked, feeling better?

I was so startled by the sudden interruption, that I turned my head too sharply to the right, thereby jarring a muscle and sending a sharp pain through my neck muscle down to the center of my spine.

For a few seconds I was paralyzed. Then my head began to throb again, but I cannot remember how long it lasted or when it eventually stopped. I was expecting to see someone coming up the stairs; but instead he, or it, or whatever it was, was right there beside me. I did not see anyone at that time but I could sense a strange presence. It was not clear at that time where the voice came from. It could have been to my right, or my left, in front of me or behind me. I could not tell for sure; but by then it was so dark that this was not too surprising. All I know is, I felt a kind of dread and fear I had never felt before. My fear factor was greatly elevated and so were my heart beats.

Who are you? I stammered. I felt as if I was going to faint; but I kept myself from doing so, in keeping with an old boast that I had always made and managed to maintain so far.

I’ll never faint, I used to say, at least not from fright. However dramatic or traumatic the circumstances, I will control myself. I will remain calm. I will maintain my composure."

Friends used to tell me that it was nonsense. That no one could be sure that he would not lose control, if overtaken by some sudden and unexpected traumatic or terrifying phenomenon.

Well, I had never fainted in the past, even in the face of many nerve shattering experiences. And I was not about to do so now, as terrifying as this, whatever it was beside me was. But I do believe that it was that old resolution, coupled with a dogged self confidence that others often mislabeled conceit, that kept me from actually passing out there and then.

Clearly, this was no ordinary visitor. Not only did he come up those several flights of stairs unheard and unseen, as stealthily and noiselessly as a shadow; but as he sat beside me, he seemed to be sitting on all sides of me at the same time. He/it was to my right; to my left; in front of me; behind me and over me, perhaps even within me.

If the intention was to scare me to death it was succeeding. Still, I was trying desperately to hang on to my reason.

They say one of the things that help you to maintain calm and keep your composure when faced with an impossible or awkward situation such as this, is to retain control; control of yourself as well as the circumstances. If the control has slipped, or is slipping away, regain and maintain it at all costs, as quickly and as firmly as possible. The person who is in control invariably wins.

Control is a basic strategy in such games as bridge and blackjack. It is also essential in many ball games. It is no less essential in business; in politics; debates; negotiations; diplomacy; when confronted with some violent and life threatening situation.

This is true in almost every facet of life. When people face off in a crisis, the person in control invariably wins.

Besides, remaining in control is just another facet of the art of maintaining calm. Coolness under stress is the best known formula for success. Panic is the very stuff that failure is made of.

However, remaining calm, was not going to be easy, on this occasion. I felt as though I was surrounded, over–powered and beaten, in a game in which I was but an involuntary player, and the ground rules of which I did not know. It was as if I was caught in a revolving wheel spinning wildly and madly out of control.

I have to gain some form of initiative, before things get completely out of hand, I told myself. But I felt very much like a drowning man trying to clutch at a straw.

Not only was it all around and all over me. The voice was all pervading, even as though it was also coming from within the very depth of my soul.

For a while, I was overtaken by a sense of hopelessness, bordering on panic, comparable to the time, when, around the age of twelve, I was learning to float in the placid waters of the Caribbean sea.

It was on one of those all too familiar island holidays when every one flocked to the beach for a swim, to picnic, collect shells and other seaside memorabilia, laze about on one’s back, or romp and frolic in the warm dazzling gray sand.

On that occasion, I was lying on my back, letting the density of the warm, placid water cradle my body, when all of a sudden, I was swooped up by a pair of massively strong arms, and carried, kicking and screaming, for what seemed like an eternity, further out to sea.

In the depth of my terror and in between my screams, I could hear the voices of four men laughing and jeering. One of them bore me along as if I were a feather.

I remember screaming at the top of my voice in language colorful enough and certainly plaintive enough to appeal to every watery god to come to my rescue.

But as desperate as I must have sounded, all of the gods and creatures of the deep were either asleep, or if awake, chose to ignore my irreverent pleas and coarse imprecations for help.

The magnitude of my distress seemed to have heightened the level of my tormentor’s cruel pleasure. When years later the horrible incident was replayed over and over again in the setting of recurring nightmares, their grotesque gestures and twisted faces remained vivid images in my terror–scarred psyche.

Then, all of a sudden, I was thrown back into the water, and like a sack of flour, began to sink. I remember saying to myself, this is it. Goodbye, world, hello, God. I was sure that I had seen and breathed my last on mother earth. My body was going limp and taking in water like a sinking vessel. Yet