World War S: The Silence Begins

By Stephen Paul Thomas

The world stands on the brink of another worldwide economic and social crisis. People look for understanding through occult practices, so that mediums and fortunetellers have become wildly successful in helping them escape reality. There are no more churches, and established religion is a thing of the past. Christians must now gather in secret.
In this fragile era emerges Josh Heartley, a young boy with astounding prophetic abilities. Though Josh had a heart transplant in his early years, it doesn't slow him down. He is a light for everyone around him, and he can often tell future events with supernatural clarity.
During an accident, Josh has a Near Death Experience and finds himself in the middle of a spiritual battle that goes back more than two thousand years. Dr Julie Bond, conducting a research study involving Josh, hopes to unlock the secret behind NDEs and their ties to the human soul. She soon suspects the key lies within this very special boy.
Stephen Paul Thomas's thrilling novel is based on shocking real-world events of a thousand-years-long demonic occupation told through exciting storylines, unexpected twists, and many historical examples. If you read Frank Peretti's This Present Darkness, you will find this more eyeopening and shocking... all who would like to know more about the unseen battle must read this series!
"Thomas (Cluster, 2015) deftly paints a world in which Christians have been backed into a corner by the belief systems of other cultures—like that of Linda’s ancestral village in Central America—and by demons. These demons, including Karnelo, the “lust-addict spirit,” have been possessing people for hundreds of years, using human tools to instigate everything from the Inquisition to organized pedophilia. Thomas’ prose presents the complex story evocatively, as in the line “Linda’s chest rhythmically lifted and sank, like water in the mighty ocean, which kept its secrets in the dark deep.” - Kirkus Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Articity Publishing
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9789638998576

Book preview

Brutally good...

Prophetic...

The true spiritual world...

Genius...

(Readers’ opinions)

Stephen Paul Thomas

World War S

The Silence begins

novel

World War Spiritual Series Book 1.

When the demons will open the third eye of the humankind, then it has already been started...

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1.

It’s your turn now, said Josh, laughing while he hit the back of the front seat with a paper trumpet.

They were driving back from Morristown, from his grandmother’s, cruising on the 124 to join the evening traffic going east to New York. Josh’s Granny Ruth had thrown him a surprise birthday party; she’d planned everything very carefully. When you pass ten, you realize you can’t have any more single-figure birthdays, said Josh, the blond-haired son of Linda and Benet Heartley, in his precocious style, waving his hand in resignation. Linda loved this premature talk of her little prince, he really had the gift of the gab; that’s why she kept a diary of his wisecracks. For these tiny moments she could even stand Josh’s antics, like when he reduced the paper horn to a pulp, smashing it against her seat.

All right, she surrendered, her voice reflecting her exhaustion after the long, rushed day. Granny Ruth could not handle all the preparations by herself, so Linda had helped her. Meanwhile, Benet had taken the young guests and their dads to the riding school, letting the women get everything ready. But this is the last one, she made Josh promise, for the sixth time, that they would not continue the quiz. I have it. I have a specific car brand in my mind …

American?

No.

European?

No.

Then it has to be Japanese, Josh smiled into the mirror to show his mother that he was sure about his answer.

You got it, smart aleck! said Linda, smiling back. She couldn’t get enough of the view of her son’s beautiful face. What a nice guy he’s gonna be, she thought. She was already jealous of those girls who would someday fall madly in love with him.

Then I have two options, pondered Josh, touching a forefinger to his lips like somebody racking his brain for an answer. Either Honda, or Toyota!

So close, so close … nodded his mother.

The family car, the Ford had just arrived at an intersection with a green traffic light and crossed through, sweeping toward the entry for Highway 24.

Then it’s a Toyota! And I can even tell you the colour; it’s a white Toyota you had in your mind! shouted Josh, lightly tapping his father’s head with the paper trumpet for emphasis.

In one swift movement, Linda unbuckled her seatbelt to grab the irritating toy. If you don’t use it as intended, I’ll take it away!

If we make it home, I’m gonna get you! said Benet, pretending to be angry, turning halfway to Josh.

It was at that exact moment that something rammed into their side with brutal force.

Benet thought he ran through the red light at the next crossroad. The oncoming vehicle crashed right into the front left door, where Linda sat. The car tumbled with the force of the collision, slid onto its top, and ended up in a shop window. Josh burst headfirst through the rear right window and fell onto the pavement splintered with glass and lost consciousness. Linda’s shaking body was stuck between the dashboard and the remains of the windscreen—which had shattered into a spiderweb—laying in a pool of blood.

Strangely, Benet could barely feel pain, only a twisted ankle and maybe sprained neck muscles.

He tried to pull his wife out first, but that fragile and beautiful woman, who was now hovering between life and death, was stuck in the wreckage beyond help. Those lips that he loved, shiny with lipstick and blood, were only gaping now. Benet recognized the words she wanted to say; Go … Josh…

Jesus! Josh … shouted Benet.

The boy wasn’t in the car anymore. Benet had just realized that he was in the middle of the intersection. He lay there like an orphaned rag doll. His limbs were unnaturally twisted.

Josh, get up! yelled Benet at the top of his voice, but the boy didn’t move. The door didn’t want to move either, the lock mechanism was clearly crushed, so he raised his uninjured leg and kicked out the window on his side.

It seemed to take years to get out of the car. There was dead silence on the street, broken only by the strident noise of his car’s still-turning wheels. But he saw lights quickly approaching from the highway.

They’re coming this way, the thought struck into Benet’s mind. He dragged himself on his double-swollen ankle towards his son. He had to get to Josh before the lights reached his son. The streetlights aren’t on here and nobody will be able to see Josh, Benet thought.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he saw the familiar outline of an eighteen-wheeler barrelling down on them. It came from the opposite side of the highway, but he should have been able to see its light earlier. Benet had a feeling that this truck had switched on all its beams at the last second, just before the intersection, as if it were trying to creep up on them. At the same time, he could see the driver pulling the string and heard the blast of the rich bass horn—Get out of my way!

Oh, my God, stop him! said Benet, his last invocation; there was no time for anything else. He covered Josh’s body with his own, waiting for the several tons of monster-machine to sweep them away. Then everything went black.

Benet regained consciousness on the stretcher. A cop was looking at him, standing in the circle of emergency workers. His badge dangled from his jacket pocket, reflecting the glaring red-blue emergency lights of the police cars and fire trucks into Benet’s eyes with every little movement.

My family … said Benet, lifting his hand towards the policeman, but the paramedics pushed him back.

Everybody is on the way to the hospital, you can relax now, said the cop. The flashing lights gleamed in the drops of sweat on his dark brown skin. Lieutenant John Levi. I was out on another case when I bumped into your car accident. I came from the highway, and after I stopped I immediately called the paramedics. They’ll take you in, and we’ll talk again when you’re better. Hold on! he said, nodding before he disappeared in the whirl of activity.

The paramedics slid the stretcher carefully up onto the rails, into the back of the ambulance. The sterile inside of the car slowly swallowed him as he saw the receding details of the accident scene.

Then his head fell to the side. He watched as the EMT climbed in and pulled the doors slowly shut.

At the last movement, before the terrible gate to the nightmarish, outside world finally closed, he noticed the wreckage of the other car involved in the incident.

It was a white Toyota.

*

Salome Sue Richardson could not calm down. She was always like this when she had to visit a client. But this visit was more important than any before; the reality show—and her future—depended on it.

Not that she couldn’t live without this media fuss; actually it annoyed her sometimes, but she was mercilessly used to the success, like an addict. She felt like everything looked all right on the surface, but the deep chasm beneath was stormy. The main problem was that she was unable to calm this abyss because the situation was out of her control. It was up to outside and unruly forces.

Let’s call a spade a spade; it all depended on the spiritual realm.

They were trying to record one of the episodes of Medium on Call, a reality show now in its sixth season. Her producer was a patient man, and Sue did not sense the spirit of the shadow-world running around his head, but she clearly saw that his point of explosion was not that far off.

They had run behind the cameras for two days already, waiting to catch some real action. It hadn’t been like this in the last five seasons. The clients had been queuing up; the fortune-tellers and mediums were very popular in the 20’s, especially around 2025. All of them wanted to know where to go next in a world so out of joint. The governments could not stop the runaway horse of inflation. The uncontrolled wealth appeared to reach apocalyptic proportions in contrast to the rampant poverty.

Why this one? she pondered. Why does it have to go bust in the sixth season? It’s just not working. Before, when she popped into a bar and looked around, she could immediately contact the spirits; she worked all the time, even when she didn’t want to. The spiritual world didn’t let her rest. And now—it was so funny to say it—there was deadly silence.

Are you ready?

Oh, shit, Sue jumped. You almost killed me! she bawled at Jim, her producer, when he burst through the door. This isn’t working either, she thought about her precognition skills. Until only recently, she could feel it when somebody stood in front of the door, about to knock. Before that person lifted up his hand, she had already shouted, Come in. So nobody felt obligated to knock on her door anymore, they just came right in.

Salome, I thought you knew I was coming … said Jim, confused. In his eyes, Sue could see not only surprise, but dismay too. It was the clear projection of that feeling that nothing was the same as before. He only called Sue by her great-grandmother’s name when he wanted to be formal.

I didn’t feel it this time …

Nevertheless, will we try today? If you want, you can rest on the weekend, and … he said, gesticulating, trying to curb the anger and stress that had just accumulated, that was accumulating in him too …

I’ve explained to you already; it doesn’t matter whether I’m tired or not. The spiritual world doesn’t rest either. They have no bodies, they don’t get tired, don’t need to eat and sign contracts.

They don’t even need to perform their contracts, said the producer seriously and turned on his heals, leaving Sue alone.

Damn it, Jim! Sue shouted after him.

She buried her face in her hands, smudging the makeup that her assistants had put on her half an hour ago.

Hilarious, she thought, now I’m no different from those ordinary television fortune-tellers. I, the great-granddaughter of the famous medium—who even solved many mysterious murder cases for the police. The Internet is full of her old séances, and all practicing mediums around the world look to her as their master and paragon! I’ve brought shame on her …

Or I’ll just be simply normal after all these years of being a medium. It’s only a question of viewpoint. I’ll be an everyday woman without any spiritual ability.

I have to go, at least try, it might work. I just need to decide, and it will be done …

Three impatient knocks came on her door. Jim must have passed the boiling point, he probably had given vent to his rage somewhere—Sue didn’t need to use her clairvoyant abilities to establish that. She stood up, fixed her lipstick, and penciled her eyebrows.

Great-granny Salome and spirit of all ancestors, don’t leave me alone now! she said loudly to her reflection in the mirror. But the vibration and jostling she’d felt many times before, coming from the spirits around her, was no longer present. Her lipstick fell from the dressing table with a hard thud, rolling under the heater. There were many old lipsticks dying in that grave, waiting for their red destiny, inaccessible.

Ugh, not again … she whispered and stepped out from her luxury caravan.

*

Lieutenant John Levi was still thinking about the accident, though he’d already driven to the address he was originally called to. I definitely need to visit them, he thought. He would have done so even if he hadn’t promised the injured man.

He remembered it clearly: coming from the east, from the wide-curving exit of the highway. He hadn’t switched on the blue emergency lights yet because the road was somehow more deserted than most evenings. His car swept through two red lights without encountering any traffic, when he reached that specific intersection.

The high beams switch had been having problems for weeks, so he couldn’t switch them on immediately. He was distracted by that stupid plastic switch, he couldn’t find it; so he switched on the collision warning system instead, which he normally wouldn’t use and always had switched off when he was driving. While he was fussing with it, he felt suddenly as if his brother Paul had pushed him on his shoulder, saying in his deep voice, Look out! His brother definitely could not have been there, since he lived in another state, but everything was so realistic; he could even see light shining on his hand’s brown skin, smell the sweet fragrance of it. All of these impressions were so familiar from his childhood, when they had spent those long hours playing together. Their mother had the same sweet-smelling hands; it must be the fragrance of love coming through the pores, he’d always thought. Paul was remarkably like their mother, in that sense of love anyway; he became a Presbyterian minister. John trailed far behind him in that respect—he would never be like him.

Paul—or one of the angels he was always referring to—probably had sensed there was a problem, because he jerked his head up due to that miraculous push. That’s when he saw the small black heap about five meters in front of him. There were no marked outlines, just limbs lying on the pavement. As if giant, human-sized marionettes had gone for a walk after the evening show of some puppet theatre, and just decided to take a rest in the middle of the road.

The anti-collision system braked in a fraction of a second and made an avoiding maneuver with the steering wheel. The police car skidded on the remains of the car parts scattered on the road. The smoking rubber created a huge white cloud covering the whole windscreen. While it dissolved, he tried to compose himself.

If he hadn’t switched on the anti-collision system accidentally, he would have crushed them to death. Only the automatic system could avoid an accident at this speed, he thought, I might need to use it more frequently. My brother’s saving angel won’t be here all the time.

He jumped out of the car and lifted the man’s body; a boy lay beneath him. The man was not in serious condition, but the boy may have life-threatening trauma. Blood ran out of his ears, which signaled intracranial injury. He called the emergency line immediately, meanwhile he ran to the car resting on its roof; there was a woman in severe condition trapped inside the wreckage.

The driver of the white Toyota was conscious. John asked how he was, but he just kept repeated the same sentence, Where is the hitchhiker?

But there was nobody with him in the car. John looked quickly around but there was no trace of anybody who might have flown through the windscreen.

Then everything had moved so fast; backup arrived with a fire truck and ambulance, and he had to go to the next case.

John … John! his partner Raymond, the forensic detective, called him when John was still sitting in his car inside the police line, staring at nothing. Who knows how long I’ve been sitting here, realized John, watching the running film in his mind.

Couldn’t sleep? Or is it a new girlfriend?

No, answered John, confused, shaking his head. I just hope that family didn’t die in front of my eyes. I hope they all survived.

Are you talking about the accident on the 124? They just reported it to us. Terrible. But I’m sure you won’t like this one either, said Raymond, pointing up to the building. Do you want Jill to cover for you?

Jill is pregnant, John cast a reproachful glance at his partner. She should stay in the office. What’s up, man? You haven’t been that heartless before …

I haven’t been that old before either, answered Raymond, heading towards the building. And the older I get, the more I hate being buried with work.

True. With the 42% increase in the crime rate, I can see that.

And that’s just violent crime … added Ray.

They groped their way up in the dim light of the building block’s staircase on South Street. The broken floor mosaic was covered in the crumbled, musty paint that had fallen from the wall. Doors cracked open on each floor and neighbors peered out at the uniformed officers.

Did you check them? John pointed to the withdrawing, indistinct figures behind the doors.

We’ve started. Put a uniform at the top and one at the bottom. They should meet in the middle soon.

You always did have a thing for symmetry, smiled John. If you could, you’d arrange the corpses into some kind of geometrical shape before you take your pictures …

Fool …

They finally reached the flat—the crime scene. There were four technicians in white overalls in the bigger room, looking for fingerprints and DNA samples on the furniture.

Uhh … that was the only word John could groan after seeing the scene.

Uhh, right. I expected your usual ‘No way’. You haven’t deviated from that in years.

This is the version for very special cases. What is this? Spontaneous combustion?

I have no idea, but whatever combustion it is, it only affected part of the body.

A bookcase stood at the corner of the poorly furnished living room. The spines of the books, along with all the titles, got scorched. The curtain—slipped sideways on the slanting curtain rod—was also sooty. The globe of the floor lamp looked like cowhide with its black patches. There was a rusty brown armchair, its insides totally black. A carbonized pile of human remains sat in the middle of the armchair cushion. In front of it on the floor there were a pair of polished shoes, resting still intact.

But at the armrest, they could see—John had to lean forward because he still didn’t believe his eyes—a human arm ending at the shoulder. The fire consumed the rest of the body, only the right arm stayed intact.

I’ve never, really never … John shook his head.

I know, you’ve never seen anything like it before. And you’re not the only one, said Ray, holding medical tweezers in his hand. It looks like somebody severed it from the body with a sharp tool, though there’s no definitive separation line. All the muscles and bones got scorched, but from this line something called a halt to the fire.

Do we know the … owner of this arm?

The tenant’s name is William Ridmoore. According to the database, his last workplace was a construction site in New York. We have his cell number too. We called him, but there was no answer. But I don’t think this is his body.

Why?

Look, this is a quality suit, and there’s a starched white shirt below. Our friend, Will, wouldn’t wear stuff like this. A worker like him wears a checkered shirt and jeans.

I see. A stranger burned to ashes in his flat. Any flammable material?

Nothing. According to our specialist, the fire started inside his body.

I knew it. Just to make it more difficult to solve, mumbled John and pulled a pair of rubber gloves out of a technician’s case. He crouched to the side of the armchair and picked up an object, which he’d noticed sticking out between the floor and the bottom of the old-fashioned chair.

A fountain pen, he said and lifted it up closer to his eyes. With initials ‘B.A.’ It’s not a modern one, its varnish already cracked, although that could be from the extensive heat, he added and looked around. I don’t see any paper …

Are you suggesting he was making notes when a glowing ember fell out of his pipe and burned him to death? asked Raymond smiling.

Most cases of spontaneous combustion come from smoking while dozing.

But none of them are making notes in the meantime …

I’m just thinking out loud, and you’re making fun of me.

The paper could be in the charred pile, said Ray, softening his joking attitude. We’ll look very carefully, it might be there.

Right, nodded John, stepping to the shelves sinking below the weight of the books. So, Mr. B.A. came to visit Mr. Will Ridmoore, when Ridmoore suddenly had to leave—to buy something for dinner—meanwhile his friend, or his relative dozed while he was smoking …

Or Will’s fiery anger set his friend ablaze …

John ignored his friend’s teasing, it was their usual game. If they were in the mood, they bantered back and forth like a couple of kids. But John wasn’t in the mood today.

There’s a patrol station in front, he said, pulling the curtain aside. If there’s a security camera facing here, then I need the recording. But I’ll take care of that.

We’ll take DNA samples and check all B.A. initials in the database for a match.

Good idea, said John, stepping closer to the bookshelves. Did you see this? All of these are Bibles. He pulled them out one by one. Some with scorched bindings could not hold the pages together, and they fell to the floor. John picked them up, flipping through them. This is Slavonic, I think. And this one is German. This contains Cyrillic letters.

Our William might be quite religious.

Or he’s a linguist.

John’s head started to hum sharply, as if somebody had hit him with a baseball bat. This second shocking case was too much for today. The accident itself was more than enough.

I have to go to the hospital like I promised. I have to find out what happened with that family. Collect everything you can, and be extra thorough.

Why do you always say that when you leave? That’s the job, man, said Ray, grinning. He wanted to stir John from his tiredness.

John dug him in the ribs, signaling that he understood the pointed remark. He threw the gloves on the case and headed to the staircase.

*

Julie Bond had spent the first half of the uneventful night shift browsing through files of Monday’s patients. Beyond her regular shifts at Memorial Hospital, as a young novice ER doctor, she worked as a psychologist in her own private office. Her patients tripled when she moved to Morristown. In this morally and economically falling world, more and more people needed psychotherapy. She often repeated her favorite expression when she was with her friends; the psychologists and psychotherapists had made the world collapse, in order to have enough clients for the rest of their lives. She had enough patients in her private office that she could even give up the job in the ER—but she was fond of that job as well.

These calm Sunday evenings, like today, were not the real trials; there were only two broken hands, a hyperglycemic case, and a few patients with elevated blood pressure. Nothing had happened in the past thirty minutes, only a few patients came in for bandaging—the nurses took care of them.

She checked her next day’s schedule; two in the afternoon, two in the evening. She planned to sleep until noon, then take a quick run around the Golf-and-Leisure Centre, followed by a light lunch. Then she would pop into the Hospice Centre to quickly go through the files of her patients there—she hoped that most of them would still be alive. She had started pro bono work for them a year ago—she wanted to give psychological help to the terminally ill patients to honor her mother, Lucy, who had died in her arms of cancer. It was such a peaceful and glorious moment, when my mother left, she thought.

But her father, Joe, spoke of a completely different experience after the burial ceremony. He said that when Lucy had surrendered her breath, the room had flooded with light; suddenly a tunnel-like opening had appeared at the other end of the room. It wasn’t like the usual daylight—as this had happened on a sparkling, sunlit summer afternoon—but more like a warm, strong, omnipresent light source. It seemed as if the light had been alive; an immensely strong love radiated from it. Joe had said that God’s love might be like this.

He also described that Lucy had a new, iridescent body that sat up in bed, and slowly floated towards the tunnel. On her face—which was not as clear in this form as on her real body—Joe had seen a peaceful smile. He had not seen what or whom she was smiling at, but it seemed that the light itself was what had given her so much pleasure. Then suddenly, he was shown pictures, running like a movie; it looked like the streaming love, which was dressed in this glorious light, projected this to the couple from Lucy’s life. Of course, Joe found himself in most of the picture—of all the bad and good experiences—as they had spent many years together. At the bad memories, or when Lucy had made a mistake in her life, the movie stopped for a moment. Joe could feel the forgiveness radiating from the light in these pauses, which had rinsed through their hearts. But at a certain

Reviews for World War S

[Crystal Lynn Keener Sciarini · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Originally written in Hungarian, unfortunately it was poorly translated. Lots of grammar issues and even though it’s set in the USA the characters are using metric and European terms, such as flat, lift, mum, etc.

Worse than that is the fact that this is supposed to be “Christian Fiction”. However, they use curse words, even a character who is supposed to be a pastor curses?

I feel like the translation may have strayed from the author’s intention…

Also, the author links homeopathy with hypnosis, claiming that Hahnemann discovered homeopathy through hypnotic regression, which is completely false. I have read the work of Hahnemann and he doesn’t talk about hypnosis at all, he does describe exactly how he came up with the theory of homeopathy.