PSI Die: A Psionic Thriller

By Paul Chaplin

Enter, carefully, the hidden world of psionic powers, and their users.
Strange. Intriguing. Dangerous. Powers to move objects, to alter perceptions. To change the fabric of time and space. And the ultimate power: to induce psionic death.
A kidnapping. An inexplicable bank robbery. The corrupted plans of dark psi users.
In the middle, or in some dimension, the engaging mystery who is: Crowley, and his own psi powers.
All happening, not in some sci-fantasy realm or distant middle ages. Psionic events, unveiling here and now, in the streets and alleyways of modern London. The guns are real. Yet, the psi powers more deadly.
The psychologist author has already written multiple non-fiction books about Matrixial Science. With further works on Matrixial Science experiments, and practical healing recipes in Matrixial Therapy. These are already profoundly changing the way we think about ourselves and our world.
Now, in this novella, the author takes to fiction. To explore the realms of what might be. Which are not so very far away, from what science already tells us.
What is invisible is real. And what is most real, is invisible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G2 Rights
• Release date: Jul 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781782817291

Book preview

PREFACE

PSI is shortened from Psionic. It’s a word which came into widespread use in the 1950s. The CIA, and their Soviet counterparts, were investing heavily in paranormal research. Running seriously funded experiments in remote viewing, for example.

Mainstream science holds that Psionic phenomena do not exist. The trouble is that, scientific experiment, and the course of ordinary life, present uncomfortable evidence that they do.

Take remote viewing. The intelligence agencies wanted to establish whether individuals with Psionic abilities could see missile sites, from thousands of miles away. The strange truth is that they could.

Para-psychology experiments have also revealed all sorts of phenomena which mainstream science would rule out. The ability of a PSI user to alter the working of a random number generator. The ability to communicate with a plant, just by forming an intention, to which the plant reacts, as evidenced by electronic register. There’s much more.

If you’re interested in further reading about the science behind Psionic concepts, these are valuable sources:

https://noetic.org/about/noetic-sciences/

https://lynnemctaggart.com/about/lynnes-books/

https://www.sheldrake.org/

In my own writings in Matrixial Science, its theory, analysis and experiment run quite close at times to the borders of the PSI universe. There’s nothing in Matrixial Science that a modern neuroscientist would be unable to accept as valid. Yet, the Matrixial Brain Experiments produced results which are quite inexplicable, according to the same standard theories which rule out PSI phenomena.

Damon Crowley is an invented vehicle for allowing this Psionic thriller to tell its tales. Perhaps PSI users such as Crowley really do exist out there. Yet we would never know.

Such is the strangeness of the Psionic universe. Peer but once into its mysteries, and reality never looks quite the same again. We can begin to glimpse the kernel of Psionic forces. What is invisible is real, and what is most real, is invisible.

I chose to write this work in novella format. Primarily because the imaginative output of my own mind stimulates me but little. Compared to its potential in the reader, given a limited tract of character and plot. Also, so that I can maintain my own scribal pleasure quotient, by getting on to the next one.

Nothing in this novel truly exists. Does anything?

Paul Chaplin

2021

CHAPTER 1

DARK LIGHT

Speckled clouds, drifting over the spires of the spring-leafed trees of Lawndown girls school, threatened showers, but not quite yet. Established by a Victorian matriarch to encourage piety and learning, Lawndown now welcomed its charges from around the world, at a charge well in excess of the average annual wage.

The elegant frontage had been broadened with extensions. Endowed over the years, by well-placed fathers of its exclusive boarders. It now billowed wide ornamental steps.

A dark blue Bentley Continental stood at their foot, nestled on the circular gravel drive. There stood, as if placed by the cover team of a lifestyle magazine, a chauffeur. Uniformed, attentive, and expectant.

Appearing through the majestic manor doors, Nanny Gregg surveyed with satisfaction the manicured oak tree lined lawns, stretching around and beyond the drive, into the Surrey hills.

Presenting a comfortable, matronly figure, in a tweed suit, with sensible brown brogue shoes, Nanny Gregg returned her constant attention to Aleyuva Simonova.

Dressed immaculately in green school uniform and duffel coat, with her satchel held tight in her hand. At the tender age of 11, Aleyuva had inherited from her oligarch father a definite sense. That the centre of the world was wherever she happened to be standing. A point of view thought by Nanny Gregg to be quite suitable, although needing the occasional strict adjustment.

‘Are you glad to be having a break Aleyuva?’ Nanny Gregg fussed with Aleyuva’s school coat.

The chauffeur dutifully moved to open the rear door, and to prepare an umbrella, against the worst of eventualities.

‘Aww nanny.’ Aleyuva flicked her white-blonde hair, neatly held in a crimson Alice band. ‘It will be so nice to see papi, but I shall miss the pony riding.’

Aleyuva paused on a step, lost in complicated thought. ‘And the special Sunday teas… and Priscilla. She’s the new girl and I was given the responsible…’

‘Responsibility,’ prompted Nanny.

‘Da da. Responsibility of her’.

Nanny chuckled. ‘Some extra English lessons for princess during the holidays, I think.’

Nanny ushered her precocious charge down the remaining steps. ‘The little Tsarina must be perfect in every place.’

Two ominous black SUV’s, with shaded windows, rushed to the base of the steps. One to the front and one to the rear of the Bentley, creating a lethal box.

Five ski masked men leaped out. Each holding a silenced Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle, the men deployed with commando squad precision.

Focused on each other, Nanny Gregg and Aleyuva were barely able to register the stealth-borne danger approaching.

Meanwhile the chauffeur reacted with trained awareness, a hand reaching for his concealed weapon, whirling to meet the point of maximum threat.

As Nanny Gregg ushered Aleyuva into the rear passenger seat, a row of bullets stitched up the chauffeur’s back, bowling him over, and knocking Nanny Gregg to the gravel.

Two of the masked kidnappers stepped over the prone bodies. With strong arms, they wrenched Aleyuva from the passenger seat. She stumbled back onto the gravel in shock.

Aleyuva registered blood splaying from the chauffeur’s bullet-punctured body, splashing droplets over Nanny Gregg’s face, contorted in terror.

Aleyuva instinctively struggled, her own mouth opening to rend the Surrey countryside with a scream of fear and anger.

Just as a third man, his eyes glittering even inside his ski mask, slapped silver tape over Aleyuva’s mouth. A rear captor cinched a plastic binder over her wrists, while another pulled a brown hood over her Alice band, to cover her head completely.

Carried to the rear SUV, Aleyuva was deposited on the rear seats, accompanied in turn by two, still silent, masked men.

Breathless, deadly moments after their arrival, the ominous vehicles sped their tyres on the gravel, shooting for the school exit, and the motorway beyond.

Nanny Gregg stirred finally from the bloodied madness which had engulfed her. She managed to find just enough strength to wriggle out from under the chauffeur’s dead weight.

Crawling after the departed vehicles, her palms and knees lacerated by gravel, dripping skin and flecks of blood into their tyre marks. She tried to summon a cry for help. Her chest still hammering, her throat tightened by shock, trembling through every fibre of her being. All which could emerge, was a grieved whisper.

‘Aleyuva…’. Her tears dripped earthward. ‘Princess…’.

Losing the last of her summoned strength, she relapsed face first into the dust.

Drops began to wash some tears and blood from her face, as a rain shower began.

* * *

North London features an urban sprawl. A cacophonous mix of Victorian villas and Camden council blocks. Amongst that metropolitan mess, Highgate village lies nestled by Hampstead Heath. Alleyways and terraces dip and glide with its hills. There, almost furtively, is allowed a strange flowering of pastoral tranquility. A slice of countryside, hidden in town.

In an enclave of the village, shrouded by age old trees, stood a gothic styled cottage. Stone clad walls, mellowed by time and wind. An ornamental iron archway, shrouded in ivy, protected the door. The window alcoves held stained glass, sealed in patterns from nature. As if perched upon a church clock tower, a weather vane stood, stilled in the calm evening air.

Inside, was a library study containing a wealth of strange artefacts. Antiquarian manuscript books, titled with opaque words. Pyramids, large and small, some inverted. An orb, apparently spinning in its own space, above a bible sized book. Picked out in carved letters on its front cover, the words PSI Lives: Psionic Paraphysics, by Dr. Damon Crowley.

Centred in the study was an ornate chair. Carved intricately, with crimson velvet cushioning. A wide single candle, on its brass stand, lilted its curving smoke to the ceiling.

Illuminating, barely, an attractive face. A woman, in her mid-forties. In some state between sleeping and awareness, her chest gently rising and falling. Her eyes half-lidded. Her pupils wide.

The extended fingers of a hand stretch, half an arm’s length from her head.

In the flickering candlelight, it appears almost as though visible energy is passing between them, yet not disturbing the woman’s stillness.

A voice journeys through the dark light. Strong, yet gentle.

‘Where do you see yourself, Rose?’

‘In... in my mother’s womb. Yes.’

‘What are you hearing?’

‘Noise. Shouting.’

‘Who Rose?’

‘My mum. No. At my mum. Loud. Trembling.’

‘Go to the voice Rose.’

‘I... I can’t. I...’

‘Remember your lion. Take your lion with you.’

‘My lion. Yesss.’ Rose’s hand clutches at the chair arm. ‘The voice. My father. No! Not my dad. Uncle Jimmy. Uncle Jimmy. But...’

Crowley sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Yes. Take the knowledge. It’s yours.’

Rose’s whole body began to tremble. She clutched both hands, her ragged nails digging into the crimson velvet, as if tearing at an invisible enemy.

The candle flame guttered and swirled. Hissing and writhing, as if captured by a legion of venomous snakes.

Then, in the study, a silence. Like the one you might think you can hear, when watching a crystal drop of dew water, about to float onto the wing of a butterfly.

Crowley poured water from a gilded decanter into a crystal glass. He crossed the room, dressed in his trademark black waistcoat with silvered stitching. A black shirt, open at the collar, with blue jeans and French loafers.

‘You’ll need this’, he offered the glass to Rose. ‘Water distilled from a still lake, high in the mountains of Nepal.’

Rose gently massaged her neck, as she came back into the room. ‘Really?’

‘No. Just kidding.’ Crowley’s comic-satanic smile appeared. ‘Poured straight out of a disposable bottle from the local off-licence. But thinking is believing.’

Rose took a sip. She