by Martha Twine
IT STARTS HAPPENING TO ME
I woke early one morning, and was drifting off to sleep again, when I heard two people, a man and a woman, talking quietly. It sounded some way off, and yet it seemed to be in my head.
‘Do you want some coffee?’
‘Mmm.’
‘I'm going out tonight. How about you?’
‘No, I've no time; too busy.’
‘Shh, I think she is waking up, the green light is on.’ Then I heard two other women's voices.
‘Oh, is she? Well, I expect we'll have to watch her dress, then.…’
‘But perhaps she wants to run to the toilet first,’ the voices mocked.
The two women burst into hostile laughter. It all sounded rather artificial. I switched the radio on, and they went away, but through the day, when there was silence, they came back. And then there were other voices of men and women, making derogatory comments intended to discomfort me.
Occasionally, when they thought that I was distracted with friends, I could hear them holding their own conversations. They were not happy people. They sounded afraid, as if a supervisor might catch them chatting. They had money worries. It sounded as if they were being paid to talk at me. Perhaps they were out-of-work actors. They certainly worked long hours.
It was about a week later that I noticed things happening in the house. When I sat in my favorite chair it would start to shake slightly, in the small of my back. At first, I thought that it was lorries going by, but it became a regular effect. Then, one day, I went to the hairdresser, and the same thing happened there. When I was going to sleep, I noticed a tingling feeling start to flow over my legs and up my body. For the first few nights that was all it was, but then I began to feel sharp pricks in my legs and knees.
‘Someone is definitely getting at me,’ I thought, ‘but why?’
It soon became clear that someone wanted me out of my apartment for good.
I began to hear scratching on my ceiling. It sounded like rats. It was rats. Now I am sure that the poor rats were there through no fault of their own, but there they were, and one day there was one in my kitchen. I called the pest inspector and he advised me to put down warfarin. That seemed to solve the problem.
Life went back to normal. I got used to the intrusive voices and ignored them. I went out with my friends, pursued my interest in photography, and spent long hours reading all the books that I never had time to read before my retirement. Not going to work anymore was so wonderful; every day I would float down the street, perfectly happy, without any particular reason, just because I didn't have to get up and hurry to work.
Then, one day I was skyping with a couple of my friends, Peter and Jan in North America, and they seemed distressed. They were trying to tell me that something bad had happened to them, but could not bring themselves to say exactly what it was.
‘You tell her,’ said Peter, ‘I can't talk.’ There were tears in his voice.
Jan began to talk about how they had been involved in some scam, in which two Asian men had offered a lot of money to help their charitable work to combat drugs dependence, but then the men had met them and something had happened to Jan. I could not gather what had happened, but I began to suspect that some kind of sexual assault was being described. Peter had been present, but had been prevented from acting to save her.
I became aware of a fine grid superimposed over the inside of my computer screen. It was as if my friends could not hear what I was saying. Talking very slowly, I said that there was interference on the line, and suggested that we should try later. They got my message. We tried again later, and it was OK this time. They told me that they could no longer live in the States and were coming home as soon as possible. They had their flights booked for two weeks’ time.
The day before they were due to fly home, I had a distraught email from Peter. Jan had been rushed to hospital with a heart attack. She had had a lifesaving operation, but could not travel for at least two weeks, and the couple had already vacated their apartment, so they had nowhere to stay. The same day, Peter had a phone call from England to tell him that his elderly mother had been admitted to a mental institution, with symptoms of psychosis, something that she had never suffered from before.
Peter and I worked together to make arrangements as best we could to find a place for him and Jan to stay, and, two weeks to the day after her heart operation, after being given the go-ahead by her doctor, Jan flew home with Peter. It wasn't easy, because of Jan’s health, but they made it. Shortly afterwards, Peter visited his mother. As soon as she saw him, she was back to normal, and was released from the mental institution. Clinicians were at a loss to explain what had happened to her, as she had received a complete check-up just before the incident, and had been given a clean bill of health.
It was a year before I was able to make any sense of the disasters that had happened to Peter and Jan. They had a successful business helping people to come off drugs, and it turned out that the North American mafia, who ran drug trafficking as a core income activity, did not want people like that on their territory.
The next night I smelled a strange chemical smell in my apartment. I opened the windows, but it became stronger. In my bedroom, it became intolerable. I just could not breathe. I went for a walk. When I came back I could smell the chemicals coming down the hallway. I spent the night with my head stuck out of the window, and, in the morning, I packed my bags and left my apartment for good. Like Francine, I went home, back to my elderly father.
As I got on the train from London, I had the distinct feeling that ‘they’ were following me. The train was packed, and I had to walk through the aisles to find a seat. It felt as if someone was ‘influencing’ me remotely to sit in a particular place. Later I was to learn about the technology used to achieve this effect. I was determined to resist, and pressed on. Then I saw a woman vacate her seat, and I gratefully sat down in it.
What a lot I had to learn. Placeholders are people who occupy seats for specific purposes. Once you are aware of this, it is not so hard to detect them, but I had no idea of that then. Sitting opposite me were a very odd couple. Both in their early seventies, the gentleman was short and paunchy with a paper-white face, as if he was wearing make-up to cover some surgical scars.
He held a walking stick which had a strange horizontal handle, and every so often he bent down and appeared to be blowing or whispering into it. He did this particularly when attractive young women appeared, and I began to suspect that he was operating a covert photographic device for nefarious purposes. His female companion was exceptionally tall, with broad shoulders. Her silver hair brushed her collar, and she had a confident air.
At first, they did not seem aware of me. It sounded as if they might even be talking about me, as I caught the phrase ‘working in Turkey’. All of a sudden, the woman looked up and met my eye. She clearly recognized me. She gave her companion's hand a squeeze and they both stared pointedly out of the window, as if trying not to laugh. They maintained an embarrassed silence until I left the carriage.
Who were they? Were they after me? These were questions which I tried to answer in the weeks ahead. But it was three years before I discovered that they were senior IRA officers, whose job included the management of attacks on victims like myself, as part of a wider remit to attack British citizens, funded by Al-Qaida. The man with the white face had survived a bomb blast while in service to the IRA. He had undergone extensive facial plastic surgery, and wore make-up to conceal the scars.
EARLY LIFE WITH THE TERRORISTS
One of the basic duties the terrorists had to fulfil was guard duty for prisoners. This meant watching me as far as possible 24 x 7, in every room of the house, subject to there being microdot cameras on the walls. A team of technicians had previously placed Nano-cameras around the house, while my father and I were out. This was not hard to do, as the locks on our doors were old fashioned and easy to copy.
The terrorists used wi-fi linked to private commerci
al satellite to watch me remotely, and communicate with each other about my doings via synthetic telepathy. Watching me pottering around the garden for hours made the terrorists irritable. An elderly man and woman, who had been blackmailed by the IRA into accepting their guard duty role, found it hard to sit there in observation mode, especially as they were experienced gardeners, and I was not. I was a beginner, getting excited by basic plant stuff, and making a lot of mistakes.
Every week, I raced to the supermarket to see if there were any cheap plants I could bring home. There often were. Then I would dig a small hole in the ground to put the plant in – or, as one Pakistani terrorist observed to his IRA colleagues, ‘She seems to be burying things again.’
But quite often, the plant would not come out of the pot. The plant had been growing there so long that its roots had wound right round the inside of the pot several times, and it would not budge. I spent ages with a pair of secateurs trying to cut the plastic pot off the plant. This was not clever.
In desperation one day, after I had struggled for nearly forty minutes with a plastic pot, the elderly female terrorist broke her silence.
‘Try filling the pot up with water and leaving it for a bit. Then turn the pot upside down and the plant will come out,’ she said.
I tried this, and it worked. In fact, I have been doing it ever since, and it works every time.
Another time the terrorists came to my aid, not so much in my interests as in theirs. I got locked out of my Apple Mac computer, and could not remember the password. I contacted Apple, but they said that the only way they could help me was to write to some central office, where an envelope containing my overriding pass key was kept securely. This would take time and cost money. The password I had chosen was a word I’d heard used by the terrorists; I tried to remember it, but it escaped me.
Not being able to get into my computer meant that the terrorists could not earn extra money by trying to frustrate my attempts to write my blog. I was stuck, and so were the terrorists. I could not put photos of plants and flowers on my blog, and there was less for these virtual prison guards to do to enhance their earnings. Then, one night while I was lying in bed, the male terrorist just told me my password; straight out.
The word was ‘cavitation.’ When the male terrorist told me what my password was, I leaped out of bed and went to my laptop to try it out. It worked. I was so relieved. I went to update my blog immediately.
I first heard the word ‘cavitation’ used by terrorists in the context of some of their remote attacks. When I looked it up on the internet, I found that it meant: ‘an ultrasonic cavitation device is a surgical device using low frequency ultrasound energy to dissect or fragment tissues with low fiber content. It is basically an ultrasound probe (acoustic vibrator) combined with an aspirator device (suction). It is mainly used for tissues with high water content and low fiber content, like noncirrhotic liver and pancreas’
That sounded to me like an ultrasound laser, which could be used to carry out procedures on vital organs. I wondered if the terrorists used this technology for harmful purposes.
I enjoyed doing Sudoku, especially after a meal. I had books full of these number puzzles, and spent hours poring over them. I had my own method of working out where the missing numbers should go. I had never shared this with anyone else, but it worked for me.
After a while, I heard the elderly male terrorist telling his female companion that I had invented a foolproof method which would enable anyone to do Sudoku. He started teaching it to his colleagues, and even thought of bringing out a book about it.
Leaving aside the merits of my method of doing Sudoku, these minor incidents show how synthetic telepathy could be used to spy on the silent thoughts of another, and gain information from them.
The IRA ran training courses on how to hack into people’s computers and smartphones. Being linked to a synthetic telepathy network meant that the terrorists would always hear me thinking my password, as I logged onto my iPad. When I bought things on Amazon, they knew my Amazon password. Terrorists started trying to hack into my Amazon account. But they were unaware that security was now a lot tighter. Unless the password you put in matched the IP address of the device you were hacking into, you could not fool the system into thinking that you were someone else.
Some female IRA trainees hacked into my Amazon account, and decided to buy something that I had ordered in the past, and send it to themselves. But because they were not using my iPad, Amazon would not authorise the payment from my credit card. Instead, it asked for a different card. The young terrorists used their manager’s card. The only address that Amazon would deliver the goods to in these circumstances was mine. I was most surprised when Amazon informed me that my order for Guarana Jungle Elixir energy shots, at a price of £15, would be delivered in a few days’ time. I knew I had not ordered it.
‘Well, let’s see if it’s delivered,’ I thought. ‘And then let’s see if I have to pay for it’.
Sure enough the goods arrived, and what a joy it was to discover that I had received a free gift from the IRA. Amazon was not so impressed with the transaction, however. Their security people picked up what had happened, and after that, whenever I logged in, it sent me an email with a secret code that I had to input, in order to proceed any further. So the terrorists were stuffed after that. A pity! I had a few expensive things on my wish list; but it was not to be.
About this time, I discovered another feature of being linked up to the terrorists’ electromagnetic environment. Sometimes I woke up in the night and, with my eyes shut, found myself watching events that were not intended for my eyes, because IRA technicians forgot to disengage my access link. When a group of IRA terrorists from the UK attended a US mafia training course based in Los Angeles and Utah, I found myself watching events on the course. When an IRA terrorist fled to California to escape his debts, his enemies in the IRA were keeping tabs on him. I woke up to find myself looking at the inside of a hotel bedroom where he was staying. A porn movie was being filmed in the bedroom. The hotel looked out on the beach, and I recognised it as San Diego.
These experiences were more than just watching a movie screen. It felt as if I was there. On one occasion, I witnessed a terrorist training conference in the Czech Republic, where the IRA were demonstrating the use of electromagnetic weapons at night. I was walking along a corridor in a former Communist State building that had been turned into a conference centre. There was a carpet made from a strong rough weave in the middle of the floor, and as I walked, I could feel it under my feet.
There were a number of doors along the corridor, one of which was open. Terrorists from our local unit were giving lessons on how to attack victims using telemetry, infrared devices and electronic weapons. A group of people, including small children, were sitting around on chairs and window ledges. As I walked past a door, one of the children on the window ledge looked up and saw me. Our eyes met briefly, but I was actually at home in bed in the UK.
Early life with the IRA terrorists followed a fairly standard routine as follows:
- Waking triggered by microwave radiation beam to the head
- Aggressive synthetic telepathy attacks – voices of women and men, threatening various forms of violence
- Attempts to void my bladder or bowel involuntarily, using microwave radiation beams.
During all this, I would get up as normal and have breakfast. If I went to the toilet, the terrorists would turn on electromagnetic oscillators that alternately raised and lowered the gravity of parts of the body, slowing down my movements, like climbing a hill, while making comments about my removal of clothing, etc. When I got dressed, they would make comments about my physical appearance, and what I was doing. The verbal attacks via synthetic telepathy continued intermittently throughout the day, whenever I was not talking to people or listening to the radio or television. I bought a clip-on radio that I could wear when I went out, and this largely removed the problem.
If I went out
in a car, they were left behind, but if I walked to the shops, they would track me via wi-fi with electromagnetic oscillators, operated by two terrorists, attempting to make each step I took very heavy, causing walking to be slow and difficult. After a couple of years, I learned that dragging a stick with a bit of rubber or plastic on the end, like a walking stick, prevented the attacks. Also, pushing a shopping trolley reduced the efficiency of the attacks.
If I went on a long car journey, the terrorists would practice tracking my car, using two cars of their own, one in front and one behind. The cars changed position from time to time, while their occupants tried to snipe at me with electronic weapons. The terrorists liked these outings, because they got extra money for them.
If I used my laptop, the perpetrators would hack into it via the house wiring, preventing access to the internet, and causing screen freezes. I had an internet blog, which I updated regularly. The terrorists would attempt to hack in, and alter what I wrote, making deliberate spelling mistakes, or altering the format. Eventually my laptop was completely broken. Then I bought a stronger one with an aluminum case, and better software security. I hardly used it on line, or connected it to house wiring. That stopped the attacks.
Sometimes, when I sat indoors, they would target my breathing through the nasal passages, seeking to replace oxygen in my lungs with carbon dioxide. This was only possible at close range. I discovered that they were operating from a window of the house next door. The asphyxiation process involved laser-beam delivery of carbon dioxide to the nostrils, in the form of a fine mist. I discovered that piglets are killed in abattoirs by replacing the oxygen in their lungs with carbon dioxide. I could combat this by opening the window and leaning out, or going outside. As I have asthma, these attacks posed a more serious threat than others, but my inhaler greatly reduced their impact.