Ronan Ibar Wyley S

INTERNED WITHIN THE PAGES

OF THIS CHILLER-THRILLER-BOOK

IS TRUE-HELL ON EARTH…

DARE YOU AS A READER THEN…

ENTER INTO THIS TRULY HORRIFIC WORLD…

THAT IS…

RONAN IBAR WYLEY’S

“WYSEMAN”

(The Living,

Unconscious Nightmare)

Ronan Ibar Wyley/Killian Scott Thomas Schull

FILE–R.I.P./EDITED Publishers,

Subsidiary Of Black Project Communication Systems,

21 Bishopscourt Road,

Bishopstown, Cork, Republic Of Ireland.

Published by Ronan Ibar Wyley/Killian Scott Thomas Schull

FILE–R.I.P./EDITED Publishers,

Subsidiary Of Black Project Communication Systems, 2012

“WYSEMAN” First Published 2012

™ ©

2012, The Estate Of Ronan Ibar Wyley

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

“WYSEMAN”

(The Living,

Unconscious Nightmare!)

IN THREE-BOOKS

(Trapped In A Constantly Reoccurring Past, And So Very Lonely Back There, Harry Wise Is All Out, To Drag All He Can,

So Very Far Back Down

And So Deeply

Within…)

BOOK ONE

“WYSEMAN”

(THE NATURALLY SELF-MADE,

LIVING,

UNCONSCIOUS NIGHTMARE!)

PART ONE

THE TRULY PSYCHIC “WYSEMAN” GOD,

SELF-UNIVERSAL-CREATION,

INTRODUCES HIMSELF, AND HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHICL TRILOGY,

INTO THE LIVES OF,

THE HOGAN-FAMILY,

WHO RUN THE ARIZONA PUBLISHING HOUSE…

Arizona State: America.

The nightlight embraced the all-of-him, until it could act as his camouflage. The full moon, whose illuminant glow was due to reflected and stolen sunlight, shone up in the oil black, and clouded sky, like a crystal ball-featuring a universal fortuneteller’s interned misted vision, of a demolished human skull, bearing many fractured features.

For a man-made physical feature of a back garden, the cement paving he stood so still upon, was particularly solid and lumpy, beneath the soles of his worn-out, but favorite, and most lucky pair of army boots.

Dressed all in black, he was no more than four feet from the mansion’s brightly lit rear window; blasting somehow too-warm yellow light in his direction-where he was lost as the unseen, in the chilly Arizona desert dark.

After his long drive in through the desert, he had finally come to stand here transfixed, so he might ensure the psychic-mind-powered transformation-process, on-going for so many days now, since he had sent the family his unpublished autobiographical trilogy manuscript, was finally completed-this his-fated-night.

His hair was slightly shuffled out of place by a light breeze, passing him by, like an unseen ghost, making its way home to the local cemetery, located just beyond the ink-black horizon-and that he had passed on his way up here, to this exclusive neighborhood in the mountainous Arizona desert hills.

The large window located at the rear of the private estate, was only slightly ajar, but still managed to let out some of the internal room’s heat-like invisible desert lizards’ tongues, coming to lick his expectant bone-white and scarred and battered face. Coming also from within, the relaxing sound of the happy, but tired young couple’s conversation, was all he needed to simply let his mind go. Can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t self-transform-without his guiding-influence, so crooked world citizens no-more, Paul and Jean Hogan’s voices seemed to wind their way into his mind; soothing it; relaxing it; caressing it with invisible, but warm and throbbing ghostly hands-imbued with the externalized physic-powered spiritual force, as if the couples words to each other were secret whispers, and happy conversations, concerning so much more, to soon come his way, the as yet unseen paradise and intended world, down upon such a little section of the Earth, if only he should honor them, by agreeing to become apart of their mortal world lives.

As part of the transformation process, controlled by his self-created psychic-mind, he had been watching them for close to a week now, ever since he had sent them his most recent version of his autobiographical manuscript, a trilogy, the best part of 700 pages in total, so as they began to read through his life history, and became then consciously aware of the details of his life story, he could then use this familiar imagery he had actual life memories of, to connect his psychic-spiritual power into their unconscious minds. Since then, he had been constantly testing the true worth of the influence of his mighty spiritual mind, upon the once can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t-self-transform-without his aid, so crooked world citizen family, barely able to himself believe he had consciously mastered within him, what he was so sure he had finally mastered, and had wished to test the greatness and limitations of, upon the Hogan family, if there were in fact, any such limitations to such a self-given and self-realized, truly psychic-gift.

As the world’s most powerful psychic, he had been constantly projecting his spiritual power into the unconscious minds of the Hogan family-numbering three, physically altering the very structure of their so meaty brains, as much as his manuscript had ensured their imaginations had been altered, until so full of images from his true life horror story of complete self-transformation, the why and the how and the when, only the true names and the true dates left unknown. He had done all of this to their very physical brains, in the hope the spiritual power would finally register with their conscious life force spirits. Then, in turn, with all four physical minds working at last in unity, it would generate four times the psychic-charged spiritual power, that would then have to come back to impact with him, the true central source, and give birth to a furious and never ending, and never to-be-a-ceasing love, and greatest all-round joy.

Over the previous week, he had been gradually getting closer through his psychic-powered mind, to Jean and Paul Hogan, and their little daughter Alice, allowing the closely knit and once can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t self-transform-without his aid, so crooked world-citizen, financially rich family, to sense his loving and constantly watchful and caring presence, to the extent that they had begun to anticipate the worldly gifts, he would soon award them-the type of gifts the so crooked world can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t self-transform-without his spiritual aid, citizens, had always conspired to deny him, until he had taken such gifts, by brute force and cunning alone-in the name of one day simply giving all back to his chosen adopted spiritual dream family.

Alice was a beautiful little petite girl, who especially loved her parents-who ran the Arizona Publishing House, that mainly produced mass produced paperbacks, containing well-written stories, Jean and Paul liked. Why wouldn’t Alice especially love her parents? Jean and Paul even asked for Alice’s opinion, on the children stories they were considering publishing. Little Alice was a totally functioning, and highly valued, and trusted part of the family unit then, a third-party of all major decisions, that concerned the family unit as a whole, and their future.

The truly psychic Wyseman-God, self-universal-creation, serial killer, certainly loved them all three, each part equally and wholly, he thought. He had not submitted his manuscript to the family for publication, but rather had simply typed on the front page…

…PLEASE READ ME, SO YOU MIGHT THEN HOPE TO SO SIMPLY… TRULY AND COMPLETELY, UNDERSTAND ME, AND THE UNIVERSAL TRUTH BEHIND IT ALL… WHILE I WATCH ON AND OVERSEE…

Mother Jean was a stunning blond, with bright piercing green eyes, and perfect soft white skin, and she was an excellent proofreader; father Paul was lean and muscular, and a great all-round editor.

Paul played handball trice a week. The Wyseman-God knew so. He had sat on the spectators’ benches, with the sand particles blown by the unseen winds, up from the Arizona desert, and he had watched Paul play so well, down upon the concrete court, Paul’s firm muscles so taunt mid-swing, and glistening with sweat generated by the intense and warm sunlight.

The truly psychic Wyseman-God, self-universal-creation, had considered coming down from the spectators concrete benches-built like a staircase to a giant’s house, to the court, and offering to play a game of handball with Paul, but he had felt tickled then when he had realized, Paul, as a can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t self-transform-without his spiritual aid, so crooked world citizen, would know he would stand no chance of winning, given the Wyseman-God had himself played handball with his best buddy, and the head of their extensive crime family, Max Newheart, nearly every day upon the prison court, for countless years. Except for the Wyseman-God’s bodybuilding with the prison weights, handball had been his favorite activity for so many a lonely year, when caged in behind State Penitentiary bars and barbed wire.

Max Newheart was a good man, head of a good crime-family, the most powerful and richest in the country, but he could no longer fulfill the required role in the Wyseman-God’s life that Paul could. The Wyseman-God looked upon Paul Hogan as a mixture between an adopted son and a brother, a spiritual father, advisor, and a sexual lover. Why unnecessarily embarrass Paul? He only wanted good things for Paul, the best of things, he loved him this much.

Paul dearly loved the truly psychic Wyseman-God, self-universal-creation, too, of course. Paul cherished his every moment, thinking about the Wyseman. Not only had Jean Hogan been so amazed by what she had read in the Wyseman-God’s unpublished trilogy, that she had insisted Paul also take the time to read it over the previous week, but also the Wyseman-God had been able to tell how much Paul truly loved him, by the near sexually implied way, Paul had brushed past the giant and muscular Wyseman-God, when Paul had been on the way into the private locker room and misted showers, and Paul had even given him a knowing glance, two self-created psychics, sharing secret thoughts only they were privy to, and that rebounded between their minds, and all others out in the external world, so jealous of how happy the two men were still on the way to becoming, but nobody out in the external so crooked world, knowing, or able to so simply understand, the real and so simple why, and as such put a stop to it all-despite the so very strong hate-drive to do so.

He wondered if Paul was jealous, because Jean had locked her eyes-filled with lust, in the direction of the Wyseman-God, standing so still in the central midst of the busy crowds, in the supermarket. Little Alice had looked his way to, and she had giggled, and then she had risen her hand to her mouth, before she spoke any of the secret knowledge he had entrusted her with, aloud, and when they had communicated through their unconscious minds, he had told little Alice, she could expect to get her new sky-blue bike on her birthday this year, he knew so for a fact, for he had seen Paul pick the sky-blue bike up from the so fashionable mountain store.

The bike as a birthday present was meant to be a big secret, a big surprise then, but he didn’t believe in keeping secrets, at least not between the four of them. Secrets only lead to the hindering of the family’s minds from been fully psychically transformed, due to his mighty all-overseeing and all-sculpting spiritual influence, from the everyday can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t-self-transform minds of the so crooked world, into psychic and prematurely made-wise minds, whose very physicality was to be completely reshaped, in order to ensure all of his deepest needs could then be met, in the intended world-at last this fated night, coming to so simply be and be, due to his greatest efforts and fight not to be cheated out of what was his by all natural rights. All of them-four as if one, had to be so open and free, all had to share and receive and transmit, the secret knowledge between them, pass it back and forth.

The faster one achieved personal happiness in this life, the better, was the Wyseman-God, self-universal-creation, serial killer’s personal motto. Why wait for it to come? Why prolong the truly great suffering? Better then, to so simply make it come. As such he had made the entire family prematurely wise and psychic, so he then might not be so alone with his truly great wisdom, and secret knowledge of the other side of the so earthly grave, and with his so strange and bewitching powers, and he would then so wholly benefit.

Having chosen the correct can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t-self-transform-on their own-without his aid, minds of the so crooked human world-but with the right potential to be prematurely transformed in this life, by his psychic influence alone, and having finally succeeded in the set task, they were finally happy now that they had all finally found each other. They were the perfect family, that would be, simply forever more. Yet they also could hardly wait to discover what other truly magical, wondrous, and great universal gifts-he secretly had in store for them. Gifts so great, as to be beyond their present ability even to conceive of the actual reality of-and as such were great gifts, they could ever only be able to know existed-thanks to all he had implied, through his too true life story trilogy, and psychic influence over their very brains, but they did not know much more than that. How happy then, they all four were! No force in hell or heaven, would part them from one another, ever again, not after tonight. He knew when he, their personal savior and messiah, who had bestowed upon them such great psychic gifts and true miracles, and such knowledge documented in his autobiographical trilogy, and who had even elevated their once can’t-do, can’t-comprehend, can’t-self-transform-without his aid, physical brains and minds into such higher awareness of all things both seen and unseen, finally emerged out of the chilly Arizona dark this fated night, and stepped into their dinning room, they would all cry with excitement, relief and greatest joy. For this was the anticipated miraculous moment, when finally what had been mostly unseen, and merely felt, and fantasized, and rumored, and read about in his autobiographical trilogy, became the actual physical reality and present-they could then touch and feel and act and react to, and receive then even more blessings, revelations and true love from deep within.

Now, he couldn’t look away from the dinning room scene. The light within the room was so bright, the fire so warm. Mesmerized, he felt as if he was already in there-with the young lovers, psychically connected as the central source, held there and suspended, and so greatly loved by them-two Jean and Paul Hogan, already a vital part of the so rich lifeblood that was their very lives.

Of course little Alice was upstairs in her snug bed, with the pictures of white bunny rabbits on the wall. He had already been in the house, when the family had temporarily vacated it. After he had located his autobiographical trilogy manuscript he had sent them, and that they had become so bewitched by, they had thought to even bring the manuscript come from the office to read full-time, and to write notes down upon, he had stood in little Alice’s bedroom smelling the sweat scent of her perfume, carried upon the little girl’s dresses. Through some inexplicable means, the truly psychic Wyseman-God had somehow become the spiritual force that inspired such great love to rise in them, for each other. Finally, he was the one who mattered the most in the little family-unit now, the most vital and perfectly functioning part.