About David Haworth

---

 "Chronicles of the Open Road: A Journey Amidst Protests, Encounters, and Unexplained Phenomena"

Summary:

In this gripping memoir, the author recounts a series of extraordinary and surreal experiences while traversing the open roads of North America. The narrative begins with the trucker protests, where the author's encounters with government agents and mysterious individuals take an unsettling turn. A bizarre incident involving a coffee exchange leads to a sudden illness, homelessness, and a brush with the inexplicable.

The story unfolds as the protagonist finds himself embroiled in a nightmarish scenario involving non-human entities, police intervention, and an unexpected journey through the perilous streets of Portland. A surreal dream-like episode adds to the suspense, blurring the lines between reality and the unknown.

The narrative then takes a surprising turn as the author recalls a peculiar UFO sighting in Elkford, BC, accompanied by strange occurrences and encounters with individuals who seem to know more than they let on. The journey continues with a camp near Jaffrey, BC, where a mystical light display by the lake leaves the author both mesmerized and unnerved.

The memoir culminates with a harrowing snowstorm, a police encounter in Fernie, BC, and a visit to the hospital, revealing the toll these inexplicable events have taken on the author's well-being. As the author grapples with the aftermath, strange phenomena and encounters persist, leaving readers on the edge of their seats and questioning the boundaries of reality.

"Chronicles of the Open Road" offers a unique blend of suspense, mystique, and personal reflection, inviting readers to join the author on a journey filled with twists, turns, and encounters that defy explanation.

https://rumble.com/v4bn0kf-a-targeted-individuals-encounters-with-the-unexplained.html

  The Silver Craft (July 1, 2001)

July 1, 2001, Canada Day, I was driving back to my cabin in the woods, the Ottawa celebrations fading behind me. I’d visited a friend, the city alive with fireworks and crowds, but I was tired, my eyes heavy in my late thirties. A Targeted Individual for years, my thoughts stolen by an implant, my skin scorched by buzzing in my Ottawa apartment, like the radio’s static in 2000, the wand’s hum in ’01. As I drove, an inner voice stabbed my skull, not mine: “Turn off and rest.” It was sharp, like the radio’s insults, not a thought but a command. My head buzzed, a haze like the telemetry my carpenter friend described, the power lines in Peterborough. I obeyed, turning toward Carp, Ontario, no idea why. The road led to the Diefenbunker, a Cold War bunker built for VIP government officials in case of nuclear attack, now a tourist site. I parked, heart pounding, the air too still. Above, clouds churned, then parted, revealing a craft—whitish, almost blimp-like, not silver but glowing, its corner peeking out like a secret. It sat in the sky, unnatural, humming in my bones. My skin prickled, microwaves or something else? The clouds closed, swallowing it, leaving me staring at nothing. Was it them—reptilians, agents, the ones who sent Bush in ’01, Jagger in ’03? The voice—was it the implant, broadcasting orders to lure me here? My head spun, tying to the radio, the wand, the Tennessee man’s taunt at the gas station. I stood frozen, the bunker’s shadow cold, Canada Day’s joy a distant memory. The craft was a sign—freedom, or a deeper trap? I drove back to the cabin, hands shaking—not from the heat, but from the weight of it all. The road was my only answer, but they were always watching.

Lights Over Elkford (November 2022)

It’s November 2022, and I’m parked on a logging road turnout at the top of a hill in Elkford, BC, snow dusting the ground, my camper a fragile refuge. My name is David Haworth, and I’m shaking, the road having led me here after the Ottawa protest’s poison scare and the Portland reptilians’ chilling warning about the kids. The night before, I lit a fire to stay warm and cook, celebrating being off the road with wine, a roast sizzling in a wok with potatoes and carrots, deglazed with a splash of red. It was wonderful—until multicolored lights blinded me, a UFO humming overhead, and I woke frozen, the fight for survival burning in my chest. My mind races with fear for Maggie, their tech—maybe an implant, plastic, invisible to MRIs—tracking my every thought, turning this camp into a stage for their game.

I was exhausted, my stomach hollow from days on the road, my body weak from hunger, my eyes stinging from sleeplessness. The turnout was eerie—scrub cuttings piled across from my site, rice sacks with painted eyes and mouths strung to posts like a recent ritual, a butchered deer carcass nearby gnawing at my nerves. I’d unpacked my new fridge and generator, hoping for a moment’s peace. That night, I lit a fire, its warmth a comfort as I cooked the roast, the wine’s aroma mixing with the woody smoke. I sat in the van afterward, imagining how to fight back against the reptilians—capturing their leader, Clint Eastwood-style, defeating them in a blaze of defiance. The meal settled me, but the fear lingered, their presence a shadow from Ottawa and Portland.

I left the van to put out the fire and finish the wine, the cold biting through my jacket, my hands trembling. Then, over the ridge east of the campsite, it was like someone flipped a blinding light switch—the camp lit up, multicolored lights—red, green, magenta, yellow—blinding me. Startled, I looked up, seeing a craft hovering, its hum vibrating through the air. Was it them, here to taunt me, responding to my thoughts like in Ottawa? At first, I thought it might be a camp or mine high on the ridge, lights turning on for the night, but no—there was no camp, and I was alone, like Carp, Ontario, in 2001, no witnesses to corroborate my story. Maybe this is how they do it—wait until you can’t prove it, share the tale, and people think you’re crazy.

I stumbled forward toward the lights, anger flaring, and yelled, “Go away! Leave me alone, go home, you fuckers! Leave the kids alone!”—echoing the woman’s warning in Portland: “They want our kids.” In a rage, I kicked over the fire, grabbed my fridge I’d put outside, and opened its door toward them, a futile shield. Then, like another jolt, my Bluetooth speaker lit up, screeching violently, static piercing the night. I tried to turn it off, but it continued its chaotic noise, fear gripping me—it might explode. I threw it into the bush down an embankment, my heart pounding, my body weak from hunger. The next thing I remember was waking up in the back of the van, door wide open, snow falling heavy outside, my body frozen to the bone.

It was first light, the sky a pale gray, and I crawled desperate to the driver’s seat, praying the van would start. It turned over slowly, then fired up—thank God, for I was far enough from town that if it hadn’t, I’d have frozen there or died trying to walk. I drove down the hill, cranking the heat, my hands shaking—not just from the cold, but from the terror of their pursuit. The UFO’s lights, the speaker’s screech, the open door—it felt like their tech, maybe microwaves through my implant, had pinned me, cooked me from within. Was it the reptilians, agents, or something worse, using my thoughts against me? The rice sacks, the deer, the craft—it all pointed to them, a message I couldn’t decode.

In town, I pulled into a motel parking lot, cars crowded around like they were waiting. I headed for the liquor store, needing a drink to steady my nerves. A guy brushed past, muttering, “I was right next to you,” his words a jolt, like he knew. Inside, a lady with a British accent chatted warmly, mentioning David Icke’s lectures on reptilians running the world. My mind flashed to the craft, the buzz in my head, but I didn’t speak—too raw, too strange. Her words felt like no coincidence, another thread in the web that played my voice on the radio, lit the wand in Ottawa, sent taunts my way.

I left the store, my hands still trembling, the road my only escape. But even here, in Elkford’s quiet streets, they found me. The reptilians, the agents, or something beyond—I was still their target, and the fight, imagined or real, was far from over, Maggie’s safety a shadow driving me forward.

  Angels on the Lake (November 2022)

It’s November 2022, and I’m shaking, fleeing Elkford, the UFO’s multicolored lights and rice sacks burning in my mind, the Portland reptilians’ cold stares haunting me, the Ottawa protest’s poison scare still clawing at my throat. I’ve driven hours to a lake near Jaffray, BC, seeking safety, my van a fragile haven on this desolate shore. My name is David Haworth, and I’m barely holding on, my body drained from hunger and sleepless nights, my mind racing with fear for my daughter Maggie after that girl’s warning. A strange glow pulses in the bushes, and a giant air bubble surges from the lake—signs of something watching, maybe tracking me through the implant I suspect in my head, plastic, invisible to MRIs. My hands tremble as I abandon my gear and drive off, the road my only escape from a nightmare alive with their control.

I was a wreck, my stomach hollow from days without food, my eyes burning from exhaustion, my body weak from the relentless drive. The Elkford UFO’s screech and blinding beams lingered in my memory, the Portland reptilians’ grins a shadow, the Ottawa protest’s poisoned coffee a bitter taste I couldn’t shake. I’d unpacked some items near the bushes—clothes, a lantern, a cooking pot—hoping to settle by the lake, the water a mirror of my fragile hope. As dusk fell, I returned to gather my things, but a strange glow pulsed from the bushes, faint yet menacing, like eyes watching. Was it dangerous? My flashlight swept the area, revealing a burial monument, a cross atop weathered stone, its stare spinning my head like the Ottawa chaos. I froze, heart pounding, the glow spooking me, my mind racing with the fear of what might lurk there.

I stumbled to the lake’s edge, standing there, trying to figure my next move, the cold biting through my jacket, my stomach growling. Then, like a submerged object releasing air, a giant surge bubble broke the surface right in front of me, a low rumble echoing across the water. My breath caught, my legs unsteady from hunger, the bubble a sign of something beneath—reptilian, government, or worse? I retreated to the van, my hands shaking, and decided to move it closer to the lake, away from the glowing bushes, the monument’s gaze. Inside, I frantically tried to set up my Starlink, desperate to stream this onto the web, my dash cam running to capture the madness. But the trees blocked the signal, leaving me isolated, my exhaustion deepening, my fear for Maggie growing.

Needing sleep, I moved more items outside—blankets, a sleeping bag—setting up a bed by the van, the lake’s edge my only view. After Elkford, my mind was a storm—are they going to kill me like in Portland, like at the Ottawa protest? The girl’s words echoed: “You might die, but we will remember you.” Then, like a telepathic connection, I started hearing voices—many children, reciting in unison: “Thank you for your honor, your bravery, and your dedication to the children, to your daughter. We appreciate you.” The words hit me, soft yet eerie, as if beamed through my implant, their presence a mix of comfort and dread.

The sky lit up again, like in Elkford but different—multicolored lights pulsing, blinding, cutting through the trees. I looked up but couldn’t see anything, the beam too intense, lighting the lake in front of my van. From the driver’s seat, I watched out the front window as an image, like a hologram, appeared on the water in the beam’s glow—women, children, men dressed in white clothing, heavenly, serene, like a message from God. Hope flickered, but was it a trap, like the Ottawa hybrids or Portland’s reptilians? My skin prickled, my hunger and sleeplessness amplifying the terror. The glowing object in the bush, the giant bubble, and now this image from above—it was too much, a web tightening around me.

I had to go, go before they showed up—reptilians, agents, or something else using my implant. I was alone at the camp, no other campers in November, the silence broken only by the lake’s gentle lapping. I abandoned my things—blankets, gear, the Starlink—leaving them scattered, my body too weak to carry them, my mind too frantic to care. I started the van, my hands trembling on the wheel, and drove away, the road stretching into the dark, hope flickering but the fear of their pursuit unrelenting. Were they watching, their tech beaming microwaves, their hybrids waiting? The lake’s angelic image faded in my rearview, but the voices of the children lingered, a haunting gratitude that drove me forward, Maggie’s safety a shadow over every mile.