The Second Seal

by Sean Deville

  What those with a craving for conspiracy fail to realise is that, if the attenders at these meetings were so powerful, few in the world would have heard about them. And yet millions of people are aware of the Bilderberg meetings and the gathering that occurs every year in the woods of California.

  There is one meeting that has so far gone ignored and unnoticed. Whilst the bowels of the dark web might be a haven for the sharing of such secret knowledge, the number of people across the globe who know how to delve this deep into the blackness of humanity’s super-connectivity numbers in the thousands at most.

  Few people have thus heard of the Order of the Chosen.

  They meet every year, in secret on a remote island off the coast of Scotland. The few inhabitants who dwell there year round, know to keep silent about the people who arrive for one week in the middle of July. The islands inhabitants are paid well for their silence, and generations have told of the consequences that come with loose lips revealing secrets best left unspoken. Those who make the foolish decision to speak out rarely live long enough to regret it.

  That was where Giles Horn found himself. With twenty-five of the world’s most powerful men, he sat on stone tiered steps that overlooked a small lake. The hooded cloak he wore was ridiculous, but it was part of tradition. There were no women at this ceremony, for The Order of the Chosen is exclusively male. If the world were to discover its existence, no doubt those with an interest in feminism and social justice would object to the gender imbalance. But then they would be more shocked by what the Order of the Chosen represents. Created four hundred years ago by a rich Scottish merchant, the Order has one purpose.

  To worship Satan and to bring about his reign upon the Earth.

  The members were exclusively billionaires indoctrinated by mentors who were always seeking the next addition to the Order’s ranks. Most were human, misguided and misinformed about what a future under Satanic rule would bring them. Already in possession of more power than the average person could comprehend, their own moral failings demanded they be given more control over the useless masses. The unwashed proles had grown too populous and arrogant for their own good and their numbers now threatened the planet.

  A cull of the herd was long overdue.

  It was truly an exclusive club, made more so by the fact that three of the members near Horn were in fact demons who had chosen to live on Earth in the service of their master. What better sponsors could the Antichrist have to join such a club? The time would come when Horn would reveal his true identity to this Order. They would bow down and do his bidding or they would have their eyes gouged out and fed to them. Despite their wealth and power, there was nobody human here who could match Horn’s ruthlessness.

  To be honest, Horn didn’t want to be there. He found the whole thing trite and a waste of his time. Whilst it had given him useful contacts and introduced him to three of his father’s emissaries on Earth, there were more enjoyable things he could be doing with his time. Unfortunately, it was expected of him to attend and somewhat essential for the furtherance of his goal. The business deals he could make in this week would speed his agenda more than any corporate takeover.

  They all claimed to be of a like mind. It was just that some of them didn’t understand who the real boss was.

  The lake was in a gully, the edges of which were thick with trees. Although the island’s locals knew to stay away, those trees were guarded by severe men who had orders to kill anyone found lurking in the undergrowth. Further, the whole area was surrounded by thick and high double layered fences topped with wickedly sharp razor wire. The space between those fences was patrolled by a dozen Dobermans who were trained to slay anything that entered their domain.

  You trespassed here at your peril.

  The whole encampment of nearly four acres was also the home of a large luxury lodge that could house nearly a hundred people. All of it was mysteriously missing from the various aerial maps available on the internet, government satellites rarely passing across it. Such was the influence of the two dozen plus men who attended every year, the island was rarely of interest to the governments of the world.

  The lake was about a hundred metres across. On the other side was a statue of Horn’s father. At least it was supposed to be. Being a fallen angel, Horn had doubts Satan looked like the image before him. Originally designed by Eliphas Levi in 1856, the sabbatic goat image was better known as Baphomet.

  Satan did not possess the head of a goat. That was ridiculous.

  “The Sire.” The voice boomed across the lake from large speakers that had been erected. At the base of the statue which was nearly twenty metres high, a single cloaked man stood, his voice emanating through the wonders of acoustic science. This was the part of being here Horn found tiresome. This ritual, so important to those present, was meaningless, something that had managed to survive the initial creation of the Order and which had fallen into tradition. Next to Horn, one of the possessed turned, the demon inside willing its host’s left eye to wink.

  “Let the humans play their games,” the demon whispered.

  “It’s ludicrous,” Horn offered in complaint.

  “Give them their fun so that they may give you their wealth.” It was rare for demons to possess people long term. Although demons could acquire memories and mimic an individual’s character, they could not acquire what made an individual unique. The inspiration that came to a genius would be lost for example, or the drive that made someone a success in business. So those who had been taken within the Order were those who had already made their wealth, money passed down from one generation to the next along bloodlines that had been carefully manipulated to allow for possession. Each demon would sire children from mothers unaware of what they were bringing into the world. This the same demon could control a fortune for generation.

  This also allowed the Order of the Chosen to be guided by those whose interests it was supposed to serve.

  “Satanic children, by the power of our fellowship, dull morality is slain.” The booming voice had a grating quality, as if the speaker had been born with a cigarette in his mouth.

  “You never did tell me how you found me,” Horn said. The demon, who went by the name Beleth, had appeared in Horn’s world the day after Horn Senior’s funeral.

  “I am a King of Hell,” Beleth reminded him. “I go where your father commands.” It had taken Horn a couple of weeks to get his head around the fact he was born from the corruption of a Fallen Angel.

  From high behind the statue, funeral music began to emanate. Within the trees numerous torches appeared, a procession descending down to the base of the statue.

  “I think Kane resents being my bodyguard.” Although Kane hadn’t said as much, Horn had learnt long ago to spot dissatisfaction.

  “Kane is a servant, nothing more. He will do as he is ordered for he knows the fate that will befall him should you ever be harmed.” Kane was not allowed here. Instead he was stuck back at the lodge.

  There was a sudden tolling of a bell.

  “The Sire. Behold, the effigy of this, our enemy, is carried hither for our ancient rites.”

  “Ancient rites? Boys playing with toys they don’t understand,” Horn sighed. He had been here before, so he knew nothing in the so-called ritual had anything to do with the being those present chose to honour.

  The bell stopped, drums announcing the procession as it burst from the trees heading for the statue. There were about twenty in the procession, four drummers within their ranks. Held aloft on the shoulders of six, a bound figure could be seen, mummified. An innocent observer would think this was an effigy, but Horn knew it to be a living breathing human child. As the funeral music continued softly over the speakers, the bound child was brought to the base of the statue.

  Naturally there was a funeral pyre already prepared there.

  “Satan is in his fiery temple; let all within sight be reverent before him.”

  “I always wonder where they get the children fr
om.” Horn had been here five times before, and each time it was the same tedious routine. The first visit had been mildly intriguing, the pomp and ceremony an impressive spectacle. Now it had become dull.

  “From the mainland. The streets of Glasgow are flush with young fresh minds who can be tricked into the back of a van.” Beleth, unlike Horn, relished every moment of this. The ritual they were observing was the start of the night’s festivities. Later, when the body was nothing but a charred remnant, they would all return to the immense lodge where further entertainment would be provided. There were occasions when women were allowed within the strictly guarded confines of this secretive place.

  The people around Horn began to sing. Beleth and the one he served declining to join in the cacophony.

  “Glory, and strength and peace,

  They are yours; they shall rarely cease

  While the trees are, and the fetid hills.

  The stars come in with the power of night,

  And the wind, like a presence, fills

  The temple-aisles of the wood;

  It is ours, it is good,

  It is made for our delight.

  Glory, and strength and peace,

  It is here that you find release

  From the mournful memories

  Oh, cast your grief to the fire.

  And be strong with the unholy

  And the spirit of Satan.

  In your dreams you shall rove

  To the Pit of Hearts Despair.”

  “What is that even supposed to mean?” Horn implored.

  “Beats me. It constantly amazes me how much bullshit you humans revel in.” Beleth paused as if realising his error. “Present company excepted, of course.” That got a smile from Horn who had to admit he had never met a demon he didn’t like. They were all so… authentic. They all also had a tendency to utterly revere him.

  The child was lifted onto the pyre and bound to it with what Horn knew would be metal wire. The mummification was cloth, and this was cut away to reveal a terrified face. The gag stifling the child was removed allowing the youngster to scream her terror. A strategically placed microphone resonated the despair through the speakers.

  Their package delivered, the procession turned and retreated the way they had come, this time silent. No music now played, the only entertainment the child’s harrowed cries.

  “Lift up your heads, O ye servants, and be ye lift up, ye ever-living spires. For behold, here is an offering and unholy are the pillars of this house. Weaving spiders, come not here!”

  “I wonder how many here are rubbing one off under their cloaks.” Horn was the youngest man here. Some of those present would need a blue pill to get anywhere close to an erection.

  “Gather, Ye forest fold, and cast your spells over these mortals.”

  “Fuck me,” Horn lamented, “I need a drink.”

  “Will you please be quiet?” someone behind Horn hissed.

  Horn turned, stared the man down. If the burning eyes weren’t enough, the size of Horn was ample reason for a person to hold their tongue. He felt a tap on his shoulder and Horn turned back to see a hip flask being held out for him. “Halleluiah.”

  Horn took the flask and took a healthy swig, aware that he had another hour of this. Being the future ruler of the world could be tedious at times.

  It was then the pyre was set on fire. Whatever screams that had come from the child prior to that, they paled into insignificance to the sound now surging forth. Horn knew that, should he succeed in his father’s plan, the whole world would sound like that for decades to come.

  32.

  London, UK

  “Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been ten years since my last confession.” Lucien sat in the confessional, the air chill around him. Simon sat outside in one of the pews, the child reluctant to be left alone whilst still being somewhat fearful of the man who had rescued him. There was a coldness about Lucien, a mechanism to defend the Inquisitor against the dangers of compassion and empathy.

  Lucien was not a child minder. He was a killer.

  This was the fourth time Lucien had been here, the fourth broken and lost child he had brought to be saved. This church was the start of the underground railroad that ferried those children who could not be left in the real world. This was where one’s life as an Inquisitor began if you met the criteria. He cared not if any of them succeeded in that, and Lucien didn’t know if Simon would be accepted.

  Lucien had saved the boy and brought him here. This was the end of his involvement.

  “I am listening,” the priest on the other side of the partition said. Lucien recognised the voice, but he knew he still needed to say the code words that would begin the process. Apart from Simon, the main body of the church was abandoned. Too few felt the need to be with Christ in this modern age.

  “I am guilty of presumption. I have a lost soul requiring Gerolamo Emiliani’s protection.” Gerolamo Emiliani was the patron saint of orphans.

  “Gerolamo Emiliani accepts all those brought before him. Is the child of our kind?” Our kind, meaning Simon had the genetic profile that was the first step in joining the Inquisition.

  “Yes.” The code was now complete, an age-old tradition Lucien found tedious whilst still accepting it. Lucien stepped out of the confession booth, Father Creed following a heartbeat later. The Father was old and yet still spritely.

  “It is good to see you again, Lucien,” Father Creed said. The priest, whilst not an Inquisitor, was still a member of the sacred Order. He, like the priests before him, had watched over this church for generations. “And who is this child?”

  “His name is Simon,” Lucien said. “Come Simon. Come say hello to Father Creed.” Lucien held out his hand to the reluctant boy. After several seconds of hesitation, Simon extricated himself from the pew and timidly approached.

  “I want my mum,” Simon sniffled.

  “You know that cannot be,” Lucien stated.

  A bit of warmth and compassion would go a long way, thought Father Creed.

  “Let’s get some food in you, shall we?” Father Creed insisted. He didn’t have to ask what had happened to the parents. The children were only ever brought to him if the immediate family was dead. The demons rarely showed anything resembling mercy. Even when they did, it was only to play some evil psychological trick.

  Demons were vessels of complete chaos. They often struck randomly, tormenting and murdering anything they could find. Many a poor soul was presently languishing in prison because of the actions of a demon who had possessed their body, only for the demon to then depart knowing its host’s life was destroyed. When they took children, they often killed the parents, invariably in front of terrified young eyes who would be forever scarred by what they witnessed.

  Father Creed always wondered what happened when a suitable child was rescued only for the parents to still be alive. Inquisitors did God’s work, yet they were ruthless and dedicated. Would they allow a child to return to their family if they could be inducted into God’s holy army? Although he had no direct evidence of such, Father Creed wondered if sometimes the Inquisitors took their sense of duty too far. Who was he to question their methods though? They all served God, and only the heavenly host could be their judge.

  Lucien knelt down by Simon.

  “I am going to leave you now. This man can be trusted and he will look after you.”

  “No,” Simon implored. There came the hug again, the young body gripping to him. Carefully, Lucien pulled the arms from around him. A memory flashed, of a six-year-old Lucien left at a similar church over two decades ago. Lucien felt he knew exactly how the boy felt, so the sooner Simon learnt there would be no relenting in the harshness of existence, the better.

  Only the strongest would survive. That strength was either in you from the start or you were able to drag it to the surface.

  “You must listen to Father Creed and do as he tells you,” Lucien commanded. “There are still those who would w
ish to harm you. Father Creed is not one of those and he can protect you.”

  “Don’t leave me,” Simon begged. Lucien pushed him fully away.

  “I must.” Lucien felt relieved when he finally walked away leaving the child with Father Creed. Demons he could deal with. The emotions of frightened children were something he would rather avoid. Those emotions dragged up feelings Lucien had long since buried. Better to leave them in the grave than risk resurrecting them.

  33.

  Dallas, USA

  Rupert was one of those teachers who never managed to garner the respect of his students. To be honest, teaching wasn’t so much a vocation as something he had fallen into. There were millions of people in the same situation with their jobs and their relationships. You woke up one morning and found life just sort of happened. Until today, it could be strongly argued that Rupert hadn’t experienced a single passionate moment in his entire life.

  And all he felt now was absolute terror.

  He’d woken up feeling strange, as if his skin was numb and cold. At first when he opened his eyes, he didn’t realise he was no longer in control of his body, but it quickly dawned on him that something was very wrong.

  It felt like somebody else was in command.

  “What the hell,” he tried to say out loud, only the words stayed trapped behind his lips.

  Howdy partner, a voice had said to him. There had been nobody in the room, the voice evidently coming from inside his skull. You don’t mind if I borrow you for a few hours, do you? The voice had then chuckled, supremely confident in the control it had gained.

  Have I gone insane? he asked himself. He had a brother with a history of schizophrenia; was that now cursing him too?

  Now, don’t you be worrying your precious little head about such things, the interloper in his mind had said reassuringly. I have a few things I want to do, and then I’ll be gone. Rupert’s vision had felt restricted. He had still been able to see and hear, but everything around him had looked like it was far away, and the sounds of the world were muffled and distorted. Only the voice had come through clearly.