A paranormal/occult/spiritual genred story i've been working on.....
Prologue:
A billowing bon fire illuminated the night sky as if the sun was still high in the sky. Around the fire was a group of cloaked malignant men. These men belonged to an occult known as The Serpent Lodge, which dealt in black magic and all things evil. They were intent upon unleashing the lowest gates of hell and to pour forth its awesome wrath, to do their bidding.
Their purpose tonight was to finally destroy the roots of their sole opposition; their roadblock to total power in Ireland and ultimately the world; their sworn enemy of many centuries past, The Guardians of the Light.
The Guardians of the Light was an order founded in Ireland many years ago when evil druids would perform satanic rituals and other desecrating acts to quench their thirst for power. Likewise in the rest of the world at that time there was an order known as the Templar Knights, close allies of theirs who fought similar enemies. After news of betrayal of their allies in light, the Templar Knights, the order sought refuge in the Abbey of Saint Patrick, a long time friend of both orders. Soon after, England invaded Ireland and persecuted those of both orders and those Irish people who did not conform to their beliefs.
The man who was the cults leader stepped forward; hooded in a long black robe, he resemble the fabled grim reaper himself. The man motioned towards two men who held a young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. The young man struggled against the grips of his captors, trying desperately with all he had to get loose and flee this aberrant sacrament. He was to be the Sacrifice for the dark magic tonight.
The leader drew a knife out; the hilt bared a blood red ruby. The knife was of masterwork quality. The two men lay the struggling young man on a large stone that had appeared to have-been worked into the shape of an altar.
The leader started to recite the words from an ancient text, which lay before him. His words wound an invisible but noticeable binding around the man’s neck. His head was forced back, by the two who held him, so his neck lay open to the blade.
The leader recited the incantation that were passed down from leader to leader. The ancient words that would smite their enemies and once and for all end their battle against the followers of the light.
When the leader finished he waved his hands in a the proper way to seal the incantation, and moved the knife towards the man’s neck and proceeded to slice his neck open, blood gushed out of his neck, completing the ceremony.
Chapter 1:
Mean while, an ocean away. Father Nathan O’Mare stood at the edge of the cliffs that stretched up from the ocean and continued on down the coast for miles. He liked to get up early at sunset and watch the waves. He believed this stemmed from a past life of his; he was apparently a sea captain of highest prestige in England during the 17th century. But that was the past, and now he was focused on the waves and all that lay around him.
A few yards from the edge of the cliffs stood the Abbey of Saint Patrick. Catholic priests had built this Abbey in the early 12th century.
It was intended as a haven for Irish Catholic refugees who fled from their native lands; which at that time were being pillaged by invading English armies.
A gust of wind blew in from the sea, causing Nathan’s trench coat flutter about. He sighed, the weather at this time of year always got him down. He turned and headed back towards the Abbey; his heart lightened by the thought of greeting his fellow priests at the morning mass.
Suddenly there was a loud thundering cacophony and mirthless black clouds swirled above the abbey forming a twisted whirlpool that stretched endlessly into the sky and down towards the abbey. Then, as soon as the dark vortex touched the roof of the abbey it was as if by the very notice of the abbey’s holiness, a bolt of lightning struck the abbey. The cacophony of blasting rock thundered towards Nathan’s ears, like a raging waterfall. He was thrown onto his back by the very force of the explosion; his head slammed into the ground. Slightly dazed, he fought to keep conscious as result of the blow to his head. He waited a few seconds as his senses became less jumbled and looked in horror at what was left of the abbey. The once sacred and safe haven of refuge lay in ruins. Blocks of stone that were once walls lay strewn across the ground. Nathan got up quickly and headed towards the abbey, urged on by the sound of his companion’s cries he ran to try and rescue them. The odor of incinerated flesh reached Nathan’s nose as he approached; yet he continued on. Pushing ruble out of his way he searched endlessly for any survivors. His heart both ached for his friends and beat swiftly, adrenaline being pumped into every part of his body like a raging river. He found one survivor; the abbey’s head priest. Father Christopher Michaels, the head of his order lying under a fallen beam. With all of the strength he muster; Nathan lifted the beam from a top him. He set the beam down a few feet away.
Scooping Father Christopher up in his arms Nathan carried him quickly to his vehicle, a blue-2001 range rover. He laid Father Christopher in the backseat. Quickly shutting the car door, he jumped into the drivers seat, but at that moment Father Christopher’s raspy but firm voice sounded from behind him in the seat.
“Nathan, you must bless the rest of their souls, it is a tradition, you must, or you condemn them.” He said, using his last bit of strength to make sure a sacred tradition was up held, to be true to his order.
Nathan nodded, in his haste to seek medical care for Father Christopher he had forgotten to bless the souls of his fallen companions, a common ritual for all deceased priests of the abbey. It was said that those who were blessed were protected from all of Satan’s minions who attempted to steal their soul on its journey to heaven; which were used in unholy rituals.
Nathan quickly got out of the range rover and ran to the front of the abbey. He with drew his cross from his robe pocket and held it in front of him. He clasped his other hand on the cross, closed his eyes in concentration and spoke in a firm voice.
“Lord thy father, hallowed by thy name, be here, now, and send forth your archangels of light. Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, and Uriel. Protect these followers of god, protect their souls on the way to heaven. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen!” The last word was spoken with an essence of a call being answered as suddenly a tornado like gust of wind swooped down upon the area, as though someone was flying with wings.
O’Mare hurried back to his car and started it, it started perfectly. He backed out and head to the nearest hospital.