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ISBN: 978-1-4835912-4-7
CONTENTS
Copyright
Author
Disclaimer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
To the reader:
OBELISK- A Tale of Spiritual Warfare is not about what one must do to be saved. It is about what one must not do to avoid the wrath of God in the coming New World Order.
Robert Girard
January 2017
Disclaimer
OBELISK - A Tale of Spiritual Warfare is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, groups and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
1
“Oh my God, he’s got a bomb!” The young mother screamed as she grabbed her baby from a stroller and ran from the park bench.
“Everybody stay back!” the man at the obelisk yelled. “Everybody stay back and no one gets hurt!”
The mother watched as he wrapped a chain around the obelisk and another around his waist before snapping a padlock onto the chains binding him to the stone tower. In one abrupt move he threw off his jacket. He was wearing a suicide bombers vest made of black Kevlar with C-4 explosives in the pockets. Taped to the front of the vest was a white placard displaying large black letters that read: “ LVXXVI.”
The quiet morning in Central Park abruptly ended. Within moments, sirens were wailing and the serene setting was turned into mayhem. Dozens of New York City policemen were quickly joined by S.W.A.T. teams and forces from Homeland Security pushing people back from the obelisk and securing the area. Within the hour it had escalated into a world-wide news event being carried by all the major news networks. Helicopters circled Central Park, hovering over the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hoping to get a clear shot of the terrorist threatening to blow up the Egyptian granite monument known as Cleopatra’s Needle.
Snipers were positioned on the rooftop of the museum with high powered rifles trained on the suspect. Television cameras zoomed in on the C-4 plastic explosives attached to the monument at each corner. The lone terrorist held a small trigger device in his right hand.
“Don’t come near me,” the man shouted, as he pointed the trigger mechanism at the snipers on top of the museum.
“If I let go of this button, this precious stone will be turned to dust.”
Thousands of people now gathered and watched from a safe distance, only the police and the New York City Bomb Squad were close enough to talk to the man. An agent in plain clothes held up his hands and took a few steps toward the bomber.
“Calm down son, let’s talk”
“Stop right there!” he screamed again. His right hand holding the trigger switch was shaking as he wiped the sweat running into his eyes with the other hand. “It’s too late to talk.”
The bomber made no demands and gave no explanation for his actions as his eyes scanned the crowd.
“Get away from this unholy stone before I blow it back to sand. I’m going to detonate this bomb at exactly twelve noon.”
Monitors all around the world showed the strange scene unfolding in Central Park as the desperate bomber demanded everyone stay away. Using a split screen, CNN cameras kept a vigil on the digital time clock in Time’s Square. It read: 11:59
***
Glenn Giordano hurried along the walkway that cut diagonally across the main courtyard of the Central Campus of the University of Michigan known as ‘The Diag’. He was headed toward the State Street business area to catch some lunch when he noticed a crowd of about twenty people gathered in front of the electronics store. Glenn joined them as they stared at the display of nine large flat-screen televisions stacked three high and three wide, carrying a live news report from New York City.
“What’s going on?” Glenn asked of one of the students crowded around the display window.
“A terrorist is threatening to blow something up in New York City!”
Glenn moved through the crowd to get a better view of the televisions. The split screens showed a man wearing a suicide vest chained to the stone monument on one side while the other showed a large digital clock in Times Square as it turned from 11:59 to 12:00. Several people in the crowd gasped.
“It’s twelve o’clock!” someone shouted.
The television cameras zoomed in on the bomber. He held his hand high and released the button. Nothing happened. The cameras pulled in closer on the face of the terrorist who acted as surprised as everyone else. He pushed and released the button once more and then began fumbling with the wires attached to his vest. There was no sound on the televisions, but Glenn imagined the sound of the single gunshot that found its mark between the eyes of the terrorist. He slumped over, arms lifeless at his sides, the monument intact.
“Oh my God,” the same young woman said as she lifted a hand to shield her eyes.
“There’s one terrorist who got what he deserved,” another student stated coldly.
The television crews continued their live coverage as the Bomb Squad cautiously approached the dead man, still wired with explosives and chained to the obelisk. One television that featured “closed-captioning” displayed a text of the full report below the picture. The text read, “Police have no information as to the lone bombers motives or affiliations.”
Blood ran down the deceased bombers vest, obscuring the only clue that might explain this tragedy.
“It’s a Roman Numeral,” someone said.
“What does it mean?” another asked.
The closed captioning on the screen displayed the same question. “Police are attempting to understand the meaning of the Roman Numerals displayed on the bomber’s vest.
Glenn froze for a moment, staring at the televisions, scanning each one to make sure he was seeing the same letters on every set. He was sure. Glenn stepped away from the crowd and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. He touched 411. Glenn knew what the letters meant and he understood the bomber’s motives.
“New York City Police Department please”
2
Sunrise in Vatican City found Cardinal Salvatore Romano in the courtyard of St. Peter’s Basilica. Each morning he would rise before dawn so he could be carefully positioned at Vaticano Obelisk, the ancient Egyptian obelisk placed in the square when the basilica was built.
As the warm sun rose, he would place himself so he could cast his shadow onto the cold stone edifice that housed the spirit of the sun god the Cardinal knew as Lucifer. It was a metaphorical attempt to fuse his spirit with the spirit in the obelisk.
After an incantation to his god, the Cardinal carefully checked the surrounding area to be sure he was not being observed. When he felt the moment was right, and as his shadow embraced the obelisk, he removed a scarlet handkerchief from the vest pocket of his floor length cassock. He carefully unfolded the handkerchief to reveal a single consecrated host. He had taken the host from the ciborium where his aide, Father Angelo Rossi, placed the unused communion wafers from his morning Mass.
It had been years since the Cardinal had been able to successfully consecrate a host because of his devotion to Lucifer so Cardinal Romano would steal consecrated hosts from Father Angelo to use in his obscene obelisk ritual. His daily visit to the ciborium was simplified by sending the priest on some useless task until the foul deed was done. It was easy.
Romano was amused by the naiveté of Father Angelo Rossi. When not running errands and reconciling accounts for the Cardinal, Father Angelo kept himself busy conducting daily Mass, working on his studies, and following his passion for visiting the many Marian Apparition sites around the world.
Cardinal Romano considered the appearances of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and her dire warnings to pray often to avoid the snares of Satan as too little, too late. He felt confident he would soon be empowered to perform feats that would dwarf, by comparison, any Marian apparition.
He faced the east, his demented smile illuminated by the rising sun, his shadow cast against the obelisk. With a subtle gesture, one he had perfected, the Cardinal casually dropped the wafer of bread consecrated to become the body and blood of Jesus Christ to the pavement at the foot of the obelisk. In the final act of desecration offered as an oblation to Lucifer, Cardinal Romano placed the heel of his shoe on the host and applied the full weight of his ample body, grinding the wafer into the pavement.
***
Father Angelo Rossi greeted each day at Vatican City in prayer as he rose before dawn to perform his spiritual exercises. The priest devoted his first waking hours to prayer and spiritual preparation before facing the day ahead of him. First he confessed his sins. Next, he offered himself as a living sacrifice to his Lord, Jesus Christ. Finally, he said Mass and received the Eucharist in the private chapel of the living quarters he shared with the other priests that served the Bishops and Cardinals of the Magisterium. It was his desire to begin and end each day on his knees thanking and giving glory to God for the many graces bestowed on him.
It was on just such a morning, during his spiritual exercises, when Father Angelo experienced a life changing moment. With his eyes closed, he had been contemplating the Mystery of the Eucharist, when he felt compelled to leave his prayers and look out the window onto the plaza of St. Peter’s Basilica.
At first the good father resisted, he was used to temporal thoughts disrupting his prayerful endeavors so he redoubled his mental focus on the contemplation of the Eucharist. It was no use. One thought persistently pushed to the forefront of his mind, he must go the window and look out to the plaza below.
He began to finger his rosary as if clutching the beads tighter would push out any worldly thoughts when he heard a small still voice say, “He desecrates the Host!”
Though the voice he heard was barely audible in his mind, it startled him to the point that he jumped to his feet and stood at attention. He strained his hearing in an attempt to detect the voice again.
He heard nothing.
Once again, he felt the irresistible urge to go and look out the window. In two quick steps he was at the window with his hands gripping the stonework frame. The rising sun blinded him briefly and made it difficult to focus in on the plaza below. He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked down on the solitary figure standing at the base of the obelisk in the center of St. Peter’s Square.
He immediately recognized the only person on the plaza at this early hour was His Eminence, Cardinal Salvatore Romano. As he watched him, he saw the Cardinal give the slightest glance over his shoulder and position himself directly between the rising sun and the obelisk.
He watched as the Cardinal took a scarlet handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it, and with his hands down at his side, dropped something to the ground. He appeared to step on it as he turned as if were stepping on a lit cigarette. Father Angelo somehow understood what he had just seen. He knew the Cardinal was performing the most evil of deeds and he knew God wanted him to witness the trespass.
“No! Stop!” Father Angelo screamed into the leaded glass window in front of him.
He could not believe his eyes. This can’t be!
Father Angelo leapt back from the window with a start and was back on his heels in a flash trembling with fear. A prayer erupted from his consciousness.
God, help me.
Instantly, Father Angelo knew what he had to do. With renewed courage and an unstoppable will, Father Angelo tucked a white handkerchief into his pocket and headed out the door of the chapel in the Apostolic Palace. He quickly and quietly made his way down the rear stair case and briskly walked to the base of the obelisk where, to his horror, there on the terrazzo pavement was a solitary, crushed host.
With tears running down his face, he carefully picked up the host that still held the mark of the Cardinal’s heel and gently placed it into the clean linen handkerchief. He held the contents of the linen cloth to his heart and retreated back to the chapel where, after a brief prayer, he consumed the host.
Father Angelo added one more spiritual exercise to his morning routine. Each day at sunrise he would peer out the same east facing window to observe the Cardinal’s daily trespass. Each day Father Angelo would retrieve the desecrated host from the foot of that image of jealousy, the Vaticano Obelisk.
He came to a new revealed understanding of Cardinal Salvatore Romano.
3
I stood with my father in a brightly lit afternoon, looking at the row of distinguished looking gentlemen posed in front of what I took to be an English manor. I wondered where this was. I wondered why they stood in a line, from left to right, looking at me. I did not recognize any of them, or the three story manor house behind them. While I pondered this, my father took me by the elbow and led me away from this place.
Instantly, I was at the side of another building. It was now night. I noted that I did not recognize this place either as my father walked me around to the front of the building. As we walked I could see through the windows into the brightly lit interior of the building. The windows were very tall and of the leaded glass types with many panes joined by the lead. At the intersection of the panes was a red colored diamond shaped piece of glass. As we turned the corner and approached an entry into the building I noticed a large foyer space with rooms on two sides. On my left was a large banquet type room that seemed to be adjoined to the room in front of me. The entrance to the front room was accented by a massive oak beam that provided the header above the oversized entrance door.
As I walked into the foyer I looked into the room on my left side and noticed a long banquet table ornately laid out with many people seated there. They were passing a cup that looked like a goblet or chalice and each was taking a drink from it and passing it to the next person. Each stood as they received it from the person that was standing while drinking from it. After drinking and passing the cup, they sat back down.
I continued to walk toward the room at the front of the foyer and stood at the entrance of the room under the oversized beam. In the room were more banquet tables that appeared to be connected to the tables from the room at the side. At the head table was a person standing with both arms outstretched. This person wore a robe that appeared to be made of silk and the robe had a hood attached which was pulled up on the head. The robe was a beautiful light blue in color and flowed loosely around the body.
The dress of the people in the rooms and the person at the head table gave me the impression that I was witnessing something that had occurred long ago, but I cannot place the era. I was curious as to where I was and why were the people dressed in what I took to be costumes so I asked my father what is this place and why are we here.
He said only two words to me, the only two words he said during this whole encounter, and they were “Rossbury Manor.”
Michael Duncan’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the voice. He had been dreaming and he didn’t want this dream to end. Michael had not heard ‘that’ voice since the gunfight in Tampa, Florida over five years ago.
As he lay contemplating the dream he recalled the still vivid images of a banquet being held in a room with a person in a blue hooded robe passing a golden chalice. The elaborate rooms were distinctive and Michael could recall every detail. He repeated the only two words spoken during the entire dream, “Rossbury Manor?” He began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The first thought that occurred to him was to go to the computer and search for the term while it was still fresh in his mind.
To his surprise the place from his dream was real! There was an estate on Long Island, New York called Rossbury Manor, and they had a website! Michael quickly scanned the page as he listened to the peculiar music on the site with the sound of rushing wind in the background. He selected the icon labeled, Tour.
Michael sat frozen in place, staring at the screen in awe. Here was the banquet room with the same leaded glass windows, right down to the red diamond in the center of each divided pane. There was no mistake about it this was the place from his dream. He had been there mere minutes ago. The notable difference was that the room was empty. There was no banquet and no one in a blue hooded robe passing a golden chalice.
Most dreams vanish in an instant. Not this one. He was at a total loss to explain how he could be looking at the very same rooms from his dream on the computer screen in front of him.
The strange background music on the site with the wind in the background was playing with his mind. It seemed the perfect backdrop for the surreal feelings he now experienced. There was something about this dream that touched him in a way that seemed familiar and reminded him of strange experiences that began shortly after the gunfight in Tampa so many years ago.
He could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he stood up and began to pace. The thought of Tampa would not leave him. He was convinced that the same Spirit that spoke to him in Tampa many years ago had now whispered “Rossbury Manor” in his ears as he slept. The question that now troubled Michael was what to do about it.
He continued to research the sites related to Rossbury Manor. He learned that a man named William Balderstone owned Rossbury Manor and was one of the original settlers of Long Island granted land by the English King in 1640. On the same webpage was a depiction of the Balderstone Family Crest. Next, he used Google Maps to locate Rossbury Manor. He zoomed in as far as he could and noticed something that looked out of place. There in the back yard of Rossbury Manor was a large white stone patio in the shape of an octagon with a large Templar Cross detailed in black paver stones.
The Templar Cross is something Michael knew well from his investigations of Freemasonry and the New World Order with his research associate, Glenn Giordano. They came across the Knights Templar and their well-known insignia while studying secret societies.
What was a very large Templar Cross, in an octagon shaped patio, doing in the rear of Rossbury Manor? Why was he shown the scene of a banquet with what looked like a Druid passing a chalice? More importantly, why was God talking to him again?
The last time he had heard that voice he had been slammed to the floor, hand-cuffed and hauled off to jail.
***
At that time, Michael had a death wish. A death wish he couldn’t fulfill. He was too much of a coward to kill himself so he deluded himself into believing that if someone else killed him it would be ok. Not a suicide. He had carefully picked the place and set the stage, the time was right. After many hours drinking in a biker bar in Tampa, Florida, a prerequisite for any bar fight, he could sense the imminent explosion. He would at last, with the bikers help; put an end to the hell on earth he called his life.
Michael’s long black hair was tied in a ponytail that extended halfway down his back. In their eyes he could have been a hippie, he wasn’t. The wolf- bone choker around his neck shouted ‘Indian’ to any one wondering.
Sitting alone at the back of the bar, he chose the men to complete his plan as he pounded down one vodka on-the- rocks after another. The bikers were sitting along the length of the bar, their colors staring Michael in the face. In the middle of the group, one bar stool stood empty. One of the road warriors had gone to hit the head.
Scenes from Michael’s life flashed through his clouded mind as he staggered to his feet, headed for the bar. He failed in his marriage. He deserted his children. He lost his job. He would not fail at this. He noisily slid the empty stool out of his way and leaned on the bar.
The music blasted. His head pounded. The place smelled like a urinal. A cloud of thick smoke hung in the air of the dark room as he stood at the bar between two of the biggest bikers in the place. The biker next to Michael turned and said, “What’s up Geronimo?”
Perfect, Michael thought to himself. Showtime!
Michael sucked the last drops of vodka from the heavy leaded glass, dumped the ice on the floor behind the bar and without looking at either of the men said, “You can kiss Geronimo’s ass.”
Michael heard the sound of the long neck beer bottle break over his head but he didn’t feel a thing. A stream of blood quickly ran down his face and onto his chest from the gaping cut above his eyes nearly blinding him. He didn’t drop. He didn’t flinch. He stared straight ahead and with a smile on his face wiped the blood from his eyes.
As the biker laughed and leaned forward to fist- bump his buddy he was ripped off the bar stool by a ferocious right cross. With the glass still in his hand, Michael had smashed it across the bridge of his nose burying shards of glass in his face. Before he hit the ground Michael was on top of him pummeling his bloody face with a flurry of punches that splashed blood and flesh onto the barroom floor.
Heavy boots crashed into Michael’s rib cage and another bottle broke over his head before a large hand grabbed his ponytail and jerked him to his feet. Two men held him upright while another two men beat him mercilessly. Michael began to lose consciousness.
“Gun!” the biker on the floor yelled.
In one swift move the bartender reached under the bar and tossed a handgun to the bleeding biker. He struggled to his feet and pointed the gun at Michael’s head. Michael closed his eyes.
Almost done, just shoot me you son of a bitch.
The men holding Michael upright dropped his arms and jumped back as the biker staggered toward his target wiping blood from his eyes with his sleeve. He pulled the hammer of the pistol back and took aim between Michael’s eyes. As he began to squeeze the trigger, time stood still. In a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, Michael heard a voice in his mind that would change him forever.
“It’s not your time Michael.”
In an instant, and in a way Michael did not understand, he was aware that he had just heard the voice of God. In the next moment, his hand, seeming to have a mind of its own, swept up in blinding speed and grabbed the barrel of the gun pushing it up just as it discharged sending the bullet into the ceiling above with a dull thud. With a quick twist of the wrist Michael now had the gun in his hand.
The tables had turned. Nothing short of a miracle had just occurred. The bikers fell over themselves, knocking over chairs and scrambling to get out of the range of the crazed Indian that now had their own gun pointed back at them. In the distance sirens could be heard approaching the bar from many directions and the place quickly cleared out in front of a very disappointed Michael Duncan.
“Not my time?” Michael shouted over the din of the still blaring music. He steadied himself leaning on the nearest table. He felt like his knees would buckle. The room was spinning as he looked at the blood covered gun in his hand and the back sides of the bikers clearing the doorway. “This is my time,” Michael whispered as he closed his eyes and slowly raised the gun to his temple.
“Drop the gun! Get down on your knees.” White light poured into the room as the doors were jammed open and suddenly there were uniformed and plain clothes cops shouting at Michael. He opened his eyes to see a dozen guns pointing at him and the sound of hurried footsteps behind him. Before he could act, before he could squeeze off a round, the gun was jerked from his hand by one cop while another slammed his face to the floor.
4
Samael Saboda, ‘Sam’ for short, was a black haired, brown eyed, middle aged Latino woman, intelligent, sophisticated and beautiful. It was her interest in the practice of Santeria that first brought her into contact with the handsome young Jesuit priest she knew as Father Romano. They met many years ago when he was stationed in Nicaragua while bringing the Catholic religion to the native population far in the interior of the country.
Sam had been raised to become a Santero, a high priestess in the religion of Santeria, just as her mother and grandmother had before her. She had since taken up the practice of Palo Mayombe, the dark side of Santeria. Palo Mayombe is considered to be the world’s most powerful and most feared form of black magic.
She met Father Romano deep in the jungle one evening during the full moon while performing a cleansing ritual for a villager thought to be possessed by an evil spirit. Father Romano was entranced with her beauty and by the power she wielded as she danced around her Nganga, the cauldron filled with her power sticks, bones, and the human skull that seemed to stare blankly at the priest in the moonlight.
Palo Mayombe has a pantheon of gods with Catholic counterparts and Sam was as enthralled by the unknown power wielded by the Catholic priest as he was by hers. It wasn’t long before Sam captivated the priest and ultimately initiated him into contact with her spirit guides. Father Romano immediately embraced this separate reality and his religious practices were changed forever. This change was known only to him, and Sam.
When Father Romano was called to Rome for further studies, he arranged to have Samael move there as well so they could continue their shamanic practices together. Sam was one of very few women enrolled at the Pontifical Gregorian University, the Jesuit University in Rome, where she studied theology while secretly practicing Palo Mayombe with Father Romano.
Through the practice of witchcraft and manipulation of spirit, Sam aided Father Salvatore Romano in his meteoric rise within the administration at the Vatican. He was appointed to the position of Cardinal at just 40 years of age, the youngest cardinal in the modern age.
Cardinal Salvatore Romano and his Palero priestess shared a passion for what they considered the purest form of spiritual communication because, to the Cardinal’s delight, these spirits talked back. It was at this time Cardinal Romano began his descent into idolatry and together they worshipped gods that promised power beyond their imagination.
He made the choice with total devotion and full knowledge and he never looked back. The same adoration he had once given to God the Father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, he now lavished onto his new trinity of Lucifer, Isis, and Horus. He replaced the cross of Christ with the obelisk of Lucifer and embraced the pagan rituals of Palo Mayombe to make contact with the spirit world.
The Cardinal and Samael both understood the occult power held within talismanic relics and were thrilled to mysteriously receive, literally out of nowhere, the ancient leather bound parchment titled, Tres Profanus Spiritus Reliquarum, or Three Unholy Spiritual Relics. Shortly thereafter, they were instructed by their spirit guides to obtain the three spiritual relics described in the parchment as they contained unique spiritual characteristics. The items were the Holy Grail Chalice, the Unfinished Obelisk still attached to the granite bedrock in Aswan, Egypt, and the Spear of Destiny. The document explained in detail how the three relics, once obtained, could be used to control the spiritual destiny of mankind through the use of occult magic. Cardinal Salvatore Romano and Samael Saboda lusted for that power.
It was while pursuing the Spear of Destiny that Sam made contact with Professor Joshua Goldwin at the Gregorian Pontifical University. It was her desire to learn all she could about the spear that pierced the side of Jesus when he was crucified. It was her plan to make an exact duplicate that could fool even the world’s most renowned archeologists and soon Professor Goldwyn was under her spell.
The original spear tip was on display at the Hofsburg Museum in Vienna, Austria and could be photographed and studied by the professor with no suspicion of his motives. Using her beauty, magical charms, and funds from Cardinal Romano, it wasn’t hard to persuade the professor to assist her in crafting an exact duplicate of the Spear of Destiny. Sam provided the professor with all of the materials he would need to make a virtual exact duplicate.
It had been over a year, but finally the professor called Sam with the good news.
“…‥and the payment we discussed earlier?” The excited professor questioned.
“I have the money right here with me professor,” she assured him, “one hundred thousand US dollars.”
“Very good!”
“I’ll meet you in your lab at the university at 8pm,” she said. “I’m sure you did a brilliant job.”
She disconnected her call with the professor and hit the speed dial setting for the Cardinal.
Everyone associated with the spear tip knew it was not the spear that pierced the side of Christ as it had been studied and subjected to the carbon dating process. The study showed the spear tip on display was formed in the 7th century so it could not possibly be the true spear.
Sam didn’t want the spear for the tip; she wanted the spear for the nail that had been added to the spear tip many centuries later. The relic was known as the Crucifixion Nail. The same carbon dating process showed this nail was from the Middle East and formed in the 1st century, the time of Christ.
Sam knew the power in the Spear of Destiny was in the nail that was used to crucify Jesus and she wanted that nail.
***
After ending the call from Samael, Cardinal Romano, seated in the Salone Sistino was considering his good fortune. Soon the Spear of Destiny would be in his possession.
This was his favorite place to read the many treasured items contained in the archives in the Vatican Library. The room was brilliantly lit and contained colorful murals of the apostles, saints and previous popes. He would sit for hours and study the intricate architecture of the room with its columns and vaulted ceilings covered with frescoed paintings. The intricate and hidden lighting systems transformed the ceilings into an unnaturally beautiful vista. Each time he visited he would take a different seat and the room would seem entirely new to him. No other room in Vatican City made him feel this way.
Today, he had a spectacular view of the fresco entitled, The Coronation of Pope Sixtus V. The coronation took place near the newly constructed St. Peters Basilica and displayed his beloved Egyptian obelisk to the left of the Basilica.
He thought it apropos to take this particular seat as he studied the oversized leather bound book of world maps. The page in front of him was a map of ancient Phoenicia and the item of his interest today was Mt. Hermon located at 33 degrees north by 33 degree east. How interesting he thought. Just beyond the 33rd degree. Just beyond the understanding of all 33rd degree Freemasons who thought they knew all. The Cardinal smiled to himself. Not quite all!
As he looked at the map, he envisioned the cross hairs centered on Mount Hermon on the northern border of the Promised Land. He knew this place was defined as the forbidden place and the entry point of the fallen angels who corrupted mankind in the days of Noah. Every school child knows God destroyed the world by a flood, but few know man was destroyed because of the intermarriage of these demons and the daughters of men. Fewer still knew Mount Hermon remains the epicenter of evil and the home of the hierarchy of evil spirits to this day.
His ring signified the secret. The obelisk would serve as the magical mechanism. And Mount Hermon would be the place from where the spirit of his lord and master would descend upon mankind to his rightful place as ruler of planet Earth.
All that was left for the Cardinal to do was wait for the time and pieces to fall into place.
He sat back, took in a deep breath, and dreamed of that great day.
5
Michael Duncan turned off the computer after completing his search for information about Rossbury Manor. Learning that the place actually existed and was the same exact building he had visited in his dream was impossible to understand. He thought once again about the voice he heard, sure that it was God speaking to him but unsure as to why. He looked at his hands, they were trembling. His breathing was labored and coming in short gasps. He couldn’t think clearly. He left the computer and retreated to the small room in his basement he called his library.
His library was his sanctuary. The room was small and bookshelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The middle of the room was just big enough for an exercise bike and a weight bench. He sat on the bike and began to pump the pedals as hard as he could. No matter how hard he worked, he couldn’t get the sound of the voice from his dream out of his mind. All he could think of was how much the gunfight in Tampa changed him. Up to that time, he hadn’t read a single book and now he was surrounded by hundreds of books he had read since then.
Many years ago Michael was not the man he is today. He was rough, to say the least, and a sinner involved in a life of crime, to say the worst. He was selling drugs, using drugs and dabbling in the occult until the day came when he hit bottom, the absolute bottom, when he was almost killed in that gunfight in Tampa, Florida. He had told his friend Glenn that he was saved through a chain of events he could only describe as miraculous. In his mind, there was no mistake about it, he felt that God had intervened and saved his life.
Tampa changed everything. He now knew that the God of the Bible was real, and intervened in the lives of people. It was at this time that God took control and changed Michael’s life. Though he was raised in the Catholic Church and even attended Catholic schools, for the first time in his life he reached out to God in desperation and prayed. “If you can reach me, teach me.”
God did both. Almost immediately, Michael began to feel the presence of God in his life. He felt as though God was answering his prayer to reach him, and as Michael examined the books surrounding him, teach him. The gunfight was the catalyst for a transformation that turned Michael inside out and pulled him out of the gutter that had become his life. He prayed an earnest prayer for God to change him and use him.
The first thing that happened was that Michael was taught the true meaning of keeping holy the Sabbath Day and to this day he still referred to this encounter as the Sabbath Day Deal.
It was a Friday, and it was almost Happy Hour and for the two years that Michael lived in Tampa, he never missed a Happy Hour at the local nightspot. What he didn’t know was that Happy Hour and the Sabbath began at the same time on the same day, 6pm on Friday. What he quickly learned was that the two were like oil and water, they just didn’t mix. Michael’s part of the deal was to observe the Sabbath and not Happy Hour, and apparently God’s part of the deal was to reveal Himself in an unmistakable way.
Michael thought about how he quit going to Happy Hour and instead chose to stay in on Friday nights and read the Bible. He quickly saw the difference it made in his life and he also saw how quickly God responded to his effort. Within one month of making that drastic change in his life, God kept his end of the bargain by demonstrating his existence and power in ways that Michael would never forget. The first demonstration had taken place in Tallahassee, Florida.
Michael stopped pedaling and toweled off. Sweating on the bike wasn’t helping him to put the dream out of his mind. He sat down on the weight bench and thought about how this dream and the Tallahassee event seemed to have the same common denominator, the feeling that God was once again talking to him.
Michael considered the unusual nature of the Tallahassee event and the fact that it all started when he was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of the television he had left on while drifting off to sleep. The announcer was talking about a Jimmy Swaggart Crusade the following day at a large arena in Tallahassee and what a life changing event it could be.
A life changing event, Michael recalled. Those few words were all he could remember hearing and having the unmistakable feeling that God wanted him to go there. He wrestled with this feeling the remainder of the night unable to dismiss the thought that this was what God wanted him to do.
This is crazy, he remembered thinking. I don’t have any money, I don’t have the time, I don’t know where this place is, and I sure don’t know anything about Jimmy Swaggart.
All those questions should have been enough to put the thought of attending this crusade aside, but Michael continued to be pursued by the thought that God was talking to him and urging him to attend. He couldn’t escape the feeling that it had something to do with their Sabbath Day Deal.
One obstacle after another began to fall. The money came out of nowhere and work got unexpectedly cancelled for the day. Now Michael had the time and the money and he was sitting at the table staring at his roommate’s Rand McNally Road Atlas he had left out the night before.
To this day he was still mystified with the decision he abruptly made and remembered saying out loud, “What the hell, I’m going.”
He reflected on the unlikely chain of events that put him in that arena in Tallahassee, at the exact moment God wanted him there. He made the four hour trip and arrived too late to hear one word from Jimmy Swaggart but found himself standing in the only spot in the arena one would have to be standing to catch the hand of an elderly woman who had just begun to fall backwards down the steep stairway. If he hadn’t been standing there, in that exact spot at that exact moment, she certainly would not have survived that fall.
“God just told me he sent me an angel to catch me!” As Michael recalled the words the elderly woman blurted out as she stared wide eyed at him, a chill went up his spine, the same chill he felt when he found the website for Rossbury Manor less than an hour ago.
He thought back about the timeline of his road trip to Tallahassee. If he hadn’t left just when he did, if he hadn’t taken the correct exit out of three choices, if he hadn’t stopped at the right gas station to ask for directions, and if that car hadn’t pulled out of the parking space right in front of the arena as he drove by, he wouldn’t have been there at that exact time, at that exact spot, to catch her hand and save her life.
An angel? Hardly. But God did send me to catch her.
***
Glenn Giordano had always been skeptical of world-wide conspiracies. He had considered apocalyptic spiritual warfare to be the stuff of fantasy and fiction. Today, however, he had watched a man die in an attempt to blow up an obelisk in Central Park and the sign the terrorist had fastened to his suicide vest brought this spiritual warfare into a new light. The man was obviously a true believer, and now he was truly dead.
Glenn left the Central Campus area and reached the Bentley Historical Library on the North Campus of the University of Michigan in just a few minutes. Glenn hoped the Library would be a distraction from the image of the terrorist being shot between the eyes that kept playing in Glenn’s mind. He wondered if the New York City Police Detective who had taken his call had believed his explanation of the “Roman numerals” on the terrorist’s vest.
Glenn checked in with the receptionist at the Bentley Library and found his favorite seat in the rare archives section. He tried to put the events of the morning out of his mind as he collected several worn volumes from the dusty shelves, stacking them on the table in front of him. Glenn had assembled the earliest yearbooks of four different Greek Fraternities from various universities. He reached across the table and pulled one of the aged, oversized, leather-bound books closer to him. He opened the rare yearbook of Phi Beta Kappa dated 1776. He adjusted the white cotton gloves provided to patrons accessing the rare books collection and carefully turned the pages.
The book was adorned with many symbols that appeared to be Egyptian in origin. There were symbols on the spine, front and rear covers, and on nearly every page. He was investigating what all of these Egyptian symbols had to do with the Greek fraternity system at the university. He took a few pictures with his phone of the images like the Eye of Horus, known as the All Seeing Eye, the octagon, solar discs, and the obelisk. His eyes stayed on the obelisk; he was seeing it differently since this morning’s event at Cleopatra’s Needle in New York City. Once again, he put it out of his mind. He had to keep moving.
Glenn had been studying ancient secret societies such as the Knights Templar and the Freemasons for many years. Only recently had his studies brought him to seek the very earliest published texts of the Greek fraternities at the University of Michigan. It seemed all of the earliest fraternities at the university as well as other fraternities across the country had this type of Egyptian symbolism in common. Glen stared at the smoking gun of evidence that proved a secret society had founded and mentored the Greek Fraternity system. He was looking at proof positive the world was not what it appeared to be.
The room was still, the smell of musty old books hung in the air.
I’ll sound like a nut if try to explain this to anyone.
Glenn laid two more books on the table, side by side, Wilderness Christians: The Moravian Mission to the Delaware Indians by Elma Gray and The Gift, by Hilda Doolittle. He had been studying the leading Occultists from Europe’s aristocracy when he discovered a Rosicrucian Grand Master named Count Zinzendorf, a central figure in both books.
He opened the first book, the unassuming nonfiction volume titled Wilderness Christians. It told of Count Nicholas von Zinzendorf who founded the Moravian Church in Europe before he ventured to America. It told the story of a Lutheran Minister that was responsible for bringing the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the Delaware Indians. The story told by Elm Gray depicted a pious man of God full of love and care for a small group of Delaware Indians that chose to leave the larger tribe and be baptized into Christianity.
The Gift was quite different. It was a fictional account and told a different tale of a Grand Master of a secret society that brought America’s native population his unusual mix of Christianity and Occultism. Zinzendorf was even accused by the very pious Moravians of practicing witchcraft following an “exchange of women” between the Moravians and the Delaware Indians.
Glenn knew there was a sect of the Moravians with a reputation of practicing occult sexual magic, and he suspected there was more to this story than the historical reference revealed. The historical account included the massacre of almost one hundred Moravian Indians in a small settlement in the Ohio territory. Elma Grey’s graphic brutal description of the murder of Native Americans, Michaels tribal descendants included, was a shocking event.
When Glenn combined the stories from Wilderness Christians and The Gift, the two books in front of him, he was seeing a historical record that took him by surprise. The most unsettling thought Glenn wrestled with now was the fact that his best friend and business partner, Michael Duncan was a member of the Moravian Band of the Delaware Indians and his tribe was involved in this crazy twist of colonial American history.
Glenn signed out the two books and stashed them in his briefcase. Glenn needed to study both books in detail before he would feel comfortable confronting Michael with his controversial conclusions. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and took a deep breath. There was one more thing Glenn wanted to do before he left the library. He wanted to revisit something he had read long ago about obelisks in light of the day’s events.
He went to the card catalogue and looked up the author, Albert Pike and his book, Morals and Dogma. After retrieving the huge 861 page volume from the shelf he returned to his seat and turned to the index of Pike’s lectures on the esoteric roots of Freemasonry.
Soon he found what he was looking for; he read once more the strange and surprising fact that the obelisk is revered by Freemasons of the highest degrees and are placed near the tomb of buried deity.
Buried Deity! The comment didn’t mean anything to him years ago, but it meant something now.
He packed up his notes and returned the old books to their original locations among thousands of others in the archives. Glenn shielded his face with his hand as he stepped out of the Bentley Historical Library and into the bright sunlight. He walked across the university campus towards the parking area.
His cell phone buzzed alerting him to a message left while he was in the library. It was from Michael. The read out on his cell said three missed calls. He thumbed through them to discover they were all from Michael.
No reception in the library, he thought to himself. Glenn hit redial to call Michael.
“Where in the world have you been?” Michael said trying not to sound irritated, but he was. He wasn’t known for his patience.
“I’ve been in the archives at Bentley Library. I have three…”
Before Glenn could finish his remark Michael interrupted. “When can we get together?”
Glenn was free for the rest of the afternoon and wanted to talk to Michael about the terrorist in New York City.
“Anytime this afternoon,” Glenn offered.
Michaels reply was quick. “I’ll meet you at the River in forty-five minutes.”
***
Glenn turned onto the blacktop roadway that followed the river as it snaked its way through the countryside. He turned off the air conditioning in his truck and put down both windows.
Their meeting place along the river was at the site of an abandoned bridge that used to span the Huron River before a new bridge was built. The road builders knocked the old bridge down but left the abutments on each side of the river with no span in between. It was the perfect place to sit and talk.
Glenn pulled off the road along a grassy drive leading to the secluded spot. He was surprised to see Michael was already there
“Can I get you a beer?” Michael asked as he opened one for himself.
“Sure, crack me a cold one.”
As they enjoyed the cold beer, Michael was first to speak.
“I had the strangest dream last night. It was such a real and vivid experience I can’t stop thinking about it.”
At last Michael had the opportunity to explain the dream in detail to Glenn. He told him about the place he was taken, the leaded glass windows, the Druid passing a chalice, and the only two words spoken during the dream which were, “Rossbury Manor”. He left out, for the moment, who spoke those words.
“The dream does sound peculiar, the Druid thing and the chalice part, but not entirely exceptional for a guy like you and the things you read about when you’re not dreaming.”
“True enough, but I’m just getting to the weird part. When I awoke from the dream, I remembered the words Rossbury Manor and didn’t know what to think about it so I decided to Google the term and see what came up.”
“And……,” Glenn said as he wanted Michael to get to the point.
“It turns out there’s actually a place called Rossbury Manor, in New York on Long Island.” Michael took and breath and a drink before continuing.
Michael was starting to talk faster and louder and Glenn knew him well enough to just sit back and listen. He took a long drink and a long look at his buddy who was now noticeably excited about this dream and this place from his dream. “Ok, go on,” he said calmly.
“When I went back to the Rossbury Manor website, there was a map to see exactly where this manor was located. Using an image recently taken from an orbiting satellite, you could zoom in so close you could make out cars in the parking lot.” Michael reported.
“There in the yard in front of the building, was a large white octagon shaped patio with the very distinctive black Templar Cross inlaid into the white tiles.”