The Omen

by David Seltzer

"I'm gonna find that sucker!" he laughed. "I'm gonna go hunt him down!"

Jennings nodded again, and the men eyed each other in silence. Thorn was studying him, sizing him up, taking in everything from the unmatched socks to the threads hanging off the collar of his jacket. Jennings liked this kind of scrutiny. He knew his appearance put people off. In a perverse way, it gave him an edge.

"Mr. Jennings?" "Sir?" "Let me understand ... you've never actually seen this priest yourself?" "No." "You made that remark about his being at one of my speeches. I thought perhaps ..." "No." "Well. No matter." There was an uncomfortable pause, then Jennings again moved to the door.

He left and Thorn gazed after him. The man clearly knew something that he wasn't divulging. But what could he possibly know about the priest?

Chapter Eight

Tassone was taken to a monastery; there, beaten by monks until he confessed his sins, he was saved. He had embraced Christ by the time he was ten, but by then his back was scarred from the penance it took to make the Holy One finally appear.

From Morocco, he traveled into the southeast corner of Africa, there finding heathens to convert, and he converted them in the way he himself was. He beat them as he was beaten and came to realize that in the heat of religious ecstasy he took sexual pleasure in their pain.

Death stalked him, striking those around him, and he feared that at any moment he would be next.

In Nairobi he met the graceful Father Spilletto and confessed his sins; Spilletto promised to protect him and took him to Rome. It was there, in the coven in Rome, that he was indoctrinated into the dogma of Hell. The Satanists provided a sanctuary where the judgment of God did not exist.

They were a community of outcasts who, together, could cast out the rest. The Devil was worshiped by the desecration of God.

It was their mission to create fear and turmoil, to turn men against each other until the time of the Unholy One had come; small groups called Task Forces would forage out to create chaos wherever possible.

Two Irish nuns, known within the coven as B'aalock and B'aalam, had orchestrated the bombings in Ireland, the one known as B'aalam having died by her own hand. Her body was found in the rubble of a marketplace explosion, the remains returned to Italy where they were buried in the hallowed ground of Cerveteri, the ancient Etruscan graveyard, known today as Cimitero di Sant'Angelo, on the outskirts of Rome.

Within the coven there was much celebration, and Tassone returned to find himself a leader of his cult. The fires of unrest were brewing in Africa and, aware of his knowledge of that country, Spilletto sent Tassone to assist the revolution that eventually brought Idi Amin, the insane African despot, to power.

Largely because of Tassone's accomplishments, the coven in Rome became looked upon by Satanists across the world as the seat of political direction and spiritual power, and money began to flow there, adding to their strength. Rome itself was a hotbed of energy: the seat of Catholicism, the seat of western Communism, the core of Satanism throughout the world. The atmosphere fairly crackled with power.

It was at this time, at the height of Satanic strength and world turmoil, that the biblical symbols fell into place heralding the moment when earth history would suddenly and irrevocably change. For the third time since the formation of the planet, the Evil One would spew forth his progeny, entrusting its nurturing to maturity to his disciples on earth. It had been attempted twice before without success; the watchdogs of Christ discovered the Beast and killed it before it came into power. This time it would not fail. The concept was right; the plan timed to perfection.

The small, scholarly priest was loyal, dedicated, and followed orders without the slightest hesitation or remorse. For this reason his part would be the most brutal; the murder of the innocent who, by necessity, had to be involved.

It was Spilletto who would choose the surrogate family and he who would affect the transfer of the child. Sister Maria Teresa (which was now what the woman B'aalock was called) would tend the impregnation and assist in the birth. Tassone would supervise the grisly aftermath, making sure the evidence would disappear and be buried in hallowed ground.

He would be remembered and revered; he, once a cast-off orphan, now one of the Chosen Ones, was allowed to enter into an alliance with the devil himself.

He saw visions of Tobu, the African boy, pleading with him, begging him for help. And he saw the skinless form of a man, eye sockets gaping above peeled ligament and muscle, a mouth without lips crying out for mercy. Tassone saw himself as a boy, waiting on the beach for the return of his father, and then he saw his mother on her deathbed, begging for forgiveness for dying, for deserting him so young and abandoning him to fate. He awoke that night crying out, as though he were his own mother, pleading to be forgiven. And when he lapsed again into slumber, the figure of Christ appeared beside him, assuring him that he would be forgiven. Christ in all his boyish beauty, his slim body still bearing scars, knelt by Tassone and told him he was still welcome in the Kingdom of Heaven. All he had to do was repent.

Spilletto offered him a vial of pills to bring relief. From then on, until the act was at hand, Tassone rested in a state of drugged tranquility, and the disquieting visions of Christ ceased to haunt him.

He crushed the animal's head to a pulp, and it prepared him for what had to be done to the human child. But when the newborn human child was brought down to him, he hesitated, for it was a child of uncommon beauty. He gazed at them both, the two infants side by side: the blood-covered one, thick with hair; and the soft, white, beautiful one, its eyes gazing upward in absolute trust. He knew what had to be done, and he did it, but he did not do it well. It had to be redone, and he sobbed as he tore open the crate to hit the Thorn child once again. For an instant, he was gripped by the impulse to grab the child up in his arms, to run with it and keep running, to find a place of safety. But he saw the infant was already damaged, irreparably so, and the stone came down hard again. And again. And again. Until the sound had stopped and the body lay still.

He fled Rome the following morning and lived in obscurity for the four years that passed.

Tassone was dying now, and it was this that drove him to seek forgiveness from the Lord. Christ was good. Christ would forgive. He would prove himself worthy of that forgiveness by attempting to undo what he had done.

Summoning what little strength remained, he traveled to Israel, carrying with him eight vials of morphine to deaden the pain that throbbed in his back. He was seeking the man named Bugenhagen, a name linked with Satan almost since the beginning of time. It was a Bugenhagen who, in the year 1092, found the first progeny of Satan and devised the means of putting it to death. It was again a Bugenhagen in 1710 who found the second issue and damaged it to the point where it could summon no earthly power. They were religious zealots, the watchdogs of Christ; their mission, to keep the Unholy One from walking the face of the earth.

Tassone spent but six hours with the old man, recounting the story and his part in the birth. Bugenhagen listened with despair as the priest begged him to intervene. For he could not. He was imprisoned here in his fortress and dared not venture to the outside. Someone with direct access to the child would have to be brought to him.

'Tomorrow," panted Tassone into the Ambassador's frightened eyes. "One o'clock, Kew Gardens ... ." "Unhand me!" gasped Thorn. "Five minutes, then you'll never see me again." "Get your hands ..." "Your wife is in danger. She'll die unless you come."

Thorn himself sought the confrontation. He needed to face the man down and hear everything he had to say. He had said Katherine was in danger, that she would die unless Thorn came. It was not possible that Katherine was in danger, but it pained Thorn that she too had become a focal point in the demented man's mind.

Tassone was jarred by Thorn's sudden appearance; his face was tense and bathed in sweat, as though suffering unendurable pain. For a long moment, they stared in silence. "I should have brought the police," said Thorn curtly. "They can't help you." "Get on with it. Say what you have to say."

"... When the Jews return to Zion. And a comet fills the sky. And the Holy Roman Empire rises. Then you and I ... must die."

"From the Eternal Sea he rises. Creating armies on either shore. Turning man against his brother. Till man exists no more!"

"Go to the town of Megiddo," entreated Tassone. "In the old city of Jezreel. There see the old man Bugenhagen. He alone can describe how the child must die."

I'm here," said Thorn quietly, "because you said my wife was in danger." "I had a vision, Mr. Thorn." "You said my wife ..." "She is pregnant!" Thorn was stopped, taken aback.

"He will not allow the child to be born. He will kill it while it slumbers in the womb."

"Your son, Mr. Thorn! The son of Satan! He will kill the unborn child and then he will kill your wife! And when he is certain to inherit all that is yours, then, Mr. Thorn, he will kill you!"

"... And with your wealth and power he will establish his counterfeit Kingdom here on earth, receiving his orders directly from Satan."

"He must die, Mr. Thorn!"

"You'll see me in Hell, Mr. Thorn. There we will share our sentence!"

Then, faintly, he began to hear the sound. It was distant at first, almost subliminal, gradually growing in intensity until it filled the atmosphere around him. It was the sound of the OHM, and as it continued to rise, Tassone gripped his crucifix, his breath coming short as he gazed fearfully about the park. The sky was darkening and a breeze began to rise, quickly gaining momentum until the tree limbs shook with anger.

A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky as Tassone stood mid-street, whimpering with fear. A bolt of lightning flashed above the distant church, and Tassone wheeled, running back into the park. With a sudden crash of thunder, rain began to pour down, Tassone running in desperation as lightning began striking around him, a large tree fairly exploding as he passed. Crying out with fear, he slipped in mud, struggling to regain his footing as a finger of electricity streaked downward, splintering a park bench to burning matchsticks beside him. Whirling, he crashed through a stand of bushes, emerging on a small side street, and the lightning came again, hitting a mailbox next to him and hurling it into the air, leaving it peeled back like a used sardine can as it rolled and clattered to the ground.

London people were scurrying for cover; windows were slamming shut; six blocks away a teacher was struggling with an old-fashioned window pole as, in the din of downpouring rain, her small students looked on. She had never heard of the priest Tassone, nor knew that her fate would be linked with his. But at that moment on the slick and hissing streets, Tassone was making his way inexorably toward her. Gasping for breath, he stumbled down narrow alleyways, running aimlessly, fleeing the wrath that pursued him. The lightning was distant now, but Tassone's strength was failing, his heart stinging within him as he rounded a corner and paused there at the base of a building, his mouth agape, sucking desperately for air. His eyes were fixed on the distant park where lightning still struck with each crash of thunder; he did not think to look up, where a sudden movement occurred above. From a third-story window directly overhead a window pole slipped out, a woman's hands grappling for it as it escaped and plummeted downward, its metal tip cutting air with the directness of an earth-bound javelin. It smashed directly into the priest's head, running the length of his body, impaling him in the grass.

Since the visits began, her mood had continually darkened, and now she was clearly under a strain. Her relationship with the household staff were limited to terse commands, and her relationship with her child had been all but severed. The unhappy part was that the child himself had begun to want her. The period of weeks she had spent trying to regain his affections had had an effect; but now, as Damien looked about for her, she was nowhere to be found.

The simplest things filled her with fear: the phone ringing, the oven timer going off, the teapot whistling as though demanding to be attended to. She was coming to the point where she simply could not cope, and the act of getting through each day required continual courage.

"Mrs. Baylock!" she called. The heavyset woman entered at a near run. "Ma'am?" "Take him out of here," Katherine commanded. "He's only playing," objected Thorn. "I said take him out!" "Yes, ma'am," replied Mrs. Baylock.

"We have a problem, Jeremy," she said. "... Yes?" "I want no more children. Ever." Thorn searched her face, waiting for more. "Is that all right?" she asked. "If that's what you want," he replied. "Then you'll agree to an abortion." Thorn froze. Open-mouthed. Stunned. "I'm pregnant, Jeremy. I found out yesterday morning." A silence passed. Thorn's head was reeling. "Did you hear me?" Katherine asked. "How can that be?" Thorn whispered. "It's the coil. It's sometimes not effective." "You're pregnant?" he gasped. "Not far."

"What was it?" asked Katherine. "Something about the newspapers ..." "What about the newspapers?" "Some person just called me ... and said ... to 'read' them today."