Chapter One
The Most Dangerous Game
It was a glorious April Morning in throughout the grounds of Wilde Manor. Situated a few miles outside the town of Saphord, Wilde Manor had been home to the men of the Wilde family for generations. The house itself was magnificent Residence the looked as if someone had taken apart an old English castle brick by brick shipped the stone to America and then used the old masonry to construct a much more modernized version. This is due partly to its seamless blend of old and new architectural styles, but mainly because that is literally the exact way in which they built it.
Wilde Manor stood with regal majesty, towering over the primeval pines of the Denton Forrest. The Forrest stretched for miles in all directions and completely surrounded the manor. The “Grounds” of Wilde Manor are comprised only of the large circular drive in the front which lays at the end of the only route to or from the manor, (a long, narrow road that snakes through the Forrest until it joins up with a major high way) and an immaculately tended back lawn that sloped gently down from the House to the small lake that lay behind it. Compared to the abodes of other shamefully wealthy people, Wilde Manor comes off as rather quaint. But within its simplicity, lies elegance, and on this particular morning: unparalleled beauty
The crisp mid-morning sunlight of spring danced upon the lake. A million little diamonds twinkled and glistened on the water as a delicate breeze caressed the surface lovingly. All along the shore, high born emeralds rustled as their ancient bearers began to stir at the tender encouragement of the soft, warm, wind. Bending and stretching slowly, still rousing from their season long slumber beneath the harsh northern snows. Their limbs dipped and swayed with rhythmic grace as gentle currents drifted past, taking the last stubborn remnants of winter’s stiffness with them as they went. Dappled shadows fell upon lush carpets of winter grass and velvet skirts of moss as light filtered down through leafy windows high above, illuminating the woodland cathedral with a softly wavering half-light. A reverent silence enveloped the verdant sanctuary. A peaceful quiet that remained unbroken by the piercing calls of birds or the inane chatter of squirrels. The only sound within the serene temple was the soft cacophony of a gentle, rustling hymn. Chanted by a perennial choir, and carried aloft on the lazy zephyrs of this angelic morning, it pervaded the air with its ancient litany. It was a whispered aria that spoke of change and of things unyielding, an opera of the inevitably of death and the beauty of rebirth, a muttered ballad of the land’s undying spirit. Sighs of sadness intermingle with breathy laughter and convey emotions that man does not even have the capacity to comprehend. It is a quiet melody of such beauty that to hear it, is to hear the voice of the universe speak directly to you…to your very soul....Thus, It was by all accounts and descriptions, a rather exceptional morning.
And, it was on this morning of unparalleled beauty and spiritual transcendence, that Francis P. Higgins found himself on the second floor of the majestic Wilde Manor, sprinting down a dark corridor, while screaming, crying, and pissing himself simultaneously.
