Prologue
he house stood upon a hill back off the road, and was hidden almost completely from sight by the vegetation. It had been purposely planted, then allowed growth for many, many years. Not only was it overgrown, but it was tangled with dead branches, ivy vines, and matted climbing rose vines reminiscent of the jungles of some third world country.
Making ones way around the house was unthinkable, and attempting a covert intrusion on the house was outright impossible. A person first had to get to the house. Anyone walking up the long driveway was easily and readily seen and very vulnerable.
The house would have been a good candidate for Hermon Munsters home. Shutters hung weirdly and banged in the breeze. That anyone lived here was something William found hard to believe. It certainly did not look habitable. The years without maintenance of any kind had allowed nature to take its course, and the barren lumber of the once proud home had all but crumbled under it's mighty force.
He marveled at the ancient beauty of the old cobble stone drive. It meandered up the hill through the tall trees which in several places had grown over, meeting the middle so as to create an eerie tunnel through which to pass. Passage via automobile was no longer possible without damage. In the unshaded areas, the grass nearly had the cobblestones hidden. Sunlight accelerated growth while the shade retarded it.
He was even more impressed with the walls that lined each side of the narrow drive. Made from mere field rock interspersed with flat shelf rock from some nearby mountain, they were undoubtedly created by the hand of a master. And that, with dedication and the love of work with ones hands.
But there was something lurking in the far reaches of Williams mind, and it was bothering him. Had he seen pictures of his place? He certainly didn't think he'd ever visited this place before. He seemed to be getting some kind of flashback pictures. He thought he'd be through with all that stuff forever after turning to Christ.
But he'd soon learn, that although he was doing his very best to live for God, the laws of nature were still in effect no matter how many times he had repented, prayed, fasted . . . He was still human. Humans fail. Humans do things wrong. Humans do wrong things. It's human nature.
But every so often, he would happen upon some scene which would trigger the flashbacks. As this one did. He wondered what the trigger was, what the connection was, and what the end result would be.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood out. He stopped, and just stood there waiting. Upon what was he waiting? What could possibly be in this place that could affect him in this manner? He just stood still not knowing what to do but wait for whatever was coming.
The voice was old and crackled, and was more of a growl than human, and chills ran up his back as he listened to what it was saying . . . "and so, please permit me to ask, what can I do for you Mr. Travis? For what have you returned?"
William was stunned. Had he been here before? Why could he not remember? How had it come about that he was here? When did he come? Was he alone before?
All these and many more questions swirled crazily through his head. William was at a complete loss, and started to turn toward the direction of the voice. "No," came the voice again. "Don't turn around. Just keep on walking. Turn around, and I'll cut you in two with this double barrel . . ."
He couldn't shake the feeling that the voice was familiar, that he knew that voice, that he had dealt with that voice in some prior instance.
William started forward listening for any kind of sound which would afford him the whereabouts of his captor. But all he could hear was the raspy, labored breath of the owner of that voice. It was close. Too close. A chill ran up his spine. He was out here all alone, and had told no one of his intentions or destination.
The horrible truth hit William all at once. This could be the final chapter of William Travis . . .
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