The wind howled, rattling the stool and jarring Old Adam back to a groggy consciousness. He wiped saliva from his lips, hunched in his lounge chair amidst the pitch-black cemetery. The fire he'd made was out, and the night had descended too swiftly.

Fumbling, his hand found the metal cup on the table, then his feet pressed on something hard. Ah, his torch, right where he’d left it for easy finding. Old age was certainly catching up. He flicked it on; its beam barely reached an arm’s length, but he was used to the dark.

Slowly, he rose, the chilly wind biting through his jacket. It was unusually cold. He folded his chair, placed the stool, and began his slow, careful walk towards the east gate, flashing the torch at tombstones to avoid them. The thought of hot cocoa at home brought a fleeting warmth.

Suddenly, his hand hit something heavy and sharp. “Oh my God!” he yelped, flashing the torch. A white coffin. Insane! Who would leave a coffin out? As questions raced, he heard a sound.

Adam, a veteran of the graveyard, had never experienced this. He closed his eyes, opened them. Silence. He sighed, but then the sound came again. His hair stood on end. Someone was knocking from inside the coffin. His legs shook, sweat prickled his skin.

“Go, go away! You don’t belong to this world!” he stammered, about to bolt, when a shattering noise sent him flying, dropping the torch. It lay pointing directly at the coffin. His heart hammered. Face down, he began his last prayers, hearing movements behind him. He was done for.

“Hello there,” a man’s voice said from behind. Adam spun around. A tall, suited man stood there. The man picked up the torch, flashed it to his own face. Not a ghost. “So, now that you can see that I am not a ghost, I need you to answer one question. What year is it and where am I?”