I’ve felt no greater terror in my life than when those cold, dead fingers gripped my shoulder. I had less warning than some. I did not know I was so near death. In a sort of seeping voice, like air leaking out of a canister, I heard my name whispered: “John Mickelson,” it said, and I fainted dead away.
I woke up between. I was only part way to the other lands, still passing through the strange and forgotten places that separate our worlds, held in the hammock of death’s tattered shroud, when the medics started up my heart again.
Tale Told 