How could he, John Clark, the greatest professor and ex-army general of the world be scared? ‘It’s only nerves’, he told himself. He was flying

over the Atlantic in his private jumbo-jet, to his wife and children in California, America, on his way back from an archaeological trip to Romania.

          Being a professor, over the years, he had heard the rumours of the Island of the Dead Souls, that when you died your soul turned evil and went there. He didn’t really believe in any of that nonsense, but there was a cold, sinister, dark feeling in the air. He told himself that he was being silly.

          There was a loud ‘BANG!’ ‘F***’ The pilot swore viciously. The plane was rapidly losing altitude and he was heading towards certain death. It was terrifying, electrifying, a roller coaster ride from hell. The Upthrust in planes which makes you feel safe and keeps your neck in one piece was just not there, cut by the Devil’s knife. The feeling was impossible. His stomach lurched and twisted. He writhed in his chair like a mad snake. Then he landed: at 500 miles per hour.

                                                        ***

He opened his eye. He could feel pain but he seemed O.K., miraculously. He started to regain feeling in his muscles. He managed to stagger out of the giant wreckage; a mass of fire and oil dangerously close to each other. It was impossible to make out anyone or anything out from the wreckage: let alone be able to tell that it was once a jet, hand-crafted with great skill and imported from Italy. He went and searched for the pilot. He saw him, with his neck twisted and crumpled under the seat. There was no way he could have been alive for long.