It got chilly at night this time of the year on the east side of the Sea of Galilee—the wind sweeping off the lake and over the rutted hills. The region was known as the Garasenes, but to the Jews it was simply no-man’s land. The Decapolis, Ten Cities, Gadara, it didn’t really matter what you called it, it was filled with Gentile sinners, pig herders, prostitutes, pagans and ne’er do-wells. Tonight, the wind was strong, bringing with it a sinister sound that sent deep chills down the backs of the residents of the small village of Gerasa. For tonight, as in numerous nights before, the sounds of wailing wafted through the crisp air, chains clanking, pierced by shrieks of agony. The man of the tombs was haunted tonight, and no one in town would sleep well.