[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/J2p1lxg.png[/img][/center] [b][CENTER][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSeIh9rmEUs]IN DREAMS CHAPTER 1[/URL][/CENTER] [/b] [b]New York City[/b] [b]October, 1938[/b] NYPD Captain Larry Belmont gnawed at his cigar as he waited for his contact to arrive. He shoved his chubby hands into the pockets of his coat and bounced on the balls of his feet. The night air had a chilly nip in it, a declaration that fall in New York had begun earnestly. Belmont stood near the USS Maine monument in Central Park. This time of night the place was deserted, especially since the Yankees were in the series. Game 3 against the Chicago Cubs was going on in the Bronx tonight and those not there seeing it in person were at homes and in bars glued to their radios. Belmont caught a bit of the game on his way out of the offices of the 19th precinct. It was a scoreless game going into the fourth inning. He heard a rustling somewhere nearby and turned, expelling cigar smoke as he saw a thick layer of fog roll in across Columbus Circle. Belmont frowned at the sight. He knew what was coming next. It always happened the same way. The fog thickened until nothing could be seen through it. Then it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. And his contact emerged out of the fog. [img]https://i.imgur.com/Weaxsuf.jpg[/img] “Good evening, Captain Belmont.” The voice was amplified and distorted thanks to some kind of contraption the Sandman had in that gasmask of his. Belmont grunted a greeting as the masked hero walked towards him. Belmont kept an eye on the gas gun in the Sandman’s hands and watched as he holstered it somewhere around the small of his back. This was far from the first meeting of the two men, but even still Belmont was uneasy around him. Despite his worth, the Sandman was still some guy who decided to play dress up and run around the streets of New York fighting criminals. Nobody completely sane did that. “Our guy struck again,” said Belmont. Belmont wedged the tip of his stogie into the corner of his mouth and pulled photos from the inside breast pocket of his coat. He passed them to the gloved hands of the Sandman. They were grainy black and white crime scene photos from a murder two days earlier. “This one was in Hell’s Kitchen,” said Belmont. “All the classic signs of the other six killings. Same strangulation pattern, same victim type, same calling card.” The Sandman wordlessly looked over the pictures. Belmont had seen them enough to know he’d never forget them. They showed a blonde woman, nude from the waist up, with a belt wrapped firmly around her neck. Placed on the body was a paper card with a drawing of a spider on it. A tarantula specifically. “It’s been six months since the last killings,” said the Sandman. He looked up at Belmont. The gasmask prevented Belmont from reading any kind of emotion into what he said next. “This is the first of a new series. If the pattern continues we can expect two more in the next week.” “And then… poof.” Belmont waved his hand. “Gone for another six months. Then the cycle begins again.” “I’ll see what I can do,” the Sandman said, handing the pictures back to Belmont. “I would suggest the NYPD stick to the Upper West Side in their search for the Tarantula Killer.” Belmont furrowed his brow. “Why?” “Because I saw that’s where he’ll be captured….” “Where did you see it?” The masked hero started to silently retreat as a fresh wave of fog rolled in. “Where did you see it?” Belmont asked again. “In my dreams,” the Sandman said before he disappeared through the fog. “Fucking lunatic,” Belmont muttered under his breath. "'In my dreams' the fuck does that mean?" [hr] [b]New York City[/b] [b]Now[/b] Wesley Dodds gasped himself awake. He sat upright and gasped for air. It felt like something was wrapped around his throat. His weathered hands reached for whatever it was, but found nothing there. Wesley caught his breath and sighed. He wiped sweat from his brow and checked the clock on the nightstand. 3:44 AM. It was a dream, more like a nightmare, that woke him up. Wesley hoped that it was just a nightmare and nothing more. He kicked the covers off and padded across his bedroom towards the bathroom. This was only his second trip to the bathroom that night, an unusually low number for someone of his advanced age. He finished urinating and paused from washing his hands to look at himself in the mirror. His bald, gaunt face was weathered… but to Wesley it looked the same as it had for the past forty years. He was one of about one hundred so-called “supercentenarians” alive in the United States today; he'd gotten a nice plaque a few years ago when he turned the big 110. But yet… to Wesley he still looked and felt no different than when he turned 80 decades ago. Every year his doctor said he was as fit as a fiddle, in better shape than most people far younger than he was. What in the hell was going on? Wesley ran his hands under the sink and splashed water on his face. He started back towards bed but stopped when he heard the chiming of his phone somewhere in the apartment. He shuffled across the hardwood floors of his little one-bedroom home until he found the flip phone charging on his coffee table. The number that flashed on the screen wasn’t one programmed into the phone, yet he recognized the number. He felt a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach as he reached for the phone. “Sandy?” Wesley asked softly, his voice still thick with sleep. When he heard the crying on the other end of the line he knew his dream had been something more more deeper and sinister than a simple nightmare. He closed his eyes and sighed even before he heard the news. “Wesley? It’s… Frankie… Sandy’s dead.”