[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/J2p1lxg.png[/img][/center] [b][CENTER][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSeIh9rmEUs]IN DREAMS CHAPTER 5[/URL][/CENTER] [/b] [b]New York City[/b] [b]1938[/b] Meg Turner knew she was going to die. The evil man with the dead eyes told her repeatedly that it was only a matter of time before he killed her. Meg sat in a hardback chair, stripped down to her skivvies, her wrists and ankles tied, and with a thick leather belt around her neck. The man that had abducted her paced around the rundowne flop naked. Meg saw the giant spider tattoo on the man's back, a crude thing that looked like it had be done in some prison. He turned and she saw his little prick was hard. It was always the ones hung like cashews that did the most violence. Like her uncle Joey. He was the reason she’d left Nebraska for New York. She couldn’t take his little “midnight games” anymore. Her parents never believed her, and the cops? They just laughed her out of the police department. No way was a pillar of the community like Joey Franklin a pervert. The last time Joey tried to come for Meg, she was ready with a broken beer bottle. Joey lost an eye and Meg got the hell out of Hastings that night. A young girl fresh to New York she ended up falling into the same trap like all the others. A handsome man at the bus stop whispered words in her ear. And the next thing she knew, she was on the streets turning tricks. “Just a matter of time,” her captor muttered. "Step into my parlor, ssaid the sssspider to the f-f-fly." He came up behind her and yanked on the belt hard with both hands. Meg gasped for air as the belt tightened around her neck. She tried to struggle and break free. But it was no use. She could feel her attacker’s hard cock pressing into the small of her back as she struggled for air. She wanted to cry so badly. This was how it would end. She was only nineteen. There was so much she hadn’t done. So much she wanted to do and see and try. Would this be how her story ended? Just a victim of one man after another? Black spots began to form in her vision. Pretty soon it would all be black. She didn’t believe in heaven or hell. This world they lived in, this was equal parts heaven and hell. What waited for her on the other side of the veil was oblivion. At least that would be peaceful. No molesting uncles, no johns and pimps trying to beat you up, and no sex killers. Meg heard coughing and could smell something pungent all of a sudden. It was smoke... Of some kind. Oh, god. Maybe Hell was real? She felt the pressure around her neck loosen and she gasped suddenly for breath. The chair she was in collapsed on its side as Meg’s body racked with pain. She could hear she wasn't the only. A thick layer of some greenish smoke filled the room. She wasn’t sure if it was from a lack of oxygen or what… but she suddenly felt very tired. “You’ll be okay, Miss,” a muffled voice said from above. She glanced up and blinked slowly. She was unsure of what she was seeing. Was this… [i]thing[/i] a demon? Or was it some angel? The old testament angels who were always hideous harbingers of God’s wrath, the ones who cautioned people not to look directly at them. [img]https://i.imgur.com/VB0I8Mr.png[/img] “Help is on the way. For the first time in a long time, sleep and have pleasant dreams.” [hr] [b]New York City[/b] [b]Now[/b] Detective Paul Gold stepped out into the warm summer night and sighed. He hated working the nightshift and he hated working homicide during the summers. It seemed fate was fucking him over by putting on the nightshift [i]during[/i] summer. He just hoped tonight would be as quiet as last night had been. He'd rolled on a death that got ruled natural causes and one suicide. Some old bastard hanged himself in a roach motel not too far from Gold's 19th Precinct. Santos and Richards found him after a noise complaint from a tenant. Based on everything at the scene Gold couldn't tell if it was intentional suicide, or if the fucker had been trying to do some kinky stuff and got carried away. He wouldn't be the first homicide cop to discover a case of autoerotic asphyxiations gone bad, and he sure as shit wouldn't be the last. Other than some odd remarks from Santos and Richards about the old man having a bunch of masked man memorabilia in his apartment. Gold did find it curious why this Hawkins guy hadn't just done the deed at home. Maybe he was too afraid to making a mess around his comic books. Regardless, Gold was happy to have a pretty straightforward case of suicide, accidental misadventure at the very worst. Gold got into his car that was parked on the street and frowned when the engine wouldn't turn over. Just the tell tale clicks of a dead battery. He swore and began to climb back out the car. He stopped when he smelled something sharp in the air. Some kind of chemical. He saw the greenish gas waft in front of his face and he began to cough. The sudden urge to fall asleep overcome him. Something gripped his shoulders and he tried to shake it off. He was too weak to fight it. "Detective Gold," a muffled voice said over his shoulder. "Sanderson Hawkins' death was not a suicide. He was murdered. You're going to take a little nap, but when you wake up you'll find Hawkins' laptop on the front seat of your car. It points to Sanderson's involvement in an erotic underground that fetishizes the old costumed heroes of the 30's. His killer is somewhere inside that list of contacts. The pieces are there, Gold. You just need to put them together. Sleep the sleep of the just, detective, and wake up refreshed and ready to bring justice to Sandy Hawkins." Gold slumped against the wheel and began to snore loudly. From the backseat of the car, Wesley Dodds climbed out. The suit still fit as good as it had... almost eighty years ago. The gasmask was difficult to breath through, but that had been the case when he was younger. As Gold continued to snore, The Sandman ventured out into the night for the first time in seventy years.