As the vaporous tendrils of the femme fatale’s gown grew closer, Mike looked into the abyss of its eyes and saw a glimpse of his fate if he didn’t resist. With every fiber of his being working in unison, he pulled himself away from the gaunt figures, bending the iron vines that tied him to the long dead oak, and pushed himself upward.

The femme fatale hissed while the pale-ape beat his club against the earth-salt.

Mike knew he was asleep. Even though he grew tired of fighting, he wouldn’t give up. Instead, he thought about waking up.