They lunge, hands fisting into the front of its shirt with the intent to slam it into the nearest surface, the wall or the floor or anything, and then they hit wall and then they hit nothingness, their whole world off and horribly askew as everything begins to tilt.

Or has it tilted long before now?

They are being pulled or they are falling, they cannot tell. They just know the dark grain of the wood has fallen away, everything has disintegrated from sight, leaving them with nothing but the icy black stretch of void as they spill into it.

They use the thing's clothing as handholds. They cling to it, hands scuttling up its front until they reach the delicate surface of its neck.

They squeeze.