by Neil Kleid
Sergei loomed above his vanquished prey for a moment. He stared at his prize through another man’s mask, the tattered costume hanging from his shoulders and back. He didn’t say a word, simply taking the time to recover and minimize his pain with mental techniques acquired during a lifetime of combat. He pushed the pain aside, back to a place beyond reach; when he came down again from the haze of anger and adrenaline, he found himself smiling despite himself.
I am the Spider. I am the Spider, and I know things normal men cannot. I see into things, beyond things. I see the strands of fate that bind us, victims to victors.
Sergei looked down at his own chest, ran a broken hand over the frayed costume and the ebon spider upon his breast. He began to laugh. The sound grew louder, echoing as it bounced along the reservoir, frightening rats and sending them skittering away in fear.
“I am the Spider,” he cried.
I am the Spider. I am the Hunter no more.
Fifteen minutes later, Spider-Man emerged from a manhole in the middle of Eighth Avenue and Thirty-Second Street, shoving aside the cover and letting it clang against the pavement. The rain intensified, obscuring his vision. He reached down with weary arms to hoist up Vermin after him.
Silently, Spider-Man carried Vermin’s unconscious body down the street, walking past a handful of stunned derelicts without a backward glance. He’d proven himself against his most dangerous foe. Having risen from the depths triumphant, he might now—at last—finally know peace.
FIFTEEN
WET and glistening, a spider crawled along a grave. It made its way down an imposing stone tombstone, then walked around along the earth. With methodical, almost mechanical effort, it began to spin a tiny, barely visible web. Rain saturated the dirt, sometimes splashing against the web, and the spider had to retrace its movements more than once to repair the damage.
Eventually, more spiders arrived: three of them, all black and shiny, silent and sorrowful as they moved back and forth over the grave. The spiders abandoned their webs to the unforgiving downpour; alone, the quartet of arachnids remained at the base of the tombstone to hold an impromptu—albeit belated— vigil for the deceased.
Four spiders became eight. Eight became twelve. The rain intensified as the number of spiders grew, multitudes coating the grave as if some thoughtful caretaker had laid a cloak atop the plot, warming the dirt with a shimmering, velvet blanket.
The spiders rolled and reared on tiny, little legs, listening for sounds from beneath the earth. A soft, muffled noise came from the grave below, and the spiders started to squirm and retreat, climbing over each other onto the tall, granite marker. Several of them found refuge by hiding in the words carved into the stone.
Here Lies Spider-Man, the tombstone read. Slain by the Hunter.
The spiders skittered, twisting this way and that to find solace from the rain. Then they stopped, leaning back toward the grave, straining to hear what might have been a lover’s plea—voiced by a dead man, six feet below.
PART THREE
SPECTRES
ONE
THE world was warm and white.
And peaceful.
Endless emptiness, stretching out forever, time and distance having lost all meaning.
No one. Nothing. Everything. Emptiness.
The man had no name. The place had no light, no sound, and the man enjoyed the absence of both. It was all he knew, all he’d ever wanted.
Warm. White. Peaceful. And so very, very quiet.
The man liked it here, wherever here might be—and whoever he might be, as well. Names and places did not matter. The man curled up in the white and hid his face, shutting out the endless everything, reducing forever to a pinpoint in the palm of his hands
(come out)
basking in the peace and quiet and warm, endless white.
“Parker.”
The unnamed man froze, frightened. Something jumped inside his chest. He buried his face again, attempting to ignore the intrusion.
“Peter Parker.”
The man lifted both eyes from his hands, frustrated by the unwelcome interruption from an eternity of silent white. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He sat up slowly and turned to face a slim, sandy-haired newcomer standing in the empty void. The interloper wore a clean, white, open-throated dress shirt tucked beneath a casual blazer and a pair of jeans. The unnamed man, himself, was completely naked in the vastness of the white, and the sudden appearance of colors and clothing in his personal limbo shook him to his core.
The newcomer stuck out a hand, reaching down to help the unnamed man to his feet.
“Hey, Parker,” the newcomer said, “how are you, pal?”
Parker? Peter Parker? The naked man rolled the name around inside his mind, testing it for context and weight, trying it on like an unfamiliar coat. Am I Peter Parker?
“Hey, Parker. How come you’re looking at me like that?” The well-dressed man flashed an amiable smile, offering his hand once more. “Don’t you remember me, Parker? Don’t you remember your pal, Ned Leeds?”
The unnamed man’s chest jumped once more, tightening with sudden, unfamiliar pain. He did not like this. He liked the white, the peace; this newcomer had put an end to both. The unnamed man fought to speak, worked his tongue (dry as a bone, hadn’t been used in a while). But the words came out frantic, nervous.
“Ned,” the man said, voice rusty with misuse. “Ned, what’s going on? How did we get here? How…”
Ned Leeds. Ned Leeds is
Ned smiled down at Peter Parker, holding out a hand to help his friend.
“Come on, Peter. Get up.”
The unnamed man warily held out a hand. “How…”
Ned Leeds is dead.
The unnamed man (Peter Parker my name is Peter Parker) covered his face with dawning horror and settled back against the white, curling up into a fetal position. His eyes widened and his chest jumped twice this time, and his skin began to crawl. Slowly, painfully, he remembered the Truth.
“You’re…you’re dead. But that’s impossible, because if you’re dead…”
If you’re dead, Ned
“…then I must be—”
Ned pulled back his hand, confusion and worry knitting his brow. He clutched the open throat of his shirt and gripped his chest as if in sudden, wincing pain. Sorrow and understanding washed across Ned’s face; piece by piece, his skin began to crumble and fall.
No, no, the unnamed man thought. I don’t know anyone named Ned Leeds.
“Dead?” Ned’s eyes started to sag, sinking down into the unhinged muscle above his cheeks. “Oh.”
In fact, the unnamed man confirmed, settling back against the warmth, I’ve never even heard of Peter Parker. I just want to be left alone.
The thing that had been Ned Leeds continued to decay, hair stripping back to reveal a yellowing skull. Teeth and bone calcified and crumbled to a fine powder. A voice emerged from the collapsing column of rotten flesh that had been its throat, dropping to a hoarse and strangled whisper: "Oh, god, he’s right…” The entire body deteriorated in seconds, crumpling into a smoking heap of blackened detritus right behind the man it had once called Peter Parker.
No, I’ve never heard of Peter Parker. I want to be alone in the warm, white, peace, and quiet.
The world was white again, and silent. Finally.
No one. Nothing. Everything. Emptiness.
(come OUT)
The unnamed man cowered into his arms once more. He closed his eyes tight, shutting out even the white, confining himself to an intimate area of blind darkness. Despite that, the white stared back. Two curious eyes, wide and bright—blank, sinister, and far from peaceful.
(Come out, Peter.)
The man knew that voice. In fact, he longed to hear it, though he could not understand why. Low and musical, determined and comforting. Not a white voice, but red. Red, happy, and calling to him, because…because...
Mary Jane?
Because…
T
he man did not know. He turned on his side, staring into the white, wondering who had called his name. No, not his name. He had never heard of anyone named Peter. Mary Jane? Uh-uh. No such person.
(Something is there, Peter.)
No beautiful eyes.
(It’s always there.)
No soft lips, or love.
(It’s always there.)
No life.
And no white, either. Now, the man realized, all was dark. And cold. And loud.
(krakoom)
Thunder. The man crawled from it, away from the white and into darkness, one leg at a time.
No—that couldn’t be right. Not a man. Eight legs.
I am the Spider.
(kraKOOM)
Immortal. Unyielding. I am the Spider. He crawled deeper into the darkness and tunnels. I’m not dead. Ned is dead. Gwen is dead. Uncle Ben, he’s dead.
I’m dead.
No, he chattered to himself. I am the Spider. I am strong. I am far from dead.
Mary Jane?
The Spider crawled deeper into the tunnel.
TWO
VOICES echoed down the corridor, bouncing their way toward the Spider’s ears. He continued forward, heading in their direction. Cackles and threats intermingled with bellows and grunts, growing louder the farther he progressed. He heard them waiting, six or more, crowding into the passageway and beckoning him forward. He lifted his eyes and spied metal and scales, glistening in the shadows. Horns and wings, tails and tentacles. The closer he drew, the clearer he saw them. The louder they became.
(come out now)
The Spider kept going, eight legs skittering up the tunnel.
How long had he been this beast—this crawling, all-consuming thing?
How long, he wondered, had he seen through the Spider’s eyes and done its bidding? Weaved its web?
Eyes peered out of the darkness, watching him from farther up the tunnel. He hissed and showed his mandibles, prepared to engage his enemies.
I am the Spider.
Really?
Of course, he confirmed, dashing forward to meet his foes. The Spider is strong and fearless; the Spider always wins. Unlike…
Unlike that coward.
I am
Unlike the one who can die.
I am
Pincers, teeth, and claws pierced the Spider’s flesh, tore away three legs and ripped away its heart—
—something jumped once more, deep within the Spider’s wounded breast.
I am Peter Parker!
And the Spider could be killed.
They waited, all around him in the darkness. They waited for him in the tunnel, where they could hurt the Spider, where they could kill it. The goblin and rhino. The octopus and vulture. Ned Leeds. Joe Face.
The Hunter.
They waited to kill the Spider, because the Spider could die, even though it never truly lived. He understood now, lying on his back with blood pooling beneath him, three legs torn away and entrails seeping from his side. He knew that the Spider was a trap. A lie. A coffin.
I’ve got to be free of it.
Slowly and painfully, pushing through the blood and fur, spreading wide his festering wounds, the man emerged once more.
I am Peter Parker.
He fell to the ground, halfway free of the Spider’s cage, determined to cast away the dead, bloated corpse like a discarded skin. Enemies gathered around, mistaking his pain for weakness and his naked flesh for cowardice. But in truth, the man felt stronger than ever. He crawled forward to meet their claws and hands and teeth.
I’m going to be free. You cannot stop me. You can’t keep me here. You’ve murdered the mask, but you haven’t murdered the man.
They cackled and grinned and ran away, laughing and taunting the man as they receded farther up the tunnel—out into the darkness, toward insistent thunder and the percussive beat of distant, inviting jungle drums.
(come out NOW)
Peter crawled on his hands and knees, tears drying on his filthy cheeks, shrugging off the vicious barbs and taunts of his unseen attackers. And something familiar continued to stir within his chest.
All these years, Peter’s enemies had misunderstood him. They thought he had become something larger than life: a trickster creature who crawled and spun his webs and hid in shadows—mocking, tormenting, and reveling in darkness. A Spider. A mask.
But the Spider did not exist.
Mary Jane?
He was simply a normal person, a good man tapped on the shoulder by fate—
I’m coming, Mary Jane.
—an average joe named Peter Parker. It was his weakness. It was his strength.
Mary Jane, I love you.
(Come out, the Hunter cried, arms raised, gun pointed at Peter Parker’s chest)
Peter pulled himself forward on hands and knees, blood dripping from his wounds, sweat slick against his skin.
(Come out, the Hunter bellowed as he pulled the trigger)
Peter clawed out of the darkness, fingers scratching at the soil as he dug his way to freedom. Oh, please, god, don’t let that happen I’ve got to see and touch her I love her
(Come out, the Hunter roared, so I can kill you)
Perspiration matted his face, mingling with grime and tears. Peter Parker dug and scratched until his fingers were raw and bloody, and still the darkness closed in, still he made no headway. Mary Jane, you’ve got to help don’t leave me here. Pain pressed against his chest, and his throat tightened. He screamed—loud and hoarse in the dark and silence—kicking and fighting to get back to the warmth and the red, away from darkness and dear god don’t let me lose you, Mary Jane!
Rhythmic drumbeats pounded in his ear
gunshots not thunder not drums but a rifle
and Peter cried in terror as he finally broke free, broke through, and light flooded into his eyes
flash of lightning flash of the muzzle
(Come out, the Hunter laughed with glee, so I can
kill you again, Spider. I killed you, Spider, and I’m going to keep killing you over and over and over)
Peter sank his fingers into the earth and pushed, soil raining down upon his eyes, washing away sweat and tears
There is no Spider.
…Mary Jane?
(COME OUT!)
and then he was through the darkness and into a cold, open graveyard, its familiar stone markers set in rows against a peaceful field of white.
THREE
PETER looked up and found himself surrounded by tall, imposing stone tombstones, looming high above and casting shadows as far as the eye could see. The graveyard rested amid a field of white. He had to fight the urge to lay down and curl up into a ball, to rest forever beneath the faceless slate of the encircling markers.
After a moment, Peter realized the tombstones weren’t blank at all. They’d been carved with names that were all too familiar, intimates and enemies he’d sent to their graves.
Panicking, he backed away, stumbling across the invisible ground. Then he noticed the costume he was wearing. Its bright colors stood out amid the grays and white of the graveyard as a mark of shame, confining and judgmental. Peter ran in terror, seeking comfort and quiet but finding only guilt and accusation.
Voices drifted back, cackling and taunting once more. Peter silently dared the rogues to attack—to make them face the man instead of the mask. He struggled unsuccessfully to tear the blank-eyed, webbed hood from his face.
“No,” he whined. “No! Why won’t you leave me alone?”
Somebody grabbed him from behind, whirled Peter around by the scruff of his neck. He found himself face-to-face with the menacing, nightmarish form of Kraven the Hunter—dressed in Spider-Man’s own costume, laughing with the rhythm of the jungle drums. Kraven’s laugh rose in pitch and volume, turning into a cackle; the Hunter’s face stretched long and lean, lightening in hue. His toothy grin twisted upward, adding more teeth by the moment, The long mane of hair upon his head spun itself into an
orange hood, his ears elongating to angry points. Kraven threw Peter down onto a grave and vaulted onto a rapidly descending black glider fitted with a razor-sharp, batlike head. But Kraven was gone now. Where he stood—riding the glider, laughing for all he was worth—now rode…
“The Hobgoblin!”
Peter rose swiftly to his feet and turned to fire a webline at the Hobgoblin’s deadly glider. But his web-shooters were nowhere to be found, and the grinning gargoyle soon flew out of sight. The sky, like the ground beneath his feet and the gray tombstones, was wide, a never-ending expanse of white emptiness. Peter turned to follow, trying to see where the Hobgoblin had vanished—
But he found himself staring at a grave marker. A single sentence had been carved into the stone: “Here Lies Ned Leeds.”
“No,” Peter cried again. “No, this isn’t real…”
(A graveyard, Peter? Ned’s voice floated back on invisible winds. Makes sense to me. You and death are old friends, aren’t you? Older and better than you and I could ever be. More than friends, really…you’re kind of a team. Spider-Man and Death. A horrible, marvelous, eternal team-up.)
Peter waved his arms. “No,” he said, “I hate death! I hate him!”
(Quite the little partnership you two have going, Pete. You feed Death his victims, and in return you get… well, what do you get in return? Let’s go deeper and find out, shall we?)
The ground shifted beneath Peter’s feet. The rows of tombstones slid by, pausing slightly to display the names emblazoned upon their polished, carved faces.
(Take a look around, Peter. Tell me what you see.)
Peter tried to hide his face beneath his hands, but eight invisible legs pried them apart. The unseen spider-legs forced him to watch, forced him to pay his respects. “No, don’t make me—”
(Tell me what you see!)
A marker slid by. “H…Here lies Norman Osborn,” Peter read, barely able to get the words out of his mouth. Norman’s ghost sneered down from atop the headstone, dressed in his tunic and clutching a bag of spectral pumpkin bombs. He peeked out from the Green Goblin’s ghostly fright mask, angry and imperious even in death.
