The Demon of Queens
The night air was thick with the usual hum of city life, punctuated by the occasional shout or car horn. Queens was alive, buzzing, but there was a darkness to its underbelly. Peter Parker had seen that darkness, and tonight, he’d come to show it a taste of fear.
Peter leaned on a rooftop, scanning the streets below through the shadow of his hood. His eyes fell on a narrow alley where a man was rummaging through trash bags, muttering to himself. A few yards away, a bulky figure stomped forward—one of the local lowlifes, tattooed arms and a scowl that told stories of broken bones and unpaid debts. Peter’s body tensed as he saw what was coming.
The man kicked the beggar sharply, sending him tumbling into the grime with a pained groan. Peter's fists clenched, and he slipped down from the rooftop, landing silently in the alley’s shadow. He watched as the gangster spat on the ground and laughed, turning away as if it were just another Tuesday night.
Peter stepped back into the darkness, blending into the alley. He'd have to make this… unforgettable.
Peter's voice dropped to a guttural tone, letting a subtle echo carry through the alley. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
The gangster froze, head darting around. His eyes squinted, searching the darkness.
“Who’s there?” His voice carried a shaky attempt at intimidation, but Peter could sense the nervous edge to it. “Show yourself, you little punk.”
Peter suppressed a smirk, shifting along the wall to remain unseen. He made his voice low, ominous, dripping with menace. “I wouldn’t worry about seeing me. I’d worry about me seeing you.”
The man turned in a slow, wary circle, his fists clenched. “I don’t know what kind of game this is, but you picked the wrong guy to mess with.”
“Oh, I think I picked the perfect guy,” Peter taunted, letting his voice slide from one side of the alley to the other, making the man whip his head back and forth. “What kind of person picks on someone who can’t fight back? Kicking a guy who’s just looking for food?”
The gangster’s bravado cracked, and his shoulders tensed. “I don’t have time for this. Who the hell do you think you are?”
Peter grinned under his mask, dropping down silently from the wall to a spot behind the gangster. His voice was a whisper, soft and sinister. “They call me Spider-Man. But you… you can think of me as something much worse.”
Peter allowed just the briefest glimpse of himself as the gangster turned—barely enough for a shadow, a flash of white against the darkness. The man’s eyes widened, and Peter pulled back into the alley’s deeper shadows, baiting him.
“Come on… show yourself!” the gangster shouted, but his voice was losing its strength, fraying at the edges.
Peter let his voice slide around him. “You want to see me? Then you’ll have to earn it.”
The man, determined or desperate, lurched forward, fists raised, trying to follow Peter’s whispers. Peter took a step back, then another, leading him deeper into the maze of alleys. Streetlights faded, leaving them surrounded by brick walls and patches of shadow thick enough to drown in. Peter’s soft footfalls echoed, a ghostly presence that the man could hear but never see.
“Where are you, freak?” the man shouted, his tone growing more panicked.
Peter’s voice came from somewhere just behind him, a cold whisper laced with menace. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about where I am. You should worry about why you are here.”
The man spun around, pulse pounding, but Peter was already gone, a specter in the dark. For a few agonizing seconds, silence fell, heavy and expectant. Then, without warning, a long tendril of webbing shot from the darkness, catching the gangster’s wrist and yanking it upward.
The gangster screamed, tugging against the unbreakable line as Peter let his voice slither through the shadows, mocking. “You didn’t think of the saying "having a taste of your own medicine," did you?”
The man, panting and wide-eyed, tried to break free of the web, his eyes darting desperately around the alley. Peter held his breath, letting the quiet consume them both before speaking again. This time, his tone dropped, darker and quieter.
“You hurt someone tonight,” Peter said, his voice close to a growl. “Someone who can’t fight back. Do you know what that makes you?”
The man stammered, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “I—he was just—just some bum. None of your business.”
“Oh, but you’ve made it my business now.” Another tendril of webbing shot out, binding the gangster’s other hand to the wall. The man pulled against it, grunting, but it was no use.
“Why… why are you doing this?” he managed, his voice breaking.
Peter stepped closer, letting himself come into view, just barely visible through the gloom. “Because the people in this city deserve to live without being preyed on by lowlifes like you.”
The man shrank back, eyes wild with fear. “I’ll… I’ll change, alright? Just let me go. I swear, I won’t touch another homeless guy again!”
Peter tilted his head, considering him. Then he clicked his tongue, a slow, mocking sound. “You hurt someone because you thought no one was watching. And now, you think a few words will make it all go away?”
The gangster’s voice was little more than a whimper now. “Please… please… I’m sorry…”
“Apologies are worthless without action.” Peter moved closer, enough for the man to see the white eyes of his mask, glinting like something not quite human. “So you’re going to leave here with a reminder. One you won’t forget.”
The gangster struggled harder, thrashing against the webs, but Peter moved quickly, trapping him in layer upon layer until he was wrapped from his shoulders to his knees. Only his eyes remained visible, wide and darting, as Peter hoisted him a few feet off the ground, leaving him hanging in the middle of the alley.
The man tried to speak, but his voice cracked under the weight of his terror. “You… you’re not human…”
Peter tilted his head again, letting a slow smile creep into his voice. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m something worse, a demon that lurks in the dark, keeping an eye on people like you.”
With a final flick of his wrist, Peter secured the last strand of webbing, admiring his handiwork. The man hung in his cocoon, wide-eyed, twitching, and too terrified to speak.
“You’ll get out eventually,” Peter said, his voice echoing off the walls. “But by then, you’ll have plenty of time to think about the kind of person you are.”
And with that, he stepped back into the shadows, disappearing with a whisper, leaving the alley to sink back into silence as he melted into the night.
As Peter swung away, he couldn’t resist one last thought—something that brought a smile to his face. He didn’t know if he was a demon, an angel, or just a kid from Queens, but tonight, he’d reminded someone that even in the city’s darkest corners, there was someone watching. And as far as Peter was concerned, that was enough.