Spiderman 1 (40 page)

Harry shook his head uncomprehendingly. "What was
that thing that killed them? It happened so fast."

"I don't know. But somebody has to stop it."

"Right. Well . . . I'll pray in the bedroom."

He hesitated, as if there was something else he wanted to say, but apparently thought better of it and walked into the bedroom. Peter was left alone at the window, looking out at the night sky. Tomorrow the entire city was going to know that there was a genuine masked menace in town, because
Peter had been smart enough to anchor his camera, set the automatic shutter, and get some extremely good shots of
himself in battle with that goblin ...

The Green Goblin. Peter winced. What a name. It
sounded so juvenile, as if he should be sporting a little purple hat and booties. But it's what Jameson had dubbed him, upon taking one look at the photo. "Goblin" because Jame
son thought he looked like a Halloween creature come to
life, and "Green" because Peter's shots had been in black and white, and Jameson wanted to let the reader know what color
he was in order to make even more of an impression—and
sell more newspapers, no doubt.

"Ever since Spider-Man, they all gotta have a name.
Hoffman!"
Jameson shouted. "Call the copyright office!
Trademark the name! I want a quarter for every time some
body says it!"

"But . . . 'Green Goblin,' " Peter said in weak protest. "It

sounds so ..."

"We have to make the name more memorable! And noth
ing makes people remember a name like alliteration!"
J. Jonah Jameson said.

"Do you really think so?" Peter Parker asked the nearest

bystander.

"I wouldn't know," Robbie Robertson commented. Then
J.J.'s secretary, Betty Brant, informed him that he had a conference call with the noted scientists Bruce Banner and Reed
Richards.

Left alone, Peter wondered where that armored lunatic
was hiding out. He tried to picture what someone like that
was like when they weren't wearing armor, a grotesque
mask, and terrorizing people.

Did he have a wife? Did she know who, what he was?
Did he have a daughter who adored him? A son who looked
up to him? If he did, Peter had a feeling they had no idea
what he'd been up to. He probably led some sort of double
life. He felt sorry for that madman's friends and family.

Then again, who was he to talk?

The headline stared up at Norman Osborn, who was standing at the threshold of his apartment, the newspaper
lying flat in front of him. He blinked against the brightness of the morning sun and couldn't help but feel that the paper
was mocking him, somehow, as the banner shouted up at

him,
 
TIMES
 
SCARE!
  
SPIDER-MAN,
 
GREEN
 
GOBLIN TERRORIZE

CITY!

Osborn licked his lips, ran his tongue along his teeth. He
felt as if something had crawled into his mouth and died. He

leaned against the doorframe, looked down at his disheveled clothes, and came to the realization that he couldn't remem
ber having gone to bed. The last thing he could clearly recall
was the board meeting. It
. . .
hadn't gone well. He didn't
know what the details were
. . .
he just knew it hadn't gone
well.

He picked up the newspaper, scanning it as if it could provide him with answers to questions that he didn't even know to ask. Then his gaze came to a halt on a smaller, less
prominent headline ... reading almost like an afterthought:

OSCORP BOARD MEMBERS KILLED.

He blinked furiously, an owl in the daylight, trying to
make sense of it. He was starting to sweat profusely. He felt
disgusting. He felt as if he wanted to climb into a shower and
just stay there for days.

Shoving the newspaper under his arm, he staggered away
across the entry hall, kicking the door shut behind him.

And then, somewhere, far in the distance, he heard a faint
cackling.

He stopped and looked around in confusion. Where the
hell had that come from? Feeling vaguely uneasy, he lurched
across the foyer and up the stairs.

The cackling continued as Osborn drew closer to what seemed to be the source: his den. But as he approached it,
got within just a couple of feet, the laughter abruptly
stopped. It was as if there were an intruder who suspected he'd been discovered and was trying to avoid detection.

"Somebody there?"

He should just be calling the police, but something
stopped him. It wasn't just that the laughter had ceased.
There was a palpable sense of emptiness.

He peered around the corner cautiously, aware that there could be some lunatic standing to the side wielding an axe,
ready to behead him. Then again, considering how much his
skull was pounding, that might be doing him a favor.

But there was no one. The room was empty. The only
thing staring back at him was his collection of masks, and they obviously weren't posing any threat.

"Of course not," he said to himself. He took a deep
breath, walked into the study, and moved to a small table that
had a whiskey decanter sitting on it. He poured himself a
shot, alarmed by how much his hands were shaking.
"Stop pretending, Norman ..."

He whirled, the sudden realization that he wasn't alone a cold dash of water in his face. Sweat was rolling off him in buckets. The glass was wobbling in his hand, the whiskey slopping over the edges.

The voice was mirthful and otherworldly, and so
damned familiar that it chilled him to the bone, especially in the informal tone it was taking, as if the intruder and Osborn
were old friends. He stumbled to the middle of the room,
spinning in place, trying to see everywhere in the room at

once.

"Who said that?!" he demanded.

"Don't play the innocent with me. You've known all
along."
The voice spoke in a demonic monotone.

"Who are you?"

"Follow the cold shiver that's running down your spine.

Look . . . I'm right here."

Osborn turned and faced a long mirror that was hanging
nearby. He stared into it. His reflection was ghastly and pale,
like a man on his deathbed. "I
. . .
don't understand," he said,
his throat closing up on him. He wondered if he was going
to keel over right there, before this intruder even showed

himself.

"Did you think it was coincidence? So many good things . . .
all happening for you . . . all for you, Norman . . ."

"What do you want?" Osborn shouted, his terror mount
ing, and he felt horribly weak for reacting that way. Sweat

was dripping into his eyes. He rubbed them furiously to
clear his vision, and when he lowered his hands....

Something else was staring out at him from the mirror. Not his own reflection, no. No, it was that . . . that creature
that had been on the front page of the newspaper. That Green
Goblin, leering at him ...

"What do I want? To say what you won't
. . .
to do what
you can't
. . .
to remove those in your way,"
and with a slight
inclination of his head, the Green Goblin indicated the news
paper.

The horrifying reality slammed home to Osborn all at once. "The board members? You ... killed them?!"

"We killed them."

Osborn backed away, shaking his head, positive now that either he was dreaming or going mad, or both. "Oh God. Oh
God . . ."

"Stop mewling,"
the Goblin snarled.
"You sicken me. You
ooze weakness."

Now . . . now he understood, more than ever, why the
Goblin sounded so familiar. It was the way his voice
sounded to himself . . . when he was talking to, or about,
Harry. "I'm not a murderer ... I'm a scientist, a respectable
businessman. The police ..."

The word hung there, the salvation. Osborn hurried for
the phone, reached for it
. . .

... and the Goblin was already there, no longer confined
to the mirror, growing stronger in Osborn's psyche with
each passing moment. His armored hand sat atop the phone, and he snarled into Osborn's face with putrid breath,
"Hyp
ocrite! Liar!"

The Goblin reared back, heaved the phone toward the balcony, and Osborn was inside and outside his own head at the
same time, unsure whether the Goblin had truly sprung to
life, whether the phone being thrown was an hallucination,

or whether he himself had thrown it in the throes of a delu
sion.

And there was the Goblin, up on the den's balcony, duck
ing as the phone zipped past his head. The Green Goblin
stood there, looking down at Osborn. 'Wow
shut up and lis
ten! Try to understand the beauty of all this!"
he snapped at
him.
"You are now in full control of OsCorp Industries. Your
greatest wish, granted by me. Say thank you,"
he told him
silkily.

Osborn didn't say thank you. But he stopped trembling,
shaking in weakness. The truth was that he'd been more ap
palled at the prospect of getting caught than by the act itself. There was no love lost between himself and the board members, certainly.

"Hmmm . . . And . . . then what?" he asked cautiously.

Clearly pleased that Osborn was warming up to the situ
ation, the Goblin continued.
"We'll eliminate your rivals.
OsCorp will become the most powerful military supplier in
history. You'll have limitless wealth."
He spoke in an in
creasingly seductive tone.
"Presidents and kings will court
your favor. So don't be shy. Take what you've always wanted.
Power. The weak will serve you. The world will be yours and
mine. Yes. You and I, we can have a hell of a time."