I always loved comics. Especially superhero comics. Like a lot of people, I grew up reading Superman, Batman, Captain America, all that good stuff. But my absolute favorite was Spider-Man. So it's no surprise that I grew up to work at a comic book store. But that's not important. You want to know about the story.
Well, one day after work, I stopped off at this little run-down toy store. The guy that ran the place looked about nonchalantly, almost as if I wasn't there. I looked around, there were a few nice collectibles on the shelves. But what really caught my eye was a strange action figure. It was a Spider-Man action figure, but unlike any I'd ever seen: It was all red, its webbing patterns were disorganized, the spider was crooked and looked like a real spider. Also, the lenses appeared to be broken. There were small painted-in cracks in the mask lenses. That unnerved me a bit, but I still thought it was cool. I bought it for a mere 50 cents. And a comic book was given to me for free.
"Comes with the figure," the store owner said, the only thing I ever heard him say while I was there. I left and brought it home to my apartment. I set the toy on a shelf with the rest of my personal collection. Yes, I'm a nerd. Get over it. You're here for the story, right?
Anyways, I took the comic out of the bag and actually looked at it. It was creepy, to say the least. It looked like an homage to Amazing Fantasy issue 15, Spider-Man's first appearance. The title read "The Forgotten Spider-Man, issue 0". It looked like the action figure, but the person he was holding looked limp, his head at an unnatural angle, his eyes closed. It didn't say who wrote or illustrated it. No Comics Code Authority symbol. Not even a Marvel logo.
It started with Peter Parker, as per expectation, attending the radioactivity demonstration. I began to feel nostalgic as my eyes scanned the panels. The spider was caught in the radioactive energy, it landed on Peter's hand, and it bit him. That was normal. But then I noticed something weird. More like frightening. Instead of just a bite, blood poured from the wound. It covered Peter's arm. He was screaming, begging for help as the others looked on in horror. His body became covered in red, reminiscent of the Carnage symbiote, and strange black cords ripped from his wrists and ankles, wrapping into the disorganized web pattern that I had seen on the toy. The spider that bit Peter crawled onto his chest and became a part of his body. A scientist reached out to Peter. But Peter lashed out and attacked him, strangling the others with black webbing in a mindless rampage. Suddenly I forgot that I was a 25-year-old man and I, like a frightened child, whispered:
"Sp... Spider-Man...?"
I continued reading. Spider-Man, if I could call him that, started brutally murdering people; the blood on the page was such a deep shade of red I almost thought that it was inked with real blood. I had to put it down, I was getting sick to my stomach. Then something caught my eye. I turned to see: sitting on top of my fridge was the toy. It was crouched in the trademark Spider-Man pose. It was freaky. I had put it on my shelf, standing straight up. The cracked lenses looked at me. And not just positioned in my direction, it was literally looking at me. I don't know how, but somehow I knew it wanted me to keep reading the comic. So, I picked it up and opened it again.
Spider-Man was still killing. But what I saw only made it worse. He was making his way to his home, ripping off Mary Jane's head and beating people with her spine along the way. I was getting horrified, and then, in a full splash panel, he had reached his house. He killed his Uncle Ben first, blind with rage, and then ripped his arm off, beating Aunt May to death with it. I was getting sick again. I could've sworn I heard laughing in the back of my mind. It was the end of the issue. I saw a preview for the next one, which showed Spider-Man holding what looked to be Otto Octavius by the throat. I was grateful that the issue was over, but mortified by its contents. I turned to look at the Spider-Man toy. It was gone. Then I felt the issue slip away. In a fraction of a second, the toy was gone, taking the comic with it. I sighed with relief, until a voice spoke in mind, in a cruel, mocking tone:
"Till next time, true believers."
It's been a month since this happened. I had learned that an artist, who had attempted to submit his work, a full horror-themed Spider-Man comic book to Marvel Comics, had died of overexhaustion, never eating or drinking, only working till his body just gave out. I learned this after searching up The Forgotten Spider-Man on the internet, an article about the artist being the only thing I could find. There was an image of the artist's desk included in the article, showing an unfinished cover of the comic book I had read. I was still traumatized by the events of that day, but I couldn't help feeling bad for this artist, as all he wanted was someone to appreciate his work.
Now I suppose that I'm that person. Because I got this in my mail today, sent in an envelope with no return address.
It was The Forgotten Spider-Man issue 1.