Chapter 67: Oppressive Stares

Suddenly, Peter went from that absolute darkness to a much brighter and warmer place. He was in Central Park, right in the heart of New York, beneath a blazing sun that bathed the surroundings in an almost comforting light.He was twelve years old at the time. Still disoriented by the abrupt change, he looked around and discovered a particularly lively park. Parents were enjoying the day with their children, groups of young people were talking together, animals were running through the grass, while some passersby were riding bikes or practicing sports.Everything seemed perfectly normal. His gaze then slowly lowered toward his hands and he noticed that he was holding a metal baseball bat. Written on it in red were two letters: "PB." The initials of Peter and Ben.

At the same moment, a familiar voice rang out in the distance.

— "PETER! ARE YOU READY?"

Peter immediately looked up. It was his Uncle Ben. He was there, alive and well, several dozen yards away from him. On one hand, he wore a baseball glove, while the other held one of those famous balls whose hardness was enough to seriously hurt anyone unfortunate enough to take one straight to the head.

At that moment, Peter remained frozen in place, completely lost. Something deep inside him was telling him that none of this was real, that what he was seeing might only be a dream, an illusion or something close to it. Yet he was unable to be certain. The more he tried to think about it, the more his thoughts seemed to blur, as though a thick fog covered part of his mind and prevented him from clearly distinguishing reality from illusion.

— "PETER! ARE YOU READY, KIDDO?!"

Hearing his uncle's voice once again, Peter snapped out of his daze. Despite the strange feeling that continued to follow him, he decided to focus on what was in front of him. He tightened his grip around the bat, adjusted his stance and prepared to swing. He was ready.

— "Y-YEAH! I'M READY!"

His uncle smiled before throwing the ball as best he could, trying to aim properly. It quickly cut through the air toward Peter, who had only a few seconds to react.

Just before it reached him, the young boy rotated his body and swung his bat forward. The metal connected perfectly with the ball in a sharp crack, sending it flying an impressive distance, probably more than a hundred yards away.

Shocked by the power of the hit, Uncle Ben let out a shout of joy before starting to run, looking up toward the sky as he tried to predict where the ball would land so he could catch it.

Around them, several passersby enjoying the pleasant sunny day watched the two of them having fun together. From their point of view, the scene could easily have looked like a father simply sharing a happy moment with his son.

While his uncle was still trying to recover the ball after that magnificent hit, Peter's attention gradually began to drift away from him. His eyes moved across the surroundings, observing the trees, the passersby, the families and all the peaceful activity filling the park. Yet something was bothering him.

A strange feeling persisted deep inside him, strong enough to make him uncomfortable, but too vague for him to understand exactly what was wrong.

That was when he spotted a young boy riding a bicycle in the distance. Peter watched him for a few moments before seeing several other boys around their age throwing sticks and rocks at him. One of the projectiles eventually caused him to fall, and his bicycle crashed violently onto the ground. But the others didn't stop there.

The group immediately moved closer to him and began attacking him for no apparent reason, striking him repeatedly while the boy on the ground did his best to protect himself. Stranger still, despite all the people present in the park, absolutely no one bothered to intervene.

Outraged by what he was seeing, Peter immediately stepped toward them, his irritation clearly visible on his face. He was about to call out to them when he finally managed to make out their features clearly.

And what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. Among the boys relentlessly attacking the child, he recognized Eddie Brock and Flash Thompson. And their victim, that boy curled up on the ground beneath their blows… was himself.

Shock overwhelmed Peter. Unable to understand what he was looking at, he instinctively glanced around. Only seconds earlier, no one had seemed to move, react or even notice what was happening.

But now, something had changed. Everyone in the park was looking at him. No… they weren't simply looking at him. They were staring at him. Every single one of them. Without exception.

Peter slowly turned his head toward his uncle and realized in horror that he too had stopped moving. Despite the distance separating them, Peter could see it perfectly: Uncle Ben was staring at him with the same chilling intensity. A stare so relentless that it became almost paralyzing.

The scene suddenly seemed straight out of a horror movie. The sun was still shining, warmth still bathed Central Park and, on the surface, nothing had changed in this welcoming setting. But those dozens of eyes fixed on him were enough to transform that warm place into something deeply oppressive.

Peter felt his anxiety rise at a dizzying speed. His stomach twisted, his breathing became more difficult and a violent wave of nausea ran through him, to the point where he almost felt like throwing up.

Suddenly, a voice echoed directly inside his mind:

— "You want to protect that child? You want to protect YOURSELF? Kill them."

The voice was cold, terrifying… yet strangely calm. It wasn't shouting, it didn't even sound angry. It simply repeated the same words at regular intervals, again and again, as though trying to carve them directly into Peter's mind.

The more he heard them, the more his gaze slowly lowered toward the metal bat he was still holding in his hands. Strange thoughts then began invading his mind, thoughts he immediately pushed away with all his strength, refusing to give them the slightest place.

But as the seconds passed, the voice became more and more unbearable. Completely terrified and lost by what was happening to him, Peter brought his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, as though doing so could make everything around him disappear.

Yet the words continued to echo directly inside his mind, louder and louder, more and more present. Then, in the middle of that oppressive voice, another one suddenly became audible. A voice he knew better than almost any other.

His Uncle Ben's.

— "Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?"

Immediately, everything became calm again. The terrifying voice hammering away inside his mind disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving behind an almost soothing silence. Peter remained still for a few seconds before slowly opening his eyes.

Central Park was gone. He was now back home, in the living room, sitting with his uncle and aunt. The three of them were settled in front of the television, as though none of what he had just experienced had ever happened.

TO BE CONTINUED.