Disclaimer: All characters, except Lynnea and Susan, are property of Marvel.

Author's Note: This is my Halloween contribution, though the fic will be ongoing. It isn't gory or really horrifying or anything, but it does deal with supernatural themes. And for those who are curious, the First Ave Mission appears in a photograph in the 'Caught in the Web' book, from a scene that must have been cut from the movie. Page 97, for those who have the book.

Moonlight Becomes You

One – Black Magic Woman

October 24

The two people seated in the dimly-lit rear portion of the restaurant couldn't have been more different. He was dressed in an expensively tailored suit, and not a strand of his graying brown hair was out of place. His expression was carefully controlled, revealing none of his contempt for the young woman seated across from him. She was in her mid-twenties, wearing a black top that exposed her midriff, a long black coat, and a short black skirt that showed off her fishnet stockings. Even her shoulder-length hair was a sleek black, though the heart-shaped face the strands framed was pale. Only the blood-red nail polish and lipstick ruined the impression that she'd stepped out of a black-and-white horror film.

"So, how can I help you, mister...?" the woman asked.

"Smith," the man said shortly.

"Smith. Right." The woman smiled, as if it was a name she'd heard all too often. "You can call me Lynnea."

The man made a noncommittal sound. He leaned over, picking up a briefcase and setting it on the table, sliding it towards her. "Not one to waste words, I see," Lynnea observed. She unsnapped the briefcase, letting her gaze run over the contents just long enough to confirm that what she'd asked for was there.

"Half now, the rest a week from today, when we're certain the job is done properly," Mr. Smith said. There was an edge to his voice, and Lynnea gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"You don't believe in what I do, do you, Mr. Smith?"

"I don't believe in wasting money on superstitions and old wives' tales," Mr. Smith said coolly. He glanced pointedly at the third chair, which held what looked like an old rag doll. Pins were stabbed in its eyes and heart. "I'm not impressed by a little goth chick with her twisted little toys."

"If I had come wearing the ratty University of Michigan sweater and battered jeans I was wearing earlier today, would that make me any more credible? It usually impresses my clients when I look the part." Lynnea shrugged. "Clearly, that's not the case with you. But that doesn't matter; your boss is paying for this, and as long as I get my money, I don't care what you think. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't refer to Justin as a toy; he's here as a reminder."

Mr. Smith was too good a businessman to let his displeasure show, but it was obvious in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his movements. All he said was, "I brought the information you requested." He held a folder towards her, which she took. Idly, she leafed through the contents.

"Pretty woman," Lynnea commented. "Who was she? Your boss's wife? Lover? A rival's loved one?"

"I am not at liberty to share that information," Mr. Smith said flatly. "I am here only to pay you and tell you that everything has been prepared, just as you asked. Directions to the location secured for this... project are included in the file, as is all the relevant information."

Lynnea found the coroner's report in the folder and quickly skimmed through it. "I see they didn't feel the need to perform an autopsy. No major damage to the body beyond a few cuts and the hole where a shard of glass pierced the heart. Good. And she's only been dead for four months; very good. This is doable."

"My boss will be pleased," Mr. Smith said flatly.

The waitress arrived with the meal Lynnea had ordered; she was used to business deals in the restaurant and left quickly so the two could get on with their business. Lynnea examined her meal for a moment, then gave Mr. Smith a wicked grin. "Don't you leave yet; you're picking up the bill." He looked about to protest, but she added, "Boss's orders."

"I suppose you ordered the most expensive thing on the menu," he said unhappily.

"Puffer fish," she said, cutting off a piece. "A delicacy, but only if you eat the right portions. It's poison if it isn't cut correctly; a neurotoxin that blocks conduction of nerve signals." She looked unconcerned as she placed the chunk in her mouth. "It's called tetrodotoxin, a substance that is also used in voodoo rituals associated with zombie-raising. Not that you believe in that sort of thing." She smiled sweetly. "Want some?"

Now Mr. Smith looked uncomfortable, and she smirked. "Your loss." She took another bite of her fish. She turned to the doll sitting in the third seat. "How about you, Justin?" she cooed. "Do you want some fish?" She held the fork close to the scribble that passed for its mouth. "Here you go." She rammed the fork into the stuffed head as far as the tines could go. "Oops, my hand slipped." She pulled the fork out, watching Mr. Smith out of the corner of her eye. The light was dim, but she thought she saw him go pale when a drop of liquid that looked eerily like blood oozed from the tear to streak the cloth face.

"If everything's ready, I can begin at midnight tonight," Lynnea said abruptly. "Make sure your boss is there. And I want you there, too; I think it will do you good to see just what 'superstitions and old wives' tales' can really do."

XXX

October 26

Peter Parker anxiously glanced at his watch, and scowled as when he saw another ten minutes had passed without anything to show for it. He wasn't the only one getting antsy; beside him, Daily Bugle reporter Ben Urich drew elaborate doodles on his pad of paper, and Peter's sharp hearing could hear the impatient murmurs of the other reporters and photographers standing around them.

And here I thought the society photographer's accident would be good for me. Jameson's had me so busy snapping photos, I haven't had much time as Spider-Man. And I've had even less time with MJ. But at least I've got money for rent this month and next.

Still... he'd far rather be enjoying dinner with Mary Jane or swinging through the streets of New York than waiting for this press conference to start. Quest Aerospace, the main rival of OsCorp, had called for it, and Jameson had ordered a hold on the evening edition of the Bugle so they could get the story out as soon as Peter and Urich returned. It was something big, Jameson had crowed, and they would be the first paper to release it to the public.

Or they would be, if the damned conference would just begin. The assembled reporters had been gathered for forty-five minutes, and the mood was becoming hostile. If something didn't happen soon, Peter was afraid fights would break out between some of the rival reporters.

To occupy himself, he once again checked over the digital camera Jameson had given to him to use. Jameson wanted photos ready to use as soon as Peter and Urich returned to the Bugle, and he'd been given a crash course on how to use the camera. He also had his regular camera with him, in case Jameson wanted photos for a follow-up article the next day. Peter felt he'd gotten off better than Urich, who was going to have to turn his notes into an article during the taxi ride back to the Bugle using a laptop – and Urich was a notorious technophobe.

Urich glanced up from his work of art, and scowled when he saw the sky had darkened. "Jameson's not going to be able to wait too much longer; he's going to be pissed if we can't break this story before the Globe."

"Jameson, pissed? Can't imagine that," Peter laughed.

"Okay, morepissed than normal," Urich amended. He might have said more, but then activity behind the podium caught their attention, and everyone in the room fell silent as a handful of men and women in business suits and two men in military uniform took their seats behind the podium. Peter quickly lifted the digital camera and focused it on the podium just as another man in an Armani suit entered, followed by a woman who kept her head turned from the crowd, a veil of honey-colored hair hiding her features.

The man tapped the microphone attached to the podium, wincing as it gave an electronic squeal. A technician ran over to adjust the settings, ignoring the man's frosty smile as he corrected the problem. "Ladies and gentlemen," the business-suited man began as soon as the mike was behaving. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I am Steven O'Connell, director of Quest Aerospace. I have come to announce that we have signed a five-year contract with the US Army."

Peter winced; this couldn't be good for OsCorp. Though Peter hadn't spoken to Harry since his unmasking, he was still concerned for his friend's well-being. OsCorp was in serious financial trouble, and he knew from what he'd read in the papers that they'd put in a bid for the military contract.

"This will be a partnership that will benefit not just my company, but the entire country," O'Connell continued. "We will be providing technology for use in our ongoing war on terror."

So this was what they'd called a press conference for. Peter sighed; this was going to become military propaganda. He'd heard it all before, and he tuned O'Connell out as he droned on. Fortunately, being a photographer didn't require him to listen, just focus and press a little button.

It was a good thing he didn't need to pay attention to the director, because he'd noticed something curious. The people seated behind O'Connell were normal enough for a conference like this, but the woman who had followed the director wasn't. She stood a little behind him, her head lowered and her face still mostly hidden by her hair. At Peter's angle, he couldn't see any of her features, and he wondered if he should get up and move to get a better look at her. Maybe he could figure out what she was doing there. She seemed to serve no purpose except as an accessory. Peter couldn't get a shot of O'Connell without getting her in the picture.

Why was she there? She wasn't holding a briefcase or files, she wasn't taking notes, she didn't even seem to be paying any attention to what was happening around them. If she was O'Connell's wife or lover, she wasn't a very attentive one; she never once glanced up at him as he spoke. Peter wished she would do something – Jameson wouldn't like pictures where someone's face was obscured. He'd find a way to blame it on Peter and pay less for the photos.

After about fifteen minutes, O'Connell let one of the military men, General something-or-other, speak. Peter snapped a few pictures, then tuned him out, too. O'Connell was now standing off to the side, and he was whispering something into the woman's ear. Why does she keep drawing my attention? Is it my spider-sense? Can't be... but there's something about her. Something almost... familiar? Have I seen her before?

Finally, O'Connell took over the podium again and opened up the floor for questioning. Peter used the opportunity to slip toward the front of the crowd to get a better picture. He wanted to get a look at this woman; he had to.

He had to wait for two other photographers with the same idea to move out of the way, then he got as close as he could and focused on O'Connell and the woman beside him. Her head was still low, and her face was in shadow, but at least he could see something. His finger tightened on the button, ready to take the picture.

And then... the woman finally looked up. For a moment, her eyes seemed to meet Peter's through the lens of the camera, and then she quickly looked down again. But that split second had been long enough for him to reflexively snap the photo. It was fortunate he'd been able to react without thinking; because that all-to-brief glimpse had been enough for Peter to see her features, to recognize her... and to realize she couldn't possibly be who she looked like.

The last time he'd seen this woman, paramedics had been shipping her body to the hospital morgue.

XXX

October 28

The First Avenue Mission was a quaint, welcoming place, and its location next to the 23 Street Station meant it was often frequented by the homeless who normally hid out in the subway. They were drawn by the sign hanging outside, 'All in need are welcome,' and by some of the best soup in New York. Or so the homeless always told the volunteers; really, they often didn't have much to compare it to.

Susan Riley was on duty that night. She smiled as she ladled soup into the bowl of the last person in line, and was rewarded with a rotten-toothed grin in return. It had been a busy night – the weather was finally settling into its normal fall routine, and the cold was driving the homeless into the mission earlier every day, and in greater numbers.

It was getting late now, and fewer people were coming in. Susan took the opportunity to collapse onto one of the stools behind the soup counter, exchanging looks with her equally exhausted coworker Veronica. "Rough night," Veronica commented.

"Just wait until it gets closer to Christmas and it's cold out there. Then you'll really see what a busy night is like." Susan laughed as Veronica pretended to swoon. "You'll get used to it," she reassured the other woman.

The door's bell tinkled as someone entered the mission, and Susan got to her feet. "I'll handle this one," she told Veronica. She pulled out a clean bowl and waited for their new guest to claim his soup.

Then she saw who it was, and she grinned broadly. "John! I was beginning to worry about you! You haven't been in here for over a week!" The man standing in front of the counter was one of the regulars, a man of few words who normally came in late at night, during Susan's shift. Susan made it her business to get to know the regulars. Normally shunned by society, the regulars often appreciated having someone who knew them and cared about them.

"I've been busy." John's voice was low, almost a growl. But he crookedly smiled at her through his scraggly beard. "Is that marvelous soup of yours still warm?"

"Always," Susan said, ladling a generous portion into the bowl she still held and handing it to him. He reached out his right hand for it, then jerked it downwards and held out his left. But not before Susan got a glimpse of the stained bandage wrapped around his hand.

John thanked her and headed towards the empty bench that was furthest from others as he could get. Susan watched as he went through his normal odd ritual of sitting on the bench – carefully making certain that the edge of his long coat hung over the bench, as if he were afraid of sitting on the cloth – before turning to Veronica. "Can you man the counter for awhile? I think John is injured."

"No problem," Veronica said, and Susan retrieved the first aid kit from its mount on the wall. She also paused to remove a stack of newspapers she'd been keeping in one of the cabinets; John always requested the papers to read while he was eating, and she knew he was waiting for her to bring them.

"You've got a lot of catching up to do," she scolded John as she set the papers on the table beside him. "I've got a week's worth here." He reached for them, but she snatched them away. "First, I want to know what's wrong with your hand."

John's dark eyes narrowed. "There's nothing wrong-"he began, then seemed to realized he'd grabbed for the papers with his wounded hand. "All right," he sighed. "It's just a scratch. Nothing to worry about."

Oh, how often she'd heard that line! Susan took his hand and carefully unwounded the clothing, grimacing when she realized just how stained it was. He'd be lucky if it wasn't infected. And then she saw the wound itself. "Ouch! How did you do this?" There was a straight, deep cut across his palm, and matching wounds along his fingertips.

"I stopped a murder by grabbing a knife blade."

"Then you're a hero," she told him as she fished out the disinfectant. She wished she had something that could numb the area, because she could tell the palm slash at least would need stitches.

"Hero. Right." His tone was curiously bitter. She wanted to question him further, but she knew John well enough to realize he'd just clam up.

"I hope you're good with pain," she told him after she cleaned the wound. "I'm going to have to stitch this up. Don't worry," she added quickly, "I've had first aid training." It had come in handy in her volunteer work.

"I am always in pain." She glanced up at John, but he'd turned his face away from her. She shrugged and let the enigmatic comment go. She didn't need anything to distract her while she worked on his hand.

John was an interesting case. He'd first walked into the mission two months ago, his attitude one of shame. From how he acted, Susan had deduced he'd only recently come into his poverty. She'd taken it upon herself to help ease him into his new station in life, and he seemed to appreciate her efforts. He rarely spoke about himself, but Susan had discovered him to be very well-learned, and highly intelligent. He'd hinted that he'd had the perfect life, but something had gone horribly wrong, leaving him irreparably broken.

She wouldn't ask what had brought him so low. It was his business, and if he wanted to talk about it, he would. Still, she couldn't help but wonder who he was. John clearly wasn't his real name; the first few weeks he'd shown up, he hadn't responded to the name. His shabby appearance gave her no clue. He was a big man, middle-aged, with shaggy brown hair that hadn't seen a comb in all the time he'd been coming here. His rough beard didn't hide the haggardness of his features; he had the look of one who had lost too much weight too fast. His sad brown eyes had a perpetually haunted look that was like nothing she had ever seen in any other homeless person. He always wore the same coat, no matter the weather: a long coat in that curious shade that was either brown, green, or gray, depending on the light, which was fraying at the hemline and cuffs, with a curious set of tears in the back that he'd refused to let Susan repair.

"Done," she smiled, and he waited patiently as she bound the wounds in a fresh gauze wrap. She was impressed; she hadn't seen him wince once as she'd stitched his palm together.

"Thank you." He turned his attention back to the soup, and Susan wordlessly handed him the papers. Clearly, John wasn't in any mood to talk tonight. She got up and headed back towards the counter. She didn't even chide him about reading in the dim light like she normally did. It was a bit of a joke between them; Susan had accidentally discovered he had a sensitivity to bright lights when she'd brought a light over to him one night so he could read by it.

Susan put away the first aid kit and began to help Veronica clean the dirty bowls. The two women were too weary for much conversation.

Fifteen minutes before her shift was due to end, Susan heard a strangled scream. She dropped the bowl she was holding and rushed out towards where John was staring at a copy of the Daily Bugle clenched in his good hand. He shot to his feet, and there was a curious metallic clunk against the edge of the bench. Susan didn't have time to wonder what it was, because John let out that anguished cry again, mixed this time with what sounded like the word "Rosie."

"John! What's wrong?" Susan asked. She tried to keep her voice calm; the last thing she need was for him to have a breakdown.

He turned towards her, but his brown eyes were wild, unfocused, and she didn't think he even saw her. And then he lunged forward, pushing past her and sprinting towards the door with surprising speed.

"John! Wait!" She ran after him, terrified that he'd hurt himself or someone else in his madness. But by the time she burst through the door, head darting rapidly back and forth, she'd lost sight of him. She couldn't even hear the sound of his running feet. The only noise she could hear was a rhythmic Thwam! Thwam! that faded with distance.

"John!" she called again, uncertainly.

But he was gone.

XXX

The man Susan knew as 'John' stood before the locked wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, wondering just what he was doing there. He'd set off through the city without any clear thought in his mind, and his rapid flight had ripped the wound in his hand back open. Blood streamed down his fingers and dripped to the gravel underfoot. Rosie is dead; why am I torturing myself like this? The woman in the Daily Bugle photo certainly bore a striking resemblance to her, but it wasn't her. It couldn't be. His tormented mind was merely seeing what it longed to see.

Why are we here? You know she is dead. We should leave before we are seen.

The presence of the four disembodied voices was a comfort to him this night. Their cold, inhuman minds saw what he could not. They would help him keep his fragile grip on sanity; a cruel bit of irony that wasn't lost on him. I know. I just... I need to see for myself.

Their anger was like a knife thrust in the back of his skull. You and your foolish emotions! You have seen this before! Why do you do this to yourself?

It's hard to explain. It's human nature. Please... just let me do this. For peace of mind. Otto Octavius refused to leave until he at least visited the grave of his wife. He needed to see it, to touch the cold marble of her headstone, to scent the earth under which she was buried, in order to remind himself that she truly was dead. The tentacles hissed in displeasure, but he sensed their acquiescence. But, rather than help him climb over the cemetery's walls, they tore the gate off its hinges. They flung it to the side with surprising vehemence, expressing their anger at their host in the only way they could.

Otto had only dared visit Rosie's grave once before, and that in broad daylight. But his feet knew the way, and there was just enough light from the streetlamps beyond the walls to guide his way. The entire time, the tentacles stayed silent. Either he had instilled some sort of manners into them, or they were too angry to speak to him. They were already furious with him for stopping them from killing a bum who had strayed too close to them; he was going to pay for this later. They withdrew into the depths of his coat, refusing to do anything further for him.

Rosie's grave was set off to one side, a little out of the way. He'd been her only family; when the tentacles had ruled his mind, there'd been no one to select a better site for her, or fashion a more meaningful memorial than the simple marble stone carved with her name and dates of birth and death. It had pained him to see it in the light, to see his wife's memory represented only by a name and date. No one passing by would know of the vibrant, loving woman she'd been. She'd be just another name among many.

He paused once, resting his hand on a tombstone and leaving behind a bloody handprint. Her grave was just ahead, and his nerve was suddenly failing him. Even now, four months later, he still couldn't quite accept the fact that she was dead, that this wasn't just a horrible nightmare he'd awaken from. Otto closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. All right, just do this. You need to do this; if you don't, you'll have those nightmares again. He opened his eyes and took a shaking step forward, then another. And then he froze.

At first, it looked as if her grave were cloaked in shadow. But there was the strong scent of freshly-turned earth, and the angle of light was wrong for a shadow to lie so exactly over her coffin. There was no headstone, no vase where he had so lovingly placed a dozen roses during his last visit, and from the concavity of the freshly-dug earth, there was no longer even a coffin.

I'm in the wrong place, that's all, he told himself. This is just a grave being dug for an upcoming funeral. Rosie's grave is right over there; I'm just confused in the dark! But why would a grave only be partly dug? And closer examination proved it wasn't quite fresh – this had been done at least a couple of days ago, for the dirt had had a chance to settle. Either this cemetery had the world's laziest grave diggers, or something was seriously wrong.

Sensing his distress, the tentacles probed his thoughts for the source. One of them peered out from under the hem of his coat, its imaging system picking up details Otto could not. When the harmonious voices finally spoke, they were puzzled, rather than angry. You are in the right place, Father. But we do not see her grave anywhere.

Could they have moved her? Yes, that was the only logical explanation. But the picture... She was dead; her body crumpling to the floor had been the last thing he'd seen before the accident. I never checked to see if she was dead, never actually saw the records... I was too obsessed with the experiment! The papers had all said she was dead. Hadn't this been her grave when he'd visited it last? But what if it was a ruse, to protect her from me, one they no longer feel they need to keep up? If she were alive, she would have come to him, no matter what he'd become. Wouldn't she have?

A light suddenly shone in Otto's face, blinding him. "What are you doing here?"

Otto cursed inwardly, wondering how the old man standing before him could have crept up upon him. Inside his coat the tentacles stirred poised for action like a cat tensed to spring.

"Your kind has no place here," the old night watchman continued, obviously taking Otto for a bum. And who could blame him? "Get out of here before I call the cops." His free hand fished a cell phone out of his pocket; the other kept the beam of the flashlight directly on Otto's face, and he was forced to raise his hand to shield his sensitive eyes. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten the blood.

"What the hell?" the watchman said, taking a step back. The flashlight's beam lowered, and Otto blinked as he waited for his light-dazzled eyes to clear. "Are you hurt? Should I call the hospital?"

"I..." Otto cleared his throat. "I need to know what happened to this grave."

The watchman played his beam over the concave earth. Otto couldn't see his face well in the dim light, but he thought the other man looked confused. "Dunno," the watchman said after a moment. "It didn't happen on my watch."

"Who would know?" Otto asked desperately. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, instinctively reaching for the watchman's shoulder to balance himself. The man shrank from Otto, suddenly realizing how much bigger this intruder was.

"I think you should leave," the watchman said.

"Who could tell me what happened? Where is the body of Rosie Octavius?" He was yelling now, but he couldn't control himself. He needed to know. He was dimly aware of the tentacles snaking free of his coat, but he didn't try to stop them as they flared out around him, pincers snapping like the jaws of angry dogs. "Where is she?!" Otto screamed.

The watchman took a stumbling step backwards, at the same time flipping the cell phone open. He managed to dial one number before one of the tentacles closed its pincers around the man's hand, crushing phone and fingers at the same time. He screamed in agony as the pincer released him, and he fell to the ground, clutching his wounded hand to his chest. "You monster!" the watchman shrieked.

The words broke through Otto's haze of anger. Monster... no... "Wait, stop!" he screamed as the tentacles whipped forward, slamming into the watchman with a force equivalent to a speeding car.

He was insolent. He would not tell you what you wanted to know.

"You didn't have to kill him..." the words were the barest of whispers.

He saw us, Father. He had to die.

Otto could only stare, sickened, as the old man's blood soaked into the earth that had once held his beloved Rosie. He was suddenly glad that she wasn't there; he didn't want her tainted by what he had done.

To Be Continued...