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If the Osborn family's genetic disease wasn't a disease at all, but a demonic curse... then it all made perfect sense.
Harry had used Peter blood to cure himself.
The demon lurking in the shadows wasn't having it. That very night, it renewed the curse, leaving no room for error, and took Harry off the board for good.
The more Gwen thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Her eyes lit up as she looked at Hawk.
"So, what's next?"
"Next..."
Hawk looked at Gwen, who seemed to be enjoying the chaos a little too much, and a small smile touched his lips. "I take you home. Then I go home. And we both go to sleep."
Gwen's face fell.
"Hawk!!"
"It's a demon, Gwen. I still haven't found the entrance to Hell yet. You think I can find a demon that's probably already gone back there?"
Hawk shook his head, a hint of genuine frustration in his voice.
After the funeral, he had opened his senses completely, hoping to catch a trace of the creature, to pinpoint the demon.
If he'd gotten lucky, he might have been able to force the location of Hell's entrance on Earth out of it.
Then, once he had the Reality Stone, he could go straight there. And bring his sister Anya home for Christmas.
But it was a grand plan, and reality was a harsh mistress.
He hadn't found any trace of the demon at the funeral. If the Osborn family curse was its handiwork, then with Harry's death, the Osborn line was effectively extinguished.
Odds were, the demon had already returned to Hell.
He just couldn't figure out what the Osborns had done to bring such a curse down on their family in the first place.
...
After dropping Gwen off, he headed back home.
Hawk took a shower, but instead of going to bed, he went to the study. He sat down at the computer the previous owner had left behind and, with the Osborn curse still on his mind, began to search.
The history of the Osborn family's rise to power was well-documented.
Norman Osborn had sold his family's herring cannery, converted the factory to produce munitions, and gotten rich off the profits of war.
But Norman had already been afflicted with the family's "genetic disease" by then.
So, it had to have started earlier.
But online, there was almost nothing about the Osborn family before Norman.
After a fruitless search, Hawk stroked his chin, then pulled out his phone, scrolled to the third contact in his list—Peter's—and dialed.
The call connected almost instantly.
"Hello?"
"The Osborns aren't originally from New York, are they?"
"No, they're... thwip, don't move!!"
"..."
Hawk heard the commotion on the other end and glanced at the time in the corner of his screen. "It's eleven o'clock. You're still out?"
Peter's voice came back, a little breathless. "I was on my way home, but I got a weird feeling. Figured I'd take a little detour."
Hawk grunted in acknowledgement, then got back to the point.
"Where did the Osborns move here from?"
"London."
Peter shot another web, pinning a late-night mugger to a wall as he talked. "The Osborns are from London. Why do you think Harry went to boarding school there?"
London?
Not Texas? I thought that was demon central.
Hawk thought to himself.
"Do you know when their genetic disease first showed up?"
"Genetic... why are you asking about this?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Right."
Peter, who couldn't really argue with that logic, thought for a moment. "I don't know exactly when it started. Harry never really talked about it. But I do remember him saying that the symptoms started appearing after his family moved from Massachusetts to New York."
"Wait, Massachusetts? I thought you said they were from London." Hawk's brow furrowed.
"The Osborns came over on the Mayflower. The first settlers all landed in Massachusetts." Peter explained, then thought for a moment. "I remember Harry said where they settled... right, Salem. Yeah, that's it. I remember because I looked it up afterward. The Osborns moved to New York City after the Salem Witch Trials."
The Salem Witch Trials??
Hawk's brow furrowed. He suddenly had a feeling he had just found the reason why the Osborns were cursed by a demon.
But—
He needed to be sure.
He ended the call and immediately started searching for information on the Salem Witch Trials.
The Mayflower had landed in Massachusetts in 1620.
The Salem Witch Trials had taken place in 1692.
The trials had been a national sensation. At least nineteen accused witches had been executed, and countless others had been imprisoned or had died in custody.
As one of the most infamous events in American history, the Salem Witch Trials were a far more popular topic online than the Osborn family history.
Every year, amateur historians and conspiracy theorists posted new findings, new theories.
It didn't take long. On a forum dedicated to the trials, Hawk found a scanned image of a yellowed, historical document. And on it, a familiar name.
[On April 22, 1692, Magistrates Hathorne and Osborn did preside over the examination of twelve accused witches. In the end, Osborn did absolve one of the accused, but did condemn the others to be punished by fire.]
In plain English... They had bound eleven women to stakes and burned them alive.
Hawk knew he had his proof.
Suddenly—
"Holy sh..."
"What the hell!"
"Hawk, get down here! Under the Manhattan Bridge!"
Beep, beep, beep.
Hawk snapped back to reality, his eyes drawn to the phone, which had just cut out. He raised an eyebrow, then stood, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone from the study.
...
Under the Manhattan Bridge.
Peter, in his Spider-Man suit, was suspended in mid-air, his limbs spread-eagled, held in place by an invisible force.
His phone lay on the ground nearby.
He strained against his bonds, the muscles in his arms bulging, but it was no use. The suit began to tear at the seams, but he couldn't break free.
He stared, wide-eyed, at the impossible scene before him.
A woman, wreathed in an aura of ethereal blue fire, stood on the ground below. Her right hand was outstretched toward him, and as she slowly rotated it, he spun in the air.
She spoke in a low, haunting whisper.
"Those who help the Osborns... must die."
"Is that so?"
Hawk's voice immediately followed.
The Witch's glowing blue eyes snapped toward the sound. She whipped her hand in his direction.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The blue fire exploded against Hawk's clenched fist.
Hawk stepped out of the dissipating flames.
Peter was released. He shot a web, swung to the ground, and landed at Hawk's side.
"Hawk, what the hell is this thing?"
"A Salem Witch."
Hawk's gaze was fixed on the fiery figure before them. "We didn't know the Osborns were cursed by you. You don't have to come after us."
Peter was completely lost.
Hawk quickly gave him the short version—that the Osborn family's genetic disease was likely a curse placed on them by the Salem witches they had executed centuries ago.
Peter was even more confused. "The Salem Witches... weren't they all fake?"
"Most of them were probably innocent. But this one... this one's the real deal."
And a powerful one, at that.
A witch who could claw her way back from Hell to get her revenge was not to be trifled with.
Peter still didn't get it.
"But why is she after me?"
"Your blood cured Harry. She's holding a grudge."
Hiss.
Peter drew in a sharp breath. He looked at the witch, who was just standing there, wreathed in blue fire, watching them. He remembered the feeling of being completely helpless, unable to break free from her power.
"How do we kill her?"
"We can't."
"What?"
"Do you know any magic?"
"No."
"Then we can't." With his senses wide open, Hawk could easily tell that the witch before them had no physical form.
To be more precise, she felt like a soul that had been pieced back together, making her naturally immune to physical attacks...
But—
As everyone knows, the Phoenix Illusion Demon Fist wasn't a normal attack. It was a psychic one. Most importantly, was he really going to don his Phoenix Armor just to deal with a vengeful ghost?
He couldn't bring himself to do it.
Peter took another deep, shaky breath.
"So what do we do?"
"Let's see if we can talk to her. Even a weakened giant is still dangerous. Harry still has a few uncles left, right?"
"Didn't you see them at the funeral? They were the ones making a scene, claiming the Will was a fake, before Felicia threw them out."
If Harry hadn't left a will, his uncles would have inherited everything.
But Harry had left a will. His uncles got nothing.
Capitalism has no room for humanitarian concerns or consolation prizes.
"As long as they're still named Osborn, it's enough."
Hawk turned his attention back to the Witch. "We didn't know. Now we do. We promise we won't interfere with the remaining Osborns. You can continue your revenge."
The Witch's blue flames flickered.
After a long moment of silence, with a soft whoosh, the blue light vanished.
And the Witch was gone.
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