Note:
Went to the club for the first time in my life. Got drunk for the first time too. Played basketball in the afternoon. Felt like Shaq on the line with every shot.
—-
Days passed by since Wednesday's confrontation. The sun rose and dawned on repeat, and September left like a cold breeze in winter. Adam welcomed October without ceremony, going about his days like vinyl records in a cycle of songs.
He read, ate, talked, and read again, waiting for a new day. He lacked the will to sleep, for sleeping means nightmares of his fragmented flesh. It was a cowardly act, he felt, as if he was running from reality itself.
During these empty, uneventful days— he wondered some few and between. There was no sighting of Tyler, no event like the Poe Cup or the Parent's Week. He spent his time doing almost irrelevant activities. Like planting a seed.
On the ledge of his window sat a clay pot filled with dirt. One look and one may assume nothing, but buried inside was a seed of Winter Pansies. A plant that thrives in the weather present in Vermont. A closed look would reveal a budding stem beginning to climb up.
It looked… plain. Not in the boring, uninteresting manner— but in a way that presents itself as just is. It exists, and it grows, and it perseveres despite the harshness of the cold. Similarly, like humans.
There's deep consolation and a sense of comfort that other beings, even one that cannot express itself in words nor actions, could possess the capacity to thrive. There is comfort in knowing that despite the difference of biology and structure— and of entire beings itself— that every manner of creature in the planet is connected. Entangled be it by something as simple as a plant that tries its best to live despite its surroundings.
A deer eats when it hungers and a plant asks God for water when it thirsts. The longevity of life makes itself so obvious in the most primal and natural way.
Does the plant feel its leaves like flesh is to man? Does the fawn cry when it stubs its hoof too hard, does it look for its mother for comfort?
Lonesomeness could produce the most fantastic and dreadful questions in man's mind. A catalyst for evolution and a catalyst for misery so closely intertwined. Where one cannot exist without the knowledge of the other. Whereas half a creature's life is spent on living, and the other trying not to die.
During these days of bleakness, Adam's companion differed from time to time. Larissa, who visits on her free time—asking about his day, presenting him with new stories to discover. Enid and her friends, whom he interacts with during or out of class. Thing, who sympathizes with his existence. Another, surprisingly—is Professor Thornhill.
The professor, a bubbly kind woman, was his companion and mentor in planting his pansies. She gave the seeds as a gift, congratulating him on his high marks. He was surprised, but accepted it nonetheless. Adam found himself spending extra time in the botanical garden.
It was… therapeutic. He had opinions on the woman. Kind, enthusiastic, smart. Qualities he found himself being fond of. Larissa recommended he spent more time with her, that developing a relationship with another adult may be good for his social skills. Adam did, and he enjoyed it.
During some days, Thing taught him how to understand his signs. They did it by an encyclopedia, where Thing would sign and point at its meaning. It did not take long before he managed to have a full conversation with the severed hand. What he found odd though was how Enid could do the same without the whole process.
The werewolf girl laughed, calling it a "bestie mind connection", the first he'd ever heard of a phenomenon. Nonetheless, he accepted that it most likely exists. The evidence speaks for itself.
Time in Nevermore has never been so… normal. So mundane—there were no murders, no monsters, no witches—and no Wednesday.
"Wednesday…" Adam whispered as he watered the pot. His friend. The first he truly considered. She'd not given him as much as a glance. There was nothing new to investigate; she said they had no work for now. Yet her eyes did not meet his with the same meaning her words did. She did not look at all.
Before he could think of a way to reconcile with his friend, a soft knock on his door woke him from his daze. Adam wondered who it was; he put down his watering can and walked towards the door. He touched his face, making sure he wore his mask. He twisted the door, peeking between the crack to see— Enid, not alone.
Behind her, a group of familiar faces peeked. Ajax, the gorgon; Divina, the siren; Yoko, the vampire; and Xavier, the… painter? Their company is one that isn't unusual for Adam, save for Xavier, but their presence outside his room?
Before he could speak and ask what prompted their group to come here, Thing popped from Enid's back. He stood at her scalp, the king of the hill, and signaled one thing—celebration.
—-
Holding séances isn't an activity Wednesday particularly likes. Having conversations with the dead are often times harder and more annoying than keeping up with the living. Rants, past grudges, and tantrums are what you'd usually expect from spirits who refused to pass on. Whatever passing on may mean. Necessity, however, often calls for a compromise.
Mother said they'd call when you're ready, but ready doesn't always come in time. She needs to master her abilities now. Too many unidentified, uncontrolled visions risk a bigger chance of a brewing insanity. Not now, not today— she still needs to crack some cases.
Wednesday recited her Latin spells; the smell of burning wax, incenses, and Enid's perfume brewed in the air. In her hand is a family necklace, a bind that calls for a relative long dead. Anytime now, Goody should be reaching out, her psychic, ghostly hand guiding her mastery. Silence prevailed. Just as it did for the past few days.
Regardless, Wednesday kept going. She whispered calls, and the white smoke of the candle and incense began building up above—spiraling, converging. Then, released in a burst of wind that opened the door through sheer force.
The hinges creaked, and the candles went off. Wednesday turned around, expecting, perhaps, Goody. What she got out of the expense was the sight of Enid dallying inside the room. The werewolf froze, confused at the sight.
Enid lifted her hands in apology. "Sorry! I didn't mean to interrupt your… Uh, do I even wanna know?"
Wednesday released a sigh of frustration as she stood up. "I was reaching into the black maw of death to contact a relative."
Enid nodded in understanding, as if what she said is the most normal thing in the world. "Feels very on-brand for you." She said, her eyes darting to the word written on the ground. "Your relative's name is… Goody?"
"Yes." Wednesday replied with a nod, "She was one of the original Outcasts. I've been attempting to summon her, but she's been ignoring my entreaties."
"Sounds like she's as grumpy as you." Enid replied with a shrug, "Ooh, have you thought about using one of my scented candles? The aroma of the steak tartare is to die for!"
To Wednesday, Enid is a unique species of an individual. Someone who could consecutively utter the most ridiculous sentences one after the other. Before she could respond, the sound of a paper fluttering behind them caught their attention.
The two turned around, eyes darting towards the piece of paper lying on the ground. Wednesday stepped forward cautiously. "Maybe Goody answered you after all." Enid chimed.
Wednesday crouched, reading the… cutout magazine letters stamped on the paper—'If you want answers, meet inside Crackstone Crypt. Midnight'. "I doubt she communicates in magazine cutouts." Wednesday replied.
The cryptic message caught her interest. But whoever sent it has yet to.
—-
Leaves cracked beneath their every step. The sound of crumpling did little to hide their location from whoever sent that message. Wednesday's eyes darted cautiously behind every dark corner of the woods, her flashlight following instantly without fail.
Crickets, owls, and the gentle movement of the lake — the set of the usual sounds rang in the air. To Enid, it might as well be the sound of horrors altogether. To Wednesday, it felt like just another midnight home.
Enid held the hem of Wednesday's coat from time to time, trailing behind her friend in one step, enough not to pull, afraid to risk angering the porcelain detective. "Wends," Enid whispered, "are you sure this is safe?"
"Be quiet, Enid." Wednesday replied flatly. Enid flinched at the sudden hoot to their right, snapping her flashlight to the sound, only to see an owl looking directly at her.
Wednesday glanced at her from the edge of her eyes. "If you're going to flinch at every sound, you might as well go back to our room. The last thing I'd want is for you to blast your blasphemous music so you wouldn't get nightmares."
"Headphones are a thing, Wends!" She feigned shouting, "And I'm not a kid, I don't get nightmares… I think."
The two 'bravely' made their way towards the middle of the woods. Towards Crackstone's Crypt. The town of Jericho isn't one that many may consider big, but Wednesday is sure that it's at least big enough not to bury its founder's corpse right in the territory of the Outcasts he tried to purge. The irony, or stupidity, whichever—is baffling when you could actually think.
The even baffling thing is why the Outcasts of that time would allow it.
The only reason Wednesday could think of is to spit on the man's soul. Especially since his crypt is now being used as a competition stage.
It didn't take long for them to reach the said crypt. The stone mass sat alone surrounded by the trees. Cracks adorned its surface while tree veins crawled up its walls. Pillars of hooded angels guarded the gate, and his name welcomed all those that dared to come here—Joseph Crackstone.
The two paused before the gate, already opened, expecting them. The statues felt arrogant, as if he was God protected by his archangels. To pilgrims, he might as well be.
"It's so much creepier at night…" Enid whispered, "and ew. What is that smell?" Wednesday didn't care. "Smells like childhood." She replied, pulling it open.
Enid tried to stop her. "Wait, maybe I should—" but no one stops Wednesday Addams from cracking a mystery.
The inside of the crypt appeared wider than its exterior. With a hall leading up to an elevated tomb, graced by the moonlight above. It looked beautiful, if she was clueless about whose corpse lay there.
She walked up, her soles clicking on the stone with every step, echoing—announcing her presence. It was no use hiding anyways; whoever it was, they knew she was coming.
Wednesday paused for a moment, looking back at the unmoving gate. "Enid!" She called, but it stayed still. The wolf may have dipped, too scared to continue.
She walked further, finally face-to-face with Crackstone's tomb. Wednesday lit its stone surface with her light, the detailed designs on the side accentuating the 'royal' theme of his tomb.
All of a sudden, a cough rang out from behind it. A frown formed on Wednesday's face. "Reveal yourself." She said. The person… persons peeked. "Surprise!" They collectively shouted. Xavier, Ajax, Yoko, Divina, Kent — Enid's group of friends, all of them with party hats on. They, to her dismay, began singing the 'Happy Birthday' song.
Wednesday watched unimpressed. Her face falling flat, and traces of disappointment flashing in her dark eyes, unbeknownst to the group. She watched them move closer, clapping in rhythm. They looked jolly, to her; this is horror.
"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!"
Soon, the tone of their song began to slow, thankfully nearing its end.
"Happy birthday, dear Wednesday! Happy birthday to you…"
The sound of sparks prompted her to turn around. Her eyes darted to the flashing spark candles on the cake held by Enid, then to the grim reaper with a balloon, to the 'Happy Birthday Wednesday' with no comma on the cake itself.
Then… to the tall stature of the person behind Enid. Adam with his mask, his eyes a burning hue, reflecting the sparks. She stared at him as the song faded and an inexplicable mixture of emotions surged forth from her throat.
Wednesday tasted the alchemical blend of betrayal and grief on her tongue. His gentle eyes reminded her of the filth she vomited, and the hunger, and the sin in her hopes that it was not true.
Her eyes tightened, barely a twitch on her otherwise stoic face. The haven of shadows within her felt desecrated—as the desire to inflict upon him a graver pain and the slow whisper of forgiveness echoed inside the chamber of her chest clashed.
A chill radiated from her being, enclosing, overpowering the crypt itself. The group paused and the sparks of the candles began dying down. Wednesday reined in, she stopped her twitch, she loosened her grip, and her eyes snapped to the group around.
"You lured me here… for this?" Her voice felt as cold as ice. The breeze above fell, rustling the dried leaves at their feet. Enid looked dumbfounded at her reaction. "Uh… surprise…?" She mustered, "We baked you a cake… if you like… you know, since it's your birthday."
Xavier coughed to mask the increasing tension. "I thought my cake design felt pretty inspired. You wanna make a wish?"
Wednesday's glare shut down the mere notion of a wish. She sensed a familiar presence to her side, her light following to reveal Thing, wearing a miniature party hat. She crouched menacingly to the severed hand. "You were behind this weren't you? What part of 'no party under the penalty of death' did you not understand?"
Thing flinched, curling its fingers in a sheepish shrug. Enid stepped forward, hopeful, "Come on, Wends… it's tradition. We just wanted to do something nice for you."
Wednesday's black eyes swept across their faces—the bright smiles and awkward grins now faltering under her glare. It was as if the crypt itself hushed to hear her verdict. The silence lingered, but another thing caught Wednesday's eyes.
On one of the walls of the crypt sat a set of extinguished candles. Below it was a Latin phrase, "PLUET CUM SURREXERO… Latin", she whispered, tracing the carved characters, "Fire will rain when I rise…"
The world shifted on cue. The sky, dark and starless, revealed itself unto her. Wednesday found herself lying on a field of grass, a whisper flowing through her ear. "Crackstone is coming…" A familiar voice.
She turned to the voice, now facing the gates of some place, tattered and rotting. Behind the metal bar and veins was a pale girl in a white dress. Wednesday stood up, walking towards the figure.
"Goody." Wednesday identified. Goody spoke in whispers. "You're the Raven in my bloodline." Her figure disappeared with the wind. Appearing beside her with the sound of a breeze.
"I was told you could teach me how to control my ability." Wednesday said. Goody shook her head. "There's no controlling a raging river. You must learn to navigate it without drowning. Time is not on our side."
Goody turned to where she was, the fog settling aside to reveal a manor. "To stop Crackstone, this place you must seek." Wednesday frowned. "Do you always speak in riddles?" She sarcastically asked.
The apple, however, does not fall far from the tree. "Do you always seek simple answers?" Goody responded, "The path of a Raven is a solitary one. You end up alone, unable to trust others—not anymore, only seeing the darkness within them."
For a fraction of a second, her eyelid twitched. "Is that supposed to scare me?" Wednesday asked.
Goody ignored her question. "Vengeance will come pouring out of his blood. When the sun surrenders, they will release a raging beast." Her words left the latter speechless, but before Wednesday could ask, Goody's spirit vanished.
Her vision, however, did not finish. A burst of wind passed by, and space changed. The field of grass vanished and dark trees enveloped her eyes.
The once starless sky was lit up with constellations. No cloud to hinder what beautiful site the heavens had to offer. The full moon peeked from between the leaves and branches.
Silence did not last long as the sound of gunshots and hoofs woke the forest up. Wednesday flinched, crouching beneath a tall bush.
The smell of burning wood assaulted her nose, then screams of different kinds came after—agony and cruelty blending like a terrible play. She cautiously darted between trees, the assault on her senses becoming clearer and clearer. After a few moments, she came to find the origin of the noise and smell.
In a large clearing still within the forest was a burning village. People of different ages lay still on the floor, mutilated and dead. Wednesday finally realized what this was—a pilgrimage. Except these pilgrims did not use muskets and forks. They used newer weapons, unlike Crackstone's—weapons from the 1900s.
The corpses, what she presumed were Outcasts, were grouped in masses. Some contained large burning wounds, some headless, some skinned like animals. Heads of gorgons were sacked. Siren scales were skinned. A brutal sight to behold.
The cruelty of humanity was presented in the most bestial manner. A view into the heart of darkness.
The screams of agony died down. What was left were vile insults and laughs of inhumanity. Wednesday froze where she stood. Her feet felt heavy, cast in lead; it felt as though they were welded onto the dirt itself.
She watched in disbelief as her fellow Outcasts were rounded up in like fresh meat by a butcher. They were thrown in masses in a large pyre. The smell of burning flesh now mixing on the scent of burning wood. It's disorienting, different from even the vilest of scents. For a moment, all that she could hear was the sound of the large pyre crackling.
Until, the back of one house burst forth.
Wednesday turned to the sudden sound, as did the pilgrims did with their weapons. From the hole came a large, furry creature. A werewolf.
"It's a mutt!" A gruff voice yelled. "'Ye said you purge the houses?!" Another shouted. But a deeper, more authoritative voice rang louder than the others. "Goddamn idiots! Chase it!" It commanded.
Wednesday's subconscious moved before her rational side could. The shackles on her feet broke, and she ran after the wolf. She wanted answers. She needed answers. What the hell is this place?
She traced the werewolf's steps from the prints it left on the ground. She could see splattered blood on the grass, on tree barks. She ran faster than she ever has until she began hearing the sound of a flowing river.
Wednesday stopped before a large tree, panting as her lungs burned hotter than it ever has. This… place isn't real. She thought. She wasn't actually here. But the exhaustion felt as true as it could.
Between her breath, she heard the sound of whimpering. At the edge of the large, raging river was the werewolf. It's back turned to her, cradling something in its arms. The answer on what it was came faster than she could ask— a crying infant.
The infant's wails pierced the ghostly stillness of the riverbank, blending with the raging waters like a lament for the dead. Wednesday approached, her boots crunching on the damp soil, each step sending a ripple through the illusion.
The werewolf turned its head slowly, revealing blood-matted fur and hollow, despairing eyes that glowed faintly in the moonlight. Its chest heaved in a primal rhythm, a mixture of exhaustion and grief. The infant in its arms was smeared with soot, but unharmed—alive in a world that seemed determined to snuff out every spark of life.
Wednesday's eyes widened. He… she… it reacted— to her. How? This was a vision. She was sure it was. Her eyes then narrowed. "Who are you?" she demanded, the words cutting through the night as sharp as a blade.
The werewolf didn't speak. Instead, it lowered its gaze to the child and let out a low, guttural whine, as if pleading with her—or the universe—for mercy. Behind them, the distant shouts of the pilgrims grew louder, their torches bobbing like hungry stars through the trees.
Before she could speak again, the vision trembled like glass under strain. The werewolf raised its head, letting out a mournful, defiant howl that reverberated in her bones. The river roared with it, swallowing all sound — with the infant on its chest, the wolf leap — and so the river swallowed it as well.
A violent pull yanked her backwards, and the world of fire and death shattered.
—-
Wednesday gasped, awake. Her hand instinctively went to her chest. Her ragged breathing reverberated in the crypt. The vision felt real, too real. As if she lived that life and died in it as well.
She closed her eyes once more to recuperate as the sensation of it all washed by her. As the sensation of reality— this reality enveloped her. Then she opened her eyes again to see his mask. The one holding her.
Adam.
—-