Chapter 2: The Addams Family (1)
"Hiss…" Russell drew in a sharp breath. This—this definitely wasn't a magic trick. And in this era, there was no such thing as holographic projection or advanced visual effects.
When you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains—no matter how unbelievable—must be the truth.
"So… is this magic? Are you a magician?" he asked, voice trembling slightly with excitement.
"Not exactly," Wednesday replied calmly. "Witch would be more accurate."
She spoke with such composure that Russell was taken aback. She made the word witch sound as ordinary as saying "teacher" or "student."
"If you can see that castle," Wednesday continued, her tone flat but assured, "then it means your body holds magic as well. Didn't your parents tell you?"
Russell's expression dimmed. "Sorry to disappoint you. They're… gone." He spread his hands with a faint, helpless smile. "I'm an orphan."
"Congratulations," she said without a flicker of emotion. "That means you're freer than I am."
"Was that supposed to be comforting?" Russell rubbed the back of his head, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. What kind of childhood did this girl have to say something like that so casually?
"If you'd like to take it that way," Wednesday replied, unfazed. She didn't argue the point—though she didn't mean it as comfort either.
"So," Russell asked, "what do we do now?"
"Bring your gun," she said, pointing to the Winchester on the wall. "We're going to exorcise that castle." From behind her cloak, she drew a sleek, black crossbow—one that definitely hadn't been visible earlier.
"Yes, ma'am, Captain," Russell said with a wry smile. He didn't argue, nor did he question where the crossbow had been hidden. He could tell that Wednesday bore him no malice—and besides, the curiosity bubbling inside him about witches, magic, and the mysterious castle was far too strong to ignore.
He figured she probably just wanted someone to play along with her little adventure anyway.
The two of them walked toward the looming castle. As they approached, the heavy, iron-bound gates suddenly creaked open on their own. Russell couldn't help but whistle in amazement.
"So this really is your home, huh?" he murmured. That would explain her eerie calmness—and that haunting air about her. Growing up in a place like this, who wouldn't turn out a little… unusual?
Maybe all that talk about "being watched" and "slaying the castle" was just her way of inviting him over.
They crossed the courtyard, passing by rows of moss-covered tombstones. The massive doors stood just ahead when Wednesday suddenly stopped, her cold gaze snapping toward the far side of the garden.
"He's here," she said quietly.
"He?" Russell turned to her, confused. "Who's—"
Thwip!
A sharp hiss of air split the silence.
Before he could react, a silver-tipped arrow flashed past his face, grazing his cheek, and embedded itself deep into the withered trunk of a tree behind him.
Russell froze.
Following the direction the arrow had come from, Russell spotted a chubby boy standing a short distance away. The kid wore a blue-and-white striped shirt and held a bow in his pudgy hands, grinning brightly as if nothing unusual had happened — as if the arrow that nearly took Russell's head off had nothing to do with him.
Russell just stood there, dumbfounded.
"What are you waiting for?" came Wednesday's cold voice.
Before he could react, the weight in his hands disappeared — the Winchester was gone, now resting snugly in Wednesday's grip. In exchange, she shoved her own black crossbow into his arms, as if discarding a useless toy.
"Hold this," she ordered curtly.
Russell stared at the weapon she'd given him, then at the shotgun she'd commandeered. His mind spun with a thousand unspoken questions before he finally managed to croak,
"Wait… you're not actually going to—"
Click.
Her only answer was the sharp, mechanical sound of the Winchester being cocked.
The corner of Wednesday's lips twitched upward. The way her fingers moved across the weapon — confident, fluid, loving — sent a chill down Russell's spine. He could feel her joy, dark and genuine.
So this is a witch…? he thought blankly. She's terrifying.
In his mind flashed a meme:
"Forget wands — shotguns are way more fun."
Then, without hesitation, Wednesday raised the gun and pulled the trigger.
"Wednesday! That's cheating!"
The chubby boy yelped, ducking just in time. The blast thundered across the courtyard, pellets embedding into the stone wall behind him — dense and smoking, like a swarm of angry bees.
Wednesday calmly lowered the barrel and spoke in that same frosty tone,
"The battle for power has always been this way, Pugsley."
Russell froze. Wait, Pugsley?
His mind raced.
If she was Wednesday Addams… and that boy was Pugsley Addams…
Then… oh no.
He realized something was very wrong.
He had unloaded that shotgun the night before — every shell, removed for safety. Yet it had just fired, loudly and lethally. The spare shells were still in his pocket. He touched them, counted them. Not one was missing.
So what the hell had just come out of that gun?
Magic?
And from the way Wednesday had spoken — her tone, her familiarity — it was clear that boy was no stranger. Siblings, most likely.
But if that was true… then he had just stumbled straight into some kind of Addams family power struggle.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Even child witches fight over inheritance? How young do they start killing each other in this family?
He was already edging backward, ready to slip away unnoticed, when the massive castle doors creaked open.
A silver gleam flashed.
In an instant, the Winchester vanished from Wednesday's hands — a slender rapier had pierced straight through the trigger guard, pinning the gun against the stone wall.
"That's enough for today, Wednesday."
The voice was smooth, mature, and lightly amused.
Russell turned — and there, beside Wednesday, stood a tall, lean man with a neat mustache and a tailored vintage suit. A cigar smoldered lazily between his fingers, and a warm, indulgent smile curved his lips.
"Are you a friend of Wednesday's?" he asked politely, turning to Russell.
Before Russell could answer, a soft, elegant voice came from behind him — so close it made him jump.
He spun around.
Standing there was a stunning woman with porcelain skin and a cascade of jet-black hair. Her eyes were dark, her nails long and sharp, her black silk gown hugging her tall frame like living shadow. In her arms, she cradled a flowerpot — and in it grew something that looked nothing like any ordinary plant.
Its slender stalk ended in a huge, pink flower bud.
And then the bud moved.
Russell froze as the petals peeled back, one by one, revealing not a blossom, but a mouth — lined with gleaming, serrated teeth. The thing lunged toward him with a wet hiss.
He had just enough time to think oh hell no before everything went black.
---
"Oh, darling," the woman's silky voice chided. "That one's not for eating."
---
"Thanks," Russell muttered flatly, accepting the towel Wednesday handed him. He stood before the mirror, dabbing at his face, wiping away streaks of green slime that dripped from his hair.
It smelled faintly of honey — sweet, almost pleasant — but the thought of where it came from made his stomach turn.
"If Mrs. Addams hadn't spoken up in time," he sighed, "I'd probably be plant food right now."
He shuddered. "Literally."