Chapter 3: The Addams Family (2)
It took Russell nearly fifteen minutes to scrub all the green slime out of his hair. When he finally looked up, he noticed Wednesday still standing there — arms crossed, face expressionless, her dark eyes fixed on him.
"Uh… did I miss a spot?" he asked uncertainly.
Wednesday shook her head slowly, her gaze narrowing.
"Come with me."
Russell didn't see any reason to refuse. After all, curiosity had already dug its claws into him. He followed her down the long, dim corridor, matching her stride.
The silence between them grew heavy, and Russell decided to break it. "I've got to say," he began, "the way you conjured live ammunition out of thin air earlier — that was incredible."
Wednesday shot him a sidelong glance. "I didn't conjure it. I took the shells from home. My father likes to hunt. He just doesn't let me touch his guns."
"Well, that's perfectly reasonable," Russell said with a wry grin. "It's dangerous for a kid your age. I'd say Mr. Addams is being a responsible parent. Me? I live alone. Without a gun, I wouldn't feel safe at all."
Wednesday tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "What's it like — living alone?"
That question made him pause. Since she was born, she'd been surrounded by family — strange as they were. Even when she went to school, she always had her brother, Pugsley, by her side. Solitude was a foreign concept to her.
Russell thought for a moment before replying. "Not good, not bad. Peaceful, I suppose. Compared to staying in an orphanage, I prefer being on my own. But…" he smiled faintly, "…having family around would be nicer."
He glanced at her. "So yeah, I kind of envy you, Wednesday. Even if your sibling rivalry is… well, a bit explosive for my taste."
"Pugsley Addams," she said flatly, as if confirming his thought. "My brother. He's a year younger than me."
"Right," Russell nodded, smiling awkwardly. "And he tried to shoot me with an arrow. Very brotherly of him."
"You're not wrong," Wednesday admitted, completely unbothered.
The corridor ahead grew narrow and claustrophobic, lined with old wooden doors — each one fitted with small barred windows like prison cells. The air grew colder as they walked.
The rooms were empty, but Russell couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were watching him from the shadows. Every few steps, the back of his neck prickled — that uncanny sensation of being observed. Yet when he turned, nothing was there.
He tried to laugh it off. A witch's house. Of course it'd feel creepy. Perfectly normal.
"This place," Wednesday said suddenly, her tone as calm as ever, "used to be a prison. Centuries ago, the Addams family ran a smuggling business. Some greedy witches tried to steal their fortune. None of them ever left alive."
She stopped, turned to him, and her pale lips curved into the faintest smile.
"It's said their souls never found peace — still wandering the halls where they died."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You felt it, didn't you? The gaze."
Russell hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. You mean… those were ghosts?"
"I don't know," Wednesday replied simply, and to his surprise, she didn't sound sarcastic or mocking.
"No one knows what they are. But feeling them means you have… potential."
She said nothing more after that, and Russell decided not to press further.
At the end of the corridor, they entered a grand dining hall. The air was thick with the aroma of herbs — and something distinctly burnt.
An elderly woman with snow-white hair hunched over the stove, waving a wooden spoon like a conductor's baton. Pots and pans floated in the air, clanging musically as they stirred themselves. Flames danced around her like living things, yet never touched her skin.
"A little more poison mushroom… and a bit of old shoe leather…" she muttered, tossing ingredients into a bubbling cauldron. Her eyes gleamed with manic focus, her hands moving in quick, chaotic rhythm.
"Esmeralda," Wednesday said calmly. "My grandmother."
"Uh… lovely to meet you, ma'am," Russell managed, waving uncertainly toward the old witch.
The elderly woman didn't respond — or perhaps she simply didn't hear him. Her potion let out a burp of violet smoke that drifted toward Russell's face.
He took an involuntary step back, eyes watering, wondering — What, exactly, have I gotten myself into?
Perhaps she was too engrossed in her brewing, because Esmeralda didn't respond to Russell's polite greeting.
Instead, the wooden spoon in her hand suddenly twitched — then tore itself free, zipping through the air straight toward him.
Russell blinked. The spoon hovered inches from his face, and he could clearly see the sticky red residue clinging to its underside — something that looked far too much like blood.
"Well, well, who do we have here?" a slick, drawling voice echoed from the spoon's handle. It began circling Russell's head rapidly, clicking its wooden tip as if studying him.
Meanwhile, Esmeralda hadn't even noticed the thing was gone. Her left hand kept stirring empty air in front of the stove, humming a tune only she could hear.
"Looks like little Wednesday's hit that age," the spoon snickered gleefully. "And I've got to admit, she's got taste. You've got a certain… charm, lad — reminds me of my younger days."
Russell couldn't help but laugh. "Why, thank you, Mr. Spoon. I'll take that as a compliment."
"Of course, of course!" The spoon trembled in the air as if laughing. "Never thought I'd see the day Wednesday brought a boy home. Face it, kid — she likes you."
"Enough, Spoon."
Wednesday's voice was as cold as a knife through ice.
Russell didn't flinch — he just smirked. Clearly, the spoon had quite the imagination.
Before it could make another snide remark, Esmeralda finally realized something was off. She looked down, eyes widening as she saw the cauldron bubbling over, red liquid spilling down the sides.
"You're slacking again!"
With a flick of her wrist, an invisible force yanked the spoon back across the room. It shot through the air like a comet, landing neatly in her grasp. Only then did her eyes settle on Russell.
"Ah, a guest! How lovely. Sit down, child — dinner's almost ready."
Her tone was surprisingly gentle, even as she plunged the spoon back into the cauldron.
The moment it touched the liquid, the once-roiling brew went still — unnaturally still. If Russell had peered closer, he would've seen the spoon's underside split open into a small, hungry mouth that began devouring the contents while simultaneously spitting something else back in.
A fragrant, almost intoxicating aroma filled the room.
Russell hesitated, then nodded politely. "Th-thank you." He took a seat at the old, varnish-peeled table, trying not to look too nervous. Wednesday sat beside him, as composed as ever.
"Soup's ready," Esmeralda announced cheerfully, carrying the pot over and ladling out two steaming servings.
Russell looked down into his bowl… and froze.
Floating in the crimson broth was something bluish-gray — small, humanoid, about the size of his palm. It had arms. Legs. A tiny head. Its half-open eyes gave it a disturbingly alive look, like an alien mid-autopsy.
"Addams Family Special," Esmeralda said proudly. "Cornwall Pixie Stew. If it's not enough, just say the word."
Russell forced a smile, trying not to gag. "Uh… looks… hearty."
He stirred the spoon gently, watching the "pixie" turn over in the liquid, limp and motionless. Appetite? Gone completely.
"Shouldn't we… wait for the others?" he asked hopefully.
"No need, dear," Esmeralda crooned, her grin spreading unnaturally wide. "They're busy with family business." Her laugh cracked into a raspy caw, like a dying night owl. "You two eat up. I've got a potion brewing in the cellar that needs tending."
She shuffled out of the room, her skirts brushing the floor, muttering about "shoe polish and mandrake root."
And then, silence.
The dining hall grew still — save for the flicker of the candles and the faint bubbling of the soup.
Russell and Wednesday sat side by side, the only two at the vast, creaking table.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Russell leaned over and whispered, "So… do I have to eat it, or will it eat me first?"
Wednesday didn't blink. "That depends," she murmured. "How fast can you run?"