Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wednesday Addams pushed open the dorm room door with the same sense of precision she used when opening a crypt—measured, silent, and fully prepared to find something she’d rather not.

The room looked exactly as she remembered. Half in shadow, half an explosion of color. Enid Sinclair’s side had grown even brighter over the summer—streamers along the ceiling, new posters taped up in a perfectly imperfect collage, and what looked like a pink lava lamp bubbling beside her desk.

Wednesday stepped inside without comment.

Her phone buzzed.

It was new. Not in the sense of being fresh out of the box—though Enid had insisted on buying her a proper case—but new in the sense that she hadn’t owned a phone before this one. Enid had given it to her at the end of last semester, slipping it into her palm like it was a secret and saying, “For emergencies. Like if you miss me.”

Wednesday had spent exactly forty-eight hours pretending she wasn’t going to use it.

And then she’d used it.

Every day. Every night.

She texted Enid photos of dead beetles she found in the woods behind her family’s estate. Sent her single-word replies at 2 a.m. just to make sure Enid was still awake. Wrote things like You're not as annoying as I expected summer to make you, and Enid replied with seventeen emojis and a selfie of her grinning with an ice cream cone.

They never said they missed each other.

But they had never really stopped talking.

Now, back at Nevermore, standing in the quiet dorm, Wednesday glanced down at the screen. The last message Enid sent still sat there, unopened:

Enid: Room’s all ready. I may have gone a little overboard. Don’t hate me when you see it. Or do. Whatever feels right 🥴🖤

Wednesday locked the phone without replying.

She was already here.

And the doll was already waiting.

Wednesday had barely stepped over the threshold when something rustled behind Enid’s open wardrobe.

Then: footsteps.

Enid popped out from behind it like a secret she couldn’t hold in.

“I just texted you,” she said breathlessly, smile already in full bloom. “Howdy, roomie.”

It shouldn’t have disarmed her. But it did.

Wednesday stood still as Enid closed the space between them in two easy steps and wrapped her up in a hug — full-body, arms around her like she meant to keep her there.

Wednesday didn’t move at first.

Then — a small shift. A tentative lean. She pulled back just slightly, as if her body still hadn’t fully agreed to this language of warmth.

But after a heartbeat, her arms came around Enid. Not tight. Not clumsy. Real.

The room smelled like something bright. Orange shampoo. Sugar. Enid.

When Wednesday pulled away, Enid’s face was still close, and her eyes sparkled.

“I got you something,” Enid said. “It was waiting for someone with black hair, questionable taste in dolls, and a closet that only knows despair.”

She turned and pointed to the corner.

There it was: the doll.

Porcelain. Human-sized. Wide eyes. Dressed in a turquoise ballgown with a sash that read Miss Kern 1990. One arm cracked down the middle like a jagged scar. Its painted smile too perfect, too pink.

It looked like it had seen things. Maybe done things.

“It reminded me of you,” Enid said, grinning. “I mean that as a compliment.”

Wednesday didn’t say anything.

But she stepped closer. Her gaze tracked across the face of the doll, then slowly up to the ceiling — where streamers in soft pastels drooped like party ghosts.

Then to the far wall.

There were drawings. At least a dozen. Taped to the pinboard and spilling down toward the desk, all in Enid’s style — a little exaggerated, a little cartoonish, but vivid. Some were obvious: herself and Wednesday in school uniforms, side by side, one in shadows, one in color. Others were abstract — a silhouette with braids leaping over a fence, a full moon behind her. All of them were… familiar.

Then her eyes fell to the tiny heart-shaped pin stuck to the board. A pansexual flag pattern glittered in soft enamel, surrounded by tiny doodled stars.

She glanced at Enid’s bed.

New sheets. Rainbow patchwork — soft cotton messily made. On the pillow, a pale purple scrunchie.

And Enid. Standing beside the doll, cheeks pink from either the hug or the anticipation. Her hair was streaked again — this time a mix of blue and violet and bubblegum pink. A riot of color, too loud for anyone else. But not for her.

Wednesday smirked.

She didn’t say I love it.

But she didn’t have to.

Enid was already reaching for the suitcase before Wednesday could stop her.

“Let me help,” she said, fingers curling around the zipper like it owed her money.

“I didn’t ask for help,” Wednesday replied, deadpan.

Enid beamed. “You didn’t say no either.”

She unzipped it with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary — as if she was expecting a glitter cannon or a haunted toad to leap out. Instead, it was just black clothes. And more black clothes. And one pristine stack of weapon maintenance tools, laid out like a shrine.

“I see we’re entering our monochrome era again,” Enid teased, pulling out a neatly folded sweater that looked exactly like all the others.

“It’s not an era,” Wednesday said. “It’s a lifestyle.”

They moved together in a quiet rhythm after that. Enid placed things where she remembered they went; Wednesday didn’t stop her. There was a brief dispute over hanger color — Enid tried to slip in a few lavender ones “just to mix it up,” and Wednesday promptly slid them under the bed — but otherwise, it was seamless. Comfortable.

At one point, Enid opened the drawer under Wednesday’s bed and found a bundle of dried lavender tied with a black ribbon.

“You kept it?” she asked, soft.

Wednesday didn’t look up from arranging her vials. “It was practical. The scent masks decay.”

Enid smiled and tucked it carefully back where she found it.

A few minutes later, as Enid folded the last shirt into the drawer, Wednesday broke the silence.

“This is the first time I’ve stayed in one school for more than a year.”

Enid turned, brows raised slightly.

“Seriously?”

Wednesday gave a slow nod. “I usually get expelled by spring.”

Enid tilted her head. “So… what made Nevermore different?”

Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. She reached for her sword cane instead, placing it on the wall hook she’d installed herself last semester. Her hands were steady.

Then, without turning around, she said simply, “The room came with a werewolf.”

Enid’s heart stuttered in the best way.

She leaned against the dresser, arms crossed loosely. “Well, this werewolf missed you.”

“I noticed,” Wednesday said. “You text like a caffeinated banshee.”

“You answered,” Enid countered, voice light.

“I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It stretched between them like a held breath neither of them wanted to exhale. Familiar. Safe.

And under the window, the doll watched them both.

They stayed in the dorm even after the last of the clothes were put away.

Enid flopped backward onto her bed like she was auditioning for a teen drama, one leg kicked over the edge, phone balanced on her stomach. Wednesday sat at her desk, sharpening one of her daggers with smooth, practiced strokes — the sound of metal against stone the only thing punctuating the silence for a while.

Then Enid hummed. Loudly. Suspiciously.

Wednesday looked up without stopping the blade.

“I know that noise,” she said. “It’s the one you make when you’re about to do something undignified.”

Enid grinned, eyes still on her screen. “Incorrect. It’s the one I make when I’m about to do something brilliant.”

“Semantic nonsense.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Wednesday said nothing. Her knife gleamed in the lamplight.

Enid rolled over dramatically and pointed at her phone. “I’m relaunching the gossip site.”

“I thought you were banned from doing that after you accidentally exposed Thornhill’s secret basement and three professors resigned.”

“I wasn’t banned,” Enid said, lifting her chin. “I was strongly encouraged to pursue my talents in a less invasive medium.”

“You named it ‘Nevermore After Midnight.’”

“And I’m keeping the name,” she declared. “It’s iconic. Just like the new hot gossip.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at Wednesday.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “What did you do.”

“I’m publishing a full list of who’s back, who’s not, and who got expelled under mysterious circumstances.” Enid tapped quickly on her screen and flipped it around. “Guess whose name’s trending.”

On the screen was a pixelated mock-up of her blog’s front page. The headline blared:

“Return of the Deadpan Queen: Wednesday Addams Back at Nevermore — With Baggage, Blades, and Better Hair.”

Below that was a photo of Wednesday taken from an alarmingly close angle — black coat, suitcase in hand, standing like a very stylish ghost in front of the dorm. Enid had apparently added glowing eyes in post.

“Where did you get this photo?” Wednesday asked flatly.

“I have sources.”

“You are the source.”

“Guilty,” Enid said brightly.

Wednesday stared at it for a moment longer than she meant to.

Better hair?

It had grown a little. She’d let it out of the braids twice over the summer when she was home alone. Once to trim the ends. Once because she was curious what it looked like when it moved.

She didn’t think anyone noticed.

Enid had.

“You also made the ‘Top 10 Students Most Likely to Secretly Run a Cult’ list,” Enid added helpfully. “Number one with a bullet.”

Wednesday resumed sharpening her dagger. “That list is outdated. I haven’t summoned anything in weeks.”

Enid giggled and rolled onto her stomach. “You’re welcome.”

“Who’s not back?” Wednesday asked, if only to redirect the attention.

Enid flipped through her tabs. “Yoko transferred. Apparently the new headmaster refused to let her have blackout curtains. She called it a hate crime.”

Wednesday nodded solemnly. “Valid.”

“Oh, and Xavier left.”

That got a reaction.

Wednesday’s knife stilled mid-stroke.

“Voluntarily?”

“Kinda. There was a thing. Something about a senior art trip to Prague and ‘an inappropriate use of school funds.’ Rumor is he bought, like, a dozen gallons of glow-in-the-dark paint and tried to stage an immersive break-up experience.”

Wednesday blinked. “He staged a break-up?”

Enid snorted. “In a cave. With music. I heard someone had to call campus security.”

Wednesday leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, expression neutral — but her eyes darkened just slightly in that particular way she saved for very specific people.

“I hated him,” she said. “He always gave me the creeps.”

Enid raised a brow. “That’s rich. You love creepy.”

“Exactly,” Wednesday said. “His brand of creepy was performative. It lacked authenticity. He lit candles like he was auditioning for a vampire boy band.”

Enid let out a full cackle and buried her face in her pillow. “Oh my God, he did! The collars!”

“I rest my case.”

There was something strangely satisfying about watching Enid laugh. Her whole body got involved — shoulders shaking, hair falling over her face, the sound loud and real and a little chaotic.

Wednesday didn’t say it, but she felt it settle in her chest.

This. This was why Nevermore had lasted longer than the others.

Because somehow, in the wreckage of murders and monsters and midterms, she had found this—Enid and her overstuffed desk, her ridiculous gossip site, her laugh that echoed even after it ended.

Wednesday could feel it. That quiet, creeping thing she never let herself name.

Comfort.

Connection.

Danger.

She looked down at her hands and realized she hadn’t picked her knife back up.

The laughter faded slowly, like smoke drifting upward and disappearing.

Enid sighed, flopping onto her back again. “It’s so good to have you home,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, like she was worried speaking it too loud might ruin it.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

But she didn’t have to.

She stayed where she was, perched at her desk like a crow on a branch, watching Enid with a gaze that softened just enough around the edges to be dangerous.

Outside, the sun dipped lower behind the spires of Nevermore, bleeding the sky into shades of bruised violet. A long shadow stretched across the dorm, reaching from the window to the corner.

The doll sat propped against the wall, where Enid had placed it — proud, like a guest of honor.

Its cracked porcelain face caught the last dying light.

And then—

Its eye moved.

The faintest, wettest sound — like the stick of suction pulling free — barely registered in the heavy quiet of the room.

One glossy glass eye, once fixed straight ahead, shifted in its socket.
Just a little.
Just enough.

It watched them.

Unblinking. Patient.

Waiting.

Enid turned her head toward Wednesday, a sleepy grin playing at her mouth. “You think this year’s gonna be less crazy?”

Wednesday finally smiled — a thin, sharp thing — and tilted her head.

“No.”

Across the room, the doll smiled too.

But no one saw.

Chapter Text

It started with a book.

Well — technically, it started with Enid complaining that she’d packed everything except something to read that wasn’t about soulmates or supernatural hookups.

Wednesday, from her desk, had reached calmly into her bag and produced a worn paperback with black binding and creased corners.

“Keats?” Enid had blinked at it like it might hiss.

“Acceptable reading material,” Wednesday had said. “He died tragically young and was mostly unappreciated while alive. I like his themes.”

Which is how they'd ended up like this: two girls, one copy of Selected Poems, and a dorm room half-lit by the glow of Enid’s ridiculous lava lamp.

Enid lay sideways across the bed, cheek pressed into the crook of her arm, reading aloud with a dramatic flair that Keats probably didn’t deserve. Wednesday sat cross-legged beside her, one hand resting on the page like she might reach out and correct the cadence at any moment.

“ ‘Bright Star, would I were stedfast as thou art—’ Wait, wait,” Enid said, pausing. “Is this a love poem or a breakup?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said.

Enid snorted and flipped the page.

Somewhere around poem number six, the words started to blur. Not in a bad way — just in that quiet, late-night way when neither of them said it was time for bed, but neither of them moved either.

Enid’s voice got softer. Slower.

Wednesday didn’t remember when she shifted from sitting up to lying down. Just that at some point, her shoulder met Enid’s. Then her arm. Then the warmth of Enid’s thigh along her own.

It wasn’t intentional.

It was gravity.

It was comfort.

Wednesday stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the soft rise and fall of Enid’s breathing and the slow-bubbling sound of the lava lamp across the room. The book had slipped between them, resting half-open against a pillow. Enid’s hair smelled like something synthetic and sweet — bubblegum and conditioner and her.

Wednesday didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

The thing she felt — quiet and steady, somewhere under her ribs — wasn’t panic.

It was worse.

It was peaceful.

Eventually, she fell asleep like that. Not alone. Not cold. Not even annoyed.

And in the corner, the doll kept smiling.

Morning came in fragments.

The soft creak of the dorm settling. The faint chirp of birds outside the stained-glass windows. The lazy gurgle of Enid’s lava lamp still glowing, casting pinkish ripples across the walls like light through water.

And warmth.

Specifically, Enid.

Somehow, at some point during the night, they had shifted — without ever waking — into something undeniably close. Their bodies were no longer just adjacent. They were entangled. Right side up now, not at opposite ends of the bed like they had started.

Enid’s arm was slung casually around Wednesday’s waist, hand resting over the soft fabric of her sleep shirt. Wednesday’s arm was tucked under Enid’s, palm open against her back. Her head had tilted slightly, forehead brushing Enid’s hairline. Their legs had found a rhythm that made it impossible to say where one stopped and the other started.

It should’ve felt claustrophobic.

It didn’t.

It felt… human.

Which is exactly why, when Enid stirred, blinked the sleep from her eyes, and realized where they were — she grinned like she’d just won something.

“Well,” she said, voice thick with sleep and pride. “Guess I can’t say I’ve never slept with anyone anymore.”

Wednesday opened one eye.

“You’re insufferable.”

Enid beamed. “But technically correct.”

“It wasn’t—” Wednesday’s voice caught for half a second before she composed it. “—That’s not what that means.”

“Sure, sure,” Enid said, teeth catching her bottom lip to hold back a laugh. “Totally innocent. Nothing but poetry and light spooning.”

“It wasn’t spooning.”

“Your hand is on my waist.”

Wednesday removed it immediately. “That was accidental.”

“Sure it was,” Enid said again, now fully grinning.

Wednesday sat up with practiced calm. Her braid was a little crooked. Her shirt, black with silver buttons, had wrinkled in the night. She looked like herself, except for the pink flush she couldn’t seem to chase off her cheekbones.

She meant to deflect. Say something biting. Redirect the conversation to death or breakfast.

Instead, what came out was—

“You’re the only person I want to sleep with.”

Silence.

The words hung there, weighted and echoing and absolutely the wrong shape.

Enid’s eyes widened, and then her whole face went cherry red.

Wednesday didn’t blush often. But when she did, it was volcanic.

“I meant—” she said, immediately, voice low and sharp. “Sleep. As in unconscious. Rest. Shut-eye. Not the vulgar euphemism modern society has corrupted it into.”

Enid blinked.

Then burst out laughing so hard she rolled onto her back, one arm flung over her face. “Wednesday Addams,” she gasped, “that is the dirtiest-sounding thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I will jump out this window.”

“I’ll save you a spot,” Enid wheezed, still giggling. “Right next to the lavender bush. You can haunt me from there.”

Wednesday stood. Dignity reclaimed. Sort of. “You’re insufferable.”

“You said that already,” Enid called after her.

And from the bed, the poetry book lay forgotten, half-open.

In the corner, the doll sat unmoved.

But its head…
just barely…
tilted to the left.

A gentle knock sounded at the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not loud. Not urgent. But very deliberate.

Enid blinked. “Was that—?”

Wednesday crossed the room in three steps, pulled the window open, and held out one arm.

Thing scrambled inside immediately, fingers twitching in excitement as he landed with a practiced thump on her shoulder before cartwheeling onto the desk.

Enid gasped like she was seeing an old friend at the airport. “Thing!”

He waved all five fingers wildly.

She rushed over and scooped him up without hesitation, cradling the disembodied hand in her palms like it was perfectly normal — which, by now, it kind of was.

“I missed you!” she said, grinning. “Did you grow? You look buffer.”

Thing flexed.

Wednesday rolled her eyes. “He’s been insufferable without you.”

Thing immediately turned and began signing with rapid precision.

Enid burst out laughing.

“What?” Wednesday asked flatly.

Enid tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “He said: ‘So have you.’”

Wednesday stared. Thing wiggled his thumb smugly.

“I will put you in a blender,” she told him.

Thing gave a little bow and then climbed up Enid’s arm to perch on her shoulder like a proud accessory.

“Do you want to see my side of the room?” Enid asked him.

Thing gave her a thumbs up.

They walked over together — Enid pointing out her lava lamp like it was a national treasure, and Thing giving it an approving finger waggle. He tapped one of her drawings and wiggled his fingers in the air, a gesture that looked vaguely like applause.

Wednesday stood by the window, arms crossed. Watching. Quiet.

And maybe — just maybe — smiling a little.

They were ridiculous.

But they were hers.

The dorm’s little kitchenette wasn’t exactly glamorous. A single-burner stovetop. A chipped sink. Cabinets that creaked like a haunted house audition.

But it was theirs.

Wednesday stood at the counter, measuring out dried black tea leaves with the kind of surgical precision usually reserved for poison. Her travel kettle was already hissing. The smell was sharp — bitter, floral, with something metallic underneath.

Enid leaned against the fridge behind her, a pastel box of lemon-zinger tea in one hand and a smug smile in the other.

“You know most people just… buy normal bags, right?” Enid said, shaking her box gently. “Put them in hot water. Stir. Sip. No necromancy required.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “Your tea smells like melted candy and sadness.”

Enid gasped. “Excuse you — this is the superior beverage. It’s cheerful. It tastes like summer.”

“It tastes like something that should come with a warning label.”

“Meanwhile you’re over here brewing tea that smells like regret.”

They stood side by side in the narrow space, cups lined up like chess pieces. Steam curled around them, softening the edges. Enid bumped her shoulder against Wednesday’s — just a little.

Wednesday didn’t move away.

Eventually, the kettle squealed. Wednesday poured with practiced ease. Her blend went into her own cup — matte black ceramic, obviously — while Enid plopped a bright yellow tea bag into her novelty mug shaped like a smiling moon.

They worked in sync. No stumbling. No over-explaining. Just quiet, familiar movement.

Enid sipped hers first. “Mmm. Sweet. Perfect. Life-changing.”

Wednesday raised one brow. “Dramatic.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Please. I’m above envy.”

“Right,” Enid said, and then — without asking — took Wednesday’s cup and sipped it.

Her face instantly twisted. “Okay, what the hell?”

“It’s meant to be bold.”

“It tastes like drinking a forest fire.”

Wednesday took her cup back and drank without flinching. “That’s the cinnamon bark. It encourages clarity of mind and burns the weak on contact.”

Enid laughed and shook her head. “You’re such a menace.”

“And yet you continue to engage.”

“I can’t help it,” Enid said, leaning in slightly. “You’re weirdly cute when you’re mean.”

The words hung in the air.

Not heavy. Not awkward. But undeniably something.

Wednesday didn’t blink. “And you’re weirdly tolerable when you’re not talking.”

Enid smiled, like she’d won that round anyway.

They drank in silence for a moment. Two cups. Two girls. One slow, steady rhythm.

Then, in a moment she didn’t think about — not really — Enid reached for Wednesday’s cup again.

Wednesday let her.

Enid took another sip. Less flinching this time. Then held out her own mug in trade.

Wednesday stared at it for a long second.

Then took it.

Their fingers brushed in the exchange. Barely. But it sparked all the same.

Wednesday sipped.

Her face didn’t change, but her voice softened. “Still tastes like sadness.”

Enid’s grin widened. “But less sadness than before?”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She took another sip instead.

*

The path to the quad was uneven and still slick with dew, morning sunlight catching on the cobblestones like someone had spilled a bucket of gold.

Enid walked close enough that her elbow brushed Wednesday’s every few steps. Not by accident.

“So,” she said, voice light. “Are you gonna pretend you don’t like me now that we’re back on campus, or am I allowed to keep being your favorite person in the known universe?”

Wednesday didn’t look at her. “I don’t recall ever agreeing to that ranking.”

“Oh, I’m number one,” Enid said with full, teasing confidence. “You texted me every day, remember?”

“Statistically insignificant,” Wednesday replied, deadpan. “Could’ve been data gathering.”

“You sent me a photo of a dead bat and captioned it ‘Thinking of you.’ That was romance.”

Wednesday’s mouth twitched. Just barely. “You’re misinterpreting the gesture.”

“And the one where you told me I was ‘less irritating than most summer insects’?”

“High praise.”

“You even added a heart emoji.”

“It was black.”

“It still counts.”

Enid smiled, radiant and unbothered, and skipped a step ahead just to turn around and face her, walking backward with dangerous confidence.

“I’m just saying,” she continued. “You don’t have to keep pretending this is just friendship.”

Wednesday’s gaze was steady. “And what precisely would it be if it weren’t?”

Enid’s grin widened — something hungry and honey-sweet.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “I don’t cuddle my friends at night. Or share tea. Or get flustered when they accidentally say they want to sleep with me.”

Wednesday stopped walking.

Enid stopped too.

For a second, it was just wind through the trees, and a few distant voices echoing from the quad. The space between them hummed.

Wednesday stepped forward.

Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel.

Her voice was low, even. “I don’t get flustered.”

Enid raised a brow. “So if I said I missed you so much this summer it was actually painful, you wouldn’t feel anything?”

“No.”

“If I said you look good in the morning light and it’s sort of driving me crazy?”

“Nothing.”

“If I said—” Enid leaned in just slightly, like a secret. “—you’re the only person on this campus I’d actually want to kiss?”

Wednesday blinked.

Once.

Then leaned in too.

Voice like a match just before it strikes: “If you’re going to flirt with me, Sinclair, do it properly.”

Enid’s breath caught — but her smile didn’t falter.

“Oh, I am.”

She turned on her heel and kept walking, absolutely glowing.

Wednesday followed.

Heart steady. Footsteps measured.

Pulse a little too loud.

*
They were supposed to be helping set up a tent for Welcome Week.

Supposed to.

But the only thing Wednesday had successfully held in place for the past five minutes was the fluttering grip she had on her own composure.

Enid was on the other side of the canvas sheet, arms stretched high above her head, trying to clip the corner into place. Her shirt had ridden up slightly. Her laugh—soft, breathy, focused—carried on the breeze.

Wednesday was… watching.

Absolutely not distracted.

Absolutely not failing at tying a single knot because someone had decided to be infuriatingly, effortlessly charming in the daylight.

“You good over there?” Enid called, peeking around the side of the tent with a smirk that said she already knew the answer.

Wednesday tightened the rope in her hand. “Fine.”

“Because your knot looks like it’s trying to cast a spell.”

“It might be.”

Enid laughed and stepped around to her side, their shoulders brushing as she looked down at Wednesday’s attempted anchor point.

“Want help?” she asked.

“I’m perfectly capable.”

“I know,” Enid said, voice dipped in something warm and teasing. “But sometimes it’s fun to do things together.”

Wednesday didn’t respond. She was too busy focusing on how close Enid was standing. How her perfume smelled like oranges and sun. How the corner of her mouth was twitching up like she was holding back something dangerous.

Enid leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice.

“I bet if I kissed you right now, you’d still pretend it wasn’t flirting.”

Wednesday’s brain short-circuited for exactly one heartbeat.

Then she blinked. “Hypotheticals are beneath you.”

“Oh,” Enid said, grinning wide, “that wasn’t hypothetical.”

There it was.

That fluttering, chest-tight, scream-into-a-pillow energy. The kind that made Wednesday want to bolt and never leave all at once.

She stepped forward, just slightly — enough that they were face to face, shadowed under the edge of the half-built tent.

“You’re very bold for someone who can’t reach the top pole without standing on a box,” she said coolly.

Enid beamed. “Boldness is part of my charm.”

“You’re assuming I find you charming.”

Enid leaned in, eyes bright. “You’re still standing here.”

Wednesday didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Enid looked at her for a beat longer, like she was reading a page mid-sentence. Then she stepped back, tugged the tent line tight, and clapped her hands once.

“Done!” she said brightly. “Perfect teamwork.”

Wednesday’s pulse was still in her ears.

“Want to hold hands next?” Enid said, all teeth and sunshine. “I can call it a structural necessity.”

Wednesday turned away.

She meant to walk off. Reclaim the last shred of composure she had.

But her feet didn’t move.

Not really.

Instead, she bent slightly at the waist to tighten one of the tent cords. Slowly. Too slowly. Like she was trying to figure out if her mouth was about to betray her.

Then—quiet, deliberate, without looking up—

“You don’t need an excuse to hold my hand, Sinclair.”

Silence.

Wednesday felt it land before she heard the reaction. That pause. That electric beat of stillness where the air changed texture.

When she finally looked up, Enid was staring at her.

Wide-eyed.

Pink-cheeked.

And smiling in a way that felt like a sunrise. Soft. Surprised. A little overwhelmed.

“Oh,” Enid said.

Wednesday raised a brow. “Problem?”

Enid stepped forward, the space between them shrinking with every word.

“Not even a little.”

They stood under the half-finished tent, just far enough apart to not touch, just close enough to feel everything that hadn’t been said out loud yet.

“I’m not very good at this,” Wednesday added. “The… suggestive banter.”

“You’re doing great,” Enid whispered, grinning.

“Good,” Wednesday said. “I had a nightmare last week where you got a girlfriend over the summer and stopped texting me back. I lit a candle about it.”

Enid blinked. Once.

Then absolutely doubled over laughing, shoulders shaking, her whole body folding like a question mark.

“You lit a candle? For me?”

“It was shaped like a skull.”

“Oh my God.”

Enid straightened, beaming so wide it hurt.

“Wednesday Addams,” she said softly, “you’re kind of a menace when you like someone.”

Wednesday looked at her, eyes steady.

“I’ve been told.”

Their hands didn’t touch.

But they were closer.

And somewhere nearby, the quad buzzed with Welcome Week noise — laughter, footsteps, voices — none of which mattered.

Not in this moment.

Not in their little pocket of sun and shadow and something new just beginning to bloom.

Chapter Text

It happened again.

They weren’t even trying this time.

There had been no poetry, no tea, no sleepy shoulder nudges or intentional closeness.

Just a movie night on Enid’s bed. Something overly dramatic, slightly gothic, and exactly Wednesday’s taste. Enid had lasted thirty-two minutes before she knocked out mid-monologue, head tilted just enough to land on Wednesday’s shoulder.

And that was it.

A single shift. A shared pillow. A soft sigh.

Now, morning light poured in through the stained-glass window, and Wednesday Addams — goth, aloof, emotionally untouchable — was waking up for the second time that week in the arms of Enid Sinclair.

She didn’t move.

Because that would make it real.

And she wasn’t ready to let go yet.

Enid was warm. Too warm. Like a sunbeam that decided to cling. Her leg was thrown haphazardly over Wednesday’s, and one of her hands had found its way under the hem of Wednesday’s sleep shirt — not in a scandalous way, just resting there like it had always belonged.

And her face.

God.

Her face was relaxed in that peaceful, post-dream state. Pink lips slightly parted. Long lashes brushing her cheeks. Hair a tangled mess of color and chaos across Wednesday’s collarbone.

She looked beautiful.

So, obviously, she chose that exact moment to stretch and speak.

“Mmmph—good morning to my emotional support goth,” she mumbled sleepily.

Wednesday blinked.

“You drooled on my shoulder.”

Enid opened one eye and smiled lazily. “It’s how I mark my favorites.”

“Disgusting.”

“Romantic,” Enid corrected, then snuggled in closer. “Ugh, you smell so good. Like… ink and secrets. I wanna bottle it.”

Wednesday stared at the ceiling. “I will start sleeping in the hallway.”

“No, you won’t,” Enid said, absolutely delighted. “Because you like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You like me,” she sang softly, eyes still mostly closed. “You looooove me.”

Wednesday sighed. “You are intolerable.”

“And yet,” Enid said, propping herself up on one elbow so her face hovered directly above Wednesday’s, “here you are. Wrapped around me like a haunted little burrito.”

“I’m not wrapped—”

“You curled into me last night. Like a cat.”

“I was cold.”

Enid grinned. “You have socks on.”

“I was emotionally cold.”

“You’re emotionally lukewarm at worst,” Enid said, and then — without warning — flopped back down dramatically, her head landing on Wednesday’s stomach. “God, I like you so much it’s annoying. You’re not even nice to me.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re so cute when you try to insult me.”

Wednesday opened her mouth. Closed it. Covered her eyes with one hand and groaned softly into the void of the ceiling.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not around people I like.”

“I’ll light another candle.”

“You lit one for me, babe.”

Wednesday froze.

So did Enid.

The word just… slipped.

Babe.

Soft. Casual. Criminal.

Enid slowly lifted her head, eyes wide with horror and delight all at once. “Did I just—?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.”

Wednesday looked at her with full, deadpan gravity. “You can’t take it back now.”

Enid collapsed back onto her again, face buried in her shirt. “This is the best and worst morning of my life.”

“Correct.”

And still, neither of them moved to get up.

Not for breakfast.

Not for class.

Not for anything.

Because tangled under the covers, warm and stupid and painfully obvious, they were exactly where they wanted to be.

Eventually, movement became inevitable.

The light had shifted, casting pale gold lines across the floor. Someone down the hall slammed a door. A muffled voice called out about breakfast. The real world, intruding like it always did.

Enid sighed.

A long, dramatic, whole-body kind of sigh.

“I guess we should get up,” she said, but made no move to do so.

Wednesday shifted just enough to look at her. “Then stop lying on me.”

Enid propped herself up on her elbows again, but slower this time. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain, streaks of soft pink and lavender catching the light.

She didn’t move away entirely.

“I will if you will,” she said quietly.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Just looked at her.

And in the space between them — warm sheets, warm skin, a tangle of half-meant words — something gentle bloomed and held.

Then Enid sat up.

Really sat up.

Pulled herself away with a sleepy groan and an arm-stretch that cracked her shoulder.

The absence was immediate.

Wednesday felt it like a draft, cold and unwelcome across the space where Enid had just been.

She sat up too, slowly, more composed but no less aware of the shift.

Their legs brushed as they moved, and neither pulled away.

Enid rubbed her eyes and blinked at the window. “It’s too bright.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You like it.”

Wednesday didn’t deny it.

They both stood, almost in sync, and padded toward their own dressers. The air between them buzzed with something quiet and unfinished.

Enid tugged open a drawer, glancing over her shoulder. “I dreamed about you, you know.”

Wednesday looked up, startled. “What?”

“Last night,” Enid said, nonchalant. “Before I fell asleep on your incredibly sharp collarbone.”

“I’m not a dream figure.”

Enid grinned softly. “You were in this one.”

“What was I doing?”

“Standing there. Just… looking at me. But it was enough.”

Wednesday looked back down at her drawer.

Black shirt. Black pants. The armor of morning.

And yet she didn’t move.

Not right away.

Because her chest felt too full.

Because Enid’s words were still blooming under her ribs like a second heartbeat.

She reached for a sweater. Slow. Thoughtful.

Behind her, Enid hummed as she changed — off-key, cheerful, soft. The same way she did when she was feeling a little too happy for no good reason.

When they both finally turned back around, dressed and mostly composed, their eyes met again.

And for a second, it was just them.

Two girls.

One morning.

And the ghost of shared warmth still clinging to their skin like a promise.

*

The quad was already buzzing by the time they made it down the hill.

A row of registration tables stretched across the grass, each one decorated with various banners and signs—"Welcome, Weirdos!" and "First Years This Way!" and, inexplicably, one that said Ask Me About the Tentacles.

Enid had signed them up for Welcome Week volunteer duty before Wednesday even returned to campus.

“We’re role models now,” she’d said cheerfully at breakfast, sipping coffee from a mug that read Bite Me in glitter font.

“Of what?” Wednesday had asked.

“Emotional growth. Obviously.”

Now, they were seated next to each other behind one of the main tables, passing out schedules and giving off very different energies.

Wednesday: composed, quiet, pen in hand like she might sign your death warrant.

Enid: all bright eyes and sunshine, somehow managing to make every incoming student feel like they were about to have the best year of their lives.

She bumped Wednesday’s elbow lightly under the table for the third time in five minutes.

“You should smile,” she whispered.

“I’m working.”

“You’re scaring the freshmen.”

“That is my job.”

Enid giggled and handed a color-coded map to a nervous-looking first-year. “Dorms are to the left, the quad’s through that archway, and if you see a ghost in the library—just wave politely.”

The kid blinked.

Enid smiled wider. “Don’t worry, she’s mostly chill.”

When the student had wandered off, Wednesday gave her a sidelong glance. “You enjoy this.”

“I like helping people feel welcome.”

“It’s undignified.”

Enid leaned in, chin resting on her palm, voice low and sweet.

“Maybe. But I also like watching you try not to smile every time I call you babe.”

Wednesday froze.

Just for a moment.

It wasn’t a mistake this time.

No accidental slip. No wide-eyed regret.

Just soft, bold Enid, staring at her like it was the most natural word in the world.

Babe.

Wednesday’s pulse jumped.

And she didn’t look away.

“You’re abusing the privilege,” she said finally.

Enid’s smile turned playful. “So it is a privilege?”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Which, in itself, was an answer.

Enid kicked her gently under the table.

Wednesday kicked her back.

A few minutes later, a tall kid in a black hoodie came up looking mildly panicked about where to find the lycanthrope orientation session.

Enid handled it with ease—warm voice, gentle directions, a pat on the arm.

Wednesday handed him a campus map with exactly zero expression.

After he left, Enid leaned close again.

“So,” she said, sing-song. “You want to get matching lanyards later?”

“No.”

“Keychains?”

“No.”

“Bracelets that say property of babe?”

Wednesday turned to her slowly. “I will strangle you with one.”

“You say that, and yet…” Enid tilted her head. “You let me call you that again.”

“I’m… adjusting.”

“To what?”

Wednesday looked at her. Really looked.

“To you.”

Enid bit her bottom lip, failing—barely—to hide the grin overtaking her entire face.

And in the middle of a crowded quad, surrounded by new students and chaos and a thousand reasons not to feel this way—Enid reached out.

Just a little.

Just enough to let her pinkie graze Wednesday’s on the table between them.

Neither of them pulled away.

And that was it.

No grand declarations.

Just a moment held like a secret between them.

*

The last table had been folded.

The last lanyard stuffed into a box.

The quad had quieted, the midday sun slipping behind a bank of clouds as students filtered out toward dorms and dining halls, laughing and cradling maps and swag bags and questionable pamphlets. Enid stretched her arms above her head and groaned like she’d just lifted weights instead of handed out stickers for three hours.

“We did it,” she declared. “We welcomed. We guided. We inspired.”

“You talked about ghosts and gave someone a pamphlet on lycanthrope-safe laundry detergent.”

“Community resources are important.”

Wednesday tucked a pen into her pocket and surveyed the empty quad like it was a battlefield. “No casualties. Acceptable.”

They were halfway through stacking chairs when Enid stopped mid-movement.

“Oh—hang on. There’s still something under the table.”

She bent down and pulled out a single white envelope, thick and neatly sealed, resting exactly where Wednesday had been sitting all morning.

No stamp.

No return address.

Just her name, written in perfect, looping script:

WEDNESDAY ADDAMS
WELCOME TO THE DOLL HOUSE

Enid blinked. “That’s… not creepy at all.”

Wednesday stepped forward, already intrigued.

She took the envelope, turning it over slowly in her fingers. The paper felt expensive. Old. Too pristine for a campus flyer prank. She ran her thumb under the seal and opened it carefully.

Inside:
Nothing.

No note.

No invitation.

Just emptiness.

Enid leaned over her shoulder. “Is this some kind of weird art kid prank? Because if someone starts dressing like a marionette tomorrow, I’m out.”

But Wednesday… smiled.

Not a smirk.

A real, slow, gleaming smile.

“This,” she said, voice low, “is thrilling.”

Enid stared at her. “It’s blank, babe.”

“Exactly.”

“There's something wrong with you.”

“Consistently,” Wednesday said, tucking the envelope carefully into her coat like it was treasure. “Someone left me a clue. And they did it with style.”

Enid looked deeply uncomfortable. “You’re way too excited about this.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“You’re smiling like someone gave you a severed hand in a gift box.”

Wednesday paused. “A lovely gesture.”

Enid groaned. “I’m going to regret investigating this with you, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said, turning toward the dorms with that same unreadable glint in her eye. “But you’re going to love it anyway.”

Enid stared at the back of her head for a moment, arms crossed.

Then sighed. Loudly. Dramatically.

And followed her anyway.

Because Wednesday was right.

She was going to love it.

Even if it terrified her.

Especially if it meant staying close.

*

Rain tapped gently at the window.

Not the kind that made you want to hide — the kind that made you want to stay in, get cozy, and pretend time didn’t exist.

The dorm room was warm with low lamplight, Keats discarded on the desk, and Enid draped upside-down across her bed like a blonde, sock-footed gargoyle.

Wednesday sat at her desk with a fountain pen in one hand, a stack of script pages in the other, and an expression somewhere between concentration and quiet… contentment.

Enid watched her write for a while, her eyes tracing the curve of her braid, the angle of her jaw, the way her fingers gripped the page like she wanted to bleed the words into it directly.

“I think you’re rewriting this line for the sixth time,” Enid said, flipping her phone upside-down and tossing it toward the pillow. “What’s he doing now?”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “He’s choosing not to confess.”

Enid made a pained noise. “Tragedy.”

“It’s act one.”

“Still. He’s making terrible choices.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to stretch.

And then, with perfect timing, Thing crawled up onto Wednesday’s desk and pointed straight at her script. Then at her. Then at Enid.

Then signed rapidly.

Wednesday glanced at him, unimpressed. “He’s complaining again.”

Enid sat up, one leg folded underneath her, and grinned. “No, wait — I got this one. He said: ‘You write about people falling in love, but you won’t admit when it’s happening in real life.’”

Wednesday blinked.

Thing nodded, proud of his translator.

“He also said,” Enid continued, reading Thing’s finger movements, “‘you like her. She likes you. I’m literally a hand and even I can feel the tension.’”

Thing threw both thumbs up.

Wednesday arched a brow. “That’s a very articulate critique for someone who doesn’t have a mouth.”

“He’s very expressive,” Enid said, smiling wide now. “Also, he thinks you should stop writing about romantic repression and start doing something about yours.”

Thing pointed at her like she was right.

Wednesday set her pen down slowly. Not with irritation — with weight. With intention.

“Is this an intervention?” she asked dryly.

“Kind of,” Enid said, swinging her legs back and forth, looking absurdly pleased with herself. “But a romantic one. So, it’s cuter.”

Wednesday didn’t speak at first.

Just studied her.

The rain kept tapping.

The lava lamp bubbled.

And Enid’s hair curled slightly where it brushed her cheek, still damp from the shower, still smelling like citrus and something softly Enid.

“You’re very loud about liking me,” Wednesday said at last.

Enid grinned. “Someone has to be.”

Another pause.

Wednesday tilted her head just slightly. “You could have denied it.”

“Why would I?”

“Because I haven’t said it back.”

Enid shrugged. “You don’t need to. I already know.”

That silenced her.

Not in a bad way.

In the way that made her fingers still. Her breath steady. Her heart — traitorously — soft.

And then, just to ruin the moment in exactly the right way, Thing launched himself from the desk to Enid’s bed with a dramatic flop and immediately flung his fingers into motion.

Enid laughed before she even read the signs.

“Oh my God.”

“What now.”

“He said, ‘If Enid didn’t sleep in your bed every night, I would.’”

Thing turned and did a very slow, fake stretch.

Then dramatically pretended to fall asleep.

Flat on his back. Dead-center on the mattress. Completely still, except for one middle finger sticking out in Wednesday’s direction.

Enid nearly collapsed laughing. “He’s so petty.”

Wednesday stared at the fake-sleeping hand. “He’s territorial.”

“He’s right.”

Enid pulled her blanket up and leaned back, looking at Wednesday like it was already known — like there was no going back, no un-knowing any of this.

“We kind of already live like we’re together,” she said, softer now. “You write. I bug you. You make tea. I drink yours. I wake up in your bed more often than my own. Thing’s making jokes about it.”

Wednesday stared.

Then — slowly — she stood from the desk.

Not dramatic. Not sudden.

She walked over to the bed, stopped beside it, and met Enid’s eyes with something so direct it almost hurt.

“I’m going to say it now,” she said.

Enid blinked. “Okay.”

“I like you.”

“I know.”

Wednesday’s voice was calm. Steady. But her hand trembled just a little as she reached down and gently poked Thing off the blanket.

“I don’t need a script for this part.”

Enid sat up.

And smiled.

“I like you too, babe.”

Thing rolled over.

And fake-snored.

Chapter Text

Morning again.

This time, no poems.

No movie still playing in the background.

No discarded mugs of tea.

Just them.

Somehow — and neither would be able to say when or how exactly — they had ended up in the same bed again. Not in that accidental, slow-drifted way. Not with the excuse of shared warmth or forgotten books.

They had just… gotten ready for bed.

And instead of splitting off, instead of returning to their own sides of the room like polite, not-sleeping-together besties, they had both gravitated to the same place.

The same pillow.

The same comforter.

The same heartbeat.

Now Wednesday was lying on her side, one hand curled loosely between them, her braid half undone and falling against Enid’s collarbone. Enid was facing her — barely breathing, just watching, like blinking might break whatever spell they were both under.

It wasn’t an accident this time.

And that fact was louder than the rain against the window.

Enid’s voice came out in a whisper, like she didn’t want to spook it.

“Did we even talk last night?”

“No,” Wednesday murmured, without opening her eyes.

“Did we… just get in bed like this?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” A beat. “You didn’t even glare at me.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Enid’s heart was doing things it definitely shouldn’t be doing this early in the day. Things like stuttering. Like clenching. Like hoping.

She hesitated. “So… why didn’t you stop me?”

Wednesday finally opened her eyes.

Just a sliver.

Just enough to look directly at her and answer, with brutal calm honesty: “Because I didn’t want to.”

Oh.

Oh.

Enid smiled so softly she had to bite her lip to hide it.

Thing was nowhere to be seen — for once, mercifully giving them space — which was probably good, because Enid was about one heartbeat away from doing something brave and stupid and very obvious, like kissing her on the forehead.

Instead, she said, “I like waking up next to you.”

Wednesday didn’t flinch.

Didn’t make a joke. Didn’t roll her eyes.

Just said, very quietly, “I know.”

They didn’t move for a while.

They didn’t have to.

Because some part of them had already decided: this was their new normal.

Enid would sleep here.

Wednesday would let her.

And in the warm, soft quiet of another shared morning, it was impossible to tell who reached out first — but somehow, their fingers found each other again.

Not by accident.

Not this time.

It started with a look.

Not an accidental glance or a sleepy blink.

A real look.

Open eyes, shared space, no distractions — just the two of them still curled in bed, tangled under the blanket, the morning light softening the edges of everything except what mattered.

Wednesday was already awake.

She had been for a few minutes now — staring at the ceiling, then the wall, then finally back to the very obvious fact that Enid was still lying there, warm and relaxed and definitely not leaving.

And now?

Enid was staring right back.

Their faces were inches apart.

Hair brushing. Hands still sort of linked, not in an obvious way, but in that deliberate not-letting-go way. The kind of closeness that made the air between them feel charged, like even breathing wrong might spark something.

Enid grinned.

That slow, I know what I’m doing kind of grin.

“Morning, babe,” she said, voice scratchy with sleep and smugness.

Wednesday blinked at her. “I will smother you with this pillow.”

“You’d miss me.”

“Debatable.”

“You’re holding my hand.”

Wednesday glanced down.

Still connected. Still there.

She made no move to pull away.

“I was asleep,” she said. “You ambushed me.”

“Mm, nope,” Enid said, propping herself up on one elbow. “You grabbed my hand first. Right after you mumbled something in Latin and rolled toward me like a very cuddly demon.”

“I don’t mumble.”

“You definitely do,” Enid said, smiling brighter now. “And it was honestly kinda hot.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Enid whispered, leaning just the tiniest bit closer, “you keep letting me stay.”

They were close enough now that Wednesday could count the freckles on her nose. Could see where Enid’s eyeliner had smudged just a little under one eye. Could feel her breath on her cheek.

Enid tilted her head, playful and dangerous.

“So. Serious question,” she said. “If I, hypothetically, kissed you right now… would that violate some ancient Addams code of conduct? Or are we just skipping to the good part?”

Wednesday didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared at her like she was weighing all possible outcomes — apocalypse, chaos, heart palpitations.

And then, voice completely flat: “You talk too much.”

Enid gasped dramatically. “So that’s a no?”

“It’s a ‘stop threatening me with a good time before I do something foolish.’”

Enid smiled so big it nearly broke her face.

“You’re flirting back.”

“I’m maintaining control of the situation.”

“Oh my god,” Enid said, flopping back onto the pillow and covering her face with both hands. “You are so in love with me. It’s disgusting.”

“I haven’t said that.”

“You don’t need to.”

Wednesday exhaled through her nose. “You’re alarmingly confident for someone with bedhead.”

Enid peeked through her fingers. “You like my bedhead.”

“You’re projecting.”

“You like me.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t banished you to your own bed yet.”

“You can’t,” Enid said, rolling back onto her side to face her again. “Because then you’d miss waking up to my face. And my bedhead. And the weird little whimper you make when you stretch.”

“I do not whimper.”

“You did. This morning. It was adorable.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Enid said, gently tucking a piece of hair behind Wednesday’s ear with absolutely no permission and even less shame. “But I’m still gonna kiss you eventually.”

Wednesday stared at her.

Long. Steady. Quiet.

Enid didn’t back off.

Didn’t flinch.

Just waited, her hand still resting against Wednesday’s cheek, like it belonged there.

And then—Wednesday lifted her own hand, slow and careful, to catch Enid’s wrist. Her fingers curled lightly around it.

She didn’t pull her closer.

But she didn’t let her go.

“Eventually is vague,” she said softly. “I could die of anticipation.”

Enid blinked.

And this time, she didn’t laugh.

Didn’t tease.

She just leaned in — quiet, sure, steady.

And kissed her.

Not dramatic.

Not explosive.

Just... soft.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that felt like it had been waiting in the walls of the room, like it already belonged to them, like it had simply been biding its time until they were ready.

Wednesday kissed her back.

Without hesitation.

Her hand stayed on Enid’s wrist, not to hold her there — just to feel her pulse. To feel realness under her skin.

Enid pulled away first, just barely.

Their noses still brushed. Their breath mingled.

Wednesday opened her eyes.

“I liked that,” Enid whispered.

Wednesday didn’t smile.

But she didn’t look away, either.

“Me too.”

And they stayed like that.

Quiet.

Breathing.

Together.

Because nothing had to be said now.

It already was.

*
Getting ready wasn’t supposed to feel this dramatic.

They’d done this before. They’d brushed teeth in the same cramped mirror. They’d stolen each other’s socks, swapped hair ties, argued over whose eyeliner was better. They’d done this a dozen times like it was nothing.

But now?

Now Enid had been kissed.

By Wednesday Addams.

And nothing was the same.

She was glowing. Radiating. Practically skipping around the dorm in her mismatched socks and neon hoodie, brushing her hair in circles so wide it was clearly just a distraction from screaming into a pillow.

Wednesday stood by the closet, putting on her boots like it wasn’t a historic emotional event. Like she hadn’t pressed her mouth to Enid’s twenty minutes ago and ruined her forever in the best way.

Enid was not going to let that stand.

She turned, toothbrush still in her mouth, and pointed at Wednesday with it like a weapon.

“You kissed me.”

Wednesday blinked. “You were there.”

“You kissed me,” Enid repeated, muffled through toothpaste and uncontainable glee. “Like, full-on, no-escaping-it, kissed me.”

“You initiated.”

“You let it happen.”

Wednesday opened her mouth to argue.

Closed it.

Tied her boot instead.

Enid leaned dramatically in the bathroom doorway. “You kissed me and now I’m emotionally unstable. I hope you’re proud.”

“You’ve always been emotionally unstable.”

“But now I have proof it’s your fault.”

Wednesday glanced at her over her shoulder, one brow raised. “You’re very loud for someone who hasn't brushed the molars yet.”

“I don’t need clean teeth to brag,” Enid grinned, wiping her mouth on a towel, “because you, Miss Gloom and Doom, kissed me on purpose.”

Wednesday grabbed her coat.

Enid followed.

“You wanted to kiss me, didn’t you?” she teased, trailing behind her like a very smitten shadow. “You’ve been thinking about it. Like, all summer. Probably while staring at dead frogs.”

Wednesday stopped at the door. Slowly turned.

“I think about a lot of things while staring at dead frogs.”

“You romantic,” Enid breathed, clutching her chest. “My tragic poet. You longed for me in silence and then gave in under the moonlight.”

“It was morning.”

“In my heart it was a moonlit confession!”

Wednesday stared.

Then — barely, subtly — her mouth twitched.

Enid gasped. “Was that a smile? Did I catch you smiling?”

“No.”

“You’re smiling!”

“I’m leaving.”

Enid threw herself in front of the door. “Not until you admit you like me.”

“I kissed you. That’s the loudest admission I’m capable of.”

“Oh my God,” Enid whispered. “Say it again.”

“I will chloroform you.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“I’m regretting everything.”

Enid grinned and leaned in, eyes sparkling, voice soft and shameless:
“You kissed me.”

Wednesday stepped closer, gaze steady.

“Do you want me to do it again, or are you going to keep talking about it all day?”

Enid froze.

Then broke into a full-body, foot-kicking, scream-internally smile.

“I’m going to be the worst today,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You brought this on yourself.”

“I really did.”

They opened the door together.

And left the room side by side — shoulder to shoulder, hand brushing hand, one of them pretending this was nothing, the other already planning their wedding.

*

They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the dorm.

Not because it was awkward. Because it wasn’t.

It was just full. Charged. Quiet in the way that felt like everything had already been said — in the brush of hands, in the soft echo of that kiss still clinging to both of their mouths.

Enid walked beside her, barely holding back the grin that kept trying to take over her face.

Wednesday didn’t say anything.

Not until they turned a corner near the old stone archway by the greenhouse — when no one else was around, and the light was slanting just enough to catch in the gold of Enid’s hair.

That’s when she stopped walking.

And Enid noticed immediately.

She turned, curious. “What’s up—?”

Wednesday took one step forward and kissed her.

No warning.

No words.

Just lips, soft and certain, pressed to hers like she’d needed it — like the first one had opened something she hadn’t realized was locked and now it was all she could think about.

Enid made the quietest sound — a small, breathy oh — and kissed her back instantly.

It was slower this time.

Deeper.

And when they finally parted, Enid was pink-cheeked and blinking, eyes wide and soft.

“That was…” she started.

“I wanted to do it again,” Wednesday said simply.

Enid blinked. “Already?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then: “God, you’re gonna ruin me.”

“I’m already working on it.”

And just before Enid could speak again, Wednesday was walking ahead — braid swaying, collar perfect, hands calmly in her coat pocket like she hadn’t just devoured Enid Sinclair with her mouth in a public corridor.

Enid stayed frozen for a beat longer.

Then ran after her, heart pounding, smile unstoppable.

Because one kiss had never been enough.

Not with her.

Not even close.

*
The library was half-empty that afternoon.

Sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows, casting soft colors across the dusty shelves. Somewhere nearby, a page turned. A lamp buzzed faintly. The world was hushed — the kind of hush that made everything feel closer, more real, more fragile.

Wednesday sat at one of the long tables tucked into the back corner, her usual fortress of books stacked around her like a barricade. Titles in Latin. Leather-bound records. One especially cracked volume that looked like it had been bound with someone's regrets.

At the center of it all was the envelope.

WELCOME TO THE DOLL HOUSE.

Still blank inside. Still perfect.

Wednesday didn’t know why she brought it here. She just… couldn’t leave it behind.

Her fingers turned a brittle page. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Because across the table, Enid was watching her.

Not reading. Not helping. Just watching.

Propped up on one elbow, cheek resting on her palm, legs curled under her, heart all over her face like she’d stopped pretending to hide it the second they walked in.

Wednesday didn’t look up.

Not at first.

But she could feel it.

Like sunlight on the back of her neck. Like gravity in reverse.

Eventually, she said — deadpan — “Your staring is disruptive.”

Enid grinned, unbothered. “Your face is disruptive.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re gorgeous when you’re solving creepy little mysteries. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

Wednesday finally looked up. Eyes sharp. Unreadable.

Enid tilted her head. “What? Am I wrong?”

“I’m trying to concentrate.”

“I’m trying to concentrate on you.”

A pause.

Long enough to say more than either of them intended.

Wednesday blinked slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“You kissed me two times in the last hour. You’re not exactly discouraging it.”

Wednesday stared for another second.

Then turned a page.

But Enid didn’t stop watching.

Didn’t stop smiling.

She reached across the table with one hand, fingers lightly tracing the edge of the envelope.

“This thing gives me the creeps,” she murmured. “Like it’s watching us.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to the paper. “It’s a clue.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Enid’s hand moved a little further — toward Wednesday’s, not the paper.

Her voice softened. “Does it have to be solved today?”

Wednesday stilled.

Not because of the question.

But because of her voice. The look in her eyes. The hand so close to hers it hurt.

Enid’s smile turned quiet.

“You get this little furrow between your brows when you’re trying too hard,” she whispered. “It’s unfairly cute.”

“I’m not trying too hard.”

“You’re trying hard enough that you missed me staring at you for twenty minutes.”

“I noticed.”

“And?”

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

That shut Enid up. Her breath caught, just slightly.

Wednesday closed the book in front of her.

The sound was quiet, but final.

She reached across the table.

Took Enid’s hand in hers.

Not like it was a question.

Like it was the only answer.

“I keep catching you looking at me,” Wednesday said softly. “And I don’t want to keep catching. I want you closer.”

Enid didn’t move at first.

Then she stood. Walked around the table. Sat down next to Wednesday without asking.

And Wednesday turned toward her. Just a little.

Just enough.

“I know it’s not the moonlight,” Enid whispered. “And there’s no music. But if you kiss me again right now, I’ll probably fall in love with you even faster.”

Wednesday blinked.

Then kissed her.

Right there in the library. Between a shelf of necromantic theory and a book about haunted dolls. Under the colored light of a stained-glass sun.

It was long. Warm. Quiet.

Their hands found each other first. Then their mouths. Then the rhythm of it — soft and certain, like the slow turning of a page you never want to end.

When they finally broke apart, Enid smiled so wide it made her eyes crinkle.

“I think I’m already there,” she whispered.

Wednesday didn’t smile.

But she touched her cheek, and her voice came soft and steady.

“Good.”

She turned back to the book and opened it again.

But she didn’t let go of Enid’s hand.

Not for the rest of the afternoon.

Chapter Text

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment, the library. Enid’s hand in hers. Warmth curled in the crook of her ribs.

The next—silence.

Not quiet. Not calm.

The kind of silence that lives in empty houses after something has already happened. Heavy. Decayed.

Wednesday stood in a hallway she did not recognize. It looked like Nevermore, almost. The same stained-glass windows, the same high arches — but everything was off. Stretched too tall. Shadows too dark. The stone beneath her boots was smooth like glass, and the light flickered above her head like a dying bulb, even though no fixtures hung from the ceiling. She took a step, but her footsteps made no sound. The silence stayed.

Every few feet, a door. Identical. Ornate. Painted a peeling shade of white that once might have been ivory.

Each one had her name carved across the front. Not printed. Carved. Repeated in the same looping black script again and again.

WELCOME TO THE DOLL HOUSE.

She walked until the air changed.

She didn’t notice when.

The floor grew soft beneath her. Fabric, maybe. Or something softer. When she looked down, she saw carpet — pale pink, matted and frayed. The hallway narrowed behind her, pinched in the middle like a house being crushed in a child’s hands.

There was only one door now.

It opened for her before she touched it.

The room beyond was wrong in a way her mind couldn’t hold all at once. A child's bedroom, sickly and saccharine. Lace curtains hung heavy with dust. A cracked vanity mirror leaned against one wall, and on the floor sat a perfect row of dolls — porcelain, glass-eyed, legs tucked neatly beneath their paper skirts. Every single one was smiling.

One wore a tiny replica of Enid’s rainbow hoodie.

Another had Wednesday’s braids.

She stepped into the room and the door clicked shut behind her. The sound was soft, like a latch falling into place on its own. She turned back.

There was no knob.

There was no door.

Just wallpaper — pink, peeling, covered in the faint outlines of painted vines that moved when she looked too long.

The air smelled like sugar and mildew.

Somewhere behind her, the floor creaked.

She turned slowly. The dolls hadn’t moved.

But one was missing.

There had been seven.

Now there were six.

She didn’t remember blinking.

The walls closed in by an inch.

Ticking started from somewhere she couldn’t place — too fast to be a clock, too irregular to be human. Dripping joined it. Sharp, wet sounds that echoed with no source.

Then a voice. Young. Tinny. Distant and close all at once.

"Do you like it here, Wednesday?"

She tried to speak, but her mouth didn’t move. Her lips stayed sealed. Her voice lived somewhere else.

The mirror across the room flickered.

Her reflection blinked.

And then smiled.

Not her smile.

A doll’s smile. All perfect teeth and glossy eyes, wide and unblinking.

The reflection lifted one hand and waved.

Wednesday’s arms stayed still.

The dolls behind her laughed — high-pitched, glitching little giggles, as if a record were skipping. One dropped to its side with a soft clink of porcelain on porcelain.

A crack formed in its face.

Another giggle. Another tick. Another inch of space lost between her and the wall.

She tried to back up.

Her feet didn’t move.

She tried to close her eyes.

The mirror version didn’t.

The ticking grew louder.

And louder.

And then—
everything stopped.

The clicking, the dripping, the laughter.
Gone.
As if someone had pulled the sound from the world like a rug yanked from under her feet.

Silence returned, thick and complete.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that feels like breath held too long. Like the world is waiting for something.

Wednesday didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Even blinking felt too loud.

The mirror still faced her. Her reflection still smiled. Not a twitch. Not a flicker.

But the others— the dolls— were gone.

The cracked vanity. The toys. The wallpaper — everything around her had been emptied. Erased. As if her presence had devoured the rest of the room.

She took one step toward the window.

Her boots didn’t echo.

There was no air.

Her fingers reached for the curtain, and it dissolved in her hand like ash.

The windowpane was thick. Distorted. Like glass that had been warped by heat or time.

She peered through it anyway.

But what she saw first wasn’t the world outside.

It was herself.

Reflected in the glass.

And it wasn’t her.

Not really.

Her face was smooth and pale — unnaturally pale, translucent in places where the light caught wrong. Her eyes were black, painted, lifeless. Her lips were frozen in an expression that wasn’t hers — a brittle, too-wide smile with the corners cracked like a porcelain mask left in the sun too long. A fine web of fractures ran across her cheek and over her left eye, splitting the paint but not breaking it entirely.

Her hand came up.

Her reflection did not follow.

The doll in the window stayed smiling.

Wednesday stared.

She didn’t breathe.

Because her chest wasn’t moving.

She wasn’t breathing at all.

She pressed her palm to the glass.

It made no sound.

And then — movement.

Outside the window, beyond the warped glass, something shifted.
A blur of color.
Of motion.

A girl.

Enid.

Sitting cross-legged on a bed — Wednesday’s bed. Bright and familiar. The same pink lava lamp glowing soft against the wall. The same crooked stack of pillows. The same scuffed dresser and rainbow sheets.

She was biting her thumbnail. Watching the floor. Waiting for something.

She looked… normal.

Big.

Too big.

Wednesday’s stomach dropped.

No. Not her stomach. The hollow in her chest where it should have been.

She looked again.

The glass warped. But the scale was unmistakable.

She wasn’t looking out the window at the world.

She was looking out of it.

And Enid wasn’t in the dorm.

Wednesday was.

Inside it.

A dollhouse.

She was inside a dollhouse.

And Enid was sitting at the edge of it.

Like she didn’t know. Like she hadn’t noticed her there. Like she was alone.

And Wednesday—

Wednesday couldn’t move.

Couldn’t scream.

Couldn’t even blink.

She was still smiling.

A doll behind the glass.

A thing made to be looked at.

And slowly, from the far corner of the tiny room, something shifted in the shadows.

Another voice.

Low. Cold. Like it came from the inside of her skull.

“Perfect fit.”

The mirror cracked.

Blackness rushed in.

Wednesday woke up like surfacing from underwater — a sharp, gasping inhale as if her lungs had forgotten how to function until now.

Her eyes snapped open to darkness, real darkness, not the candy-colored glare of dreamlight. The room was quiet. Still. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and all that remained was the low hum of Enid’s lava lamp casting soft ripples across the ceiling.

She was sweating.

Her chest heaved like it had been crushed for hours. Her hands shot up to her face, fingertips brushing her cheeks, her jaw, her lips — real skin, real breath, not porcelain, not frozen. Her mouth moved. Her eyes blinked.

Everything was working.

But it didn’t feel like it yet.

It still felt like she was inside it — the glass box, the doll’s smile, the silence.

Then there was movement beside her.

“Hey—” Enid’s voice came through sleep, thick and soft and full of concern. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. “Wednesday? What’s wrong?”

Wednesday didn’t answer at first. She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

What could she say?

That she’d seen her own face smiling back at her with someone else’s teeth? That she’d been locked in a dollhouse while Enid sat outside, too far away to reach? That she still wasn’t entirely sure she’d actually woken up?

She pressed her fingers to her wrist. Felt her own pulse. Still fast.

Still hers.

Enid leaned closer. She didn’t push. Didn’t press.

Just looked at her for a moment, reading the tremor in her breath, the way her eyes flicked to the corners of the room like they were still being watched.

“Nightmare?” she asked gently.

Wednesday nodded once.

Enid exhaled like her own heart had been waiting.

She reached out and touched Wednesday’s arm, slow and deliberate, before shifting closer — wrapping herself around her like she’d done it a thousand times already. Her arms came warm around Wednesday’s waist, her chest pressing lightly against her side. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t pity.

It was presence.

“Hey,” she whispered again, voice low against Wednesday’s ear. “You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

Wednesday didn’t answer, but she didn’t move away either. Her breathing was still shallow. She hadn’t let go of her wrist.

Enid reached up and brushed a few strands of hair back from her face. Then pressed a kiss to her temple.

Another, lower, soft at her jaw.

And then, finally, at her neck — featherlight, like she didn’t want to startle her but couldn’t not kiss her there.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re not alone.”

Wednesday let her eyes close again.

Not sleep.

Just closeness.

She felt Enid’s fingers rub gentle circles into her hip. The way her breath evened out. The warmth of her lips still lingering like punctuation at her throat.

It wasn’t words that settled her.

It was the weight of Enid beside her. Real. Warm. Alive.

Not a dream.

Not a doll.

Just this.

*

Morning came slowly.

The kind of gray morning that filtered through the curtains without urgency, soft and silver and barely there. Rain had stopped sometime before dawn, but the windows still dripped. The room felt heavy with sleep and the weight of everything that hadn’t been said yet.

Wednesday was already awake.

She hadn’t really fallen back asleep.

Not fully.

Enid was curled against her, tangled in the sheets like she belonged there — one arm around Wednesday’s middle, nose tucked into the hollow of her shoulder. Her hair smelled like sugar and shampoo, warm and messy against her skin.

Wednesday let her stay like that for a while.

But the images were still there.
The dolls.
The mirror.
The feeling of smiling without meaning it.

She had to say it aloud.

Or it would stay.

“Enid,” she said softly.

Enid stirred, grumbling a little as she blinked awake. “Mmm. Morning already?”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Not with that.

She shifted just slightly, enough that Enid’s head lifted to look at her.

“What’s wrong?” Enid asked, instantly alert. “Did you have another nightmare?”

“No.” Wednesday hesitated. “Still the same one.”

Enid sat up a little more, her concern deepening. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Wednesday stared at the ceiling.

Then—she did.

Quiet at first. Clinical, almost. Like she was reporting it. But the words began to stick the further she went.

“I was in a hallway,” she said. “It looked like Nevermore, but it wasn’t. It was stretched. Off. Every door had my name on it. I kept walking, and I ended up in a room.”

“A room?”

“A dollhouse. But I didn’t know it at first. It looked like a child’s bedroom. Too pink. Too quiet.” Her voice got softer. “There were dolls. All lined up. And one of them was wearing your clothes.”

Enid didn’t interrupt. She just stayed close, watching her, one hand still resting lightly on Wednesday’s wrist.

“I looked in the mirror,” Wednesday continued. “And I wasn’t me. My face was… porcelain. Cracked. Smiling. But I wasn’t smiling. And I couldn’t move.”

Enid swallowed. “Wen…”

“I tried to look away,” Wednesday said, still staring straight ahead, “but when I turned toward the window, I saw you. Outside. Full-sized. Sitting on my bed. Normal. And I was inside it. Inside a dollhouse. Watching you.”

Enid didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then she moved closer again — slow, deliberate — and pressed their foreheads together.

“You weren’t trapped,” she whispered. “You’re here. You’re you.”

“I couldn’t move,” Wednesday said again, quieter. “I couldn’t breathe. I was smiling, but I wasn’t… me.”

Enid kissed her cheek. Then again, just below her eye.

“It was a dream,” she said softly. “But I think it meant something.”

Wednesday looked at her finally. “What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe it wasn’t just fear. Maybe it’s how you feel.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Enid pulled back just enough to see her face.

“I think you’re scared of being seen as something you’re not. Or not being able to stop it if people try. Like they’ll box you in, paint a version of you that isn’t real, and you’ll get stuck there.”

Wednesday’s breath hitched slightly.

That wasn’t wrong.

“I’ve felt like that before too,” Enid added. “But no one’s putting you in a dollhouse, okay? Not even metaphorically.”

She touched Wednesday’s jaw gently.

“Not as long as I’m here.”

And Wednesday didn’t say thank you. Didn’t cry. Didn’t fall apart.

But she closed her eyes.

And let herself be held again.

*
The room wasn’t large.

It didn’t need to be.

Every inch was neat. Meticulously arranged. The kind of order that doesn’t come from habit, but obsession. White-washed wood floors. Shelves lined with lace. A vanity full of doll brushes and pins.

At the center: a display case.

Illuminated.

Inside, six porcelain dolls stood in a line. Still. Fragile. Beautiful in the way graves are beautiful — delicate and final.

Each one bore a face.

Each one looked like someone real.

All dressed like children.

All staring forward.

All perfectly still.

And in the middle — right in the center — sat two new spaces.

Empty pedestals.

Waiting.

A figure moved in the background. Bare feet. White hem brushing the floor. Gloved hands working with impossible care. She wasn't humming anymore.

She was talking.

Low. Soft. Lovingly.

“You’ll be together forever. I promise. Nothing can ruin that, not anymore. Not even them.”

She placed a new head on the workbench.

Porcelain. Smooth. Blank.

She picked up a brush.

And started to paint freckles.

The mouth came next — pink, cheerful, turned upward. It took four attempts to get it right. Just sweet enough. Just submissive enough. Just her.

When she was satisfied, she held it up and whispered:

“Perfect, Enid.”

She placed the finished head down gently next to a small torso, already dressed in rainbow-patched fabric stitched with brutal precision.

Then she reached for the second.

This one took longer.

The skin had to be paler. The jaw sharper. The mouth — not smiling.

The mouth wasn’t allowed to smile.

She painted it closed. Cold. Unmoving.

“She’ll love you the same,” the girl whispered, tracing the brow line with a tiny, shaking finger. “Even when she can’t move. Even when she can’t speak.”

She pressed the forehead against her own, eyes closed.

“You don’t need to say anything to belong to someone.”

She set it next to the other.

The heads were side by side.

Porcelain Wednesday.

Porcelain Enid.

Together.

Always.

And as she turned to clean her brush — soft hum rising again — one of the dolls in the case moved.

Barely.

A blink no one saw.

Then a tear.

Thin. Clear. Real.

It slipped from the edge of an unblinking glass eye and left a line down painted cheek.

The figure didn’t turn.

She didn’t need to.

She already knew.

And she smiled.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped, but the day was still gray.

Wednesday sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a thick leather-bound book she'd unearthed from the back of the restricted library — something about cursed craftsmanship and Victorian rituals that hinted too often at doll-related lore. Her hair was still damp from the shower. A fresh mug of black tea steamed quietly beside her.

Enid was across the room, wrapped in a too-big hoodie, towel-drying her hair with one hand and humming tunelessly under her breath. The dorm was warm. Safe. Lived-in.

For a few minutes, everything felt… normal.

Then came the knock.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just three quick raps against the door. Enough to be heard. Enough to interrupt.

Wednesday looked up, eyes narrowing.

Enid padded barefoot to the door, towel draped around her shoulders. “If that’s Bianca trying to borrow my glitter eyeliner again, I swear—”

But when she opened the door, no one was there.

Just a single envelope.

Placed carefully. Intentionally.

She bent to pick it up.

It was thin.

Plain.

No return address.

Enid turned slowly, the envelope dangling from her fingers like it might burn her.

“Wen,” she said, voice unusually small. “It’s the same.”

Wednesday was already standing.

She didn’t reach for it right away. Just stared at the curve of Enid’s name on the front — the same dark ink, the same too-familiar words printed beneath it.

WELCOME TO THE DOLL HOUSE

Something shifted in her chest. Not panic. Not yet.
But something close.
Something sharp.

She took the envelope from Enid’s hand and opened it without ceremony.

Empty.

Just like hers.

A deliberate echo.

Her breath was steady. Her face gave nothing away. But inside—

She felt it.

Fear.

Real fear.

Not for herself.

When the first letter came, she hadn’t cared. Not really. It was cryptic. Creepy. Worthy of her attention, yes — but not her emotion. If someone wanted to play a game, she would let them try. She’d played better. She’d outlasted worse.

But now Enid had one.

And that changed everything.

Because it meant this wasn’t about her.
Not just her.
It never was.

And suddenly, Wednesday understood something she hadn’t let herself feel until this exact moment:

She was scared.

Not of being watched. Not of being chosen.
Of losing her.

Of something reaching past her own body and into the soft, golden light that lived in Enid Sinclair and dragging it somewhere cold. Somewhere still.

Wednesday clenched the envelope in her fist.

No note. No signature.

Just a second invitation.

A matching mark.

Enid was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Okay, you have a stalker, and now I have a matching stalker. That’s… romantic?”

Wednesday didn’t smile back.

Didn’t blink.

Only said, voice cold and unshaking: “No one touches you.”

Enid’s expression softened.

“You know I’m not scared, right?”

“I am,” Wednesday said, quieter than she meant to.

And she meant it.

For the first time in her life, she truly meant it.

*

The room was lit by soft lamplight. Golden. Warm. Cozy, if you didn’t look too closely.

If you didn’t notice the glassy stares lining the shelves.

If you didn’t hear the whisper of silk dresses rustling without wind.

If you didn’t feel the way the air never moved.

At the center of it all sat the girl.

She looked no older than Wednesday. Maybe younger. Pale. Pretty in the way a porcelain figure is pretty — precise, but lifeless. Hair in a single, perfect braid. Dress white, clean, pressed at the collar. No shoes.

She hummed softly as she worked.

A doll sat on her lap — stiff-limbed, wide-eyed, dressed in a miniature Nevermore uniform.

The girl held a delicate brush, running it through the doll’s pale blonde hair with the tenderness of a mother rocking a newborn. Slow. Gentle. Loving.

“There,” she whispered. “That’s better. Doesn’t that feel nice?”

She adjusted the doll’s bow.

Smoothed the collar.

The doll’s eyes moved.

Not far.

Just a flick — left, then right, then still again. A small, panicked twitch like a trapped animal frozen under glass.

The girl didn’t react.

Or maybe she didn’t notice.

She leaned in closer.

“Annie’s going to take care of you now,” she whispered, breath warm against the doll’s painted ear. “No more running. No more fear. No one can take you away and hurt you ever again.”

She kissed the doll’s temple.

Then set her gently beside the others on the long, white shelf.

All were dressed.

All were silent.

All but one had stopped blinking.

The girl stood and turned slowly. Her braid didn’t move when she did. It was pinned too tightly. Like everything else about her.

On the wall above the worktable hung dozens of photos. All neatly arranged. Some torn from yearbooks. Some printed off surveillance stills. Some hand-drawn.

And in the center — framed with a delicate gold border — was a photo.

Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair.

Side by side.

Not smiling. But close.

Touching, barely.

Real.

The girl stepped forward.

She stared at the photo for a long time. Something like wonder flickered across her face. And then something darker. More determined.

She reached up and pressed two fingers to the glass.

“Soon,” she whispered. “Soon we’ll be a family.”

Her smile didn’t move past her lips.

Her eyes didn’t blink.

Behind her, the doll she’d just placed on the shelf shifted again — a small, frantic spasm of fingers beneath a frilled skirt. But the girl didn’t turn.

She didn’t have to.

She picked up the next head waiting on her table. This one had dark hair. A blank, pale face.

She ran her thumb across its cheek like it could already feel.

“We’re almost done,” she said softly. “Our collection is almost complete.”

And with the same gentle, reverent hands, she reached for the brush.

*

The dorm was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t last long.

Enid sat on the edge of her bed, envelope in hand. It was still warm from her grip, the paper now slightly warped with the faintest sheen of sweat. She hadn’t let go of it since they found it.

Wednesday paced slowly in front of the window, eyes narrowed. She hadn’t spoken in several minutes. She didn’t like not knowing.

“I don’t like the ink,” Enid said suddenly.

Wednesday stopped. Turned. “It’s blank.”

“No,” Enid said. “That’s what’s weird. It’s not faded. It’s too blank. Like it was erased. Or hidden.”

She stood, moving toward her desk. She opened a drawer with practiced speed and pulled out a pink lighter — the same kind she used to burn the ends of her art wire. Normally a cheerful little tool. Now it looked like a weapon.

Wednesday tensed. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me,” Enid muttered.

She knelt down, holding the envelope open, and flicked the lighter to life.

The flame curled gently beneath the paper.

And then—

It started.

Black lines.

Slow. Sinister.

Appearing across the fibers as if bleeding up from beneath the surface.

Wednesday stepped forward, shadows under her eyes deepening.

“What does it say?” she asked, voice low.

Enid didn’t answer at first. Her eyes widened. Her hand shook.

Then she read it aloud:

ENID SINCLAIR
YOUR ROOM IS READY
430C

The paper in her hands crinkled as it dried. The heat had revealed something else — more writing beneath the first message. Smaller. Cramped. Like it didn’t want to be seen.

It appeared letter by letter.

And then it was there.

Come while you still can move.

Enid dropped the envelope.

The lighter clattered to the floor.

“I—I didn’t write that,” she whispered. “I swear I didn’t—”

“I know,” Wednesday said immediately.

The envelope lay between them like a threat.

Then Wednesday turned.

Crossed to her side of the room.

Picked up her own envelope — still tucked inside her drawer. She hadn’t touched it since the morning after her nightmare. She’d already dismissed it as an empty threat.

Now?

Now her hands moved fast.

She lit the same flame.

Hovered it beneath her paper.

And watched as the same black script unfurled.

WEDNESDAY ADDAMS
YOUR ROOM IS READY
430C

The final line burned in slower this time. Almost reluctant. Like it didn’t need to be read again. But it was.

Come while you still can move.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence pressed in — not like air, but like water. Heavy. Suffocating.

Enid backed up until her legs hit the bed.

“Wen,” she said quietly. “That building only has three floors. There is no Room 430C.”

“I know.”

“And if it’s not real, then—”

“It is,” Wednesday said. Her voice had gone cold again. That kind of cold that comes right before a storm breaks. “Just because we don’t know where it is doesn’t mean we can’t find out.”

She stared at the letters. Still dark. Still visible. As if the paper hadn’t finished bleeding yet.

Enid shivered. “Do we tell someone?”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Because her eyes were on the envelope.

Something was wrong with it.

The ink. It wasn’t drying.

It was moving.

Just slightly.

The words pulsed. Not visibly — not like light or heat — but like breath.

The black script flexed as if it were watching them. Or waiting.

And then—

The letters began to drip.

Tiny beads of black ink gathered at the bottom of each line, sliding down the parchment one by one like tears.

Enid took a step back.

“I don’t want to touch it anymore.”

Wednesday dropped the paper. It landed upside down.

Even without seeing the words, she knew they were still there.

And worse — they were still writing themselves.

New letters clawed their way to the surface like insects from soil.

She bent over slowly.

Watched.

A single line emerged in the smallest, most fragile script yet:

I already made space for you.

The lights flickered.

A creak echoed down the hallway outside.

Neither of them moved.

“Wen,” Enid whispered. “We’re not supposed to wait, are we?”

“No,” Wednesday said, straightening.

“We’re supposed to go.”

“And we will.”

Enid swallowed. “Why?”

Wednesday turned to her. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were wildfire.

“Because I want to know who decided they could choose our ending.”

*

The room was still heavy with the echo of the letter.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The envelopes sat like corpses on the desk — blank again, but not forgotten. The hidden ink had faded back to nothing. But they both knew it was still there.

Wednesday stood with her arms crossed, staring at the spot where the words had dripped. She hadn’t blinked in over a minute.

Enid finally broke the silence.

“There’s no Room 430C,” she said quietly. “We’ve both lived here. It doesn’t exist.”

“Yet it’s written twice,” Wednesday replied. “Someone wants us to believe it does.”

“Well,” Enid muttered, rubbing the back of her neck, “I’d feel a lot better if we could prove it doesn’t.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked toward her. Sharp. Focused.

Enid blinked. “Wait. That wasn’t… sarcasm?”

“No,” Wednesday said. “That was agreement.”

A beat.

Enid sat down at the desk, tugging her hoodie sleeve over her hand like a nervous reflex. “Okay, but where do we even start? There’s no floor labeled ‘C,’ no wing we haven’t been in—unless there’s some super-secret Addams-only passage no one told you about.”

“If it exists,” Wednesday said, “it existed on paper before it was erased.”

Enid tilted her head. “Like… building plans?”

Wednesday nodded. “Campus blueprints. Foundation records. Architectural archives. The original layout of Nevermore — before renovations, before digital copies.”

“Right,” Enid said slowly. “So… we go ask Principal Weems’ ghost where she keeps her forbidden files?”

Wednesday stared. “The town will have them.”

Enid blinked. “Jericho?”

Wednesday turned back to the desk, already reaching for her notebook. “The Building Department. Public record. Every addition, floor plan, demolition, permit — if Room 430C was ever planned, it will be there.”

Enid let out a short laugh. “You think they’re just gonna let us stroll in and ask for cursed blueprints?”

“No,” Wednesday said simply. “Which is why we won’t ask.”

That gave Enid pause.

She looked at her. Really looked at her. Wednesday was calm, methodical, already flipping to a blank page and sketching the Nevermore crest in the margin like it was a seal of war.

Enid’s stomach turned, but not in fear.

In adrenaline.

“Oh my god,” she muttered. “You want to break into the Building Department.”

“Tonight,” Wednesday said. “Before someone else decides we shouldn’t.”

Enid dragged her hands down her face, half groaning, half laughing.

“You’re the worst influence I’ve ever had.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another beat of silence stretched between them.

Then Enid stood.

Crossed to the closet.

And pulled out her black hoodie — the one she only wore on missions involving mild crimes or emotional sabotage.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m not scaling any walls. I’m strictly a lookout-slash-tech-support kind of girl.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “You’ll be scaling. Bring gloves.”

As they walked out, neither of them noticed the third envelope.
Slipped under the door while they weren’t looking.
Ink still wet.
And no name on the front at all.

Chapter Text

The wind had a bite to it. Not cold enough to sting, but just sharp enough to remind them it was late — later than they should’ve been out, later than any good idea usually survived.

The back lot behind Nevermore’s gym was empty. Just cracked pavement, faded lines, and a row of unloved student cars half-covered in fog. No cameras. No lights. No witnesses.

Exactly what Wednesday wanted.

She moved like a shadow — silent, precise, hood of her coat pulled low over her braids. Her boots made no sound as she stepped up to a dusty black Jeep near the end of the row. low profile, older model, no anti-theft system worth fearing. And parked just far enough from the school to suggest its owner didn’t want anyone paying attention to it.

She crouched beside the driver’s side door, slipping a tension bar into the lock with practiced calm.

She could’ve broken the window.

But she preferred elegance.

A soft clink. A twist.

The lock gave way.

Wednesday stood, eyes cold with focus, hand already reaching into her coat for the stripped-wire starter kit she kept just in case.

And then—

BEEP BEEP.

The headlights blinked on.

Wednesday froze.

So did the blood in her veins.

She turned slowly.

Enid stood a few paces away, dressed head-to-toe in black — hoodie zipped up, sleeves covering her hands, hair pulled back in a high, bouncy ponytail that still somehow managed to scream "hello, I’m chaos and hope in human form."

She twirled a key ring around her finger.

“Hi,” she said, grinning. “Miss me?”

Wednesday stared.

She blinked once. Twice.

“Where did you get those.”

Enid shrugged like it wasn’t the most suspicious answer in the world. “Glovebox. Earlier. While you were distracted organizing our grave-robbing supplies.”

“You broke into the car,” Wednesday said flatly.

“I preemptively liberated the keys,” Enid said. “There’s a difference.”

“You infiltrated a private vehicle before I could.”

“You’re welcome,” Enid chirped, tossing her the keys. “Some of us like to work smarter, not weirder.”

Wednesday caught them mid-air.

“You planned this,” she said slowly.

Enid beamed. “Well… I figured if you were going full criminal mastermind on me, I might as well be prepared. Also,” she added, sliding into the passenger seat, “I don’t trust you not to hotwire a Jeep and stall it halfway down the road.”

Wednesday opened the driver’s side door without a word and climbed in.

“I have never stalled,” she muttered.

Enid buckled her seatbelt. “Sure. And I’ve never cried at a dog food commercial. We all have secrets.”

Wednesday turned the key.

The engine purred to life.

“Don’t flirt with me while we’re breaking the law,” Wednesday said.

“Why not?” Enid asked, pulling her hair through the back of her hoodie. “It’s basically our love language.”

Wednesday shifted into drive.

Enid grinned, leaned her head back against the seat, and whispered, “Admit it. You were going to steal a car for me. That’s, like, serious commitment.”

“I wasn’t going to steal it,” Wednesday corrected. “I was going to borrow it indefinitely without consent.”

Enid turned her head, watching her in the low light of the dash.

“You’re really cute when you’re trying not to look at me.”

“I’m focused.”

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m mentally listing every structural vulnerability in the Jericho records building.”

“That’s hot,” Enid whispered.

Wednesday tightened her grip on the wheel. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Enid said sweetly, “you keep inviting me to commit crimes with you.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Didn’t look away either.

Just drove.

The road stretched out in front of them, wet with fog, lined by trees that leaned too far inward like they knew what was coming.

As they turned onto the main road, Enid glanced into the side mirror.

Paused.

“Wen,” she said carefully. “Do you see that?”

Wednesday flicked her eyes to the mirror.

Behind them, just barely visible in the mist, something moved. Not a car. Not a person.

Just a flicker. A shadow where there hadn’t been one.

Then it was gone.

Enid’s voice dropped. “Tell me that was just fog.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She drove faster.

Neither of them saw the figure watching from the edge of the trees.

Or the glint of white paper fluttering in its hand..

They parked three blocks away.

The town was asleep. Mostly. A few yellow-lit windows blinked faintly in second-story apartments, casting soft rectangles onto the wet sidewalks. Jericho looked older at night — like it belonged to a different century entirely, tucked between empty storefronts and crooked telephone poles. Fog clung low to the pavement. Everything felt too still.

Wednesday shut off the engine.

Neither of them moved right away.

The Jeep ticked quietly in the silence, cooling like it had just come down from something high and dangerous — which, honestly, felt appropriate.

Enid finally broke it. “Okay. So. You and me. Middle of the night. Creeping through town to commit mild-to-moderate espionage. Should I be worried this is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me?”

Wednesday didn’t turn her head. Just spoke softly, eyes still forward. “If this counts as romantic, I’m sorry to tell you I failed you.”

Enid smiled, then glanced sideways at her. “You were going to hotwire a car for me.”

“I failed to.”

“Same difference.”

They sat in silence for another beat, the fog rolling past the windshield like breath. Then Enid quietly unbuckled her seatbelt and pulled her hoodie up over her head again. It made her look smaller somehow — like something you’d want to protect, even though she was fully planning to break and enter.

Wednesday watched her.

She didn’t say she looked beautiful in the shadowy red glow of the dash lights.

She didn’t have to.

“I brought flashlights,” Enid said, checking her bag.

“Too bright,” Wednesday replied. “We’ll use the streetlamps.”

Enid nodded, then paused. “Do you really think someone built a room and just… erased it?”

Wednesday opened the door. “I think people hide things all the time. And sometimes, they get very good at it.”

They stepped out into the night.

The air was heavier than before. The kind of heavy that sticks to your skin. Like the town itself didn’t want them out here.

The sidewalks glistened beneath their boots as they walked. Enid stayed close — not exactly touching, but near enough that her shoulder bumped Wednesday’s every few steps, like a grounding wire.

Neither of them said much for the first block.

Too focused.

Too aware.

It wasn’t until they passed a darkened bakery that Enid broke the silence again.

“So what happens if we get caught?”

Wednesday didn’t look at her. “You cry and pretend to be lost.”

“That’s your plan?”

“You’re very convincing when you’re distressed.”

“And you?”

Wednesday glanced over. “I vanish.”

Enid snorted softly. “Great. So I cry, and you Batman.”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t shift. “Essentially.”

They walked a few more paces.

Then — quieter, more serious — Enid asked, “What if we find it?”

Wednesday slowed just slightly. “Room 430C.”

Enid nodded. “What if it’s real? What if it’s not just creepy notes and foggy windows and… broken dolls?”

Wednesday was quiet for a moment.

Then: “Then we finish what we started.”

Enid’s voice was softer now. “You’re not scared.”

“I am,” Wednesday admitted. “But not of the room.”

“Of what then?”

Wednesday stopped walking.

They were standing under a flickering streetlamp now, light pulsing above them in uneven waves. The glow made Enid’s face look golden and ghostlike all at once — her hair catching the light in soft curls, her eyes wide and waiting.

Wednesday looked at her.

Really looked at her.

“Of what happens if I don’t stop this in time.”

Enid blinked.

Then — without warning — she reached out and took Wednesday’s hand.

“I know what I signed up for,” Enid said, voice steady. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”

“I won’t.”

Enid squeezed her fingers. “Then let’s go find a haunted room that doesn’t exist.”

Wednesday didn’t smile.

But her fingers tightened in return.

They walked the next block in silence, hand in hand, shoes clicking softly against the wet concrete. A pair of cats darted across the street behind them. A neon sign buzzed in a bar window but didn’t turn on.

Jericho was sleeping.

But something else wasn’t.

When they reached the next corner, they stopped.

Across the street stood the Jericho Municipal Records building — square, gray, and ugly in the way all official buildings were. The kind of place you’d never look at twice.

The kind of place you’d never expect to hide anything.

Its windows were dark. Its door locked. A chain hung across the back alley gate.

Enid leaned closer, voice almost a whisper. “Are you sure this is worth it?”

Wednesday nodded. “I need to know.”

Enid took a breath, nodded back, and whispered:

“Okay, ride or die.”

Wednesday glanced at her.

A pause.

“More ride,” she said. “Less die.”

Enid grinned.

And they stepped off the curb.

The building was waiting.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes at the security camera blinking lazily by the front entrance.

“No,” she said flatly. “Too obvious.”

Enid grinned, already scanning the side of the building. “Then we go up.”

Before Wednesday could respond, Enid was moving—fast, fluid, a flash of black as she sprinted toward the maintenance ladder tucked behind a cluster of old pipes. She leapt, caught the rusted rung without hesitation, and with one swift motion, yanked the folded ladder down with a metallic groan.

It hit the ground with a thud. She looked over her shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Coming?”

Wednesday raised a brow, impressed despite herself. “You enjoy making me climb, don’t you?”

Enid just winked. “Only when the view’s worth it.”

They scaled the ladder in silence, the city air cool around them. Wednesday’s boots hit the roof second, just as Enid reached back to help her up—completely unnecessary, but offered anyway.

“Romantic,” Enid muttered under her breath, half-laughing.

Wednesday gave her a look. “If this is your idea of romance, then you’re the only one I’ll tolerate it from.”

Enid didn’t say anything to Wednesday’s reply.

She just smiled — wide and real — then turned and headed for the access door at the edge of the rooftop. It was locked, of course. But locks were only as reliable as the people who installed them.

Wednesday reached into her coat and pulled out a thin piece of blackened wire, then knelt. The wind picked up, ruffling her braid and sending Enid’s hoodie flapping softly behind her. They were silhouettes up here — two shadows working beneath a cloud-thick sky, invisible from the street.

The lock gave after a quiet click.

Enid leaned over her shoulder. “You scare me sometimes.”

“Good,” Wednesday said. She twisted the handle.

The rooftop door creaked open, releasing a draft of stale, cold air that smelled like dust and old paper.

Inside, the stairwell stretched downward — dim, flickering, lit by one buzzing fluorescent light halfway down the wall. Bare concrete. Steel railings. The sound of their footsteps echoed faintly the moment they stepped in.

Wednesday let the door close behind them.

Enid exhaled slowly. “Okay. Here we go.”

They started down.

Two flights. Three. The stairs curved tightly, and neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable — just full. Like every unspoken fear and anticipation was walking alongside them.

On the fourth landing, Enid stopped.

So did Wednesday.

They were alone.

Still high up. Still quiet. But far enough from the roof to feel buried, like they’d already passed into another world entirely.

Enid turned, eyes catching Wednesday’s in the half-dark.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “if this goes wrong—if someone catches us—I’m gonna tell them you seduced me into it.”

Wednesday raised a brow. “That would require effort.”

Enid stepped closer. “Then maybe I’ll say I seduced you.”

“I think we both know I don’t get seduced.”

Enid tilted her head, one hand brushing against Wednesday’s.

“No?” she whispered.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She just looked at her — really looked at her — then stepped forward without hesitation.

Their mouths met in the dark.

Not rushed. Not clumsy. But with a kind of certainty that made the concrete walls feel like they weren’t closing in, like the night wasn’t creeping after them with ink-stained fingers.

It wasn’t their first kiss.

But it felt like the first time they’d kissed knowing what they were walking into.

Knowing what was waiting.

Enid’s hand found the curve of Wednesday’s jaw. She smiled against her lips.

“You’re kind of the best worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” she murmured.

Wednesday pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“You’re not pretending.”

Wednesday didn’t deny it.

She just turned back toward the stairs and said, “Come on. Records room is on the ground floor.”

Enid followed, heart thudding against her ribs in a way that had nothing to do with the climbing.

The last stair gave way to a hallway lined with gray tile and cold silence.

The town records department was dead at night — no cleaning crew, no guards, no sign of life at all. Just file cabinets, bad lighting, and that ever-present hum of old electricity hanging in the air.

They moved quickly, following the signs:

→ RECORDS ARCHIVE – ROOM 104
→ PUBLIC PERMITS & HISTORIC BUILDINGS

Enid whispered, “Please let this be one of those things where everything’s just right there and no one has to crawl through a vent.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She was already walking faster.

At the end of the hall, a small wooden door waited. Brass placard. Tarnished handle.

ROOM 104 – MUNICIPAL RECORDS

Wednesday reached for the knob.

Locked.

Naturally.

Enid reached into her hoodie pocket and produced a bobby pin. “Do your thing, babe.”

Wednesday took it without smiling.

But she took it.

The door opened with a low creak.

Inside: darkness. Shelves stretching to the ceiling. Dust in the air. Row after row of boxes and manila folders and binders thicker than bricks.

Enid stepped in first.

Wednesday followed.

The door closed behind them.

****

The records room was colder than the hallway.

Not freezing — but still enough to raise goosebumps along Enid’s arms under her hoodie. The kind of chill that didn’t belong to the weather. It belonged to time. To the weight of too much history pressed into too small a space.

Wednesday’s boots clicked softly on the tile as she moved deeper into the room. There were rows and rows of filing cabinets, all labeled in a kind of chaotic shorthand — YEARS stacked next to PERMITS stacked next to PARCEL LOGS.

“Who organizes these things?” Enid whispered. “The same people who build corn mazes to be unsolvable?”

“Bureaucrats,” Wednesday replied. “They like to feel needed.”

They kept walking.

Shelf after shelf. Drawer after drawer. The building plans had to be here somewhere — if they hadn’t been pulled. If they hadn’t been destroyed. If they weren’t hidden the same way Room 430C was.

They turned a corner and reached the back of the room.

A wooden desk sat under a single buzzing lamp. Abandoned. A metal sign next to it read: HISTORICAL RECORDS — ARCHIVED COPIES. Below that, a drawer labeled:

NEVERMORE ACADEMY — SITE PERMITS & FLOORPLANS

Wednesday’s fingers twitched.

She opened it.

Inside: folders. Lots of them. Thick and uneven and dusted at the corners, but labeled clearly.

1994 — DORMITORY RENOVATION PLANS
2003 — SOUTH HALL RESTRUCTURE
2010 — MEDICAL WING DEMOLITION

She flipped quickly, scanning until—

Her hand stilled.

1960 — ORIGINAL ARCHITECTURAL PLANS – NEVERMORE GROUNDS

That was it.

The original.

Before additions. Before updates. Before walls were moved and floors were scrubbed clean.

She pulled it out.

It was heavier than it looked — thick parchment sheets, stapled and folded and yellowing at the edges. Enid leaned in over her shoulder, close enough that her chin nearly bumped Wednesday’s shoulder.

Enid leaned in over her shoulder, close enough that her chin nearly bumped Wednesday’s shoulder.

The paper unfurled with a dry rustle — heavy with dust, curling at the corners like it hadn’t seen light in decades.

Wednesday laid the first sheet flat across the desk. Then the second. And the third.

“Is that… all of Nevermore?” Enid asked quietly.

“Yes,” Wednesday said. “Or what it was.”

Blocky outlines formed campus wings. Labels in crisp lettering: EAST QUADRANT, WEST HALL, NORTH FOUNDATION. Some were crossed out in red. Others underlined. The third sheet included additional wings that didn’t even exist anymore.

Or maybe had never existed at all.

Enid frowned. “Wait—what’s that one?”

Wednesday leaned closer. In the bottom corner of the map was a series of attached rectangles. Tiny. Misaligned. Half the writing had been erased or overwritten. The ink had bled in places, warped by time or maybe something more intentional.

No clear label.

No room numbers.

No name.

Just a faint circle drawn around it in pencil, and two letters so light they barely pressed into the paper:

C.W.

Wednesday didn’t blink. “Someone tried to remove this.”

“Why?” Enid asked. “What even is it?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was low. “But it’s not on the current maps. I would’ve noticed.”

Enid hesitated. “Is it… a building?”

Wednesday said nothing.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then: “I don’t know yet.”

Enid’s hand came to rest beside hers on the desk, fingers brushing accidentally. “Do we take it?”

“We can’t just take one,” Wednesday said. “They’ll notice.”

She reached back into the drawer and pulled out another.

And another.

And another.

Until she’d collected eight full rolls of site blueprints — a messy assortment of years, wings, and permits — tucked them beneath one arm, and snapped the drawer shut with the other.

“We study them later,” she said. “When we’re alone.”

Enid nodded, already stepping toward the door. “You know, for a break-in, this is going unnervingly well.”

“That’s what worries me.”

They slipped into the hallway, boots quiet on the linoleum, blueprints pressed tight to Wednesday’s chest like they might vanish if she let go.

They didn’t speak again until they were outside.

Until the cold night air hit them like truth.

And even then — the silence wasn’t comforting.

Because now they had what they came for.

But not the answer.

Not yet.

And that meant something was still waiting.

Not just to be found.

But to find them first.

Chapter Text

The room was a mess of parchment and shadows.

Blueprints covered every surface — the floor, the desk, the foot of the bed. Rolls that had once been tucked neatly in the crook of Wednesday’s arm were now unfurled and curling at the corners, weighed down with tea mugs and knives and a black candle burning low and bitter on the windowsill.

The girls had been at it for hours.

Wednesday knelt by the desk, one hand pressed to an annotated section of the 1960 campus map, her other hand bracing her temple like it was the only thing keeping her thoughts from cracking. Her braid was fraying. Her sleeves pushed up to the elbow. She hadn’t blinked in several minutes.

Enid sat cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, a pen cap between her teeth, and five different campus layouts spread around her like a puzzle no one remembered solving.

Thing was on the bed.

He’d claimed the high ground early — rolling out the 1983 West Hall additions map like a gambler with a royal flush, tapping his fingers near the boiler schematics with increasing frustration. He snapped at a particularly smug photo of Principal Bramble from the renovation era, then pointed — again — to a blocked-off corridor no one had mentioned yet.

“I already checked that,” Wednesday said coldly. “It’s just a laundry chute.”

Thing flipped her off.

“I liked you better when you were emotionally suppressed,” Enid mumbled around the pen cap.

The candle hissed.

The windows groaned.

Outside, the wind had picked up again — the kind of wind that didn’t carry leaves or birdsong, just weight. Just warnings.

Wednesday moved to the floor beside Enid without a word and unfurled another sheet. It creaked as it opened, the vellum fragile with age.

“Tell me what you see,” she said.

Enid leaned over it. “I see… nothing. A lot of empty space. Stairwells that don’t exist. This says there's a hallway under the north wing.”

“There is.”

“There’s a second hallway under the north wing.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Enid’s breath caught. She looked again.

The second corridor was narrow. Faintly sketched. No labels. No destination. And worse—no beginning. It just appeared on the page, half-formed, like it had always been there and someone had tried — not well — to erase it.

A seam in the walls.

“Wen…” Enid whispered.

Wednesday’s eyes didn’t move from the blueprint. “I see it.”

“What if it’s under a building?”

“What if the building is under the building.”

Thing made a distressed clicking sound, then patted one of the oldest plans — the 1940s foundation sketch, yellowed and water-stained — and pointed at a small, unlabeled box. One not present on any of the newer documents.

Enid scrambled to compare.

The box was there in 1940.

Gone in 1960.

And hadn’t shown up since.

It wasn’t Room 430C.

But it might’ve been the first brick.

“What do we do?” Enid asked. Her voice was quieter now. “How do we find something that doesn’t want to be found?”

Wednesday leaned back, her fingers stained faintly with ink. Her voice was low.

“We find what it used to be.”

Enid swallowed. Her eyes flicked to the candle on the sill. The flame burned straight and still.

Too still.

The air didn’t move.

A draft should’ve blown through at least once. But the scent in the room hadn’t shifted. The shadows hadn’t flickered.

And then—

Thing froze.

Stopped tapping.

His fingers lifted, trembling slightly.

He pointed.

Not to the blueprints.

But the wall.

The far one. Near the closet. A place they hadn’t looked at all tonight.

Wednesday stood slowly. “What are you doing.”

Thing didn’t sign.

He pointed again.

And then his hand — shaking — tapped out five fingers.

And one.

And a zero.

Room 510.

“Wen…” Enid rose to her feet. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Wednesday said.

But her voice was tight.

Because she did.

She remembered it now — a reference in the first file she’d read back in the records room. A line under a rejected construction permit:

See addendum: Project 510 — sub-basement review.

But there was no sub-basement in the plans.

No blueprint. No stairwell. No authorization.

No room.

And yet…

Enid moved first. She crossed to the closet, pulled it open — just clothes. Just black boots. Just her bag.

Nothing on the wall behind them.

Until Wednesday joined her.

She ran her hand along the plaster, slow, deliberate.

Then stopped.

There was a seam.

Not a crack. Not damage.

A seam.

Invisible unless you were looking. Thin and curved like the edge of a hatch. Like something meant to open.

Enid’s voice came very softly. “That’s not supposed to be there.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Her hand pressed to the center of the seam.

Nothing moved.

The wall didn’t budge.

But the candle behind them guttered for the first time all night.

And every blueprint in the room curled inward at the corners like they were flinching.

Thing dropped off the bed.

And behind them, near the desk, an envelope fell— not the original ones,

Unassisted.

Unseen.

It landed face-up on the floor.

But when Wednesday turned around—

There was no name on it.

Just one word.

Soon.

Wednesday stared at it for a long time, then turned back to the wall.

She pressed her palm to the seam again — hard, steady. Nothing moved. No sound, no give. Even when Enid joined her, pushing with all the force her werewolf strength could manage, the surface held like steel sealed in concrete.

“It’s not a door,” Enid finally panted, stepping back, breath fogging in the still air. “It’s a trick.”

Wednesday didn’t blink. “It’s not a door yet.”

She turned.

Moved back to the blueprints spread across the desk and the floor. The oldest one — the 1960 map — was still open, corners curling. She knelt and ran her fingers over the erased structure at the base of the campus, just under where their dorm building now stood.

At first it looked like sloppy renovation. Something removed, then rebuilt with a new outline, a neater hand.

But now… now she saw it for what it was.

Not sloppy. Intentional.

Not remodeled. Hidden.

There was a building beneath the building.

Not a room.

A whole structure.

Wednesday’s voice came low. “It’s not on the fifth floor.”

Enid looked over, confused. “What?”

“It’s under us.”

She pulled a ruler across the map, lining it up with the foundation markers on both sides. “Someone drew over this. But not well. They erased the original design and mirrored the new one on top of it, just enough to pass inspection.”

Enid crouched beside her. “So… it’s not Room 430C. It’s Building 430C?”

“Was,” Wednesday corrected. “Someone buried it.”

Thing climbed onto the desk, tapping nervously near the edge of the blueprint. He pointed toward the northeast corner of the dorm’s current outline — a place that, according to the blueprint, should’ve overlapped with the missing substructure.

“Basement,” Enid breathed. “The bottom floor.”

Wednesday was already standing. “We’re going.”

She grabbed her coat.

Enid hesitated. “Now?”

Wednesday looked at her. Her eyes were sharper than before. Hungrier. “Whatever that thing was last night—whatever left us those envelopes—it didn’t expect us to see this. Not yet. That gives us time.”

Enid glanced down at the plans again.

The erased building looked like it had been burned out of history.

But not quite.

Still there.

Waiting.

They didn’t speak again as they pulled on their boots, didn’t bother with gloves or subtlety. The dorm was dead quiet — most students asleep, a few night owls still curled up with coffee or dead languages on the upper floors. No one paid attention as they slipped out.

No one followed.

But the hallway lights flickered once behind them as the door clicked shut.

The basement of the dorm was colder than it should’ve been.

It wasn’t used for much anymore — an old laundry chute, a few cleaning supplies, rusted shelving with forgotten paint cans. The lightbulbs overhead buzzed like flies, and the concrete floor held a dampness that didn’t belong to the season.

Enid wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s gross down here.”

“Good,” Wednesday said. “That means no one else comes.”

They searched in silence.

Along the floor. Along the walls. Around the crumbling edges of old utility access panels.

Nothing.

No hatch. No break. No obvious crack in the concrete to suggest something more waited beneath.

But then—

Thing tapped Wednesday’s boot.

He was crouched beside an old utility sink near the back wall. One of its legs was uneven — it rocked slightly when he leaned on it — and just behind it, half-hidden beneath a warped board and a crust of gray paint, was a seam.

A new one.

Horizontal.

Low to the ground.

Enid squatted beside it. “That’s not a maintenance panel.”

Wednesday shook her head.

It was too thin. Too precise. Like a drawer, or a slot.

She dropped to her knees, fingertips running along the edge.

Then she pressed.

The wall groaned.

Once.

Loud.

Then silence.

Enid took an instinctive step back. “Wen, what did you—”

The wall moved.

Not much.

But enough.

A puff of cold air curled out from the seam, smelling like mildew and rust and something that hadn’t breathed in a very, very long time.

Wednesday pushed harder.

A section of wall — two feet tall, maybe three wide — slid inward.

Behind it was a tunnel.

Cramped. Crumbling. Earth-packed. The kind of space you didn’t crawl into unless you had no other choice.

Enid looked at her. “You don’t think…”

But Wednesday already knew.

Building 430C had never been demolished.

It had been buried.

And someone had made a way back in.

They didn’t crawl through yet.

Not tonight.

They were smart enough for that.

But Wednesday stood there, staring into the dark, with her pulse hammering in her ears. It wasn’t excitement.

It was dread.

The blueprints hadn’t lied.

The history hadn’t vanished.

It had just been pushed far enough underground that no one would bother digging.

Until now.

Enid stepped up beside her and whispered, “We found it.”

Wednesday nodded slowly. “And now we see what someone tried so hard to keep hidden.”

From the shadows of the tunnel, something whispered back.

But not loud enough to hear.

Not yet.

***

The Calming Building  430C: What They Erased

Back when Nevermore Academy still took “problem cases,” there was a building hidden on the far edge of the property. It wasn’t listed on the campus maps. You couldn’t see it from the road. Most students never even knew it existed.

It was called Building 430C — a psychiatric wing, but only in name.

To those who worked there, it was “The Calming Ward.”
To those kept inside it, it was the Doll House.

Built in 1961 as a quiet solution to a growing “problem population” — Outcasts whose abilities didn’t conform to expectations — Building 430C became the final stop for students who were “too dangerous to rehome” and “too fragile to release.”

Empaths who couldn’t stop feeling everything.
Precogs who saw their own deaths every morning.
Children who couldn’t be touched without screaming.

They were put here. Hidden away. Forgotten.

And to keep them calm, the faculty tried something new.

They gave them dolls.

At first, it was an innocent idea. A therapeutic tool. Comfort objects for overstimulated minds. Hand-stitched, glass-eyed companions placed in every room, made to look soft. Safe. Familiar.

But then the reports started.

Children whispering to dolls.
Dolls whispering back.
Rooms where the air never moved.
Eyes that followed orderlies down the hall.

Still, they kept using them. Because the patients stopped screaming. They stopped lashing out. Some even smiled. They sat for meals. Took their meds. Slept through the night. It was hailed as progress.

Except it wasn’t peace.

It was surrender.

One by one, the children stopped talking.
They stared straight ahead.
Smiled too wide.
Didn’t blink.

They called it compliance.
The staff called it a miracle.

Until the day one of the dolls moved.

The Incident (1964)

Patient 017 — name redacted, age 9 — was the first to vanish.

Her door was locked from the outside. Her bed was made. Her doll was sitting where she always left it.

But she was gone.

No sign of escape. No window. No footprints. No noise. Just the faintest smell of something sweet — like sugar and rotting roses — hanging in the air.

The next night, another child vanished. Then two more. Always the same signs. No struggle. No sound. Just dolls left on their pillows.

And then they came back.

Not the children.

The dolls.

Different. Heavier. Glass colder. Too real.
One even bled when dropped.

An orderly quit after finding teeth inside one.
Another went mad trying to trace the stitching patterns — said they spelled names. Said the dolls had mouths under their clothes.

And then the building went quiet.

One night, every light inside 430C blinked out at once.

By morning, the building was empty.

No staff.
No patients.
No bodies.

Only rows of dolls.

Neatly lined up in the hallway.
Sitting at the nurses’ station.
Stacked on beds, perfectly dressed.

Smiling.

The headmaster at the time — Elias Weems — ordered the building sealed. He erased it from records. Paid off witnesses. Reassigned survivors.

He told the town it was condemned due to faulty plumbing.

But those who were there… they called it something else.

CONFIDENTIAL ARCHIVE: AUDIO TRANSCRIPT #27-430C
SOURCE: [Redacted – Sibling of Patient #017, Annie █████]
DATE: March 2, 1964
CLEARANCE: CLASS IV // Eyes Only
NOTE: Subject began speaking before prompted. Transcript begins mid-sentence.

"...I shouldn’t be doing this. You write it down, they say. Tell your truth. But truth has teeth. I keep dreaming mine out in pieces.

You want me to talk about Annie.

You think this helps. You think it helps to say it out loud.

But I saw what happened to her, and I know what follows when you speak it too clearly. If I end up back in that place—curled up like she was, smiling too wide, brushing invisible hair off my lap—just remember it started here. With you.

With this."

[Pause. Audible breath. Whispering not from speaker — likely background interference — unintelligible.]

"They said I could visit for her birthday. One hour. Supervised.

They said she was stable now. ‘Compliant.’ Like she was an animal that learned not to bite.

I didn’t know what they meant until I walked into that room.

Everything was pink.
Too pink.
The kind of pink that’s sickly, like cotton candy left out in the rain. There were no windows. The walls were soft — like they were padded under the paint. The floor creaked like breath.

And she was there.
Sitting perfectly still.

Her hands were folded in her lap. Holding a doll. The kind with painted lips and glass eyes and limbs that click.

She looked up when I said her name, but she didn’t recognize me.
Or maybe she did. And that was worse."

[Subject pauses. Faint static. Breathing irregular.]

"She didn’t speak.
Not with her mouth.

I tried to hug her, but she tensed. Like her skin didn’t fit right anymore.

I said I brought her candy. Rainbow rock sugar—her favorite.

She smiled.

Not… at me. At the doll.

She whispered, finally.
She said, “I gave her my voice. She said she’d keep it safe.”

I thought it was a joke. A coping thing.
Until I looked closer.

Her mouth—

It was full of cotton.

Packed. Jammed into her cheeks. Like she’d been trying to fill the silence inside her.

I tried to pull it out.

She didn’t stop me.
But she screamed.

Not with her throat.
With the room."

[Loud distortion. Subject’s voice rises in pitch and speed.]

"The lights went out.
Something moved behind me. I swear to God there was something standing in the corner, swaying like it was hung there and didn’t realize it was dead.

And the doll—

It blinked.

No one believes me.
But I dropped it and it landed like meat. Not porcelain. Not hollow.
Like something that breathes.

It twitched.

I backed up. The walls felt wet.
Like they were watching. Like they wanted me.

And Annie?
She stood up.

She said, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

But it wasn’t her voice.
It came from under the bed.

Like someone else was trying her on."

[Long pause. Background audio: muffled dragging sound. Not identified.]

"I ran.

The hallway was full of dolls.
All seated. All smiling. All watching the door.

I never went back.

Two days later, they told me she vanished. No sign of struggle. No signs of life.

But I saw the doll.

It still had her eyes.

And when I turned away, I swear I heard it brushing her hair."

[Subject’s voice cracks. Repeats same sentence several times in a whisper: “It’s not her anymore.”]

[END OF STATEMENT.]
[SUBJECT TRANSFERRED TO OBSERVATION HOLDING, FILE SEALED.]

Chapter Text

The dorm was still when the sun came up.

Golden light spilled slowly through the window, catching on dust motes and half-unrolled blueprints. The candle on the sill had burned itself down to nothing but wax. The mug on the desk had gone cold. Nothing had moved since they fell asleep.

Except them.

Wednesday stirred first.

She didn’t open her eyes right away. She didn’t need to. Her senses came back one at a time: the warm weight of a blanket pulled halfway across her back, the cool linen of the pillow, and the faint floral scent she couldn’t name but now instinctively recognized as Enid.

And her.

Enid, curled into her side.

One arm slung across Wednesday’s waist. One hand resting just above her ribs, steady with breath.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was grounding.

A kind of stillness she’d never been good at recognizing, let alone allowing. But here—in this space, in this moment—there was no urge to flinch. No cold instinct clawing up her spine to remind her to pull away. Just warmth. Just a heartbeat beside her own.

Enid moved next.

A soft inhale. A murmur against the fabric of Wednesday’s sleep shirt.

“Mmm… what time is it?”

Wednesday didn’t look. “Too early to be useful.”

“Too late to pretend it didn’t happen,” Enid mumbled, her voice hoarse with sleep.

They lay in silence for a while after that. Not uncomfortable. Just full. The kind of silence that doesn’t beg to be broken because it says everything by itself.

Enid’s thumb brushed over Wednesday’s side absently. “Did we really find a door that doesn’t exist to a building that never existed under a school that pretends everything’s fine?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Cool.”

She yawned, then burrowed closer.

Wednesday stared up at the ceiling. The light made the cracks in the paint look like veins.

“You should sleep more,” she said quietly. “You need it.”

Enid didn’t move. “So do you.”

“I don’t require as much rest.”

“That doesn’t mean you deserve less of it.”

Wednesday’s mouth twitched.

Just barely.

A heartbeat passed.

Then she said, softer: “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Enid’s arm tightened around her. “You think I’m not saying the same thing about you?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

Enid shifted just enough to look up at her. Her hair was a mess. There was ink smudged on her wrist from the night before. Her eyes were tired but clear.

“I’m not scared because I’m with you,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not ready to fight something if it tries to touch you.”

Wednesday looked at her for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “If it comes down to it—”

“Nope,” Enid interrupted. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“I was going to say—”

“I don’t care,” Enid said. “We’re not doing the self-sacrifice thing. We’re doing the stay-alive thing. Together.”

Wednesday blinked once.

Then nodded. “Together.”

Enid dropped her head back onto her shoulder with a sigh.

“God,” she groaned. “I love you so much it’s probably a security risk.”

Wednesday turned her face slightly. Enough to rest her cheek against the top of Enid’s head.

“You’re the only person I’d willingly make myself a liability for,” she whispered.

A soft silence followed.

Then: “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Wednesday smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

Enid smiled into her shoulder.

They stayed like that a little longer. Letting the morning settle. Letting safety bloom between them like a shield.

They would get up soon.

They would dress. They would eat. They would return to the blueprints, to the hidden door, to the things that whispered beneath the floorboards of the school.

But for now—

They had each other.

*

They didn’t mean to kiss.

Or maybe they always meant to. It just took daylight to make it feel like permission.

It started as a brush — Enid shifting slightly, lifting her head, eyes half-lidded and still hazy with sleep. Wednesday tilted toward her instinctively. Just a press. Quiet. Familiar.

Then Enid kissed her again.

Slower this time.

Lingering.

And then it deepened — tentative at first, careful, like unfolding something precious after too long in the dark. Enid’s hand slid to Wednesday’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek, and Wednesday made a quiet sound in the back of her throat before kissing her back.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

But it was hungry.

The kind of hunger that came from too many near-misses. From sleepless nights and cold floors and secrets too heavy to carry without touching. From terror pressed so tightly into adrenaline that the only way out was through each other.

Enid shifted again, pulling Wednesday closer, fingers finding the edge of her braid. She kissed her with a smile like it had always been inevitable.

Wednesday let her.

Let herself.

Her hand found the small of Enid’s back, dragging her in with a kind of softness that didn’t match the storm always pulsing just beneath her surface. She kissed like it was a ritual. Like if she kissed her long enough, the rest of the world might pause. Might wait.

It didn’t.

But she still kissed her.

Enid laughed quietly against her mouth at one point — just a breath, a gasp, a happy little noise like this is real, this is real, this is real.

Wednesday pulled back first, just barely. Enough to breathe.

Her lips were pink. Her eyes half-lidded.

“That was…” Enid started, voice wrecked in the best way.

“A necessary recalibration,” Wednesday replied, deadpan.

Enid grinned. “That’s your word for making out?”

Wednesday blinked once, then rolled onto her back with a sigh so dramatic it could’ve won awards.

“That was a lot of fun,” she said. “But unfortunately, there’s only so much daylight in a day. And we need to go break into a buried building before something beats us to it.”

Enid snorted. “You’re the worst pillow talker I’ve ever met.”

“You’re the only person I allow to critique it.”

“Lucky me.”

Wednesday turned her head to face her again. Her voice softened. “We have to go soon.”

Enid nodded.

But she leaned in and kissed her once more — quick, warm, grounding — before slipping out of bed.

“Okay,” she said, stretching as her hoodie rode up. “Let’s go commit more light treason.”

Wednesday stood too, braiding her hair back with steady hands.

“Correction,” she said. “Let’s go find out what they tried so hard to erase.”

***

The tunnel didn’t want them there.

That was the first thought that struck Wednesday as the concrete edge scraped against her shoulder. The second was quieter, colder:

We’re not the first.

Their flashlights cut narrow paths through the dark. Dust motes danced in the beams like disturbed spirits, kicked up from a place that hadn’t known breath in years. The air was too still. Too stale. It clung to their skin like old wallpaper — damp, peeling, and wrong.

Behind them, the square hatch they'd pried open yawned silently, offering no light. No escape. Just a rectangle of black that felt more like a door shutting than one they'd entered through.

“Hold my hand,” Wednesday said.

Enid didn’t argue. She reached back instantly, fingers warm and firm around hers. It wasn’t about romance, not here. It wasn’t about comfort. It was about tethering. Anchoring. Making sure the other didn’t vanish if the dark decided to get hungry.

Their boots whispered on the packed earth — not loud enough to echo, just enough to remind them they were still moving. The tunnel walls narrowed and widened without reason, like it had been carved by no one, shaped by memory instead of tools.

“How far do you think this goes?” Enid whispered.

Wednesday shook her head. “Farther than it should.”

There were no markings. No bricks. Just rough dirt and rotting beams pressed into the ceiling like bones meant to hold the earth back. Some of them creaked. Some of them wept — little black lines of moisture slipping down the walls like veins.

Once, they passed a dead rat curled on its side, stiff with time. Its eyes were missing. Just empty sockets staring up at them. Enid looked away.

“What are we even walking toward?” she asked quietly.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She didn’t want to say what she feared: that they weren’t walking toward anything. That this place was pulling them. Stretching behind them. Bending under their feet like a throat preparing to close.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours.

Time was soft here — pliable, muddy. Nothing sharp enough to measure it against. Their flashlights grew dimmer as the battery indicators flickered orange. Enid slapped hers lightly, muttering, and the beam steadied.

Then they found the first turn.

It wasn’t natural. A sharp left in the wall, like someone had cut into the dirt with surgical precision. The floor dipped. The ceiling dropped low enough that Enid had to duck.

Something changed with the air.

It wasn’t colder.

It was older.

It smelled like varnish and something sweet rotting in a jar. Like childhood left in a drawer too long. And under that — the faint, unmistakable hint of perfume. Dusty, violet, and cloying. A scent made to cover something up.

Enid gagged lightly. “What is that?”

“Memory,” Wednesday said. “Or what’s left of it.”

The new hallway was different.

Still dirt, but smoother now. Flattened. Like it had seen more feet than the tunnel behind them. Strange carvings lined the walls — not letters. Not symbols. Just deep, looping scratches that looked like they were made with tiny hands.

“Claw marks?” Enid whispered.

“No,” Wednesday said softly. “Fingernails.”

They kept walking.

Eventually, the walls changed again — from dirt to old cement. From handmade to forgotten. Pipes lined the upper corners, rusted through in places, dripping with dark water that never quite hit the ground. Some were wrapped in fabric. Or maybe it was gauze.

Something buzzed past them — small, winged, gone in a blink. Enid flinched.

“Bat?”

“No,” Wednesday said. “Too small.”

“Rat?”

“Too fast.”

She didn’t say what she thought it was.

Then they saw the first door.

Not a proper door. Just a shape on the wall — metal framing, torn hinges, a cracked window with no glass. A sign dangled from one screw at a slant:

SUPPLY STORAGE – BLDG 430C

Enid stopped.

She looked at Wednesday. “It’s real.”

Wednesday only nodded.

They kept going.

More doors followed. Not all labeled. Some were just outlines. Places where doors had once been, now swallowed by wall. One was nailed shut from the inside.

At another, Wednesday paused. Something was scrawled across it in red.

Not blood. Not paint.

Lipstick.

BE QUIET. THEY LIKE TO LISTEN.

Enid squeezed her hand tighter.

The corridor narrowed again.

Their flashlights flickered.

Ahead, the hallway bent one final time — a slow curve to the right, deeper into the earth. The light didn’t reach around it. But something did.

Something cold.

It brushed against their ankles like a draft, but didn’t move the dust. It touched their skin, but didn’t feel like air.

Wednesday stopped.

“So… do we turn it?” Enid asked, voice thin.

“We already did,” Wednesday said.

Because the hallway was bending around them.

The light ahead was growing — faint and unnatural. Yellowed. Sickly. Like it was coming through something stained. It didn’t flicker. It pulsed.

Wednesday exhaled slowly. “That’s it.”

“The Doll House?” Enid asked.

“No,” she whispered.

“Not yet.”

But the air had shifted.

The pressure changed.

Something ahead knew they were there.

And it had just opened its eyes.

The hallway ended without warning.

One step they were surrounded by dirt, by the living breath of earth pressed in too close — and the next, they weren’t. The air changed again. Not colder. Not heavier.

Cleaner.

But in the wrong way. The kind of sterile that felt faked. Like someone had sprayed bleach over blood and left the scent behind as proof.

They stepped through the last arch — if it could even be called that — and stopped.

“What the hell,” Enid whispered.

It was a hospital.

Or, at least, it wore a hospital’s skin.

The tunnel opened into a lobby-like room — long and rectangular, with a low ceiling and yellow tile that stretched like aged teeth across the floor. A curved receptionist desk stood against the far wall, half-shattered and covered in moss-colored dust. Above it, a corroded sign read:

INTAKE – CALMING WARD 430C

Enid read it twice. Then again. Then said nothing.

Because the rest of the room told the real story.

It wanted to look like a hospital — the kind you'd see in old movies or memory fragments. The kind that smells like linoleum and gauze. But it was wrong in all the ways that mattered.

The chairs in the waiting area were bolted to the floor. Not gently. Crude welds scarred the metal legs, holding them down like the idea of movement had been punished. The corners of the room were too round, too smoothed over, like they’d been padded with something soft once — and maybe something soft had bled there.

The walls were tiled halfway up, then bare cement — no posters. No hand sanitizer stations. Just long smudges where frames had once hung. One still had glass. Cracked, jagged. The reflection inside bent too far left.

Wednesday stepped forward.

The door behind the receptionist desk wasn’t wood or metal — it was both. Reinforced. Too thick for a hospital door. No room for kindness. No swing of comfort. This was a door meant to hold things in. Not let them out.

It had a window. Long and narrow. Plexiglass, fogged from the inside.

She tried the handle.

Locked.

Of course.

She turned back to Enid, who was still staring at the reception area.

There were dolls.

Three of them.

One sitting in a waiting room chair. One behind the desk, slumped like a nurse on break. One half-melted near the wall, its limbs distorted like they'd been pulled through heat — or worse, frozen then broken.

All were facing forward.

None had dust on their eyes.

Enid spoke, finally.

“This place… it wanted to look like something normal.”

Wednesday nodded. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Because imitation was worse than decay. This wasn’t just a ruin. It was a replica. A set. A stage someone had built for a lie they were still telling themselves.

And the lie was this:

We’re here to help.

Enid reached for her flashlight again, though it was barely helping now. The light touched the wall behind the reception desk — pale, mottled. Something had been drawn there in faint, waxy strokes. It looked like crayon.

A child’s hand. Repeated. Over and over.

Small prints. Some with too many fingers. Some with none at all.

And above them, a phrase scratched in something darker:

BE GOOD OR BE QUIET.

Wednesday exhaled through her nose.

“Still think this was a hospital?” she asked.

Enid didn’t answer.

The silence in the room was alive now — not oppressive, but expectant. Like something was listening behind the walls. Like something knew they’d made it this far and was waiting to see what they’d do next.

The door behind the desk was still locked.

But there were other hallways branching off the lobby. Faint outlines of arrows could still be seen under the grime:

← MED WARD A
→ OBSERVATION
↘ VISITATION

But none of them pointed toward a way out.

Wednesday turned to Enid.

“Ready?” she asked.

Enid nodded once. “Let’s stay close.”

Their fingers twined again without needing to be asked.

And with slow steps and flashlights dimming, they walked past the receptionist desk, past the dolls, past the padded walls that used to pretend they were there for safety.

And into the halls where no one had walked in decades.

Not because they weren’t allowed.

But because something had made sure they wouldn’t want to.

It was colder up here than it had any right to be.

Not the kind of cold that belonged to air conditioning, or stone walls, or bad insulation — but something colder, stranger. A breath held too long. A room remembering something it wasn’t supposed to. The kind of cold that came from things sealed shut for a reason.

Wednesday’s boots clicked softly against the linoleum as she stepped into the darkness first, flashlight beam cutting through dust like a blade through fog. Enid followed, close enough that their shoulders brushed every time they turned, the squeeze of her hand like a lifeline. Neither of them spoke.

The records room stretched out in every direction.

Tall metal filing cabinets rose like tombstones — rusted, dented, crooked in places — rows and rows of them, arranged with no care for logic or chronology. There was no system here. No dates. No sections. Only names. Scratched, smeared, typed, redacted.

And there were hundreds.

The dust made the air thick — gray as breath in winter — and every now and then it swirled against their faces like it had been disturbed before. Not long ago. Like someone had walked through these same aisles… barefoot. Slowly. Like a child playing a game they didn’t understand.

Wednesday’s light hit a drawer that was half open. It trembled.

Enid reached for it. Her fingers brushed the label: PATIENT 017 – ANNIE █████.

The drawer was empty.

Not a single file. Not a paperclip. Just the imprint of something heavy having once lived there, and a faint stain in the back corner — a thumbprint? A toothmark?

Blood?

No. Older. Browner. But sweet-smelling, like syrup left out too long. Like varnish and rot.

“Wen,” Enid whispered. “It’s not alphabetical.”

“No,” Wednesday murmured. “It’s not organized for humans.”

The light flickered.

They moved deeper in.

There were more drawers. Some locked. Some warped shut. One cabinet had a scorched hole through the side, metal melted like wax. Another was covered in what looked like children’s drawings — crude crayons etched right into the steel, smiling stick figures, dolls with too many arms.

At the center of the room was a desk.

Or what had once been a desk. It was barely more than a carcass now — wood flaking, drawers open like mouths, legs twisted beneath it. A chair lay overturned beside it. The floor around it was bare — no dust. No cobwebs. Like someone had been here recently.

Wednesday stepped behind it, brushing off the top.

There were files. Piles of them. Marked REDACTED and DO NOT TRANSFER and one stamped over and over again with a crooked, bleeding seal:
DESTROYED 1964
DESTROYED 1964
DESTROYED 1964

But the files were still here.

And worse: so were the tapes.

Five of them.

VHS. Heavy. Black. Labeled in faded ink so faint it was almost invisible. Each one wrapped in twine, too tight, like something might break out if the knot wasn’t just right.

Enid leaned over, whispering before she realized she was doing it. “Why would they use tapes down here? Who were they for?”

Wednesday picked one up. The label read:

BUILDING 430C – HALL 3 – NIGHT OBSERVATION – 03:15

Another:

INTERIOR ROOM 12 – AUDIO ONLY – PATIENT 017

The third had no label at all.

Just the word “DON’T” carved into the plastic in what looked like a broken paperclip. Deep. Jagged. Red on the edge.

Wednesday held the last one in both hands. It was heavier than the others. Cold. The label had been burned halfway off, but two words remained:

DO NOT WATCH.

The silence in the room thickened. The lights above them — if there were any — didn’t work. Hadn’t for decades. The only light came from their flashlights and the candle flickering in Enid’s chest pocket, stolen from the desk, now sputtering against something unseen.

The tapes felt alive.

Not warm. Not breathing. But watching. Waiting.

Enid whispered, “We’re not leaving them here.”

Wednesday looked at her. “We can’t.”

So they took them.

Wrapped them in black cloth from the desk drawers. Tucked them into Enid’s bag between salt and maps and a knife they hadn’t needed yet.

And as soon as they turned back toward the door—
The cabinets behind them slammed.

Not one.

All of them.
At once.

A sound like bones falling down a staircase, drawers shrieking, metal biting metal. And then silence again, like nothing had ever moved. Like nothing had ever been alive.

But Enid swore she saw something behind the last row.
Just for a second.

A doll.
Sitting on a file cabinet.
Smiling.

The air didn’t breathe after that.

The dust stayed still.

And when they left the records room behind, the lights outside flickered for just a moment — just long enough to cast two shadows walking away.

And a third that stayed.
Grinning from the file room door.

The Sound of Porcelain

It started faintly.

A soft sound. Not like breathing, not quite.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

At first it could have been the pipes. Or the old air vents. Or the metal ceiling grids shifting slightly under the weight of years and dust and secrets. A hundred natural explanations bloomed behind Enid’s eyes before she let herself admit it wasn’t the kind of sound that belonged to air or metal.

It was deliberate.

Porcelain.
On tile.

A steady, unnatural rhythm, like a teacup footstep. Delicate and too exact. A weight that didn’t match its echo. Lighter than human, but too controlled to be anything else.

Enid's hand found Wednesday’s without asking. Their fingers threaded tight. No breath between them.

The cabinets behind them had stopped groaning. The air wasn’t moving anymore. Even the candle Enid kept tucked in her coat pocket had gone cold — not out, just cold. Burning wrong. Like the flame itself didn’t want to be noticed.

And still—
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

“Wen,” Enid whispered, too quiet for anything but survival. “Tell me you hear that.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She turned her head slowly. Too slowly. Like anything quicker might draw attention.

The corridor behind them was empty.
Of course it was empty.
It was always empty.

Until it wasn’t.

Because then it came again, louder this time, as if the thing that made the sound had found its confidence.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

But now it was closer.

No echo. No distance.

Enid took a slow step back, drawing Wednesday with her. The VHS tapes in her bag shifted against her hip like they didn’t want to be here anymore, like they were trying to slide out and bury themselves again.

And that’s when they knew.

This wasn’t a place that forgave being seen.

This wasn’t a place where visitors were allowed to leave.

The records room had been… still. But not neutral.

It had tolerated them. For a time.

And now the time had ended.

“Go,” Wednesday said, quiet but urgent, the shape of her body already pulling toward the hall, toward the stairwell, toward anything that looked like an exit.

Enid didn’t argue.

They ran.

Not loudly. Not screaming. Not like victims. But fast and low and practiced, like people who knew how to get away from something awful without making it angrier.

The hallway blurred.

The cabinets passed in a smear of rust and shadow.

They reached the stairwell door—
Wednesday yanked the handle.

Nothing.

It didn’t move.

She tried again. Harder. Shoving her shoulder into the steel.

Still nothing.

“Wen,” Enid said again, sharper this time. “Wen, the door.”

“It’s locked.”

“No, it can’t—” She tried it herself. Yanked with everything she had. The metal groaned but didn’t give. Not a fraction.

Behind them—
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

No longer slow.

Closer.

More than one.

A second set now. Fainter. Like glass fingers dragging on tile. Like dolls too tall for shelves, too old for comfort.

Enid slammed her fist into the door. “There has to be a key—!”

“There isn’t.”

“There has to be—!”

“Enid.”

It was the way Wednesday said her name that stopped her.

Low. Flat. Certain.

The sound of someone accepting something before the panic sets in.

Enid turned.

Behind them, at the far end of the hall—

Something stood just past the edge of the flashlight beam.

A shape.

Child-sized.

But wrong.

Too straight. Too still. Not breathing. Arms limp at the sides. Hair black as ash, plastered perfectly. A dress the color of curdled milk.

And behind that—

Another shape.

Smaller.

And another.

Not moving. Not blinking.

But the sound didn’t stop.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They were coming. But their legs didn’t move.

They didn’t walk.

They just… drew closer. One second at a time.

The flashlight in Wednesday’s hand flickered. Buzzed. Died. Came back again.

The shapes were gone.

But the sound was still there.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Enid felt the burn of bile at the back of her throat. Her heart knocking hard against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

“This is a bad place,” she said, voice breaking.

Wednesday looked at her.

And for the first time since the start—
She nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “We weren’t supposed to find it.”

Enid turned back to the door. Slamming again, again. Knuckles red. Metal screaming under her fists. Wednesday crouched low, flashlight pressed to the floor, scanning for seams, cracks, anything that would give.

Nothing.

The hallway behind them lengthened.

Like the room itself was breathing them in.

And still—
Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not loud.

But inevitable.

And in the dark of that stairwell, with the handle frozen and the silence closing in—

Something behind the door finally moved.

But not to open it.

It locked.

Audibly.

A deadbolt that hadn’t been there before slid into place.

The hallway lights flickered once.

And went out.

Wednesday and Enid stood frozen in the dark, holding each other’s hands so tight it hurt.

The darkness pressed in.

Thick. Oily. Breathing.

Somehow it breathed.

The flashlight in Wednesday’s hand buzzed once, then went cold again. Enid didn’t ask her to turn it back on. She didn’t want to see.

Because the steps hadn’t stopped.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Now just around the corner.

Not walking.

Drifting.

A rhythm with intention, with memory — the kind that belonged to things that remembered how to move like people, and had long since chosen not to.

Wednesday’s grip was bloodless. Her hand felt frozen in Enid’s. The hallway behind them had gone so quiet the sound of their pulse might’ve filled it — if the tapping hadn’t already taken the space.

And then—

The doorknob turned.

Not violently. Not forced.

Gently.

As if whatever was on the other side had never truly been locked out.

The door swung open.

Slow.

Mocking.

The tunnel yawned before them, wide and waiting. The air pouring from it was damp and wrong, like something had opened its mouth at the bottom and exhaled centuries.

Enid didn’t scream.

She ran.

They both did.

Together — no hesitation — fingers locked, boots slamming against the cracked floor, breath ripping out in bursts. They didn’t look back.

You didn’t look back in places like this.

Because looking meant seeing and seeing meant knowing, and once you knew, it never let you leave.

The tunnel swallowed them whole.

Dirt scraped along their shoulders. Cobwebs like veins tore across their arms. The walls pulsed as if alive — soft sounds like something crawling just past hearing, just out of reach.

Behind them—

A hiss.

Like silk being dragged across old teeth.

The light from the door was gone.

Enid stumbled. Wednesday caught her — barely — yanking her upright, dragging her forward.

They ran until the tunnel narrowed.

Until the light changed.

Until the scent of the basement — of mildew, of soap, of rusted pipes and forgotten brooms — hit them in the face like a slap from the world they were still part of.

The hole was ahead.

Still open.

God.

Still open.

Wednesday didn’t slow.

She shoved Enid through first — didn’t ask, didn’t wait. Enid scrambled out on elbows and knees, clawing at the concrete floor of the dormitory basement like it might disappear if she moved too slow.

Wednesday followed.

Not gracefully.

Not calmly.

She hurled herself through, one hand already swinging back, gripping the edge of the hidden wall.

They slammed it shut.

Hard.

The seam vanished.

No lock.

No handle.

Just solid, unbroken concrete again.

And then silence.

Not just the absence of sound.

The kind of silence that presses — that lays over your back like a second skin. That waits. That listens.

They didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Enid was still on the floor. Her back pressed against the utility sink. One hand over her mouth.

Wednesday stood over her, breathing through her teeth, braid half-ruined, flashlight still flickering weakly in her palm.

Behind the wall…

Nothing.

No knock. No scream.

But they knew.

They knew what they’d heard. What they’d almost seen.

And worst of all—
They knew it hadn’t finished.

“We have to go,” Enid said finally. Her voice cracked in the middle.

Wednesday didn’t argue.

She reached down, pulled Enid to her feet.

And they ran again.

Not as fast.

Not as desperate.

But with purpose.

The basement stretched too long.

The stairs creaked too much.

The door at the top took too many seconds to open.

And still — not a single sound followed them.

Not until they hit the hallway outside their room.

And the overhead lights flickered.

Just once.

The bulb above their door went out.

Not shattered.

Not faded.

Extinguished.

They went inside anyway.

They closed the door. Locked it. Barricaded it. Every instinct in them on fire.

Neither girl said a word.

Not until they were sitting on the bed, breathless, backs to the wall, knees pulled to their chests like it might shield their hearts.

Then — only then — did Enid whisper:

“Wen. We weren’t alone down there.”

Wednesday didn’t blink.

“We never were.”

From under the floorboards—
Somewhere deep—
Very faintly—

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

And then the floorboards stopped creaking.

And the silence settled in.

Like breath beneath a pillow.

Across the room, near the window,
the chair sat empty.

The doll Enid had given Wednesday—
a joke at first, soft and strange,
stitched with love and something older—
was no longer there.

They hadn’t packed it.
They hadn’t touched it.

But the corner where it always sat—
prim, upright, patient—
was vacant.

The cushion still held its shape.
A curve where porcelain once rested.
A weight that should have been too light to leave a dent.

But the dent remained.

And the room felt wrong.
Not colder.
Not louder.

Just more watched.
More remembered.

Neither girl noticed.

Not yet

Chapter Text

She hasn’t slept well in a week.

Not really. Not in a way that counts.

She closes her eyes. She rests. But her body doesn’t believe it.
There’s no drifting. No surrender. Just hours passing behind her eyelids while her brain chews itself raw.

She feels like she’s been shaking since the basement.

That’s the best way she can describe it. Like every cell is vibrating. Like her muscles are always halfway into a flinch. Like she’s a wire pulled too tight, waiting for the snap.

But she’s not shaking. Not when she checks.

Her hands stay still. Her breathing stays slow.

It makes her want to scream.

She doesn’t. Of course not. That would mean Wednesday would hear.

And Wednesday hasn’t said a word.

Not about the Doll House. Not about the tapes. Not about the way Enid jumped last night when a spoon fell in the dining hall and hit the floor wrong.

She’s been quiet. Even for her.

Not cold. Not gone. Just watching. Carefully. Like she’s taking notes. Like she’s studying Enid under glass, trying to figure out which part’s going to crack first.

Enid knows she should say something.

She should ask. Are you scared? Did something follow us? Is it in the room right now?

But her mouth never works when she needs it to. Her throat locks up the second she tries to speak. The words come out wrong in her head, before they even get the chance to make it anywhere else.

So she doesn’t talk.
She showers.

Late, when Wednesday’s already in bed with her back turned and the sheets pulled high. When the hallway’s gone still and the windows have started to fog.

She goes to the bathroom and turns the water on too hot.
Stares at her reflection until it disappears behind steam.
Waits for her skin to sting.
Waits for something to snap.

And when it doesn’t—

She lets herself cry.

Mouth pressed to her sleeve. Shoulders curled in.
Silent and desperate, like the only way to feel safe again is to come apart first.

But tonight, something’s different.

Because tonight—
She leans her head against the tile.

Let’s the water pound her shoulders like it might shake something loose. Something sharp. Something wrong.

Hot water. Safe water. Real water.

She tells herself that over and over. This is the shower. This is the dorm. This is real.

She breathes in steam.
Breathes out a sob.
Catches it in the crook of her elbow before it echoes.

And then—

She blinks.

And the water stops.

No pressure. No warmth. Just—

Stillness.

And the tile is wrong.

It’s pale blue now. Cracked in places. The grout’s gone dark. There’s mold blooming in the corner behind her shoulder. The curtain’s no longer clear. It’s yellow. Patterned with small pink roses.

Her feet aren’t on tile.

They’re on wood.

Old, uneven, splintering.

Her heart lurches.

She reaches for the faucet—except it’s not there.

Her hand scrapes wallpaper.

There’s no tub.

No drain.

Just a basin—white porcelain, empty—and a mirror above it with something scrawled in the bottom corner.

She doesn’t want to read it.
She doesn’t want to turn.

But she does.

Because some part of her knows.
Some part of her always knew.

She’s back.

Back in the Doll House.

It’s the hallway this time.

The long one.

The one that curves like it’s alive.

But it’s not dusty now.
Not silent.
Not empty.

She hears footsteps this time. Just ahead. Just out of view. Small. Barefoot.

Running.

She opens her mouth.

And wakes up.

She’s on the shower floor.

Water still running.

Her spine pressed against cold tile. Her towel crumpled in the corner. Her knuckles are bleeding. She doesn’t know why.

She stays there a long time.

Long enough for the water to go lukewarm. Then cold. Then colder.

When she finally stands, she doesn’t cry.
She just dries off.
Pulls on Wednesday’s sweatshirt.
And crawls into bed without a word.

They don’t turn the lights on.

The tapes are still where they left them.
Six of them. Unlabeled. Waiting.

They don’t hum. Don’t move.
But somehow, they still feel loud.
Like they’re the ones filling the room with all this silence.

Enid doesn’t sit.

She’s still in last night’s clothes. Hoodie sleeves stretched to her palms. Shoulders tight from a week of pretending she’s not scared, not drowning, not unraveling in plain sight.

Wednesday stands across from her. Back straight. Hands folded behind her like she’s in front of a firing squad, not a desk.

It’s been a week since the Doll House.

A week since they came back up with those tapes and locked the memory away in the room like it wouldn’t claw its way out anyway.

And Enid can’t take it anymore.

Not after the shower.
Not after waking up on cold tile with blood on her knuckles and no memory of how it got there.
Not after screaming into the drain without making a sound.

She needs this to end. Or change. Or break open.

So she says it.

“There’s that store in town,” she murmurs. “The one with the vintage stuff in the window. They’ve got a TV with a VHS player built in.”

Wednesday’s eyes flick toward her, sharp as always.

“I saw it last week,” Enid adds, fingers tightening into her sleeves. “It was playing something warped. Like… the color was wrong. The sound too slow.”

A pause.

Then: “We could take one of the tapes.”

Wednesday doesn’t answer right away.

Enid watches her profile. Watches her breathe. Watches her not say the thing Enid needs her to say, the one that might make any of this feel less heavy.

“I want to watch them,” Enid says. It comes out too fast. Too cracked. “I need to.”

And that’s the real part. The part that shakes.

She doesn’t want answers. Not really.

She just wants the not-knowing to stop scraping at her skin.

Wednesday shifts.

Then nods.

And just like that, they’re moving.

Enid grabs her keys.
Wednesday takes the box.

And the room behind them breathes out like it was holding something in.

*
They cross the threshold like they’re stepping into a memory someone else forgot to have.

The store is colder than it should be. Not air-conditioned. Cold.
Like basement cold.
Like cement walls and bad insulation and secrets buried under the carpet.

The lights hum overhead—white and flickering. The kind that makes everything look sick.

And she’s already standing behind the counter.

She looked no older than Wednesday. Maybe younger.
Pale.
Pretty in the way a porcelain figure is pretty — precise, but lifeless.
Hair in a single, perfect braid.
Dress white, clean, pressed at the collar. Like she’d stepped out of a funeral for dolls.

She doesn’t blink when they walk in.

Doesn’t greet them. Doesn’t smile.

Just lets her gaze drift to the box in Wednesday’s arms.

“Tapes,” she says.

It’s not a question.

Wednesday doesn’t answer.

Enid does. Or tries. “We—yeah. We just—”

“VHS,” the girl interrupts. Her voice is too smooth. Too soft. Like someone humming through glass.

She points one pale finger toward the TV in the window. Large. Old. Built-in deck.

“Not for sale,” she says. “But I can move it.”

Wednesday’s eyebrows twitch. “Why would you?”

The girl tilts her head. Her braid sways, slow and exact.

“Because I want to see what you brought.”

Enid goes still.

The girl continues: “One tape. You let me watch. I move the TV to the back room. No interruptions. No recordings. No extra cost.”

“No,” Wednesday says, immediately.

But Enid—
Enid is already nodding.

She doesn’t care.
She can’t care.
She’s tired of holding it. Tired of not knowing. Tired of seeing the Doll House when she blinks too long.

“Okay,” Enid says.

Wednesday turns, sharp and angry in the eyes. “You don’t have to say yes just because—”

“I do,” Enid cuts in, quietly. “You didn’t find yourself on the shower floor.”

The girl behind the counter blinks. Once. Slow.

Then smiles.

It’s not warm.
It’s not cold.

It’s exact.

“I’ll meet you in the back,” she says.

And she’s gone before either of them sees her move.

The floor beneath her sneakers isn’t linoleum. It’s old wood. Warped, soft at the edges. It bows under her weight like it remembers her.

The lights overhead don’t flicker—they swing. Softly. Like someone passed by a second before.

There’s wallpaper now. Peeling in long, wet strips.

And the smell—

Mildew. Old breath. The iron tint of something that isn’t quite blood.

Her pulse hammers in her throat.

She tries to breathe through it.
Tries to count—one step, two, just keep walking—but the hallway is bending. Curving, like it did the first time. Like it’s alive.

She blinks.

She’s in the store.
A cracked poster on the wall. A blinking green “EXIT” sign.

She blinks again.

She’s back in the Doll House.

Room 015.
Room 016.
Room—

017.

She sees the door.

She always sees the door.

Closed. No handle.

Her feet keep moving.

She wants to stop.

She can’t.

She hears Wednesday’s steps ahead of her. Sharp. Real.
But they sound far away, like they’re coming through a wall.

The girl rounds a corner.

The hallway snaps back.

Store lights. Dust. A boxed fan clicking in the corner.

And suddenly—
They’re in the back room.

The TV is already waiting.

Big. Blocky. Plugged into nothing but still humming, like it knows.

The girl stands beside it. Her hands clasped behind her back. That same white dress. Not a wrinkle in sight.

She doesn’t look at Enid.

But Enid feels her watching.

Feels the hallway still pressed behind her eyes. The Doll House still clinging to her skin like mold.

Wednesday says something. Low. Hesitant.

Enid doesn’t hear it.

She’s already reaching.

There are six tapes. Wednesday’s holding them. She doesn’t remember when she handed them off.

She picks one.

Not the top. Not the bottom.

The third one down.

Cold in her hand.

The plastic feels heavier than it should. Like it’s full of something. Like it’s breathing.

She crosses the room without speaking.

The screen stares back—black, blank, waiting.

She pushes the tape in.

Click.

A soft whir.

The screen flickers.

The tape begins with static.

No volume at first—just the hum of electricity behind the screen, like the machine itself is holding its breath.

And then—

It fades in.

A hallway.

Wooden floors. Curved walls. Familiar wallpaper in that too-bright floral print that tries to feel comforting and fails.

The camera is low. Unmoving. Like someone set it on the ground and walked away.

And at the end of the hall—

Room 017.

Enid stops breathing.

She knows that door.

She knows it.

“Annie,” she whispers, barely audible, but Wednesday hears it. She doesn’t look at her. Just locks in on the screen.

Behind them, the girl in white tilts her head and smiles.

“You’ll recognize this one,” she says softly. “Everyone does.”

On the tape, the camera doesn’t move.

But the door opens.

Slowly. Soundlessly.

Inside: a small, windowless room. Too clean. Too symmetrical. Like a doll’s room.

A white bed. One chair. A lamp.

And in the corner—
A child.

She’s sitting perfectly upright. Blonde. Wearing the same white dress as the girl in the store.

Her head is tilted at a painful angle. Her smile never wavers. Her eyes never blink.

“This is Annie,” the girl in the store says.

Enid’s mouth goes dry.

“She’s eight here. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her. She didn’t grow like normal kids did. They made sure of that.”

On the tape, the girl moves her head—just slightly. Toward the door. Like she knows the camera’s there.

Then, she begins to speak.

But there’s no audio.

Her lips move.

She points at something just off frame.

And the tape warps. Glitches. For half a second, the screen splits, and you see something else flash across the black bars.

Another room. A figure hanging upside down. A mouth stitched closed.

Then back.

Annie’s still smiling.

Still pointing.

“She wasn’t always like this,” the girl in the store says behind them, calm as rain. “She used to cry. A lot. That’s why they started the sessions.”

“Sessions?” Enid says.

But she doesn’t want to know.

She already knows.

The tape cuts to another room.

Same girl.

Different angle.

She’s strapped into a chair now. Thin leather bands around her wrists and forehead.

A man stands off-screen, speaking in a soothing voice. “Let’s try again, Annie.”

A metronome starts ticking. Loud. Sharp.

Annie doesn’t blink.

She doesn’t move.

And then—
A second figure enters the frame.

Another child.

Pale. Smaller. Her face blurred. Deliberately.

“They brought in doubles,” the girl in the store says. “They thought maybe if she saw herself, she’d talk. Or if she thought she was being replaced, she’d perform.”

The blurred child walks to Annie. Reaches for her hand.

And Annie screams.

Not on the tape. Not out loud.

But visually—her mouth opens. Her body thrashes. The leather straps hold. Her eyes roll back.

The screen glitches again.

You see a flash of something behind the wall. Like there’s a room inside the room. Someone watching.

Enid grips the edge of the table.

“I’ve seen her,” she whispers. “In the hallway. I—”

“You remember wrong,” the girl in the store says gently. “You didn’t see her. You passed her.”

Wednesday turns sharply. “What do you mean?”

“She was in the walls,” the girl replies. “They kept her close. That’s where the dolls started. Not for comfort. For containment.”

On the screen, the lights flicker.

The second child vanishes.

Annie is alone again.
Her mouth is bleeding now. The leather strap has cut into her face.

She smiles through it.

And then, she turns to the camera.

“Pause it,” Wednesday says, suddenly.

The screen freezes. Annie’s smile sharp and too wide.

“That’s not just a child,” Wednesday says. “She’s—”

“She’s awake,” the girl says, still smiling. “And she’s been waiting a long time.”

Enid shakes her head. “That can’t be. That’s not possible.”

“You brought her up with you,” the girl says simply. “She followed the blood.”

Enid’s knuckles go white.

Behind them, the tape unfreezes on its own.

Annie begins to walk.

Slowly.

Toward the camera.

The hallway stretches behind her now. The number 017 flickers across the screen like it’s burned into the frame.

“She doesn’t want revenge,” the girl adds. “She wants family.”

And then, the screen goes black.

Just for a second.

When it comes back—
The camera is inside the room.

Pointed at the bed.

And Annie’s not in it.

But someone is.

Asleep.

Blonde.

Wearing a hoodie.

Curled on her side.

Enid stares.

“That’s not—”

But it is.

It’s her.

The screen doesn’t move.

Enid is still staring at herself.
Asleep. Small. Vulnerable in a way that feels stolen.
The hoodie is hers. She recognizes the tear on the sleeve. The hair tie around the wrist. The way she curls up when she’s cold.

It’s her.

On the bed.

Inside the Doll House.

On tape.

And it’s not a memory.
It’s not footage from a week ago.

The timestamp in the bottom right corner reads March 2001.

Wednesday breathes out like she’s been holding it the whole time.

“No,” she says.

Not with anger.

With disbelief.

“No. That’s not possible.”

And then they both hear it—

The voice.

Still calm. Still soft.

Still right behind them.

“She always made room for new girls.”

Enid turns.

Very slowly.

The girl in the white dress is still there. Exactly where she stood.

Same braid. Same pale hands folded like she’s waiting for communion. Same pressed collar, spotless white, no dust on her shoes despite the store’s floors being covered in it.

But something’s different now.

It’s not what she looks like.

It’s what she doesn’t.

She doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t breathe.
Doesn’t shift.

Not even under Enid’s stare.

Wednesday steps slightly in front of Enid. Instinct. Defensive. Useless.

“Who are you?” she asks, and the question sounds wrong the second it leaves her mouth.

Because she knows.

They both do.

They’ve known since the hallway. Since the room. Since the tape.

The girl tilts her head. The same way Annie did in the video.

Like it’s rehearsed.

Like it’s her.

“Don’t you recognize me?” she asks, her voice still sweet. “You said my name earlier.”

Enid goes cold.

Not cold like scared.

Cold like the blood in her veins has stopped moving.

“Annie,” she whispers.

The girl smiles. Wider this time. Too wide.

“Yes.”

The lights in the back room flicker.

The TV screen glitches.
The image of Enid asleep on the bed warps, stretches, loops—

Now she’s sitting up.
Now her eyes are open.
Now she’s looking back through the screen.

Enid stumbles backward.

The girl—Annie—doesn’t move. Not one inch.

“I always wanted a sister,” she says, softly. “But they kept bringing me doubles. Poor copies. Ones that screamed.”

She looks directly at Enid.

“You’re better.”

Wednesday grabs Enid’s hand. Pulls her toward the door.

Annie doesn’t stop them.

She just keeps talking, like it’s part of the show:

“You can leave now,” she says. “You should.”

They reach the threshold.

“But you won’t.”

Wednesday yanks the door open—too fast. Too loud.

The hallway is different.

The lights are gone.

The walls are floral paper.

The wood creaks under her feet.

And when Enid looks around—

She’s alone.

No store.
No Wednesday.
No girl in white.

Just her.

Just the hallway.

And Room 017—
Open.
Waiting.

Chapter Text

The hallway stretches.

Enid walks.

And Room 017 gets farther away.

It doesn’t blink out of sight. Doesn’t vanish.

It just—

Pulls.

Each step should bring her closer, but it doesn’t. The floor elongates under her feet, boards groaning as if they’re being unspooled. Like she's walking on something alive that wants her to keep going—but never arrive.

The walls are floral. But wrong.
Too bright. Too still.
She watches the pattern shift from daisies to roses to eyes.

The lights overhead flicker in slow rhythm. Not broken. Breathing.

She stops. Tries to turn.

She can’t.

Something behind her is gone.

There’s no door. No store. No escape.

Only hallway.
Only her.
Only Room 017—

And the girl now standing between them.

She’s older now.

Not the porcelain child from the counter.

Not the limp-headed thing from the tape.

A girl.
Fifteen, maybe sixteen.
Enid’s age.
But wrong.

Her dress is still white—but dingy now, faded like old laundry. Her skin looks flushed in places, bruised in others. Her hair is in braids that don’t quite match. One neat, the other unraveling.

And her eyes—
They are too still.

Not empty. Just… like glass. Like looking through a face, not at one.

She’s standing there, barefoot on the creaking wood, waiting like she never moved.

“Hi, Enid.”

Her voice is quiet.

Familiar.

Enid’s spine stiffens.

She didn’t tell her name.

“I’m sorry,” the girl says.

Enid doesn’t answer.

Because there’s something in that sorry.

Something heavy. Final.

Like it’s been rehearsed.

“I didn’t want to meet you like this,” the girl continues. “I asked them not to do it this way.”

She looks around the hallway—not nervously. Not afraid.

Like she’s asking someone else’s permission.

“They said it needed to be familiar. I told them that would scare you.”

She smiles. It doesn’t fit her face.

“But I think you’re already scared.”

Enid opens her mouth. Her voice doesn’t come.

The girl tilts her head. “You can call me Annie. That’s what they used to call me. That’s what you called me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Enid whispers.

Annie nods, gently. “It’s okay. Names are just ways to remember who we used to be.”

Enid stares at her. “Why are you like this?”

Annie’s smile fades.

And for the first time, she looks almost human.

“I got out,” she says. “Or I thought I did.”

She looks down at her hands.

“I was the only one they let walk out looking like myself. Everyone else… they stayed. Small. Silent. Stuck in the wrong shape.”

She glances up.

“But I performed better.”

The hallway groans.

Behind Annie, Room 017 flickers.

Once.

Twice.

Like a bad frame of film trying to load.

Annie steps forward.

Enid doesn’t move.

“They made me watch it all,” Annie says. “The others. The copies. The ones who didn’t scream loud enough. Or smile right. Or sit still.”

Her voice cracks. Just slightly.

“I remembered being a person. I remembered my name. I remembered what warm milk tasted like. That made me… different.”

She swallows.

“And I hated it.”

Enid’s heart is racing.

“You’re not here to hurt me,” she says. It’s not a question.

Annie blinks. Slow.

“No,” she says. “That’s not my job.”

“But you are here,” Enid whispers.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Annie’s voice softens again.

“To tell you I’m sorry.”

Another step closer.

“And to tell you that once you go through that door, you don’t always come back the same.”

Enid’s breathing gets shallow.

Annie’s voice lowers.

“They let me come back looking like me. But not all of me left.”

The lights overhead swing harder.

The hallway walls begin to bulge, like something inside is pressing outward.

“You don’t have to go,” Annie says. “But it wants you to. It picked you.”

“Why?”

Annie tilts her head again, and this time it cracks.

A wet, small pop beneath her skin.

“Because you’re still pretending you’re not broken.”

Enid takes a step back.

But the floor behind her is gone.

She doesn’t fall.

She just stands there.

Nowhere to go.

Annie points to the door.

It’s closer again. Only a few feet away.

Open.

Dark.

Breathing.

“I’ll walk with you if you want,” Annie says. “But I can’t go in. Not again.”

Enid doesn’t speak.

She just looks at the door.

At the number.

017.

It’s waiting.

Wednesday was holding her hand.

She remembers that part clearly.

She can still feel the warmth of it—Enid’s fingers tucked between hers, slightly cold from nerves, always a little too soft, too human, too alive.

The room had gone still.
The tape was still playing.
Annie was still standing there, smiling like a wound with teeth.

But Enid had been right beside her.

And then—

She wasn’t.

Wednesday wakes up in their dorm room.

Not the store. Not the hallway. Not the back room where the TV breathed like it had lungs.

Just—

Bed.

Pillow. Sheet.
The sun bleeding in wrong through the curtains.

Her arms are empty.

Enid’s side of the bed is cold.

And her hand is open—curled, like it was still holding something.

But there’s nothing there.

She bolts upright.

Heart hammering. Not metaphorically. Physically. Painfully.

“Enid?” she says, sharp.

No answer.

“Enid,” again, louder.

The room is quiet.

Too quiet.

Like it’s listening.

She’s out of bed before she’s thinking.
Ripping open the door.
Calling her name again.

Nothing.

The tapes are gone.
The box is gone.
The clothes Enid wore yesterday—gone.

She checks the bathroom.

Empty.

She checks the closet. Under the bed. Every place that isn’t possible.

Still nothing.

That’s when it hits her.

Not fear.

Not yet.

Something colder. Something worse.

Knowing.

Not the creeping kind.
Not the kind you can brush off with logic and shrug into disbelief.

The kind that settles in your bones like rot and whispers: She’s gone. And you let her go.

She runs.

No jacket. No shoes.

Just a shirt and socks and blood pounding in her ears so loud it drowns the stairs as she flies down them.

Out the side entrance.
Across the grass.
Into the woods.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t check her phone. Doesn’t call for help.

There is no help.

There is only getting there before it’s too late.

She reaches the shed.

She yanks the door open.

It’s dark. Smells like old oil and rotting leaves.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She rips up the floorboard.

Stares into the black.

And jumps.

The basement is colder than before.

It smells worse. Like something died in the air and got folded into the walls.

But she doesn’t care.

She runs.

Down the stone corridor. Around the bend.

To the place.

The place where the wall opened.
Where the house breathed.
Where everything changed.

She reaches it.

She stops.

And the door is still there.

Sort of.

But it’s wrong.

It’s sealed.

Solid brick and concrete.

Like no door ever existed.

Like no hallway ever curled.

Like no girl ever screamed behind it.

She touches the wall.

Then slams her palm into it.

Nothing.

She hits it again.

And again.

Again.

Flesh against stone. Skin tearing.

She screams.

The sound bounces back at her, too loud in the tight space.

She drops to her knees.

Fists still swinging.

“Please,” she whispers.

And then louder: “Please.”

The wall doesn’t move.

It doesn’t even acknowledge her.

And Wednesday Addams—

Wednesday, who never cries—

Sobs.

Ugly. Shaking. Childlike.

Forehead pressed to the brick. Blood smeared across her knuckles. Her whole body crumpled in on itself like something unfinished.

“Please,” she says again, so quietly this time it barely counts as language.

The wall stays silent.

But the space behind it—

Listens.

She stays there.

Long enough to feel the cold reach her lungs.
Long enough to bleed through her sleeves.
Long enough to remember Enid’s voice. Her laughter. The sound she made in her sleep when her nightmares got too loud.

She remembers how it felt to hold her hand.

She never let go.

Something else did.

The hallway is gone.

But Wednesday knows.

It’s still there.

And she will find it.

She has to.

Because if she doesn’t—

Enid’s never coming back.

***

The door is open.

Not wide. Not swinging.

Just cracked.

Just enough for her to know it’s waiting.

Enid steps forward.

The floor creaks behind her but not under her.

Like something is following.

She doesn’t turn.

She walks through.

And the door closes on its own.

The air in Room 017 doesn’t feel like air.

It’s thick.
Like syrup. Like breath caught in a throat.

The light comes from nowhere.
And everywhere.
A hazy white glow with no bulb, no source, no mercy.

The room is clean.

Perfectly clean.

One chair.
Center.
Facing a mirror.

No other furniture. No exit.

Just four walls.
And her.
And the chair.

Enid doesn’t ask questions.

She doesn’t scream.

She doesn’t beg.

She walks to the chair and sits.

Because she knows what this is.

This is the performance.

This is what Annie meant.

She thinks: If I can do this—whatever this is—if I can survive it… I can go back.

To the store. To the dorm. To Wednesday.

To being real.

The moment she sits, the air changes.

Thickens.

Sharpens.

Like glass ground to dust and poured into her lungs.

Her eyes sting.

She blinks—and the mirror is no longer just a mirror.

It’s a camera.

Old. Analog. Red recording light blinking in the top corner.

She sees herself in it.

But her reflection isn’t blinking.

It’s smiling.

Too wide.

Too white.

The room goes still.

Then a voice:

“If you cry, you break the doll.”

The sound comes from nowhere. Not overhead. Not in her ears.

Inside her.

She swallows.

The reflection doesn’t.

It keeps smiling.

Her own face. Her own eyes. But not her.

Something wearing her face like a mask. Something waiting for her to flinch.

The walls shift.

No sound.

They change.

Now the floral wallpaper is back.

Pink. Too cheerful.

And the chair beneath her is smaller. Wooden. Uncomfortable.

A school chair. A child’s desk.

She looks down.

She’s wearing something else.

A dress.

White.

Pressed collar.

Sewn smile.

She reaches for her face—

Can’t move.

Her hands are gone.

No.

Not gone.

Gloved.

Plastic.

Stiff.

Pale.

She tries to scream.

Her mouth opens—

But nothing comes out.

Just the same voice:

“If you scream, you’re defective.”

The mirror flashes.

New reflection.

Same dress.
Same room.
But now the Enid in the glass is standing.

Moving.

Dancing.

Her limbs jerky. Awkward.

Like a puppet with tangled strings.

Blood runs down her knees.

From where her joints bend wrong.

The smile doesn’t move.

She watches herself twirl, off-rhythm, head lolling too far to the side.

And then the mirror says:

“Isn’t she pretty?”

She tries to stand.

The chair doesn’t let her.

She pulls her arms up.

They don’t move.

Her mouth is smiling now.

Not willingly.

Just… smiling.

Her cheeks ache.

Her jaw locks.

She’s not doing it.

She’s not doing any of this.

Another flash.

Now the room is darker.

A spotlight over the chair.

Everything else—

Black.

And behind the mirror—

Eyes.

Dozens.

No faces. No pupils. Just eyes. Watching.

Wide. Wet. Waiting.

The voice changes.

No longer gentle.

Lower now.

Hungry.

“Show us sadness.”

She tries to frown.

Can’t.

She tries to cry.

Her eyes stay dry.

She feels the pain behind them—knows there are tears waiting—

But they won’t come.

They’re not allowed.

“If you cry, you break the doll,” the voice says again.

This time, it laughs afterward.

The spotlight brightens.

The camera zooms.

“Try again,” it says.

She shakes her head.

Tries to move her body.

Her arms lift—but they aren’t hers.

They move too straight. Too clean.

She watches herself wave.

Stiff.

Robotic.

A child’s version of happy.

The voice purrs: “Good girl.”

She wants to scream.

She wants to rip her own skin off.

She wants to find the zipper, the seam, the hidden string that’s making her do this.

But there’s nothing.

She’s still in the chair.

Still smiling.

Still watched.

And then the walls fall.

Not collapse.

Just—

Fall away.

She’s on a stage now.

In a theatre.

Empty seats stretching forever in all directions.

And in each one—

A doll.

Lifelike.

Still.

Mouths sewn into perfect smiles.

All staring forward.

At her.

At the thing on the stage in the white dress, moving like Enid, smiling like Enid—

But not Enid.

The voice says:

“You’re doing so well.”

And then the lights go out.

Total black.

No air.

No feeling.

Just one sound—

A sewing machine.

Old. Mechanical.

Buzzing in the dark.

Something is pulling at her back. Tugging her spine.

Needle to vertebrae.

Thread looping through skin.

She gasps.

A light flashes.

A hand touches her cheek.

Cold. Damp. Annie.

But not Annie anymore.

Not the girl.

The doll.

Face porcelain.

Eyes carved.

Cracked smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

And this time—she means it.

“I wanted you to be the one who made it.”

The thread pulls.

Hard.

And everything inside Enid feels like it’s unraveling.

Then—

Silence.

And Enid is alone again.

In the chair.

The mirror blank.

No dress.

No plastic hands.

Just her.

Real.

Small.

Trembling.

And the voice says:

“You may frown.”

The chair is still beneath her.

Real now. Wood. Solid.

Her hands are hers again.

When Enid lifts them, they tremble—but they move. They obey.

She touches her face.

Skin.

No plastic. No thread. No paint.

She breathes in—air.

Thin. Stale. But air.

And the mirror?

Empty.

No reflection.

No camera.

Just a dark glass wall that doesn't look back.

Then—

The door opens.

Silently.

She turns to look.

Beyond it: the hallway.

The same hallway she entered through.

Room 017 stands behind her, but doesn’t breathe.

It lets her go.

And standing in the hallway—
Waiting just outside—
Is Annie.

Not the doll version.

The girl. Her age. Pale braid, uneven again. Hands clasped at her waist like she’s praying.

Only—

She isn’t smiling this time.

“You did well,” Annie says.

Her voice is soft. Almost kind.

Enid swallows.

“I didn’t feel like I did anything.”

“You didn’t cry,” Annie says. “You didn’t scream. You didn’t ask for your body back.”

“I never lost it.”

Annie looks at her. Carefully.

“That’s what you think.”

Enid flinches.

“I still feel like me,” she insists.

Annie nods. “Good. That means it hasn’t decided yet.”

Enid’s stomach knots.

“Decided what?”

Annie turns.

Begins walking down the hallway.

“You want to stay like this? Not plastic. Not painted. Not hollow?”

Enid doesn’t move.

Annie stops, glancing back.

“Then come on,” she says. “You have to prove it.”

She follows.

There’s no other choice.

Each step feels like a test.

Each flickering light a watchful eye.

The hallway bends. Again. Always.

And then—another room.

Not numbered.

No door.

Just an opening.

Inside: a pile.

Stone. Brick. Concrete bags half-slumped in the corner.

Mortar buckets. Trowels. Dust.

It looks—

Impossible.

Like the ruins of a hundred basements dumped into one place.

Annie steps aside and gestures to it.

“This is where you came in.”

Enid’s pulse stutters.

“I came in through the store.”

Annie shakes her head.

“You thought you did. But the store is a dressing room. This is the backstage.”

She points to a section of the far wall. Cracked open. Fresh. Jagged like it had been punched through.

Beyond it is only dark.

But not empty.

Something inside is moving.

Breathing.

Waiting.

“You have to close it,” Annie says.

Enid takes a step back.

“Why?”

“Because it’s still watching,” Annie says. “Because you left a way out. And if you don’t seal it, it’ll try again. Try to come with you. To wear your skin like a coat.”

Enid is shaking now.

Annie doesn’t blink.

“You don’t want it to take you next time you blink, do you?”

Enid stares at the hole.

At the materials.

She turns back to Annie.

“Is this what you had to do?”

Annie looks at her for a long time.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t get a choice.”

There’s a bucket near her feet.

Enid kneels.

Her knees hit the cold stone.

The bricks are heavy. Dust coats her fingers.

The mortar smells sour. Old.

She lifts the first brick and sets it down.

It fits. Perfectly.

Almost like the wall remembers what it looked like before.

She presses her palm against it.

And the house hums.

Deep.

Satisfied.

Behind her, Annie speaks again.

“This won’t save you.”

Enid doesn’t turn.

“It’ll help,” Annie continues. “It’ll let you keep your voice. Maybe your walk. Maybe your eyes.”

She pauses.

“But the more you fix, the more it wants to see what else you’ll do.”

Enid presses the next brick into place.

And the hallway blinks.

The bricks are warm now.

She doesn’t know when that started.

The first few were heavy. Cold. Awkward. Sharp at the edges.
Now they feel shaped to her hands.

Like she’s always been meant to carry them.

Like this is what her body was built for.

She presses another into place.

The mortar seals it instantly—no drying time. No waiting.
Just the sound of stone kissing stone.

This hallway—

It’s familiar.

She didn’t realize until halfway through, knees gray with dust, forearms streaked in concrete and skin peeled at the knuckles—

But this is the same hallway.

The one she and Wednesday walked through a week ago.

The floor is the same. Wood bowing in the middle. That spot where Enid slipped and caught herself on the wall. That bend where Wednesday said, “Hold on to me, the path curves here.”

Only now—

Now she’s closing it.

She’s sealing the way they came in.

With her own hands.

Because Annie told her to.

Because Annie said: If you want to stay human, you do what they ask.

Another brick.

She’s more than halfway now.

The hole is shrinking. Less of a gash, more of a scar.

It’ll be gone soon.

And maybe that’s good.

Maybe it means she gets to stay her.

To keep her hands. Her legs. Her voice. Her name.

Her—

“Enid?”

She freezes.

Not because of the sound.

But because of who said it.

Not the room.

Not the house.

Not Annie.

But—

“Enid, please—please, are you in there?”

Her heart lurches so hard she almost drops the brick.

That voice.

Hoarse. Cracked. Frantic.

Wednesday.

Enid whips around.

But there’s only the hole.

Still dark.

Still breathing.

Still almost closed.

She takes a step toward it.

And hears it again.

Pounding.

Hands. Fists. Desperate.

Like someone on the other side is trying to tear their way through.

She hears the sob.

And the voice again, breaking now:

“Enid—please—I’m here—I didn’t let go—please—”

She tastes blood.

Not hers.

Not fresh.

But remembered.

On the brick.

She licks her lips and feels the iron tang.
The copper edge.

Her knuckles.
From the night in the shower.
The blood that smeared the tiles.

The bricks—

They remember.

She drops to her knees.

Shaking.

“Wednesday?” she whispers.

There’s no answer.

Just crying.

Just sobbing.

A noise she’s never heard come from her before.

Raw.

Wordless.

Not performance.
Not a test.
Real.

Enid’s mouth opens.

But no sound comes out.

She knows the rules.

If you cry, you break the doll.

If you scream, you’re defective.

If you ask for your body back, it’s already gone.

So she picks up the next brick.

She doesn’t look at the hole.

She doesn’t look at the blood.

She presses the brick into place.

Thud.

The sobs get quieter.

The next one—

Quieter still.

The next—

Now she can barely hear her name.

Each brick dulls it.

Each seal erases the path back.

She wants to scream.
To rip the wall open with her hands.
To throw the bucket and run and tell Annie to go to hell—

But she doesn’t.

Because this is the task.

Because the room gave it to her.

Because if she breaks the rules, she loses her mouth.

Her eyes.

Her face.

And so she builds.

Stone by stone.

Heart by heart.

Brick by Wednesday.

*
She can’t breathe.

Not really.

Not all the way.

Her body is doing something—lungs still working, chest still rising—but the air isn’t making it to her blood. It’s like trying to inhale through fabric soaked in water.

Her vision is tunneling.

Her hands are shaking.

She’s curled on the basement floor, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to the wall.

The wall she can’t get through.

The wall she knows wasn’t here a week ago.

Because this was a door.

This was a door.

And now it’s—

Brick.

Sealed.

Like she was never here.

Like Enid was never here.

Like it was all—

No.

She can’t even finish the thought.

Because if she thinks that, she’ll break apart entirely.

“Enid,” she whispers again.

Her throat is raw.

Her knuckles split.

She’s been hitting the stone so long it feels like part of her.

Her fingers are bleeding. Her nails bent back.

She barely notices.

She’s shaking.

Not metaphorically.

Actually shaking.

Her body jerks with every breath.

And then she hears herself—

The sound she’s making.

A sob.

Sharp. Wet. Childlike.

She tries to stop.

But she can’t.

It keeps coming.

Her chest seizes. Her shoulders tremble. Her face twists in on itself and the sound just won’t stop.

“I didn’t let go,” she says, gasping now.

To no one.

To the wall.

To the dark.

To God, maybe, if she believed in one.

“I didn’t let go—she was right there—I was holding her hand—”

Her voice fractures.

It doesn’t sound like her.

It sounds small.

She folds in on herself.

Arms over her knees. Head bowed.

The cold floor presses against her spine.

The silence is too loud.

She used to love the silence.

Now it feels like it’s mocking her.

“I should’ve held on tighter,” she whispers.

“I should’ve—should’ve seen it coming—”

Her eyes blur.

She presses the heel of her hand into them like she can push the tears back inside.

But it’s too late.

They’re already falling.

And now it’s not silent.

Now it’s her.

It’s only her.

Crying.

Breathing too fast.
Sobbing like she’s cracked something inside.

“I didn’t let go.”

Over and over.

Like if she says it enough, it’ll undo something.

The stone is cold against her head.

The blood on her knuckles is drying.

But she doesn’t move.

She just—

Sits there.

Rocking slightly.

A girl in a basement.

With nothing but brick in front of her.

And all of her failure pressing down like a second spine.

*
The dorm is too quiet.

Wednesday opens the door like she expects someone to be behind it.

But no one is.

She steps inside.

And stops.

At first glance, everything is the same.

Her boots by the wall. Her violin case closed, exactly as she left it.
The air still faintly smells like incense and ink.

But it’s wrong.

Not visibly.

Not audibly.

Wrong like—

Hollow.

Like someone scooped out the inside and left a perfect shell behind.

She walks further in.

Slowly.

Her feet move like she’s afraid the floor will give out.

She crosses to the closet.

Pulls it open.

Only her clothes inside.

Dark. Clean. In rows.

No bright jackets.

No soft sweaters folded unevenly.

No shoes left kicked halfway under the bed because someone never cared about closet space.

Her heart picks up speed.

She turns to the desk.

Her desk.

Always organized.

Always untouched.

There used to be a hairbrush beside it.

A small pink jar of something floral.

None of it’s there now.

She checks the drawers.

Just her notebooks.

No drawings tucked into the sides.

No candy wrappers half hidden in guilt.

No glitter. No color. No sign.

Like Enid never came back with her.

Like she never unpacked at all.

She crosses to the corkboard.

This is the part that makes her stop breathing.

Because the drawings are still there.

The pages.

The thumbtacks.

Still arranged in that lopsided cluster, all those soft crooked hearts and wolves with messy fur.

But they’re blank.

Not erased.

Blank.

The images are gone.

Every page.

Every piece of art.

Just… white.

As if the pencil never touched the paper.

As if the hand that drew them never existed.

She stares.

For a long time.

Her brain refuses to make sense of it.

It must be a trick.

She must be hallucinating.

She—

Wait.

What’s—

Her pulse stutters.

Her hands grip the edge of the desk.

Because there’s something else—

Something worse.

A space in her head.

A gap.

Like a dropped stitch.

Like a thought she was just about to have but lost mid-breath.

She sits down on the bed.

Hard.

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

She tries to say it.

The name.

The girl.

The person who was just here. The one with the laugh. With the big eyes. The way she said “dude” like it meant I love you.

The one she held.

The one she lost.

She tries again.

Tries harder.

It’s like pushing her tongue through wet cement.

She gasps.

And then—

Like dragging a needle through skin—

“Enid.”

*

The wall is gone.

Not the space—just the task.

No more bricks. No more dust in her lungs. No more jagged hole bleeding air from the other side.

It’s closed now.

Sealed.

Perfect.

Like it was never broken.

Like no one ever crawled through it, dripping real blood on its floor.

Like she didn’t just bury the only person who ever loved her loud enough to make her believe it.

Enid sinks back on her heels.

Her legs ache.

Her arms are numb from the elbows down.

But it’s finished.

It’s done.

The space hums with satisfaction.

It’s pleased.

She can feel it in her teeth. That low, static purr of approval pressing in like a second heartbeat.

And then—
warmth.

Arms.

Around her.

Tight.

Unexpected.

Human.

Annie hugs her.

No ceremony.

No warning.

Just wraps herself around Enid’s shoulders and pulls her close like she’s trying to absorb her.

Enid doesn’t move.

Not at first.

Then she feels it—

The breath.

The softness.

The warmth of a real chest, rising and falling.

Annie is warm.

She wasn’t before.

“You made them proud of me,” Annie whispers, lips brushing Enid’s hair. “They made me more human because you’re exceptional.”

The words land like a kiss and a knife at the same time.

Enid doesn’t know how to respond.

So she doesn’t.

She stands still in the hug.

And lets herself be held.

Annie pulls back.

Her eyes are wide. Shining. Almost tearful.

“You’re so good,” she says. “They like you.”

Enid shivers.

Not because of the cold.

Because of what it means to be liked by this place.

By the room.

And then—

The room gives her something.

Clothes.

Her clothes.

Not a uniform. Not a white dress. Not stitched or pressed or perfect.

Her hoodie.

Her jeans.

The pink scrunchie from the dorm. The socks with little ghosts on them.

All folded neatly at the foot of the bed she didn’t know was hers now.

The bed is real, too.

Flannel sheets.

A lamp.

A framed sketch on the nightstand—

One she drew.

One that had vanished.

Now returned.

But wrong.

Because the signature isn’t hers.

It’s Annie’s.

“They made this for you,” Annie says, beaming.

“You mean I made it.”

“No,” she says, gently. “Not anymore.”

Enid sits down on the bed.

The mattress dips under her weight like it knows her shape.

And it hits her—

This is home now.

The wall is sealed.

There’s no path back.

Only forward.

Only here.

Annie touches her hand again.

“The room made a rule,” she says.

Her tone is careful now. Like she’s afraid Enid might not like it.

“You have to visit once a day. Just to show you remember. Just to say hello.”

Enid stares.

“What happens if I don’t?”

Annie’s smile doesn’t change.

But her eyes go dark.

“Then it forgets you.”

A pause.

“You don’t want to be forgotten, do you?”

Enid shakes her head.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Because this place doesn’t want noise.

Because the room likes her.

Because that’s so much worse than it not.

*
She goes without being told.

The hallway bends for her this time. No flickering lights. No twisting floors. Just the steady hush of walls that expect her now.

That know her name.

That like the way she walks.

Room 017 is already open.

It always is for her.

Now.

There are no voices.

No doll children waiting.

No blood trails.

Just her shadow crossing the threshold and stretching across the floor.

The chair is still there.

Exactly where she left it.

No straps.

No restraints.

Not anymore.

They trust her now.

She walks to it.

Sits.

Back straight.

Hands folded in her lap.

And waits.

Because that’s what you do when the room loves you.

You stay.

You behave.

You come back when it calls.

She blinks once.
The light hums overhead.
The door breathes shut behind her.

Chapter Text

The door creaked when it opened.

Not like a haunted house. Not cinematic. Just dry hinges and old air, like no one had touched it in a while.

Enid stepped out slowly.

Barefoot. Pale. Hair longer than she remembered—curling a little at the ends, even though she swore she’d cut it before. Her sweater didn’t belong to her. Nothing did anymore.

The hallway was the same. Which made it worse. Too quiet. Too floral. Too still.

Annie stood at the edge of the wallpaper.

Not a doll. Not porcelain. Not wrong.

She looked like a girl now. Fully. Warm-skinned and sharp-eyed, her hair pulled back into a braid like she was on her way to class. She wore jeans. A Nevermore sweatshirt. Nail polish on her chipped thumbs.

Enid met her eyes.

Neither smiled.

“Checklist,” Annie said, holding out the notebook.

Day two, they started it. After Enid’s fingers wouldn’t stop twitching and her voice came out too flat. After the first nightmare that didn’t wake her up, just kept going, even after her eyes opened.

She took the notebook without a word.

Enid Sinclair – Daily Checklist

• Name: “Enid Sinclair.”
• Age: “Seventeen. Still.”
• Hands: She held them out. Counted. Flexed. “Five and five.”
• Emotions: Annie watched closely. “Can you feel right now?”
  Enid nodded. “Scared. Tired. Also—I think—relieved.”

Annie ticked a box with her pen.

“Do you want to hurt anyone?” she asked, same tone every time. Clinical. Careful.

Enid shook her head. “No. Just want to sleep.”

Another check.

“Do you remember me?”

Enid glanced up. “Annie. You’re Annie.” She hesitated. “You let me out.”

Annie didn’t move for a beat. “I stayed.”

“I know.”

They stood like that for a moment. Two girls. Not dolls. Not quite.

Finally, Annie stepped aside.

“Breakfast,” she said, like it was a normal day. “I got cereal. Not the kind that talks.”

Enid laughed. Barely. But it was real. A tiny, shaky thing from somewhere in her chest.

And Annie—just for a second—smiled back.

*
Wednesday didn’t dream anymore.

Not really. There were flashes—strange ones. Glimpses of something warm turning away, of teeth in her palm, of something bright flickering out. But they were disjointed, soft-edged. Easy to ignore. Easier still to bury.

She was, by all appearances, fine.

Morning routine. Razor-sharp. Black boots laced. Shirt starched within an inch of its life. Hair parted down the center and pinned with exact symmetry. She walked the halls of Nevermore without needing to look. Every step already memorized. Every shadow accounted for.

Sometimes she’d pause.

A rainbow in a window display. A laugh too bright down the hallway. The scent of maple syrup drifting from the quad.

She’d feel something pinch behind her ribs.

Then it would vanish.

By the time she reached Mr. Robertson’s classroom, the feeling was gone.

Room 302. First door on the left past the statue of Saint Dymphna, patron saint of mental illness. Wednesday had always appreciated the irony.

She stepped inside without a sound.

The room was already half full. Students slouched in chairs. One kid picking at their nail beds like they could dig through to bone. Another watching the ceiling like it might fall in. Standard fare.

And there—at the front of the class, hunched slightly over a tangle of ancient yellowed notes—was Mr. Robertson.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Which only made her like him more.

“Possession,” he said, not bothering to greet them. “Real. Not metaphorical. Not poetic. I mean the kind where something else lives in you. Rents space in your skin. Reaches through your eyes and blinks for you.”

He didn’t pace. Didn’t raise his voice. Just kept speaking, calm and unflinching, as he uncapped a marker and scrawled on the whiteboard:

POSSESSION ≠ CONTROL
POSSESSION = COEXISTENCE
POSSESSION = SUBMISSION
POSSESSION = LOSS

Wednesday took her seat. Second row. Direct center. She always sat here.

She opened her notebook and began to write.

“The body does not need consent to be taken.
It only needs space.
A crack. A softness. A vacancy.”

Mr. Robertson turned around, looking like a man who'd stared into a pit and decided to climb down for fun.

“There are three kinds,” he said. “You should know this. You’re young, foolish, too eager to speak to the dead. So listen.”

Click. He tapped a remote.

The projector flared to life, casting an image behind him: a grainy photo of a Victorian séance, a woman mid-scream, hair haloed out like she’d been yanked backward.

“One: The Uninvited. These are your classics. Demons. Spirits. Hungry things. They find you.”

He clicked again. A new photo. A boy crouched in a corner, hands over his ears. Eyes pitch black.

“Two: The Inherited. You were born with it. Mommy heard voices. Daddy spoke in tongues. You’re just the next step in a long, miserable bloodline.”

Wednesday’s pen moved, smooth and sharp across the paper.

“Possession can be comfortable. If it wears you like a favorite coat.”

“Three,” Mr. Robertson said, more softly now. “The Created. You made it. Built it. You called it down, or you broke yourself open just wide enough for something to crawl in.”

Silence.

The class didn’t breathe.

Wednesday didn’t blink.

“This third kind,” he went on, “is the one we don’t talk about. The one no priest will save you from. Because if you made it, it knows your voice. It speaks it back to you.”

Someone coughed.

Mr. Robertson smiled, like he tasted blood in the water.

Wednesday smiled, too. Small. Controlled. But genuine.

She loved this class.

Loved the darkness of it. The raw edges. The way Mr. Robertson didn’t treat shadow like metaphor. The way he let it be what it was—real, and wrong, and deep.

She flipped to a new page in her notebook.

Her handwriting was pristine. Lines straight, letters small.

“The body remembers.
Even when the mind forgets.”

She didn’t know why she wrote that.

Didn’t remember thinking it.

A flash of yellow crossed the corner of her vision—maybe someone’s hoodie. Maybe not.

The pen paused.

Something pinched in her chest again. Not sharp. Just… familiar.

Like a laugh she'd once memorized but couldn’t place anymore.

She closed her notebook.

Lifted her chin.

And let it pass.

Mr. Robertson clicked the marker shut and turned around slowly.

“There’s a fourth kind of possession,” he said.

No preamble. No warning. No heading on the board this time.

The classroom stilled.

Wednesday sat straighter. She knew that tone. Not academic. Not performative. Something thinner. Personal.

“This kind doesn’t get written about,” he went on, voice steady. “It doesn’t show up in spellbooks or sacred texts. There’s no ritual to stop it. No name to call it.”

His fingers twitched once at his side.

“Because this kind doesn’t take you. Not in the usual way. It… makes you into something else.”

He stepped toward the whiteboard but didn’t write.

“Not a puppet. Not a host.”

His voice dropped an octave.

“A thing.”

Someone coughed in the back row. No one laughed.

“You don’t feel it happen. That’s the worst part. It starts slow. Subtle. Your voice softens. Your spine learns stillness. You begin folding your hands for no reason. Smiling when you don’t want to. You convince yourself it’s peace. That being quiet means being safe.”

Wednesday's pen hovered over the page.

He wasn’t reading from notes.

Wasn’t looking at them, either.

“When I was fifteen,” he said suddenly, “my younger sister went missing.”

Every breath in the room paused.

“She didn’t run away. There was no break-in. No blood. She was there one night, and then she wasn’t.”

He didn’t look up.

“Two years later, I got a letter. Said she’d been found. Placed in psychiatric care. Diagnosis: dissociative regression. Recommended treatment: long-term observation.”

He blinked, but slow. Like he didn’t do it often.

“They let me visit her for her birthday. One hour. Supervised.”

The lights above buzzed faintly. One flickered and steadied.

“The room was pink,” he said, and something in his voice cracked on that word. “Walls, carpet, bed. Like the inside of a music box someone forgot to wind down.”

Wednesday watched him carefully.

He wasn't telling them this. Not really.

He was remembering it.

“She was sitting on the bed. Hands folded. Doll in her lap.”

He looked at his palms now like they’d done something wrong.

“I said her name. She looked at me. But there was nothing behind it. No recognition. Or—God help me—maybe there was. And that was worse.”

The pen fell from Wednesday’s hand.

She didn’t notice.

“She didn’t speak,” he whispered. “Not with her mouth.”

And then he said it. The words carved out of some other place:

“I gave her my voice. She said she’d keep it safe.”

“Her mouth was full of cotton.”

He turned toward the class.

“Have you ever seen someone smile like it hurts to have skin?”

No one answered.

“No one believed me,” he said. “I said the doll blinked. I said it twitched. I said it breathed.”

Silence.

“And two days later, she vanished. Again.”

He finally picked up the marker. Wrote on the board in harsh, angular strokes:

POSSESSION = TRANSFORMATION
POSSESSION = UNDOING
POSSESSION = ANNIE

Then underlined the last word. Hard.

“She’s not dead,” he said softly. “She’s not even lost.”

He turned his back to them and sat down at his desk like the weight had caught up to him.

“She’s just… somewhere else now.”

Wednesday stared at the board.

Her breath had gone shallow. Her mouth dry.

Because she’d seen her.

Not just the girl with the braid.

But the way she smiled.

The way she tilted her head like her bones were new.

She remembered her name now.

Annie.

*

The hospital had stopped locking doors.

Not all of them. Not the front. Not the ones that led to parking lots or ambulance bays or whatever lived past the edge of the fences. But the inside—that was wide open.

It had started slowly.

First the cafeteria. Then the library. The rec room with the soft chess sets and the worn couches that smelled like sleep.

Now even the records room.

They gave her a name badge with no clip and said, You don’t need to be watched anymore.

And they were right.

Enid didn’t run.

She had no reason to.

Her days unfolded with soft rhythm—waking to pastel light, slipping into socks she didn’t pick, brushing her hair in the mirror without needing to look. Annie always waited at the door.

Sometimes she wore earrings. Little plastic ones shaped like stars.

She was fully human now. Warm-skinned. Solid. She could laugh when she wanted to. Crack jokes about the pudding. Sometimes they even whispered in the corners of the cafeteria like regular girls, giggling over nothing.

They were allowed to move freely because they didn’t want to move far.

There was no outside anymore. Just different hallways. Different clocks.

And yet—

Something pressed at the edge of Enid’s thoughts.

A shape she couldn’t name. A sound that didn’t belong. It scratched faintly at her when she stirred milk into her coffee. When she reached for a blue crayon instead of pink. When Annie caught her staring at the vending machine glass like it had betrayed her.

A hole.

Something she’d lost.

Not her name. That was still hers. Still checked off each morning, neat and sharp.

“Enid Sinclair. Seventeen. Five fingers. Five toes. Feeling: quiet.”

Not her voice. She still had that, too. They used it to say things like thank you and yes, I’m sleeping fine and no, I don’t need the pills anymore.

But something else.

Something that didn’t fit on the checklist.

And so it must not have mattered.

She told herself that, anyway.

She had Annie. She had days like slow river water. She had pink halls and books about coping and the nurses who smiled like dolls and meant it.

She didn’t remember crying anymore.

She didn’t remember what she’d cried about.

And she certainly didn’t remember—

She blinked.

A flash in the break room window.

Black hair. Pale skin. A figure, gone before she could turn.

Her heart didn’t jump.

Just… paused. Like maybe it recognized something her brain had thrown away.

She rubbed her chest absently. Like something itched inside the bone.

Annie came up behind her. Not touching. Just there.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low.

Enid nodded. “Yeah. Thought I saw something. Was nothing.”

Annie didn’t press.

Just handed her a juice box and said, “They’re out of apple. Grape okay?”

Enid smiled. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

She took the straw. Sipped.

The juice tasted like childhood.

Like something she might’ve liked once, with someone she might’ve known.

But the memory didn’t come.

So it must not have mattered.

They stayed in the break room long after the lights dimmed.

This time of day, the hospital hummed differently. Less like a place meant to heal. More like a body still awake, twitching in its sleep. The vending machine buzzed softly in the corner, casting a low electric glow across the tile. Outside, the tree shadows stretched longer, stranger, like they were reaching through the window just to hear what came next.

Enid's juice box sat limp in her hand.

She hadn’t sipped in a while.

Annie was staring at her now—not urgent, not intense. Just… watching. Like maybe she was trying to memorize her. Or maybe remind her of something.

Enid looked down at her lap.

Her fingers picked at a loose thread in her sweatpants. She hated how still she was all the time now. How quiet. How good.

"I don't remember who I was before the room," she said finally.

Annie didn’t answer right away.

“You smiled more,” she said.

Enid blinked. “You knew me before?”

Annie shook her head. “No. I mean—you looked like someone who did. I see it sometimes. On your bad mornings. When your hands shake. When the juice tastes wrong and you can’t say why.”

Enid tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “Maybe that’s just the cafeteria food.”

Annie smiled. Then didn’t.

“I think I lost something in there,” she said gently.

“I know,” Enid said. “I just don’t know what.”

Annie leaned back against the wall. Her hand brushed her temple like she was sorting memories that didn’t sit right.

“I never told anyone,” she said. “Not in the real way. Not with the whole truth.”

Enid looked over.

Annie was watching her juice swirl.

“I was thirteen when I figured it out,” she said. “That I didn’t look at boys the way I was supposed to. Not like my friends did. Not like the girls on the covers of the magazines.”

She smiled, soft and faraway.

“They talked about crushes like it was air. Which boy they liked, which one had dreamy eyes. And I’d sit there pretending to care. But all I could think about was the girl in the front row. The one who wore flannel even in spring and had freckles on her neck.”

Enid’s chest went tight.

Annie’s voice dropped a little, like she was remembering the weight of it.

“I didn’t have a word for it then. Just a feeling. Like I was broken. Like I’d swallowed something sharp. And in 1962…” She paused. “That was the kind of wrong you couldn’t say out loud.”

The hum of the machine was the only sound for a moment.

“I ran away because I thought it would keep me safe,” she said. “I thought if I could just get far enough away, I’d stop being wrong.”

Enid reached for her hand.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Annie let herself breathe.

“They found me two years later. Sleeping behind a gas station. I was wearing a boy’s jacket and carrying a busted cassette player. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about it—not really. But they took one look at me and said I needed help.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around Enid’s.

“They thought I was possessed,” she said. “They used that word. Said it like I’d caught something dirty. Something shameful.”

She finally looked at her then.

Eyes wide. Glassy, but not afraid.

“I wasn’t possessed. I was in love.”

Enid didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

She just leaned in.

And Annie met her halfway.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Wasn’t sweeping or wild.

Just warm.

Certain.

A memory being written over something older.

Enid didn’t pull away.

She let it happen. Let Annie’s lips linger against hers. Let her eyes slip closed. Let the breath between them shift from survival to something that felt like living.

When they parted, neither spoke.

The moment didn’t ask for words.

But somewhere deep in the floorboards, something listened.

Room 017 hummed—quietly, invisibly, like a lullaby being hummed into the walls. Not angry. Not waiting.

Satisfied.

This was what it wanted.

Enid was loved now.

She wouldn’t leave.

And neither would Annie.

*

Mr. Robertson was erasing the board when she approached.

The room was empty now—long since cleared out, humming with the soft, stale quiet that follows any kind of truth. The kind that sits heavy in the air, unsaid but impossible to un-feel.

Wednesday didn’t fidget.

She waited until he set the eraser down, his back still to her, before speaking.

“I want to ask about the fourth kind,” she said.

The marker in his hand paused over the tray.

He didn’t turn around right away.

“Most students try to forget that lecture,” he said. “I assumed you were smarter than most. But not that much smarter.”

She stepped forward.

“I think I know someone who went through it.”

That got him.

He turned—slow, measured. His eyes were sharp as ever. But something behind them flickered.

Curious. Cautious.

“Who?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“I don’t remember.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“But I remember her,” Wednesday said.

Mr. Robertson leaned back against the desk. Folded his arms. “Go on.”

“She had brown hair. Faded at the ends. Not styled. Just—soft. Like something that used to be curled but got tired of trying.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed faintly, but not in confusion—in focus. “Her eyes were big. Too big. Like they came first and the rest of her face was trying to catch up. She blinked slow. Like it was a habit she hadn’t broken yet. And she always tilted her head a little when she smiled, like she wasn’t sure if she was getting it right.”

Mr. Robertson didn’t speak.

“She had a white dress once,” Wednesday added. “It wasn’t clean. Like she’d worn it too many days in a row. And there was always something about her—something… unfinished.”

His throat moved.

Wednesday didn’t look away.

“I don’t know her name,” she said again. “But when you said ‘Annie,’ I felt—something. Like a bruise I forgot I had.”

Mr. Robertson stared at her for a long time.

Long enough that she almost said never mind. Almost turned to leave.

But then he said, “That’s her.”

Just that.

Like a breath he hadn’t allowed himself in decades.

He sat down at the desk. Slowly. As if his bones suddenly felt older than they were.

“You saw her,” he said, softer now. “I don’t know when or how, but you saw her.”

Wednesday nodded once.

“I think she saw me too,” she said. “She just didn’t say my name.”

Mr. Robertson’s hands shook slightly as he opened a drawer. Pulled out a thin folder.

Inside was a photo. Grainy. Yellowed. A girl in a field somewhere, holding a box.

It wasn’t the same Annie.

Not quite.

But it was close enough.

Wednesday stared.

“That’s not how she looks now,” she murmured.

Mr. Robertson’s voice was barely audible. “I know.”

He folded the file back up.

“She’s not gone,” Wednesday said.

He looked at her then—really looked.

And for the first time, his face softened.

Not with relief.

With hope.

Chapter Text

One Month Later

Enid didn’t wake up screaming anymore.

She didn’t wake up at all, really—not like she used to. It was softer now. Like drifting up from the bottom of a warm pool. Sometimes she forgot where she was until she smelled pink grapefruit shampoo (Annie’s) or heard the soft rustle of paper from the floor (a half-crumpled drawing Annie swore wasn’t about her but was definitely about her).

The room was the same—standard hospital-beige walls with faded motivational posters about progress and peace and deep breathing—but she didn’t hate it anymore.

Not when Annie was curled up next to her, stealing half the blanket like she owned the place.

Which, okay—she kind of did.

Room 204 wasn’t theirs on paper.

But Annie had taped a photo to the wall (a polaroid of them blurry and smiling), and Enid had stolen a mug from the staff lounge and drawn tiny wolves around the rim with a Sharpie.

So, yeah.

It was theirs now.

It was late afternoon when Enid cracked one eye open and found Annie already watching her, legs tangled together, forehead an inch from hers.

"You're staring," Enid said, voice rough.

"You drool when you're happy," Annie replied, unbothered. "It's cute."

Enid squinted. "I do not."

"You do," Annie said, brushing a thumb across her chin. "Right here. One perfect line. Like a snail made a home on your face."

Enid groaned and rolled onto her back.

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Annie said, leaning over her like a smug little cat, “you’re still here.”

Enid reached up and tugged Annie down by the collar of her hoodie. "Unfortunately."

And then she kissed her.

Harder than usual. Less like curiosity, more like a dare. Like a month of quiet smiles and shared pudding cups and whispered laughter had all been building to this.

Annie froze for half a second—then melted. She kissed back with a sound that might’ve been a laugh, her hands moving to Enid’s waist, pulling her closer. Their noses bumped. Someone’s knee hit the wall.

It wasn’t graceful.

But it was real.

And hot.

And a little bit holy.

Enid broke the kiss first, breath shaky, lips tingling.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, dazed.

“I know,” Annie replied, already grinning. “That was like—top five.”

“Top five?!”

“Okay, fine, top four.”

Enid shoved her, laughing. Annie shoved her back, then pinned her down with a kiss to the jaw—slow and sweet, the kind that made Enid forget how to blink.

It could’ve gone further.

Probably would’ve.

If Annie didn’t suddenly jerk away like she’d touched something cursed.

“Checklist,” she gasped.

Enid blinked. “What?”

“We have to do it. You know the rules.”

“We were making out.”

“And it was so good,” Annie agreed, hopping off the bed. “But what if you’re not real?”

Enid rolled onto her side, arms flopping dramatically. “You can tell I’m real. I literally just bit your lip.”

“Exactly the kind of thing a possessed entity would say.”

“Oh my God—”

But Annie was already grabbing the notebook from the desk.

She perched at the edge of the bed, clearing her throat like a game show host.

“Daily checklist,” she said. “Subject: Enid Sinclair. Time: Uh—afternoonish. Location: love nest slash trauma recovery chamber.”

Enid groaned into her pillow.

“Let’s begin,” Annie said, flipping to a fresh page.

“Full name?”

“Enid Sinclair.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

“Hands?”

Enid held them up. “Still five and five. Still not haunted.”

Annie narrowed her eyes. “We’ll see.”

She reached over and poked Enid’s palm with the back of the pen.

Enid yelped. “What the hell?!”

“Testing for sudden demonic resistance,” Annie said cheerfully. “You passed. Next question.”

Enid grabbed the pillow and whacked her with it.

Annie laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bed.

When the chaos finally died down, Annie pressed the pen gently against her lower lip.

“Emotions?”

Enid stilled.

Her eyes flicked up, meeting Annie’s.

“Safe,” she said.

Annie’s breath caught.

Then softer: “Anything else?”

Enid leaned forward. Rested her forehead against Annie’s.

“And in love with the weirdest girl I’ve ever met.”

Annie smiled.

Not wide. Not sharp.

Just honest.

She set the notebook aside.

“Final question,” she whispered.

Enid waited.

“Do you remember anything... before me?”

Enid’s expression didn’t change.

But her silence did.

It was too quiet.

Too careful.

She shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said. “But I think I don’t need to.”

Annie kissed her again.

Gentler this time. Sweeter.

Like saying thank you and I know and please stay all at once.

From somewhere deep in the building, a vent sighed. The overhead light buzzed. The hospital breathed them in and didn’t spit them out.

Room 017 stayed silent.

Satisfied.

This was enough.

For now.

*

One Month Later

Nothing worked.

Not hypnosis. Not the bastardized regression therapy she’d let the infirmary nurse try on a dare. Not the electroshock prototype she’d built herself and tested in the solarium during a free period while Thing took notes.

Nothing.

Wednesday still didn’t know how she knew Annie.

Only that she did.

And it was infuriating.

The memory wasn’t absent. It was buried. She could feel it pressing just behind her eyes—like a splinter she couldn’t reach. A shadow caught between blinks. Every time she tried to drag it into the light, it slipped sideways, evaporated.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t even sure if it was hers.

She left Mr. Robertson’s classroom with a folder tucked under one arm and a black plastic VHS clutched in her hand like a sacred relic.

It wasn’t marked.

No title. No label. No date.

Just a small, wrinkled piece of masking tape across the edge with one word in thin, crooked handwriting:

“live.”

He’d handed it to her without a word after class.

She didn’t ask where it came from.

He didn’t tell her.

But he looked at her like he knew it wouldn’t be the end of things. Just another door opening quietly. Another hallway with no map.

Wednesday walked the length of the corridor slowly, boots clicking against the stone.

Students moved around her like furniture. Some laughed. Some argued. One was crying into a cracked cell phone and didn't notice her pass.

She didn’t stop.

She didn’t speak.

Her mind was already ahead of her—ten steps into town, calculating the fastest route to the abandoned electronics store just past Main. The one that still had a working VCR player in the back, plugged into an old CRT television that buzzed like bees in a jar.

The school’s AV room was useless.

They hadn’t owned a VHS deck since 2004, and Principal Weems (RIP) had reportedly thrown the last tapes out during the "analog purge." A pity. The good footage always came on tape.

She clutched it tighter.

Her other hand itched. Just a little. The way it always did when she was close to something—truth or blood or memory, she never knew which until it was too late.

The tape was warm in her palm.

She told herself that was just body heat.

But she didn’t quite believe it.

She stepped off the last stair and into the courtyard. The breeze was damp and sweet and wrong—like it had passed through something before it got to her.

Thing skittered up beside her, clicking impatiently.

She didn’t stop walking.

“Yes,” she said. “We’re going into town.”

Thing signed something snarky.

Wednesday smirked faintly. “Of course it’s for extra credit. What else would I waste my afternoon on?”

Another gesture.

She rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t want snacks.”

Thing wagged a finger at her.

Wednesday slowed just slightly, eyes cutting toward the treeline.

“It’s possession footage,” she said softly. “Real, allegedly. From the late '90s. Caught in real time. No cuts. No edits.”

Thing froze mid-climb up her arm.

Wednesday smiled, sharp and full of teeth.

“I know,” she said. “Isn’t it romantic?”

She glanced down at the tape again.

Still no label. Still that single word:

live.

A pulse jumped in her throat.

Not fear.

Something colder.

Anticipation.

Because if this was real—if what Robertson gave her was true—then maybe she’d finally see it.

a real possession.

*
The thrift store door swung open on a half-breath.

Not loud. Not squeaky. Just enough to disturb the dust in the air, enough to let the little brass bell above it clink faintly—once, twice, then again like an afterthought.

Wednesday stepped inside without hesitation.

Thing followed more slowly, crawling across the threshold like it knew something she didn’t.

The store was empty.

Not closed. Just… empty.

Lights were on—dim, yellowed. The kind that flickered slightly no matter how new the bulbs were. The kind that felt like they might blink out if you stared too long.

Dust motes floated like lazy spirits through the air.

No music played. No footsteps echoed. Just the sound of her boots against cracked linoleum and the faint hum of electricity threading its way through old appliances.

She didn’t need to search.

She knew where to go.

The back of the store was colder.

Not by temperature, but by sensation. Like something had peeled the warmth off the air and folded it away. Shelves here were bare. Paint peeled in curling strips from the corners of the walls. A floorboard groaned under her heel—not from weight, but warning.

And there it was.

Exactly where she thought it would be.

The TV.

Old. Bulky. Faded plastic yellowed like smoker’s teeth. The kind that buzzed even when muted. A VHS slot just under the screen, dark and hungry.

It sat on a crooked metal cart like it was waiting for her.

Five unlabeled tapes were stacked beside it.

One already hung halfway from the slot. Ejected, but not removed. Like someone had meant to take it and forgotten how hands worked.

Wednesday approached slowly.

She didn’t ask how she knew this place would have what she needed.

She just knew.

Thing perched on the table nearby, fingers curled in tight.

Wednesday reached into her coat and pulled out her tape—the one Mr. Robertson had given her. No label. Just that one word: live.

She fed it into the machine.

Pressed play.

Nothing.

Not static. Not a flicker.

Just black.

She tilted her head.

Pressed stop.

Ejected. Reinserted.

Play.

Still black.

The tape didn’t spin.

The TV didn’t blink.

It was like the machine couldn’t even see the tape.

Thing shifted nervously beside her.

Wednesday stared at the screen for a moment longer.

Then looked down at the five on the bench.

“Fine,” she murmured. “Let’s try yours.”

She picked the one on top. No label. No dust.

Slipped it into the slot.

Pressed play.

This time, the TV came to life immediately.

The screen flared, too bright, like it had been waiting to be fed. A distorted hum filled the room, low and shuddering. The kind of sound that made your teeth feel loose.

And then—

Footage.

Not security camera.

Handheld.

Wobbling slightly, like someone had been trying to keep it steady.

The timestamp in the corner blinked erratically. Nonsense numbers. Symbols that shouldn’t exist.

The image sharpened:

A hospital hallway.

Room 204.

A door, slightly open. The edge of a bed in frame.

The camera moved—too slow, too deliberate. Like whoever was behind it knew exactly what they were recording.

There was someone sitting on the bed, just out of view.

And then a second figure leaned forward.

A kiss.

Too close to see their faces.

Just the sound of breathing.

Rustling fabric.

And then—movement.

The girl on the left shifted.

Turned.

Looked directly into the camera.

Wednesday’s breath caught.

Enid.

Pale. Hair longer than she remembered. Sweater too big. Eyes soft and bright and not her eyes. Not really. Something in them shimmered—warm, placid, vacant.

And then the other girl.

She turned her head, smiling.

Annie.

Warm-skinned. Sharp-eyed. Chipped nail polish. Same as Wednesday remembered. Same as she’d described.

But this version—

She was different.

There was something knowing in the way she looked at the camera. Like she saw Wednesday through the lens. Not whoever held it.

Like she had been waiting for this moment to be watched.

The screen shook.

Flickered.

The tape warbled, image twisting.

And for just one second—just one frame—

Enid blinked.

Her eyes were pitch black.

Wednesday stepped back.

She didn’t scream.

But her hands were shaking.

The screen buzzed louder now. Louder than it should. The picture starting to stutter, caught in a loop—Enid turning, Annie smiling, the kiss starting over again.

And over.

And over.

Like the machine wanted her to memorize it.

Like it needed her to see it wrong.

Thing dropped from the table with a hiss, scrambling backward.

The screen began to pulse.

Wednesday hit stop.

It didn’t work.

She yanked the tape.

The screen cut to black.

And somewhere—quiet and unmistakable—a voice whispered:

“You saw her.”

The whisper didn’t echo.

It just hung there—like smoke curling around the edges of her mind. Not loud. Not even spoken.

But known.

“You saw her.”

Wednesday stood completely still.

One hand on the tape, still warm.

The screen was dark now, but the static buzz didn’t fade. It lived in the walls. In her teeth. In the back of her eyes.

Thing had retreated beneath the closest shelf, two fingers raised like a tiny, horrified exorcist.

She didn’t blame him.

“I’m fine,” she said out loud.

Her voice didn’t sound like hers.

She wasn’t sure that mattered.

Wednesday placed the tape back on the bench—carefully, like it might bite.

Her fingers hovered over the remaining four.

The rational part of her whispered: Leave.

The part that always wins said: Keep going.

She picked up the next one.

No label. Lighter than the first.

She slid it into the VCR. Pressed play.

The screen blinked once. Then again.

This time, there was no timestamp.

No hallway.

Just a black frame.

Then—

Movement.

The camera was pointed at a mirror. Cracked. The reflection shaky and too deep, like it showed more than just the room. Like it remembered things.

There was a girl in the reflection. Sitting on the floor.

Wednesday leaned forward.

It wasn’t Enid.

It wasn’t Annie.

It was herself.

Her reflection stared out from the screen, blank-faced, unmoving. Same braid. Same boots. Same expression—except it wasn’t.

Because the girl on the tape was blinking out of sync.

Left eye. Then right. Then neither.

And when the girl in the reflection raised her hand—Wednesday did not.

She felt her body lock up.

The screen went gray.

Then flickered.

Then cut to—

Room 204.

This time, the camera was inside.

Facing the bed.

Sheets slightly rumpled. Juice box on the table. Light pink on the walls—more like skin than paint.

Enid was there again.

She was sitting cross-legged, talking softly to someone off-camera.

Her hands moved when she spoke. She was laughing.

Happy.

Annie stepped into frame.

She bent down, whispered something into Enid’s ear.

Enid smiled.

And then—

They both turned and looked directly into the lens.

Wednesday’s breath hitched.

They weren’t startled.

They weren’t surprised.

They were expecting her.

And then Annie said it.

Clear. Soft. Right into the camera.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

The screen burst into static—loud, violent, like glass breaking.

The volume jumped on its own. The speakers shrieked.

Wednesday lunged for the power switch and slammed it off.

The silence that followed felt too thick.

Too full.

She turned slowly.

The rest of the store hadn’t changed.

But it didn’t feel empty anymore.

Behind her, the unplugged TV clicked—once.

Like a heartbeat.

The click echoed too loud.

Too sharp.

The screen was off—she could see that. Knew it. But something in her skull didn’t believe it.

Wednesday staggered backward.

One step.

Then another.

Then her knees gave out.

She didn’t fall gracefully.

Her spine hit the tile with a sharp, flat thud and her breath caught halfway out of her lungs. Thing scuttled toward her, panic in every twitch of his knuckles, but she didn’t see him.

She didn’t see anything.

Because the memories were coming back.

Fast.

Disjointed.

One by one.

Enid’s voice.

Bright. Stupid. Soft.

Calling her “Wens.”

A juice box on a rooftop.

Paint-stained fingers brushing hers when she didn’t flinch fast enough.

A laugh in the dark. A breath against her ear. A kiss.

A kiss.

Oh god.

She remembered kissing her.

A hospital bed.

Pink walls.

Hands that weren’t hers, holding her down.

Enid screaming.

No—not screaming—laughing.

Smiling.

Smiling like she didn’t know she was scared.

A white dress in the hallway.

Enid, barefoot.

Bloodless lips.

Wide eyes.

The checklist.

The checklist.

“Name?”
“Enid Sinclair.”
“Do you remember me?”
“Annie.”

She gasped so hard it hurt.

Like coming up from underwater just a second too late.

The air in the thrift store felt like knives. Like static. Like grief in a bottle.

Her chest heaved.

Her fingers clawed at the floor.

Thing pressed against her wrist like he could ground her.

He couldn’t.

She whispered it.

To the air. To herself. To the walls. To no one.

“Enid.”

A pause.

Then again, louder:

“Enid—”

Her hand flew to her mouth.

She remembered her.

All of her.

The noise she made when she laughed too hard. The way she painted freckles on her nose in the summer. The songs she hummed when she thought no one was listening. The mural. The fire.

The way she looked at her.

Like she saw Wednesday. And loved her anyway.

And now—

She was gone.

Not dead.

Not missing.

Not possessed.

Just—

Gone.

Turned into someone else.

Someone who laughed without her. Kissed without remembering. Lived in a pink room with soft rules and softer lies.

Wednesday curled forward.

Forehead against her knees.

Fists clenched so tight her nails bit blood.

“I lost her,” she whispered.

“I forgot her.”

And the worst part—the part that hit so hard she thought her ribs might split—

Was that she didn’t leave to forget.

She left to keep her safe.

And now Room 017 had her.

And she didn’t even know she was gone.

Wednesday wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Her breath came ragged.

Her hands still shook.

But she stood.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The screen was black. The room was silent. The tape she’d just watched lay still on the bench, like it hadn’t just gutted her with its contents. Like it wasn’t still screaming inside her skull.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t done.

She didn’t want to be.

Because now she remembered Enid.

And now she was angry.

She picked up the third tape.

It was heavier than the others.

The plastic warped slightly at the edges, like it had been left in heat. Or buried. Or held too long by something that wasn't human anymore.

The power cord of the TV hung loose at her side. Disconnected.

Thing crawled to her shoulder and tapped twice.

She ignored him.

Slid the third tape into the slot.

It clicked—too loud.

The TV flickered on.

Even unplugged.

The screen was quiet.

The hum came later.

Not mechanical. Not electric.

Wet.

Like wind down a throat. Like breath moving through stone.

Wednesday’s stomach clenched.

The picture came slowly—gray shapes forming out of black, like mist organizing itself.

A path.

Dirt. Leaves. Crumbling rock.

The angle was low.

Someone was holding the camera down by their hip, barely looking where they were going. Not sneaky—just careless. Like they knew they wouldn't be stopped.

And then:

Feet.

Two pairs.

One set in scuffed Converse. The other in ankle boots with painted stars across the toes.

Enid.

Annie.

Walking.

Not dragged. Not pushed.

Walking like they knew where they were going.

Like they'd been there before.

And they weren’t heading toward the hospital.

They were heading underground.

The angle shifted—just enough to catch a mouth of darkness ahead.

A well.

Covered in creeping vines, moss growing up from the lip like a smile.

There was no one around.

No guards.

No gates.

Only that tunnel.

Only the dark.

Annie reached it first.

She looked over her shoulder—right into the camera.

Then down.

Then she climbed inside.

Enid followed her.

No hesitation.

She disappeared beneath the earth without even looking back.

The camera stayed behind.

Watched the last flicker of Enid’s blonde hair vanish into the dark.

The tape kept rolling.

But no one came back.

Wednesday didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

She reached out with a shaking hand and touched the screen.

It was warm.

Alive.

The well stayed on screen, unmoving.

And then—the faintest shift.

The camera panned upward.

Not fast.

Not jarring.

But deliberate.

And it stopped.

Framed just above the trees.

Where something was watching.

Far away.

No shape.

Just eyes.

Dozens.

Open.

Unblinking.

Wednesday stepped back.

She didn’t flinch.

She just knew.

Knew what she had to do.

Knew where they’d gone.

Knew why no one ever talked about that part of the grounds.

She turned to Thing.

“We’re going to the well.”

Thing recoiled.

Wednesday nodded once.

Final. Focused.

“If they think they can keep her, they’re wrong.”

The TV turned off on its own.

But the screen didn’t go dark.

It just blinked.

Once.

Like it understood.

*
The air in Room 204 always smelled like sugar.

Fake vanilla. Plastic flowers. Laundry detergent too soft to be real.

Enid didn’t notice anymore.

Not the color of the walls. Not the bend in the ceiling. Not the way the floor creaked in exactly the same spot by the bed. She didn’t need to. It was all hers now.

It was all she knew.

Annie leaned over her, one hand planted on either side of her hips, lips brushing hers like a secret being passed back and forth.

Enid kissed her back with the same practiced rhythm. Slow. Familiar. Like a page she’d read a hundred times but never stopped enjoying.

She didn’t think about where they were.

Didn’t question the faint static crackling behind the ceiling vent.

Didn’t look toward the mirror in the corner that was definitely not a mirror anymore.

They were always being watched.

That was just the way it was.

But tonight—

Something was different.

Annie pulled back, breath fogging against Enid’s cheek.

“You’re warm,” she whispered, a little grin playing at her lips.

“Always am,” Enid replied, still breathless. “Wolf girl, remember?”

Annie laughed. Kissed the corner of her mouth. Her nose. Her forehead.

Enid closed her eyes.

She felt safe.

She felt still.

And then—

A sound.

Not in the room.

Not from the room.

Through it.

A voice.

Soft.

Frayed at the edges.

And so familiar it made something curl deep inside her chest.

“I lost her.”

Enid’s eyes snapped open.

Annie was still there, smiling, eyes half-lidded with affection.

But the voice—

It hadn’t come from her.

“Did you hear that?” Enid whispered.

Annie tilted her head. “Hear what?”

There was nothing now.

No static. No whisper.

Just the quiet hum of the overhead light and the click-click-click of the analog clock on the wall.

But Enid had heard it.

And worse—she felt it.

Like a thread had pulled tight between her ribs.

Like someone had spoken from a place no one was allowed to go.

“I lost her,” the voice had said.

And something in Enid—

Something buried so deep she hadn’t even known it was missing—

Tensed.

Because whoever that voice belonged to…

She loved her.

Annie leaned down again, pressing a kiss just below Enid’s jaw.

“Everything okay?” she asked, gently. “You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Enid murmured.

But she wasn’t.

And the kiss didn’t taste the same anymore.

*

The storm didn’t break overhead, but it wanted to.

The clouds were bloated. The air wet. Thunder low in the distance, like a throat being cleared in warning.

Wednesday didn’t notice.

Her boots hit the gravel like war drums, her braid snapping behind her like a flag. She took corners too fast, nearly slipped on the wet flagstones leading to the staff dorms.

Thing kept pace beside her, scrambling across railings, tapping frantically.

She didn’t stop.

She didn’t breathe.

She reached Mr. Robertson’s door and pounded once. Hard.

The wood shuddered.

The hallway was silent.

She raised her hand to knock again—then the door creaked open.

And he was there.

Barefoot.

Shirt half-buttoned.

Eyes like chalk.

He took one look at her and stepped aside.

“Inside,” he said.

She didn’t hesitate.

Thing scurried in after her, shaking off rain.

The room was dim. No lights. Just a desk lamp with a yellow bulb and shelves full of books too damaged to read. It smelled like old wood and burned paper.

“Talk,” he said.

She slammed the tape onto the desk.

“The one you gave me. It’s dead. Won’t play. Doesn’t exist. I don’t know what you handed me, but it’s nothing.”

He didn’t flinch.

She stepped closer.

“But I found your sister.”

His eyes lifted.

“I found Annie.”

A breath.

And then, voice cracking just slightly:

“And I found Enid.”

Mr. Robertson didn’t move.

Not a twitch.

Just: “Who is that?”

“The love of my life.”

Still nothing.

But his eyes had changed.

Just slightly.

Like he was staring past her now. Through her.

“I know where they are,” she said, quieter now. “I saw the third tape. They’re not in the hospital. Not really. They went in through the well. The one behind the treeline. They walked in like they knew it. Like they’d been called.”

Thing tapped twice on the table. Agreeing.

Wednesday gripped the edge of his desk.

“I don’t care what lives down there,” she said. “I’m going to get them back.”

And then—

He stood.

Not fast.

Not loud.

But something in the room dropped with the weight of it.

Like the air itself backed away.

He walked over to the filing cabinet in the corner.

Opened the bottom drawer.

Pulled out a folder wrapped in twine.

Untied it.

Inside were photos.

Drawings.

A map of the old grounds.

A key.

And a piece of cloth—yellowed, bloodstained. Lace at the edges. A child's name tag sewn crookedly into the corner.

Annalise.

He laid them out one by one, not explaining.

Wednesday didn’t ask.

Then—he spoke.

And the room froze.

“You’re going to die down there.”

No emotion.

No warning.

Just fact.

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

“I didn’t say you were.” He looked up. “I said you’re going to die.”

The bulb overhead buzzed, hard.

Thing curled in on himself, inching back.

“I watched that place eat my sister alive,” Mr. Robertson said. “I saw her smile when they buried her voice. And then she thanked them for it.”

His voice was still calm.

But his hands trembled.

“Room 017 is not a door. It’s not a room. It’s a mouth. And once it’s fed, it doesn’t let go.”

He turned to her fully then.

The light hit his face wrong. Too shallow.

He looked carved.

“I gave you the dead tape because I wanted to see if you’d still find her. You did. That means it's time.”

Wednesday didn’t move.

He walked to the bookshelf, removed a volume with no spine, and pulled out something metal.

A hook.

Old. Rusted.

Shaped like the crank of a well.

He set it gently beside her.

“Take this. When you find the rope, don’t pull until you’re ready.”

Wednesday reached for it.

Their fingers touched.

His hand was ice.

“You’ll scream,” he said, voice still calm. “Everyone does.”

She didn’t blink.

“I’m going anyway.”

He looked at her like he already knew.

Like he’d always known.

And then:

“If she remembers you… don’t let her speak. It’ll break you.”

She picked up the key.

“I hope it does,” Wednesday said.

And left.

*
The woods swallowed the last trace of moonlight before she even saw the well.

Wednesday stepped over the gnarled roots like they were trying to hold her back.

Branches caught her coat. Leaves whispered in a tongue the wind didn’t know.

She didn’t flinch.

She kept going.

Thing clung tight to her shoulder, trembling.

The well sat in the center of a clearing that wasn’t on any map.

She knew. She’d checked.

But it was here—circular stone, cracked down one side like a mouth forced closed too long. Moss covered half of it. The crank was gone.

The rope, however, remained.

Coiled. Stained. Pulled up like someone had used it not long ago.

Not someone.

Two girls.

Wednesday unwrapped the hook Mr. Robertson had given her.

It clicked into the ring with a sound too loud for the open air. Like the trees heard it. Like the ground felt it.

She turned to Thing.

Kneeling, she reached out and gently took his trembling fingers in her own.

“You stay here,” she said.

He signed No. Shook once.

“If I don’t tug the rope in two hours, you leave,” she said.

He signed No again.

This time more frantic.

Wednesday’s voice softened. Just slightly.

“If I tug,” she said, “pull. If I don’t…”

She didn’t finish it.

He didn’t need her to.

Thing reached out, touched the back of her hand—just once.

And then he curled up beside the rope.

Like he was watching someone walk into a fire.

Like he knew she wasn’t coming back.

The rope was slick.

She didn’t ask why.

She climbed anyway.

Down.

Down.

Further.

The walls pressed tighter the deeper she went.

Moss gave way to wet stone. Then bone. Then nothing.

Her feet touched earth at last.

The rope above swayed gently—then went still.

It was black.

Not dark. Not shadowed.

Black like a thing with depth.

Black like drowning.

She lit a match.

The flame flared yellow. Weak.

And still—the tunnel stretched ahead.

One path.

Carved by hand.

Too small for machines.

Too long for sanity.

She walked.

The air smelled like rot and sugar.

Like something dead was learning how to bake.

The walls were damp. But not wet.

They sweated.

Her shadow danced wrong.

Too slow. Too tall.

It split at one point—forked, like something else was walking behind her.

She didn’t turn around.

She heard it breathing.

Further.

Her match died.

She lit another.

The air grew colder. Not natural cold. Not winter-cold.

Cold that came from something remembering its hunger.

She saw scratches in the wall.

Fingernails.

Names.

One stood out.

Enid.

Etched shallow.

Like she’d written it quickly.

Like she wasn’t sure it was hers.

The tunnel widened.

A threshold.

No door.

Just a frame.

Carved in the shape of a spine.

And on the other side—

Silence.

True silence.

Wednesday stepped through.

And her match died.

But she still saw.

Because the walls glowed.

Softly.

Flesh-colored. Pulsing.

Breathing.

One hallway.

Lined with open mouths.

Gagged.

But not sewn.

Just waiting.

And somewhere down the hall—

A laugh.

Not joyful.

Not sinister.

Just… empty.

Wednesday swallowed.

And walked forward.

Back above, Thing trembled.

A single tear of water—maybe rain, maybe not—rolled down the stone lip of the well.

And the rope twitched once.

But not from below.

From underneath.

*
The mud ended without warning.

One step it was soft, wet earth—slick and warm beneath her boots like breathing meat.

The next—

Tile.

Green.

Mold-veined.

Slick with moisture that smelled like copper and teeth.

Wednesday stopped.

Not because she was afraid.

Because something in her—something old and quiet and deep—recognized this.

She stepped again.

The tile echoed.

It shouldn't have.

Not underground.

But it echoed like a cathedral. Like a stage. Like a place that loved to hear footsteps coming.

The tunnel was wider now.

Rounded at the top. Arched.

The walls were tiled too—same green, same mold, same soft glow.

Like the light was alive. Not cast. Bled.

She ran her fingers along the wall.

Tiles shifted slightly beneath her hand. Soft. Too soft.

She didn’t touch it again.

The air was wrong.

Not stale.

Moved.

There was no wind. But things stirred.

From around corners that didn’t exist.

From above ceilings that weren’t there.

Breathing.

Always the breathing.

She passed a window.

Square. Set into the wall like it belonged in a hospital.

There were no hinges. No glass.

Just a square cut into the tile.

She looked inside.

A room.

Pink.

Two dolls sitting side by side at a child’s tea table.

But they weren’t dolls.

They didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

But their skin was pale real.

Their joints wrong.

Their smiles wide.

Painted.

One of them had Enid’s hair.

Wednesday kept walking.

She passed more windows.

More rooms.

One filled entirely with water.

Chairs bolted to the floor.

Something drifted inside. Pale legs. A braid.

She didn’t look closer.

One room was empty, but lined wall to wall with TV screens.

All playing her.

Standing in the thrift store.

Holding the tape.

Watching.

But the feed was live.

She was watching herself watch.

Another hallway split off to the left.

She stopped.

Listened.

Whispers.

Not words.

Just the shape of them.

Like memories learning how to speak.

She didn’t follow them.

She kept forward.

Down the green path.

Boots slick against the mold-slick tile.

Her reflection flickered in the floor.

But it didn’t follow her movements.

It stood still.

Then smiled.

Then kept walking without her.

She came to a door.

Not wood.

Not metal.

Teeth.

Curved in a half-circle.

Moss grew from the gums.

No handle.

No hinges.

But it was a door.

She knew it the way animals know a storm is coming.

Something waited beyond it.

Something aware.

Wednesday raised a hand.

And the teeth parted.

Not open.

Grinned.

And let her through.

The room beyond was circular.

Rotting velvet wallpaper. An iron bed bolted to the floor.

And in the center—

A chair.

Facing away from her.

A soft, high voice spoke:

“Tell me your name.”

Wednesday froze.

The chair turned slowly.

And sitting there, head tilted just slightly—

Was a doll.

Porcelain.

But not cold.

Not lifeless.

Its chest rose.

Its mouth moved.

“I said,” it repeated, eyes flicking to hers, “tell me your name.”

Wednesday did not answer.

The doll smiled.

And from behind her—soft, almost too soft to hear—

“Enid, do you remember this room?”

Wednesday spun.

A full turn. Quick. Weapon-drawn.

No one.

Just tile.

Just shadows.

Just the echo of her own breath catching in her throat.

The corridor behind her was unchanged—mossy, still, faintly wet—but utterly empty.

No voice.

No shape.

No Enid.

The doll in the chair laughed.

High and light and wrong.

Not cruel in the way a villain is.

Cruel in the way a child pulling wings off flies might be.

Like it didn’t understand pain.

But it liked it.

Wednesday turned back slowly.

The doll was still watching her.

Head cocked slightly to the left. One glass eye cracked. Smile painted wide.

It giggled again, then mimicked her voice perfectly:

“No one.”

Then Enid’s voice:

“Stop, it hurts—”

Then her own voice again, too loud, too clear:

“I lost her.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened.

She stepped closer.

The room didn’t resist her. It welcomed her in—walls subtly curving, air warming just enough to feel like breath.

“I know what this is,” she said quietly.

The doll blinked.

One eye.

Then the other.

Wednesday stepped in until she stood directly in front of it.

“I know what you’re trying to be. I know what lives in this place.”

The doll's smile stretched.

Its mouth opened a little more than it should’ve.

The teeth were too many.

Too flat.

Too clean.

Then it whispered—not aloud, but in her head:

“She’s happier now.
Don’t ruin it.”

Wednesday didn't flinch.

But her heart screamed.

She reached into her coat. Pulled a blade thin as breath. Her reflection shivered along its length—except it wasn’t hers.

The doll blinked again.

But this time, it looked afraid.

She raised the blade.

And the lights went out.

All of them.

Total black.

Not silence—because something moved in that dark. Something fast.

Claws across tile.

Breathing like cloth being ripped open.

And in the blackness—

Wednesday heard Enid scream.

Not loud.

Not close.

But real.

And that was worse.

Far, far worse.

The lights didn’t flicker back on.

They snapped—in one blinding, white-hot pulse that buzzed like a scream behind her eyes.

When Wednesday could see again, the doll was gone.

No trace.

No scuff mark.

No chair.

Just a single, straight-backed seat in the center of the room.

Facing the far wall.

No straps.

No restraints.

Just waiting.

She knew what it was.

She knew where she was.

Room 017.

She stepped forward without hesitation.

Her boot hit the tile and the light above her blinked.

Another step—another blink.

By the time she reached the chair, the air was heavy with expectation.

She sat.

The instant her spine hit the back—

Click.

Click-click.

SNAP.

Straps coiled from the floor, the legs, the ceiling—she couldn’t see where they came from. She couldn’t feel them touch her.

But they were there.

Across her chest.

Her wrists.

Her ankles.

Even her throat.

Soft.

Silken.

Like fingers learning her shape.

“Begin,” said a voice.

It came from the walls.

From under the floor.

From behind her eyes.

Test One: Silence.

She said nothing.

For five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

She could feel the straps tighten.

A low hum started in the wall. Not mechanical.

Human.

Breathing.

The longer she stayed still, the more the chair tensed.

Like it wanted her to scream.

To speak.

To give it a reason.

And she was Wednesday Addams.

She could endure.

She bit the inside of her cheek until blood bloomed on her tongue.

She lasted eighteen minutes.

Then something behind her whispered Enid’s voice.

“Wens?”

She turned her head just slightly.

And the chair snapped.

White-hot pain laced down her neck, her wrists.

She screamed.

The light exploded above her.

FAIL.

Test Two: Obedience.

The straps loosened.

A single word appeared on the wall.

“Smile.”

She didn’t move.

Another word.

“SMILE.”

The room got colder.

She felt her jaw try to lift.

Muscles twitching against her will.

She clamped her teeth.

But the chair moved.

Began tilting her head back, forcing her spine into an impossible curve.

The word flashed again, brighter.

“SMILE.”

Another voice this time—her own.

Warped.

Mechanical.

“Smile, Wednesday. You’re so much prettier when you pretend.”

Her lips curled despite her.

A grotesque imitation of joy.

The chair stilled.

She wanted to spit.

She didn’t.

FAIL.

Test Three: Rejection.

The wall ahead opened.

A mirror.

Her reflection sat in the chair.

Still.

Silent.

Smiling.

The version of her that had obeyed.

The version that never remembered Enid.

The version that stayed.

Room 017 spoke again:

“This is what you could be.”

Wednesday said nothing.

The mirror version blinked once.

And opened its mouth.

Cotton.

Wedged inside.

Still bleeding from the corners.

But it smiled.

So wide.

So grateful.

Like it had given everything away and was finally clean.

Room 017 whispered:

“This is what love does.
Love breaks you.
Let go of her.
Let us have you.”

And that—

That was the last straw.

Wednesday growled.

Low.

Vicious.

Real.

Her hands trembled against the restraints—but something in her shifted.

The pain didn’t matter anymore.

Not compared to that voice.

Not compared to Enid.

“I would rather die,” she spat, “than become your favorite doll.”

The straps tightened.

Her bones screamed.

The chair began to sink.

But she fought.

Not just physically.

Something deeper.

Like her soul had teeth.

Like her name had weight.

She moved.

The first restraint cracked.

Not unbuckled.

Cracked.

Bone and leather and power snapped.

Her left arm tore free.

Then her shoulder jerked forward.

Then her legs.

The chair shrieked.

The light shattered.

Blood poured from her ears.

Still she rose.

Still she stood.

Room 017 wailed.

A sound not meant for human hearing.

And her reflection?

It begged.

Hands pressed to the mirror.

Mouth open.

Mouth full.

Still smiling.

Wednesday faced the glass.

Looked at the version of herself that had stayed quiet.

Obedient.

Small.

And whispered:

“You’re not me.”

Then turned away.

The mirror cracked.

The hallway was ahead.

Open.

No more teeth.

No more chair.

But the walls watched her go.

*
No one walked out of Room 017.

That was the rule.

Not written. Not spoken. But known.

It didn’t kill you—not at first.

That would’ve been easy. Clean.

No—Room 017 did something far worse.

It turned you into a memory.

A still one.

Something pliable. Something smiling. Something quiet.

It studied the people who entered. Read their voices. Their wounds. Their wants.

And then it offered peace.

It offered stillness.

It offered silence in the shape of a chair, soft straps, a checklist you could never pass.

You didn’t leave.

You stayed.

Smiling.

Grateful.

Wednesday Addams didn’t stay.

She failed every test.

And still—

She left.

Not untouched.

Not unharmed.

But unchanged in the ways that mattered.

She screamed.

She fought.

She spoke when she wasn’t supposed to.

She remembered the one thing the room demanded she forget.

Enid.

And in doing so—

She broke it.

Because Room 017 only worked on people who wanted to be loved enough to vanish.

And Wednesday didn’t want love if it meant forgetting who she was.

She didn’t want peace.

She wanted Enid.

And so the chair split.

The walls cracked.

The mirror wept.

And the doll that had watched her?

It stayed behind.

Still smiling.

But alone now.

Because Room 017 had finally learned:

Some people cannot be kept.

She ran.

Boots hitting wet tile, then moss, then stone.

The tunnel screamed behind her.

The lights blinked in panic—unable to dim her anymore.

She reached the rope.

Climbed.

Faster than she should’ve been able to.

Hands bleeding. Breathing fire.

Thing cried when he saw her.

He didn’t care that she was bloody.

Didn’t care that she was shaking.

He just held onto her wrist and didn’t let go.

Wednesday didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Because there was only one thing left to do.

Find Enid.

Because she knew now.

Room 204 wasn’t a hospital room.

It was a waiting room.

For dolls.

For girls.

For memories people chose to forget.

But Wednesday remembered.

And now—she was coming.

*
Room 204.

The light was soft.

Pink, as always.

Filtered through sheer curtains that never moved, even when there was no wind.

Enid sat curled in the bed, ankles crossed, a thick paperback open in her lap. Some old romance someone had slipped under her door. A dog-eared copy with cracked spine and notes in the margins that weren’t hers.

She didn’t love the story.

But she liked the feel of it.

Like safety.

Like sleep.

Annie sat at the desk beside her, sketching with a dull pencil, tongue caught between her teeth in quiet concentration.

Enid smiled to herself.

She didn’t remember what came before this.

But it didn’t matter.

This was good.

This was—

Her vision blurred.

Just slightly.

The words in the book tilted sideways.

She blinked.

Rubbed at her eyes.

Then the pain hit.

Like a piano dropped through her skull.

She gasped—sharply—hands flying to her temples, the book slipping off her lap.

“Enid?” Annie said, already at her side.

“I—” Enid choked. “I can’t—my head—”

She tried to stand.

Her legs buckled instantly.

She hit the floor hard, knees crashing against the tile.

The pain ripped through her.

Not normal pain.

Not even alive pain.

Memory.

Coming back like fire up a vein.

Wednesday.

Her face.

Her voice.

Her name.

“Wens.”

She clutched her chest.

It burned.

Annie was beside her, arms around her, trying to pull her upright, voice shaking.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay. Just breathe—Enid, look at me—”

But Enid couldn’t.

Because she was seeing everything.

The way Annie looked the night they kissed in the rec room.

How she laughed at the pudding jokes.

The first time she reached for her hand and didn’t let go.

The quiet between them.

The safety.

The love.

Real.

Earned.

Soft.

And then—

Black hair.

Cold fingers.

A rooftop, what felt like five years but only over a month ago.

A kiss that made her forget to breathe.

Wednesday’s voice whispering, “I hate how much I missed you.”

Wednesday’s mouth against hers like a promise.

The mural.

The truck.

The fire.

Enid screamed.

Annie held her tighter.

“Enid—it’s okay—it’s me, I’m right here—”

Enid looked up at her.

Eyes wide.

Tears falling fast.

And for a second—God help her—she saw them both.

Felt them both.

Loved them both.

The girl who found her in pieces and stayed.

And the girl who made her pieces feel holy.

“I remember,” Enid sobbed.

Her voice cracked on it.

“I remember everything.”

And from somewhere in the hall—

The building shook.

Just once.

A vibration that made the walls sigh.

Annie flinched.

Looked toward the door.

“Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

Not afraid.

Not excited.

Just knowing.

And Enid?

She crawled to her feet.

Hands still shaking.

Enid stood.

Shaking.

Breathing like her lungs were new.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides—not to fight, but to hold it in. All of it. All the memories, the voices, the colors she hadn’t seen in so long.

The pain wasn’t fading.

It was settling.

Becoming part of her again.

Annie knelt where Enid had just been. Still holding the space her body left behind.

And then—

She flinched.

So sudden it looked like she’d been struck.

Enid turned. “Annie?”

But Annie didn’t answer.

Her eyes were wide.

Fixed on nothing.

A gravel road.
Gas station lights flickering overhead.
Cold. Rain slicking the pavement.

A girl beside her.

Hair soaked.

Lips chapped.

Laughter so real.

Not a nurse.

Not a roommate.

Not someone the room gave her.

Mary Anne.

Annie’s breath caught.

Like her ribs had just remembered how to hurt.

A motel key on a broken ring.
Kissing in a booth at 3 a.m.
Holding hands under a flannel blanket that didn’t reach their toes.

She hadn’t been alone when they found her.

That’s what everyone said.

But they were wrong.

She hadn’t been hiding from herself.

She’d been running with someone.

The girl with the scraped knees and the crooked grin.

The girl who always held the door open with her foot because her hands were full of snacks.

The girl who said, You don’t have to be afraid. You can just be.

And the room—

Room 017—

Took her.

Not the memories.

The truth of them.

It made her forget Mary Anne.

And built a new truth in her place.

One where she was born in the pink room.

One where Enid was the first hand she held.

Annie swayed.

She pressed her hands to her temples.

“Annie?” Enid whispered again.

Annie’s voice came out broken:

“She had green eyes.”

Enid blinked. “What?”

“She had green eyes,” Annie said again, louder now. “And she called me ‘Bug.’ I hated it. I loved it.”

She laughed—and it cracked halfway through.

“I forgot her. I forgot—everything.”

Enid stepped closer.

Annie looked up.

“I was already loved,” she said. “Before the room. Before you. I was already hers.”

And then the tears came.

Not quiet.

Not pretty.

Full-bodied sobs that racked her frame and shook her to the floor.

Enid dropped to her knees beside her. Wrapped her arms around her. Held her.

Because she understood now.

Annie didn’t save her out of nothing.

She saved her out of memory.

Out of the same exact grief.

Room 017 hadn’t just stolen lives.

It stole real love.

And replaced it with something sweeter. Softer.

Easier.

But not true.

Not hers.

And now Annie remembered.

Mary Anne.

Gas station coffee.

Rain-wet kisses and music too loud in a stolen car.

The way it felt to be whole.

The way it felt to belong.

“I didn’t forget her,” Annie whispered into Enid’s shoulder. “They made me.”

“I know,” Enid said. Voice steady now. “They tried with me too.”

And then—

Another rumble.

Not the walls.

Not the building.

This time—it came from the door.

The door exploded inward.

Splinters. Screws. A burst of dust and rot.

And there she was.

Wednesday.

Hair wild. Shirt torn. Blood down one arm like ink.

Eyes black with fury and something worse—love sharpened into vengeance.

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Enid’s breath hitched.

Annie scrambled to her feet.

Behind them—the room howled.

The walls pulsed. Tiles peeled up like dead skin. A vent above them groaned—and then burst, spewing cotton and static and something that smelled like spoiled sugar.

Wednesday held out her hand.

“Now.”

They didn’t ask.

They ran.

The hallway was already splitting open.

Lights overhead exploded one by one, trailing them in a cascade of shattering glass and shorted wires. The floor rippled under their boots—alive and angry. Paintings on the walls turned their heads as they passed, mouths open like they’d been mid-scream for years.

Down.

They had to go down.

Wednesday didn’t know how she knew.

She just felt it.

They cut through corridors the building shouldn’t have had—supply closets that led into operating rooms with no doors, tiled bathrooms with six mirrors and no sinks.

Every turn felt wrong.

But every turn led them forward.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Even when the pink wallpaper tore open behind them and something crawled out, hunched and sobbing and stitched together from too many arms.

They didn’t scream.

They just ran.

A hallway collapsed as they turned left—Annie grabbed Enid’s hand and dragged her through a breach in the wall, just as the ceiling came down in a wet, bone-colored crash.

Wednesday dove after them.

The air was red now.

No light.

Just color.

Like the building had started to bleed.

They passed a hallway lined with dolls—hundreds.

Every one of them watching.

Smiling.

Enid whimpered.

Annie pulled her closer.

Wednesday didn’t look at them.

But the dolls turned their heads in sync as she passed.

Like they knew her.

Like they were grateful.

Or afraid.

A wall loomed ahead.

Solid. Seamless.

They skidded to a stop.

Enid spun. “It’s a dead end—!”

“No,” Wednesday said.

Her voice was low. Certain.

She stepped forward.

Raised her hand.

Pressed it to the tile.

And pushed.

The wall shivered.

Then cracked.

Split down the middle like a scab peeled too fast.

Beyond it—a tunnel.

Wet. Ancient.

Smelling of roots and blood and time.

They didn’t hesitate.

They ran.

The tunnel was tight.

The ceiling low.

Roots clawed at their arms, their legs.

Something hissed behind them.

And the tunnel breathed.

Walls pressed in. The floor pulsed. Somewhere deep inside it, a sound started—

click-click
click-click
click-click

Like something with too many legs was trying to catch up.

Up ahead—

Light.

Not warm.

But real.

Moonlight.

Filtering down through moss and stone.

They looked up.

And there it was.

The well.

The same one Enid had entered weeks ago.

The same one Wednesday had descended.

But now—open. Waiting.

Freedom.

“I’ll climb first,” Wednesday said.

She didn’t ask.

She went.

Hand over hand.

Rope soaked and groaning.

Enid followed next.

Then Annie.

Below them, the tunnel screamed.

One last sound.

A shriek of memory and hunger and loss.

And then—

Silence.

They collapsed in the dirt above, gasping under stars that felt too bright.

Thing was there.

Sobbing without sound.

He flung himself onto Wednesday.

She let him.

The three girls sat in a circle.

Covered in blood.

Breathing.

Alive.

Together.

They lay in the grass for a while.

Breathing.

Not talking.

Not yet.

The sky stretched above them like it had always been there.

The stars looked brighter than Enid remembered.

Not magical.

Just real.

She rolled onto her side.

Looked at Wednesday.

Really looked.

Not just at her face, but into it.

Into the exhaustion in her eyes. The dried blood at the collar of her shirt. The fierce, trembling way her hands were still clenched like she hadn’t yet realized she could stop fighting.

And underneath all of that—

The girl.

Her girl.

The one who remembered her.

The one who came back.

Wednesday turned her head.

Met her gaze.

There were no words.

There didn’t need to be.

Enid moved first.

Crawled across the grass on sore hands and knees, dirt streaked down her neck, sob still stuck halfway in her throat.

Wednesday met her there.

They collided like gravity pulling two halves of the same broken planet back together.

Arms tight.

Chests heaving.

No sound except breath and fingers in hair and a whispered, desperate press of foreheads.

Enid wept against her shoulder.

Wednesday shook, silent, arms locked around her like a promise she refused to break.

It wasn’t just relief.

It was resurrection.

And then—

Footsteps.

Not frantic.

Not sharp.

Just—

Slower.

Annie stood a few feet away.

In the moonlight now.

And she was different.

Her hair was still long, still braided. But it was silvering at the temples.

Her face—still her—but something in the shape of it had settled. Lived.

Lines not from stress, but time.

Crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.

Not seventeen anymore.

Not even close.

She looked maybe sixty.

Young-sixty.

Sun-kissed and steady.

Like someone who’d aged trapped in her own stillness, body frozen until the chair let her go.

And now—

It had.

Mr. Robertson was there.

He’d arrived in the clearing, knees already buckling as he saw her.

“Annie—”

His voice cracked.

It was a child’s voice now.

Not the professor.

Just a little brother who’d been too late once.

She turned.

Looked at him.

Smiled.

And said, “Jamie.”

That was all.

That single word.

And he collapsed.

Half-running, half-falling into her arms.

He held her like she was porcelain still—like he was afraid touching her too hard would send her back into the walls.

But she held him.

Firm.

Present.

Alive.

Wednesday and Enid pulled apart just enough to watch.

Still touching.

Still pressed together at the sides.

Their hands never let go.

Because they didn’t need to speak the fear.

The truth was already written in every inch of them:

This could’ve been us.

But it wasn’t.

Because Wednesday remembered.

Because Enid fought.

Because love survived.

Even in Room 017.

Even there.

*

They took long showers.

Not together—at first.

Enid had insisted. Said she needed to feel the water alone. Needed to know her body was her own again. Needed to scrub away every last trace of cotton and pink and the way Annie’s breath had tasted like syrup in a place that wasn’t real.

Wednesday understood.

So she sat just outside the door, back against the wall, knees tucked under her chin. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just listened to the sound of water hitting tile.

She waited.

Because Enid had waited for her.

When it was Wednesday’s turn, Enid didn’t leave.

She sat on the edge of the tub—fully clothed, hair still damp from her own shower—and didn’t look away as Wednesday peeled off her ruined shirt. As the bruises revealed themselves. As the welts and strap-marks bloomed beneath her ribs like wildflowers gone wrong.

Enid didn’t speak.

She just held her hand through the steam.

That night, they curled into the same bed.

No jokes.

No flirting.

Just—

Closeness.

Breath against breath.

Enid trembled as she slipped her hand beneath Wednesday’s.

“I was afraid,” she whispered.

Wednesday’s eyes were already closed.

Her voice barely more than a thread.

“I never stopped being afraid.”

They fell asleep like that.

Palms pressed.

No room between them.

Not ever again.

Mr. Robertson—or Jamie, as Annie now called him—resigned from Nevermore the next morning.

He didn’t pack much.

He didn’t need to.

He had his sister back.

And she?

She was on a mission.

“Facebook,” she kept saying. “You really think she’s on Facebook?”

Jamie had smiled.

“You think she’s not?”

Annie smirked—sixty-something years old and still pulling her braid tight like it was a battle flag.

“I’m going to find her,” she said. “And I’m going to apologize for every year I forgot her.”

Jamie didn’t say much.

He didn’t need to.

The way he looked at her said it all.

They left the campus quietly. No fanfare.

Just two ghosts who got a second chance.

The woods stayed quiet for days.

Weeks.

Students whispered about the well.

Some said it was sealed.

Others said it never existed.

Mr. Weathers in Facilities swore there was never a clearing out that way at all.

Most people forgot.

But not the girls.

Not Wednesday.

Not Enid.

And then—

One night.

Just after 3:00 a.m.

When the fog pressed against the ground like breath and the moon had buried itself behind clouds—

The well opened.

Not with a creak.

Not with a scream.

Just—

opened.

Like it had never been sealed at all.

The first thing that rose wasn’t a hand.

It was a shadow.

Long. Feminine.

Then fingers curled over the rim.

Soft. Clean.

Knuckles scraped. Nails clipped short. Dried blood in the cuticle.

A hand followed.

Then a wrist.

A sleeve.

White.

Pressed and buttoned.

Stained a dark, quiet red down one side—like someone had tried to scrub it out and gave up halfway through.

A woman pulled herself into the clearing.

Young.

Maybe.

Early twenties.

But her face didn’t match the math.

Something too smooth. Too slow.

Hair pulled back in a neat bun.

Not a hair out of place.

Eyes gentle. Gray.

Mouth pale. Closed.

She stepped fully out of the well.

No stumble.

No sound.

She straightened her uniform jacket as if smoothing it for inspection.

Then looked around the clearing—

Like she recognized it.

Like she’d left something behind and had finally come to fetch it.

On her chest, pinned crookedly into the fabric:

A name tag.

White plastic. Cracked.

Three digits printed in clean, black font:

017

She tilted her head slightly.

Like she’d heard someone whisper her name.

Then—

A smile.

Polite.

Practiced.

Almost kind.

She stepped forward, into the woods.

Shoes quiet on the wet leaves.

As though she had a list of patients to check on.

And plenty of time.

*
Enid woke up in the dark.

The air was still. Too still.

No wind against the windows. No creaks in the floorboards. Just the soft tick of the old wall clock and the slow, even rhythm of Wednesday’s breathing beside her.

She blinked.

Rubbed her eyes.

She wasn’t sure what had pulled her from sleep—until she turned toward the door.

And saw her.

A woman.

Standing perfectly still in the hallway.

Wearing white.

A nurse’s uniform.

Long skirt. Clean lines. A faint red stain down one sleeve, like it had dried hours ago.

Enid didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The woman didn’t either.

She just stood there.

Looking in.

Smiling.

Gentle. Empty.

And then—

Gone.

Not vanished.

Just not there anymore.

Like she never had been.

Enid sat up fast, heart pounding.

“Wens,” she whispered, shaking her shoulder. “Wens, wake up—”

Wednesday stirred, eyes half-lidded, voice scratchy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“I think—” Enid looked at the doorway. Still empty. “I think I saw someone. A nurse. Just standing there.”

Wednesday sat up. Reached for her hand. “A night nurse?”

Enid nodded. Slowly.

Wednesday exhaled through her nose. Pulled her close.

“It was a nightmare,” she murmured. “We’re safe now.”

And Enid wanted to believe her.

So she did.

They laid back down.

Enid’s head tucked beneath Wednesday’s chin.

Fingers laced.

Warm.

Safe.

Sleep returned.

Eventually.

But in the hallway—

Where no one looked—

A faint red smear marked the edge of the doorframe.

And on the tile near the threshold—

A single, neatly folded cloth napkin.

Stiff with old blood.

The name tag still pinned to the corner:

017

Chapter Text

denly.

Her voice was hoarse. Scratched raw from screaming.

Enid blinked. “Trust what?”

“This. This moment. This bed. Your face.” Her throat moved. “My hands not shaking.”

Enid looked down.

Her hands were shaking.

A little.

She pressed her palms into the mattress.

Wednesday stared at her.

Like she was trying to memorize every freckle.

Every scar.

Like she thought if she looked away, Enid might fade.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up in the chair,” Wednesday said. “Or worse—in the room watching you smile at someone who isn’t me.”

Enid didn’t respond.

Because she had the same fear.

The same burn in her ribs that said maybe you’re still asleep.

Maybe this is another test.

Another layer.

Another lie shaped like a home.

She sat up slowly.

Pulled the blanket around her shoulders like armor.

Wednesday mirrored her, knee brushing hers.

Neither of them moved away.

“I remembered everything,” Enid whispered. “Too fast. It felt like my body broke. Like someone poured boiling water into my skull.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened.

“I didn’t forget,” she said. “But I left. I chose to leave you.”

“You didn’t know what would happen.”

“I should have.”

Enid turned toward her, lip trembling.

“Do you know how many times I told myself you weren’t real?” she said. “That I made you up? That I was crazy and no one had ever loved me like that and I was being punished for wanting something that didn’t exist?”

Wednesday reached for her.

Hesitated.

Then did it anyway.

Her fingers found Enid’s. Cold. Trembling.

“I remembered the rooftop,” she whispered. “The mural. The strawberry cake. I remembered you. But I couldn’t touch you.”

Enid made a sound.

Not a sob.

Not a laugh.

Something between.

“Wens—” she choked.

Wednesday squeezed her hand.

Hard.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here. I remember. I came back.”

And Enid finally broke.

Bent forward into her.

Shoulders shaking.

Face pressed to the side of Wednesday’s neck like she was afraid to let go.

And Wednesday held her.

Like she didn’t believe it either.

But she wanted to.

So badly.

They stayed that way for a long time.

Until the sun rose just enough to color the edges of the wall.

Until the light was warm again—not pink.

Just morning.

Enid pulled back, eyes red, voice soft.

“Can we stay like this?”

Wednesday didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

And she meant it.

Even if the walls started breathing again.

Even if the floor peeled up and the mirror cracked and Room 017 reached for them with smiling teeth.

She would hold her.

And she would not let go.

*
They were both sitting up now.

Blanket tangled around their legs, backs pressed to the headboard. The light through the window had shifted from uncertain gray to something warmer. The kind of light that looked like forgiveness if you didn’t stare too hard.

Enid had stopped crying.

But her hands hadn’t stopped fidgeting.

She twisted the edge of the blanket around her fingers like she was working up to something, pulling the courage up from somewhere buried and bruised.

Wednesday hadn’t spoken.

She waited.

She always did.

Enid looked at her.

Really looked.

Hair wild.

Neck bruised.

Eyes darker than they'd ever been.

She reached out—barely—fingertips brushing against the back of Wednesday’s hand.

“Wens…”

Wednesday turned.

Met her gaze.

And Enid smiled.

Small. Wrecked.

Pure.

“For me,” she whispered, “it felt like five years.”

Wednesday didn’t speak.

Enid laughed—quietly, almost bitter.

“For you it was two months. For me it was five years. Five years of soft lights and quiet days and pudding and walking the same halls over and over with Annie.”

She pulled in a shaky breath.

“And I fell in love with her.”

Wednesday blinked.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tighten.

Just watched.

“I didn’t know you,” Enid went on. “The room… took you from me. It didn’t even feel like forgetting. You were just never there.”

Her voice broke.

“I cheated on you, and I didn’t even know it.”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t change.

But her hand turned over—so their palms could touch.

Enid shook her head, fast. “I don’t— I’m not asking for permission or forgiveness or anything. I just need you to know. I need to say it.”

Wednesday nodded once.

Like keep going.

So she did.

“I had a five-year relationship with someone because the room wanted me to. It let me be happy. Or quiet, at least. And I loved her, Wednesday. I really did. I loved the way she smiled when she was sketching. I loved her pudding jokes. I loved how safe she made me feel when everything else felt wrong.”

Her voice cracked again.

“But she’s… she’s older now. Like really older. And I know that should make it easier but it doesn’t. It just makes me feel guilty. Because I still love her. Not the sixty-year-old version. Not Annie right now. But the girl I thought was my beginning.”

She swallowed hard.

“I love you, Wednesday. That never stopped. The second I remembered you, I knew. My whole heart cracked open. But there’s this—this space in me now. Where she lives too. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

She stopped.

Waited.

Dreading the quiet that followed.

But Wednesday didn’t leave.

She didn’t pull her hand away.

She just stared for a moment longer.

Then said, softly:

“You didn’t cheat on me.”

Enid opened her mouth.

But Wednesday kept going.

“You survived.”

She turned fully now, hand moving to Enid’s knee.

“You made a life in hell. You found comfort inside a lie and you loved someone. That doesn’t make you cruel. That doesn’t mean you forgot me. It means you were human. And I love you more for it.”

Enid let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“I feel broken.”

“You’re not.”

“I feel like I’m holding two people in the same heart.”

Wednesday’s hand found her cheek.

“Then I’ll make room.”

*
The bed was quiet now.

Their hands still touched, but neither of them spoke. The weight of that truth—Enid’s love for Annie, for Wednesday, the years they lost—sat between them, tender and raw and shared.

Then Enid’s phone buzzed.

Just once.

On the nightstand.

They both flinched.

It lit up with a notification—just one—then another.

Then dozens.

Enid blinked.

Reached for it.

The screen was flooded with texts, missed calls, emails, DMs.

From old friends. Classmates. People she hadn’t spoken to in years.

“ENID??? WHAT HAPPENED?”
“I just remembered you. Like—just now. Are you okay???”
“Did we go to school together?? Why do I feel like you were IMPORTANT?”
“Please tell me you’re real. Please.”

They kept coming.

One after another after another.

Like the world was waking up all at once.

Like the blackout around her name had finally lifted.

Enid’s breath caught in her throat.

She kept scrolling.

Names she recognized.

Names she didn’t.

Someone from middle school. A barista in the city. Her old RA. Her freshman year roommate who had ghosted her halfway through the semester.

All of them remembering.

All of them panicking.

But one name wasn’t there.

She tapped her Messages app.

Searched.

Waited.

Nothing.

No missed call.

No voicemail.

Not even a single unread text.

Not from her mother.

Not from her father.

Not from anyone in that house.

Just—

Silence.

The same kind she'd grown up with.

The same kind she'd almost gotten used to.

Wednesday noticed.

Didn't speak.

Just watched her with quiet, unblinking understanding.

Enid tried to smile.

Tried to make a joke.

But her voice cracked instead.

“I guess they don’t even remember forgetting me.”

Wednesday reached out.

Took the phone gently from her hands.

Set it face-down on the nightstand.

“I remember,” she said softly.

Enid blinked fast.

Nodded once.

And leaned into her shoulder.

Not to cry.

Not this time.

Just to rest.

Because the world had remembered her.

But the people who never saw her?

Still wouldn’t.

And that hurt.

But it didn’t break her.

Not anymore.

*
The campus looked… normal.

Which felt like an insult.

Birds chirped. Sprinklers clicked on somewhere in the distance. Someone was jogging, earbuds in, completely unaware of how close the world had come to losing something it didn’t even know it had.

Enid and Wednesday walked side by side across the quad, their steps not quite in sync, but close enough. The grass was damp. Their boots left soft marks in the earth, but neither of them looked back.

Classes had been canceled.

Apparently Mr. Robertson had resigned effective immediately. No warning. Just a single note left in his office, signed in ink that had bled slightly through the page.

He was gone.

So was his room.

Boxed up. Erased.

There was talk about bringing in a temporary instructor. Some young PhD who specialized in folklore and semiotics. Someone who smiled too much.

Neither girl cared.

They were just walking.

Their first real walk outside since the well.

Since the chair.

Since everything.

Enid’s hair was down.

Still damp from her shower. She hadn’t bothered brushing it all the way through, and it waved softly around her shoulders like something trying to remember freedom.

Wednesday’s coat was too big.

She hadn’t noticed until Enid pointed it out, grinning faintly.

They’d both laughed.

But only a little.

The laughter didn’t last long.

Not yet.

They reached the center of the quad.

Benches lined the path, slick with dew. A couple of ravens sat perched along the wrought iron fence, watching silently. Watching her.

Wednesday ignored them.

Enid sat down on the nearest bench.

Not because she was tired.

Because she needed to feel something beneath her that didn’t move.

Wednesday stood beside her.

And then—

Enid looked up at her.

Sunlight caught her face. Gold around the edges. Eyes soft.

“I hope she finds Mary Anne,” she said.

Voice low.

Real.

Wednesday blinked.

The words hung there.

Not heavy.

Just true.

She sat down beside her.

Close.

Knees touching.

And said:

“Me too.”

*
They didn’t talk for a while.

They just sat there on the bench, letting the sun find its way onto their skin. Letting the breeze push the damp strands of Enid’s hair against her cheek. Letting the quiet be quiet.

It was still early.

The quad hadn’t filled yet.

No bells had rung.

It felt like the kind of morning that forgot how to hurry.

And maybe that’s what they needed.

A day that didn’t want anything from them.

Wednesday sat with her hands folded in her lap, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, eyes closed like she was trying to memorize the way the light hit her eyelids from behind. Like she hadn’t allowed herself to rest until this exact moment.

Enid leaned her head against Wednesday’s shoulder.

No fanfare.

Just gravity.

And after a few breaths, Wednesday leaned back.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Until Enid whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

Wednesday opened her eyes.

Turned to face her.

And there wasn’t hesitation—not anymore.

Just—

“Yes.”

So Enid did.

She kissed her.

Not a question. Not a memory. Not a test.

A kiss like breath finally let out.

Like everything in her body that had been holding back could finally collapse.

Wednesday didn’t flinch.

She kissed her back like she'd been waiting.

For days.

For weeks.

For years.

For forever.

And when they pulled apart—

Foreheads touching.

Eyes soft.

Hands still tangled—

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was enough.

Because it wasn’t about saving or surviving or remembering anymore.

It was about being here.

Together.

Finally.

Chapter Text

The first thing Wednesday noticed was the coffee.

It was wrong.

Not the smell—it smelled fine, rich and bitter, just the way Enid liked to make it, two tablespoons more than any sane person should use. It filled the dorm with warmth and the faint crackle of something domestic.
But it was already poured.

Two mugs. Side by side on the windowsill. One black. One soft pink with the cartoon crows and the phrase We Ride at Dawn.

Wednesday blinked.

The mugs weren’t steaming.

She reached out. Touched the handle of the black one. Still warm. Not hot.

She didn’t remember making it.
She didn’t remember Enid making it either.
She didn’t remember waking up.

But Enid was humming softly in the other room, so she let it go.

Just for a moment.

The campus outside the window looked the same as ever—slightly overcast, green around the edges. The courtyard tree was in bloom. A girl in a red coat passed by, her laugh trailing behind her like ribbon. The exact same way it had last time.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes.

Enid appeared at the doorway, still damp from the shower, towel around her neck. Hair curled wildly at the ends like it always did when she didn’t bother brushing it. She looked like herself. Radiant. Unbothered.
“Hey, you,” she said, soft and happy.

Wednesday stared.
“…What did you just say?”

Enid paused, blinking. “I said—hey, you.”

Wednesday set the mug down slowly. “No. Before that.”

“I—didn’t say anything before that.” A beat. “You okay?”

The air felt heavy. The kind of pressure that comes before a storm.

Enid crossed the room and kissed her cheek. Her lips were warm. Familiar. She smelled like rosemary shampoo.

But she’d used lemon yesterday.
And this scene had happened before.

Word for word.

The coffee. The laugh outside. The mug.
Hey, you.

A deep unease curled behind Wednesday’s ribs like a second spine.

She forced her voice to stay level. “What day is it?”

Enid tilted her head, smiling. “Sunday. You said you wanted to go into town. Remember?”

Wednesday didn’t.

But she nodded anyway. Because the only thing more dangerous than the wrong world was the thing pretending it was right.

They sat at the folding table in the quad, clipboards in hand.

Wednesday’s name tag had been written in Enid’s handwriting. All careful loops and a tiny heart on the i that made her jaw clench—because it was correct. Because it was exactly how Enid would have written it.

But she didn’t remember Enid writing it.

She remembered…

Wednesday blinked. The sun was too bright overhead, like a lightbulb turned up too far. The kind of day where everything felt bleached out.

Enid leaned over and whispered, “Okay, I’m betting this next girl’s a vampire. Just look at her shoes.”

Sure enough—chunky leather platforms, silver buckles, a black skirt that swished like bat wings.

Wednesday deadpanned, “That’s profiling.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Enid whispered back, grinning.

The vampire girl arrived at the table. They got her checked in. Wednesday signed the sheet.

The wind shifted. Someone laughed. The leaves stirred. It all felt familiar.

Too familiar.

Wednesday glanced across the quad. For just a moment, she thought she saw Thing perched in the window of Ophelia Hall—fingers drumming.

Like he was waiting.

Like he knew.

Enid touched her arm lightly. “Hey. You good?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said, too fast. Then again, slower. “Yes.”

Another student stepped forward. A warlock this time, eyes too green, smile too smooth.
Wednesday wrote his name without looking at the form. She knew it already.

Because they’d already registered him.
Because he said the same joke about his name sounding like a Harry Potter character.
Because Enid laughed the same exact way—three short bursts and a nudge to her side.

Wednesday looked down at the form.
The ink wasn’t dry.

Because it had never been wet.

Her pen hadn’t moved.

A tickle of panic moved up her spine. Not terror. Not yet.
But the feeling of walking into a room and forgetting why you came. Of blinking and realizing you’ve missed a whole conversation. Of hearing the same song in every store on accident.

She finished signing.

Another name. Another student.

Another joke from Enid about becoming the Quad’s resident gay guidance counselor.

No note.

She flipped the clipboard over.

Nothing.

Just lined paper. No threat. No warning.

Nothing.

Morning again.

Same pillow. Same light.

Same girl inches away, looking at her like nothing in the world had ever been wrong.

Wednesday didn’t move at first.

Because she remembered this.

She remembered the softness. The hush. The feeling of waking up with Enid already looking at her like she’d done something impossibly brave in her sleep. Like she’d whispered some secret through the dark and Enid had been there to catch it.

But she also remembered doing this before.

And that was the problem.

Because Enid’s hair was curled the exact same way it had been the first time.
Because the rain sounded the same against the window.
Because she said—

“Did we even talk last night?”

—and Wednesday felt something in her stomach knot tight.

“No,” she murmured, voice automatic. Unthinking.

“Did we… just get in bed like this?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. You didn’t even glare at me.”

“You didn’t ask.”

The words felt hollow coming out of her mouth.

Too clean. Too rehearsed. Like pressing play on a recording she’d already memorized.

Enid was smiling now. Soft. Hopeful. Dangerous in that gentle way that always made Wednesday feel like she was being pulled into something she wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

“So… why didn’t you stop me?”

Wednesday opened her eyes.

The ceiling. The edge of the bed. The collar of Enid’s sleep shirt.

She looked directly at her.

“Because I didn’t want to.”

There it was.

The same answer.

The same reaction. Enid biting her lip. That smile blooming like she couldn’t stop it even if she tried.

Only this time, it made Wednesday feel cold.

Because she had said this before.

Because none of this was new.

Because somewhere—deep beneath the warmth of the blanket, the softness of Enid’s expression, the thrum of closeness in her chest—Wednesday knew they were not in their room.

They were not in her world.

This had already happened.

This moment was a memory. A performance. A loop.

Thing was gone again. No rustle. No movement. No sarcastic little knock at the door.

Just Enid.

Just Wednesday.

Just the memory of something that had felt like magic.

And now felt like drowning.

Enid’s hand brushed hers. No hesitation. No fear. Fingers looping gently between hers like she’d done it a hundred times.

But Wednesday couldn’t feel her pulse.

Her mouth was warm, her skin soft—but her pulse was missing.

A flicker of dread snapped through her ribs.

She didn’t move.

Enid was still watching her.

Waiting.

And Wednesday tried—desperately—to look back at her like she had before. To mean it. To fall into it.

But it was like kissing through glass.

It was like living inside a photograph of a life she used to have.

They stayed in bed for hours.

Said the same things. Joked the same way. Teased each other with all the same lines.

Enid whispered, “Morning, babe,” with that smug, sleepy grin.

Wednesday deadpanned, “I will smother you with this pillow.”

Enid giggled. “You’re holding my hand.”

But she didn’t say that last time.

Did she?

The line was off. The cadence was wrong. The beat was half a breath too early, like the delivery of a scene that had been rehearsed, not lived.

Wednesday pulled her hand back—just a fraction—and Enid didn’t react.

Just kept smiling.

Still perfect.

Still warm.

Still wrong.

Later, they got ready.

Enid danced in front of the mirror in a hoodie Wednesday swore she hadn’t seen in months.

Wednesday tied her boots again. Same laces. Same knot.

Enid leaned in the doorway and pointed her toothbrush like a sword.

“You kissed me.”

“I remember,” Wednesday said, quiet.

Enid’s face lit up. Like she hadn’t heard the difference.

Like the tone hadn’t changed.

They walked the same halls. Passed the same windows. Sat by the same statue where Wednesday had first kissed her a second time—in full daylight, in full awareness of her own want.

And again, she did it.

Again, her body moved before her doubt could stop it.

Again, Enid made that same surprised, delighted sound in the back of her throat.

Again, the sunlight caught in her hair like it had been painted there by a set designer.

Again.

Again.

Again.

In the library, Wednesday sat behind her stack of books. The same ones.

Enid watched her.

Same pose. Same lean.

The envelope wasn’t there this time.

Just a red notebook. Unlabeled.

She flipped it open.

Blank.

Every page.

Blank.

She hadn’t brought that notebook.

She didn’t own that notebook.

“Your staring is disruptive,” she said without thinking.

Enid grinned. “Your face is disruptive.”

Wednesday’s mouth went dry.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t say you’re ridiculous—because Enid was already saying and you’re gorgeous when you’re solving creepy little mysteries.

It was already happening.

Like a script.

Like a trap.

Wednesday reached across the table.

Took her hand.

She didn’t want to.

She wanted to scream.

To run.

To burn the whole building down.

But her body didn’t listen.

It was acting out something older than her panic. Older than her memory. Something carved into her spine like a stage direction.

She kissed her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And Enid never stopped smiling.

And the world never moved forward.

And the page never turned.

And the clock never ticked.

And somewhere, in the very back of her skull, Wednesday heard it—

The faintest rustle of a dress.

The softest whisper behind the walls.

The sound of a stage being reset.

And then: the smell of tea.
The flicker of pink light.
The feeling of a paperback against her hand.

It started with a book.

Well — technically, it started with Enid complaining that she’d packed everything except something to read that wasn’t about soulmates or supernatural hookups.

Wednesday, from her desk, had reached calmly into her bag and produced a worn paperback with black binding and creased corners.

“Keats?” Enid blinked at it like it might hiss.

“Acceptable reading material,” Wednesday said. “He died tragically young and was mostly unappreciated while alive. I like his themes.”

Wednesday remembered this.

Too well.

This was the first night. The night of lava lamp light and shared pages and a poetry reading that had dissolved into silence—not from boredom, but from comfort. Real comfort.

They’d stayed up too late. They hadn’t meant to.

She should feel something warm, revisiting this.

But the warmth was too warm.
The light too pink.
The paperback too pristine.

There should have been a tear on the spine. Wednesday remembered bending it by accident. But now?

It was smooth.

Untouched.

She traced it with her finger, trying not to react.

Enid lay sideways across the bed, cheek pressed into her arm, reading aloud in a voice that was both dramatic and teasing. Her cadence too perfect. The line breaks too familiar.

“ ‘Bright Star, would I were stedfast as thou art—’ Wait,” Enid paused. “Is this a love poem or a breakup?”

And Wednesday said it.

“Yes.”

Because she had already said it.
Because this was a memory.
Because her mouth was following a path her mind hadn’t paved.

She closed her eyes.
Counted three slow breaths.
Opened them again.

Same bed.
Same blanket.
Same poem number six.

And then, like clockwork, her body moved. From sitting to lying. Shoulder to shoulder. Their thighs aligned. Enid’s breathing, steady and rhythmic, lulled her back into the version of herself who hadn’t known she was being watched.

The lava lamp across the room bubbled in soft, hypnotic bursts.

Her heart—then and now—slowed.

Because it was peaceful.

Because it was real.

Except it wasn’t.

Not now.

Wednesday swallowed.

Enid’s hair still smelled like bubblegum and drugstore shampoo. The room still held the hush of girls falling into something unnamed. And when Wednesday finally let herself breathe, it came out in rhythm with Enid’s.

Eventually, she drifted off.
Again.

And in the corner, on the shelf—

The doll smiled.

Only this time…

Its head didn’t just tilt.

Its eyes moved.

Just once.

And then morning came.

The creak of the dorm.
The birds.
The gurgle of the lava lamp.
The warmth.

The entanglement.

Every detail returned with mechanical precision: Enid’s arm slung across her waist, her breath hitting the soft edge of Wednesday’s jaw, their legs a slow, perfect knot.

And when Enid woke—

“Well,” she said, voice thick with sleep and pride. “Guess I can’t say I’ve never slept with anyone anymore.”

Wednesday opened one eye.

And in that second—watching her, hearing her say it exactly the same way, exactly the same tone—Wednesday felt something crack.

“You’re insufferable,” she said. The script.

“But technically correct.”

“It wasn’t—”

Pause.
Exactly the same beat.
Exactly the same rhythm.

“—That’s not what that means.”

Enid snorted. “Totally innocent. Nothing but poetry and light spooning.”

“It wasn’t spooning.”

“Your hand is on my waist.”

Wednesday removed it. Automatically. “That was accidental.”

“Sure it was.”

Same crooked smile.
Same gleam in her eyes.

Wednesday sat up, resisting the urge to look at the bookshelf. To see if the doll had moved again. If the head had tilted a fraction further. If the eyes were fixed on her now.

But she didn’t.

Because Enid was watching her again. Beaming.

“I meant—sleep,” Wednesday said, on cue. “As in unconscious. Rest. Shut-eye. Not the vulgar euphemism modern society has corrupted it into.”

She wanted to stop.
Wanted to say I’ve said this already.
Wanted to scream we’ve done this.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not while Enid was laughing.

“Wednesday Addams,” Enid wheezed, rolling onto her back. “That is the dirtiest-sounding thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I will jump out this window.”

“I’ll save you a spot,” Enid giggled. “Right next to the lavender bush.”

It was identical. Every line. Every breath.

Only the doll had changed.

Thing came at the window. The knock: tap, tap, tap.

Wednesday crossed the room. Opened it. Let him in. Just like before.

He leapt. He cartwheeled. He posed.

Enid lit up. Scooped him into her arms. Called him buffer.

He flexed.

She laughed.

It was the same.
Every molecule.
Every beat.

And that’s when Wednesday knew.

Knew with a certainty so deep it stopped her lungs:

She was still in Room 017.

She had never left the well.

The Doll House had just grown quieter. Softer. Smarter.

It didn’t need to chase her.
It just needed her to stay.
To believe.

To kiss.
To laugh.
To fall asleep beside someone she loved.

To lose herself in memory so perfectly stitched together, she’d forget it was a loop.

Wednesday looked at the mug on the table. Black ceramic. Still steaming.

She hadn’t boiled water.
She hadn’t made it.

Enid offered her the lemon-zinger. Smiling.

Thing wiggled his fingers. Tapped her sketchbook. Clapped with invisible music.

And still—
No one blinked.

No one noticed the skip in the timeline.
No one heard the record skip.
No one but her.

Wednesday brought the tea to her lips.
Paused.

Then poured it down the drain.

Enid didn’t react.

Not even a blink.

Like she hadn’t seen it.

Like it didn’t matter.

And Wednesday stared at her.
Long.
Hard.
Silent.

The room responded slower than before.

Like it was lagging.
Like it was buffering the world.

Enid’s laughter echoed too long.

Thing’s fingers tapped without rhythm.

The lava lamp froze mid-bubble.

Wednesday stood at the sink. Her hands were dry. The water had stopped running.

She hadn’t turned it off.

The drain still gurgled like it was swallowing something thick.

Enid was behind her, saying something cheerful—something familiar. Her voice honey-sweet and bright.

But Wednesday didn’t turn around.

She closed her eyes.

Inhaled.

And said it out loud:

“This isn’t real.”

Silence.

Not a silence of absence—but of offense. Like the room itself had stiffened. Like the air around her had gone still with insult.

Wednesday turned slowly.

Enid smiled back at her, radiant and unbothered, mug in hand.

“You’re staring again,” she said lightly. “Is it the bedhead? Be honest.”

Wednesday said nothing.

Just watched her. Studied her. Like the lines of her face might betray something—like a crack in glass, or a mannequin’s seam.

But Enid was flawless.

Too flawless.

No hangnail. No sleepy eye crust. No tiny imperfection in her teeth. No nervous tic.

She had been rendered.

Not remembered.

Wednesday’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Where are you keeping her?”

Enid blinked.

Tilted her head.

“What?”

Wednesday didn’t blink. “The real one. Where is she?”

Enid laughed—just once—and it hit the floor like a dropped spoon. Wrong. Hollow. Pre-recorded.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

Wednesday stepped forward.

“One last time,” she said flatly. “Where is Enid.”

Enid smiled wider. “I’m right here, babe.”

Wednesday’s fists clenched. “You are not her.”

She ripped open the drawer by the stove.

Empty.

Then the cabinet.

Empty.

The pantry. The closet. The mini-fridge.

All empty.

No food. No tea boxes. No shoes. No toothbrushes. No notebooks.

No dust.

No past.

Everything here was built from the surface of memory. From the shape of feeling. But none of it had weight.

Not even Enid.

Because when Wednesday stepped forward and touched her shoulder—
Her hand passed through.

Just an inch. But enough.

Wednesday flinched back.

And Enid?

Enid just smiled. Patient. Polite.

A programmed ghost.

“You don’t have to go,” she said gently. “You don’t have to fight. You’re safe here.”

Wednesday shook her head. “You want me docile. Dreaming.”

“I want you happy.”

Wednesday’s voice hardened. “No, you want me still.”

Outside the window, the light flickered.

Like someone adjusting a dimmer.

The sky rippled.

Like cloth.

Wednesday moved to the door. Yanked it open.

Only hallway.

No students.

No sound.

Just a hallway that stretched too long. Too clean. Too quiet.

She turned back once more.

Enid was standing in the center of the dorm, holding the mug in both hands. Not sipping. Just posing.

Waiting.

Like a doll on a shelf.

Thing was gone.

The lava lamp stopped bubbling.

Even the air had quit pretending to breathe.

And Wednesday—
Wednesday Addams—
Did not look away.

She walked to the bed.

Picked up the Keats paperback.

Opened it.

Every page was blank.

No words. No ink.

Just pulp and lie.

She dropped it. Calmly. Like a verdict.

The room didn’t shake.

It didn’t cry.

It just watched her.

Like it was waiting for her to cave.

And Wednesday—
quietly, furiously—
whispered:

“I will burn you.”

She turned to the door. Started walking.

And behind her, the Enid illusion spoke once more—this time softer, almost tender:

“She’s waiting for you, you know. In here.”

Wednesday didn’t stop.

“She loves you here. You could stay. She would stay with you.”

Wednesday kept walking.

The door behind her clicked shut.

And the hallway stretched longer.

And longer.

And longer.

But now—finally—

Wednesday wasn’t afraid.

Because she was awake.

Chapter Text

It happened on the third step.

The moment Wednesday turned the corner of the endless hallway—midstride, mid-thought—everything shifted.

No warning. No fade. Just click.

And suddenly, she wasn’t in a hallway.

She was standing barefoot on cold linoleum tile.

Her boots were gone. So was her coat. So was her braid.

The air stank of alcohol wipes and something sweeter underneath—cloying, sugary, almost rotten. Like flowers left too long on a grave.

The lighting buzzed overhead. Fluorescents. Yellow-white and pulsing, as if wired into a heartbeat too slow to sustain life.

The walls were peeling. Pale blue. Old.

A single steel-framed bed sat in the middle of the room.

It had straps.

Wednesday didn’t move.

She didn’t blink.

Because she knew this place.

Not from memory.

But from presence.

This was what the Doll House had been hiding. Beneath the dorm. Beneath the poems and mugs and lavender-scented sleepovers.

This was Room 017.

And someone else was already in it.

She didn’t hear her enter.

The click of heels on tile announced her instead.

Slow.

Measured.

Each step like a countdown.

And then—the door, which hadn’t existed a second ago, creaked open.

And in stepped the Night Nurse.

White uniform. White shoes. White gloves. Not a wrinkle out of place. Her cap sat neatly atop hair that looked more like lacquered porcelain than anything human.

But it was the face that stopped Wednesday’s breath.

Not because it was ugly.

Because it was empty.

Her skin looked stretched—smoothed. Her eyes black as bitumen, wide and unmoving, ringed with wet shine like she’d just stepped out of a memory that didn’t want her anymore.

Her lips curled into a smile too slow. Too steady. Too aware.

“You woke up,” the Night Nurse said gently.

Her voice was low. Velvet. The kind used for reading stories to children in padded rooms.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

The Nurse took one step closer.

Her gloves were perfectly white.

Not a speck of dust or blood.

“You were doing so well in there. You made it almost six loops before you noticed.”

Wednesday’s voice, when it came, was steel. “Where is she.”

The Nurse tilted her head. “She?”

Wednesday didn’t move.

The room groaned behind her. The bed creaked like it had someone in it.

“I know what this place is,” she said. “I know it’s not just a room. It feeds. It keeps.”

The Night Nurse’s smile didn’t falter. “It doesn’t keep everyone. Only the ones who need to be kept.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“Oh, I didn’t say it was your need.”

Wednesday’s stomach turned.

The Nurse crossed the floor without sound.

She didn’t walk. Not really. Her steps didn’t make sense—no weight. No shift. Like she was gliding just above the surface.

“Would you like to know why you got out last time?” she asked, voice almost motherly. “Why you were allowed to leave the well?”

“I wasn’t allowed,” Wednesday spat. “I escaped.”

“Did you?” The Nurse blinked, slow and reptilian. “Is that what you think?”

The lights flickered.

The floor rippled.

And for a brief second—a single breath—Wednesday saw her younger self lying in the bed.

Sixteen. Pale. Silent.

Her hands twitching at her sides.

A faint line of dried blood under her nose.

Enid was there, too.

At the edge of the bed.

But her face was wrong. Too still. Her eyes glassy.

And behind them both, in the corner—half in shadow, half in light—stood the Night Nurse.

Watching.

Holding the envelope.

Wednesday blinked—and the image was gone.

The room returned to its current state: empty bed, empty corners, empty air.

But the message was clear.

“You’re lying,” Wednesday whispered.

The Nurse’s smile widened. “You never escaped, darling. We let you go. So you would bring her back.”

Something ice-cold slithered up Wednesday’s spine.

“No.”

“You wore her down. You softened her. You made her open. And that’s all the room ever needed. An open door.”

Wednesday shook her head.

But her hands had started to tremble.

“Don’t you want to know how it ends?” the Nurse asked sweetly. “You and her, in the dorm forever. Tea every morning. Kisses every night. A perfect world where no one dies and no one remembers.”

“I don’t want perfect.”

“Don’t lie,” the Nurse cooed. “You stayed for seven loops. That’s more than Annie ever made it.”

Wednesday froze.

“Annie?”

The Nurse tilted her head. “She was the first to help. The first to walk willingly into the fire to pull someone out. A little sister. Remember?”

She gestured toward the wall.

And this time Wednesday saw it.

The wallpaper curled back on itself. The plaster peeled. And beneath it—burned into the concrete like a shadow scorched in a nuclear blast—was the outline of a girl.

Small.

Arms outstretched.

Screaming.

Wednesday’s voice broke. “You killed her.”

“No,” said the Night Nurse, gently tucking invisible hair behind her ear. “We remade her. So she could keep helping. So she could protect all the little girls like you.”

She stepped closer.

Now inches away.

“You should be grateful.”

“I will tear this place apart,” Wednesday hissed. “I will find her. I will take her back.”

The Nurse only smiled.

“I hope you try.”

And then—

She turned.

Walked toward the door again.

But just before crossing the threshold, she looked back.

And her face changed.

Just for a moment.

The smile dropped.

The eyes sharpened.

And the voice that came next was not soft.

It was commanding.

It was hungry.

“Bring her back, Wednesday Addams. Or we’ll start taking pieces of you instead.”

Then she vanished.

And the room screamed.

The bed snapped into motion, restraints lashing out like serpents. The walls pulsed. The floor opened in jagged cracks.

But Wednesday didn’t scream.

She stood there.

Still.

And in her mind, Enid’s voice whispered:

“I’ll come find you, okay? No matter what.”

Wednesday closed her eyes.

And whispered back.

“I’m coming first.”

The bed was fighting her.

The restraints weren’t leather. They weren’t fabric. They were alive—something between tendon and wire, sinew and sine, flexing and tightening with every breath she took. They wrapped around her wrists, then her ankles, then her chest, pressing into her ribs like fingers.

The mattress groaned underneath her like it knew.

And the more she pulled, the more it resisted.

Wednesday twisted hard, gritting her teeth. Her arms were pinned outward. Her legs locked at the knees. The metal frame dug into the small of her back with mathematical precision. Not cruel. Not chaotic.

Just clinical.

Efficient.

Like it had done this before.

Dozens of times.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

“No—” she hissed, yanking with everything she had. Her wrists burned. Her chest heaved.

The walls were too quiet now. No flickering. No static. Just the steady hum of something watching.

She kicked. Twisted. Bucked.

The restraints tightened.

The room didn’t scream anymore.

It waited.

And then—just like before—it tried to speak for her.

A memory unfurled in the ceiling tiles overhead. Not with sound. Not with light. But with presence.

It slipped into her like fog. Like sleep.

A girl standing beside a hospital bed. Pale. Fragile. Silent.

Not Wednesday.

Someone else.

Annie.

“First to help,” the Night Nurse had said. “A little sister.”

But Wednesday shook her head. Hard.

“No,” she said aloud. “That’s not right. That’s not true.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Pushed back.

Tore through the fog with her bare mind.

And underneath it—clear as a bell, sudden and sharp—came a memory.

Not a vision. Not a dream.

A real one.

Annie in a hallway. Her shoes too big. Her hands trembling. Looking over her shoulder.

A voice—harsh, male, close.

Calling her a dyke. A sinner. A disgrace.

The sound of car doors. Of gravel. Of someone crying.

Annie was dragged here.

Because she was gay.

Because she kissed the wrong girl.

Because she didn’t hide it fast enough.

That was the truth.

And it didn’t come from the room.

It came from Wednesday.

From something deeper.

Older.

Stronger than the Doll House’s lies.

She gasped, breath catching in her throat.

That’s real. That’s real. That happened.

“She didn’t have a sister,” Wednesday whispered. “She didn’t come here to help anyone.”

And then, louder:

“She came here because of hate.”

The room rattled.

The straps clenched tighter, like punishment. Like retaliation.

But something else—someone else—began to press against the back of her skull.

Not the Night Nurse.

Not the room.

Something warm.

Something gold.

She heard it like a whisper in the marrow of her bones:

Wens?

Wednesday froze.

Her heart stuttered.

“…Enid?”

There was no sound. No air movement. No voice.

But she felt it.

Felt the shape of her name in someone else’s mouth.

Wednesday? Can you hear me?

Her throat closed.

She didn’t speak aloud.

She thought back—fierce, wild, desperate.

Enid—how?

There was a long pause.

Then, like a soft wind through the cracks in the walls:

I don’t know. I just… I just kept thinking about you. And I felt something pulling. I saw the hallway. I saw the room.

Wednesday’s whole body went still.

The restraints didn’t move.

But suddenly—they didn’t matter.

Are you here? she thought. Really here?

I think… part of me is. Or maybe just enough.

A pause.

I miss you, Enid’s voice said, so quiet it felt like a kiss against her spine.

Wednesday shut her eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like years, breathed.

The room writhed. The walls pulsed.

It didn’t like this.

It didn’t like her.

How did you get in? Wednesday thought.

You let me, Enid whispered. That night you called my name in your sleep. That night you fell into the well again.

Memory struck her like lightning.

She hadn’t fallen.

She’d been pulled.

When Enid kissed her cheek that night—when she whispered I’ll come find you—something opened.

Something bled.

And the Doll House slipped back inside.

But this time?

This time, Enid had followed.

I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner, Enid said, her voice a beam of warmth inside Wednesday’s ribs. I thought you were just tired. I thought you needed space.

Wednesday’s pulse jumped.

You came into the dark for me.

Of course I did, Enid said, and she sounded like she was smiling. You think you’re the only one who can do stupid heroic things?

The mattress lurched under her.

The walls hissed.

But the straps—

The straps were loosening.

Because she wasn’t alone anymore.

Because the room fed on loneliness. On isolation.

And Enid Sinclair didn’t believe in letting anyone stay alone for long.

I can get out, Wednesday thought. If I find the breach point—

I know, Enid said. I’m looking for you too.

I think it’s the floor. The drain. It’s been gurgling.

That’s disgusting, but okay. I’m in.

Wednesday’s lips twitched.

A half-smile. The first in hours.

The bed shuddered.

The ceiling cracked.

And the doll, somewhere in the corner, finally opened its mouth.

It didn’t scream.

It sang.

A low, choked lullaby made of old nursery rhymes and broken glass.

But neither of them listened.

Because their thoughts were louder.

Because love, in its purest form, is not always soft.

Sometimes, it’s a weapon.

And Wednesday Addams was about to use it.

The straps twitched.

Just once—like a breath being held too long.

Then again—like something exhaling in defeat.

Wednesday felt it before she saw it: the tension slacken. The leather—or tendon, or steel, or whatever the hell it really was—gave the smallest inch at her left wrist. A millimeter at her right. Her ankles loosened next, a subtle release, as though the room were distracted. As though something else had caught its attention.

Enid, she thought, without fear. Keep talking.

I’m here, Enid whispered back, her voice golden-threaded inside Wednesday’s skull. I’ve got you.

The room hated it.

The ceiling let out a groan—low and wet and wounded.

The walls pulsed once. Twice.

Wednesday didn’t flinch.

She reached up with numb fingers and unlatched her left wrist.

It fought back. Tightened. Bit.

She gritted her teeth and yanked.

The cuff tore open with a shriek like bone snapping.

The right hand came next. Then her ankles. One by one. Slow and deliberate.

The moment her feet hit the floor, the room howled.

Not with sound.

With everything.

The walls convulsed. The tile rippled like water. The lights burst in sequence, strobing white-pink-white-pink like a dying heartbeat.

But outside the door—just beyond the thin metal frame—it was silent.

She could see it through the crack. Stillness. Still tile. Still air.

The hallway.

Real or not, it was her only way out.

And then she heard it.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The heels.

Wednesday's breath hitched.

She’s coming, she thought.

I know, Enid said, voice like fire catching. Run.

So she did.

She wrenched the door open and threw herself into the hall barefoot, sprinting on cold tile. The air was wrong here too—stale and sweet like embalming fluid—but she didn’t care.

The door slammed shut behind her with a sound like finality.

And the room screamed.

Trapped. Denied. Furious.

But muted now. Muffled. Like it had been buried behind six feet of cement.

From outside?

It sounded like nothing at all.

She ran faster.

The hallway stretched out like a vein, pulsing faintly. No turns. No signs. Just that endless sterile corridor, humming with silence.

Left, Enid’s voice whispered in her ear. There’s going to be a split soon. Take the left.

Wednesday didn’t hesitate.

She turned.

And then she whispered, How do you know where I am?

Enid’s voice came back without pause.

I can feel you.

A beat.

It’s like—there’s a thread. Between us. A pull. Like a compass made of you.

Wednesday blinked hard against the flicker of lights overhead.

A compass made of me?

Don’t mock me, Enid said, but her voice was thick, close to crying. You’re the one who left.

Wednesday’s heart twisted.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know.

I know, Enid whispered. But I did. The second I woke up and your side of the bed was cold—I knew.

Wednesday skidded around another corner, lungs burning, muscles aching.

The tiles blurred beneath her feet. The hallway forked again.

Which way?

Straight. Just straight. You’re getting closer—I can feel it. Like when you walk into a room and know I’ve been there.

You sound so sure.

I am.

Why?

Enid laughed, breathless and bright. Because I love you, dumbass. And love makes a better compass than anything the Doll House has ever built.

Wednesday’s chest burned.

Not from running.

From feeling.

From wanting.

From knowing that Enid was there—waiting. Guiding.

The lights began to flicker harder now.

Walls shimmered.

The illusion fought back with every step.

It tried to throw voices in her path. Her father. Her mother. Weems. Thing, screaming. Blood. Tea mugs. Sunlight. Enid’s smile. Over and over.

“Stay,” it begged.

But it wasn’t Enid’s voice anymore.

And Wednesday had learned the difference.

You still there? she thought.

Always, Enid said.

Another door.

Big. Steel. Unmarked.

She reached for it.

And stopped.