Chapter Text
Had you told the residents of Wulfric Street that a black hearse would lumber onto their cul-de-sac on the second Tuesday of September, most would have scoffed and checked the HOA handbook to see if it were legal. But this one arrived just after breakfast, and behind it rattled an old moving truck, bumper held on by sheer optimism. Together, they made the other cars - polished SUVs and sanitized minivans - look as if they belonged to a future far too ordinary for the Addams family.
Every curtain lifted at once. Within minutes, faces pressed to the glass: Mrs. Peters with her pearls and morning coffee; the Webbs with their synchronized scowls; a wide-eyed scattering of the Hargrove children in matching pajamas. The bravest neighbors leaned in a little further, squinting at the odd procession, as if expecting it to produce actual ghosts. And, well… they weren’t far off. On the Addams lawn, the spectacle only grew: movers in cheap uniforms staggered beneath wooden crates emblazoned with warnings - “Specimens,” “Taxidermy Supplies,” “Fragile: Human Remains” - while Morticia Addams herself surveyed from the front seat, issuing instructions with a grace that made even parallel parking look regal.
Meanwhile, Gomez Addams, impossible to miss with his pinstripe suit and unchecked enthusiasm, bounced onto the curb, tossing stories at Pugsley. He narrated animatedly, gestured widely, and even slipped into Spanish when his excitement overflowed.
Most of the street observed in silence. A few neighbors wandered closer under the pretense of weeding or checking for mail. They exchanged whispers over white picket fences: Was that truly a coffin-shaped box? Does the new family know about the Labor Day potluck? Was it true that, as Mrs. O’Brien’s nephew claimed, someone in the hearse has black roses tattooed on their backside? Only the Addams appeared perfectly at ease, completely unbothered, as if they expected nothing less.
For her part, Wednesday Addams had already lost interest in it all. She stood on the curb, arms crossed over a black linen dress, boots planted in freshly cut grass. To her, all the houses looked the same: two-story colonials lined up with identical hedges, matching mailboxes, and patriotic flags fluttering under overcast skies. Nearly every porch displayed a seasonal wreath - some adorned with faded leaves, others with plastic sunflowers - competing to see who cared most about community spirit. The symmetry was suffocating, and Wednesday surveyed it all with a detachment born of too many moves and too little patience for suburbia.
If Wulfric Street was a cult, she mused, conformity would be its idol. She imagined neighborhood meetings: solemn vows to mow the lawn every Sunday, rituals for power-washing minivans, rules against garden gnomes or “unnecessarily dark” decor. Somewhere, in the thick folder labeled “Welcome Addams Family,” there was likely a line that required them to paint their hearse beige. Wednesday was already tallying escape routes, mapping which fences could be vaulted at night and which hedges concealed gaps wide enough to slip through. It was a habit; part defense, part game, and one hundred percent serious.
She glanced at the house next door. Blue paint, just a tad too cheerful; a porch cluttered with planters and sports equipment. The American flag hung proud and clean above a row of faded children’s chalk drawings - stick figures, yellow suns, a dog with “Cheddar” printed underneath in wobbly capitals. A battered basketball hoop leaned precariously over the driveway, rim held by zip ties, while piles of hockey sticks lounged on the grass. The Sinclair house epitomized middle-class, lived-in chaos - messy, open, impossible to ignore. A home that looked like it belonged to people who left their shoes by the door and tracked mud inside without apology.
Morticia’s voice floated through the open hearse window. “There’s almost something charming about this street, isn’t there, darling?” She called to Gomez, who was trying (and failing) to direct the movers away from a box marked “Fangs - Handle with Care.”
Gomez beamed back, gesturing expansively at the manicured suburban landscape. “Imagine the possibilities, cara mia! So much to unsettle. So many new beginnings.” He caught Wednesday’s eye, his energy undiminished. “You could be anyone here.”
Wednesday merely scowled.
Pugsley, largely forgotten in the commotion, dashed across the lawn in pursuit of something gold and fast. At first, Wednesday thought it was a trick of the light - a blur tearing through the pristine yards, sending a cluster of lawn flamingos tumbling. Then she identified the culprit: a golden retriever, muddied and panting, barreling toward the Addamses’ pile of boxes. Trailing behind him was a blue leash, Pugsley, and the beginning of what would soon become a neighborhood legend.
“Cheddar! No, not the bones!” someone cried, but Cheddar was unstoppable, nose already buried into a box labeled “Specimens.”
Pugsley continued his chase, delighted, tripping over a crate and nearly toppling a wrought-iron bird feeder. Movers scrambled, Morticia looked on with the faintest quirk of her lips, and a new round of whispers erupted from behind the curtains.
Wednesday watched, dryly noting the chaos, and considered there may be escape routes after all. But, she concluded, suburbia had its own brand of disorder. Perhaps it might not be as dull as she expected.
Cheddar completed another lap around the Addams lawn, dragging the floppy blue leash. Pugsley shrieked with laughter as the dog dodged the moving men, who attempted to block his path with an empty wardrobe. For a moment, it was unclear who was pursuing whom - Pugsley rolled through the grass, Cheddar circled back to nip playfully at his shoelaces, and a pair of anxious movers froze mid-step, confronting what seemed a wild animal rather than an overly excited retriever.
A girl vaulted the curb, blonde hair streaming behind her, hockey jacket half-zipped and laces untied. She called out for her dog: “Cheddar, come here! Cheddar, drop it!” But Cheddar, fully committed to mayhem, bounded back toward the “Specimens” box. Enid Sinclair managed to snatch the leash just as Cheddar tried to clamber inside.
“Sorry, sorry - he thinks everything is a game,” Enid said, cheeks flushed. Her voice was breathless but bright, words tumbling out without pause. “Are you okay? Did he ruin anything? He’s usually… Well, he’s always like this. Sorry.” She eyed Pugsley, who was now hugging Cheddar around the neck as if they were lifelong friends
Pugsley shook his head with a grin. “Nope, but I wish! He’s awesome.”
Enid relaxed slightly, pulling her sleeves over her hands. “He’s a handful. I’m Enid, by the way. And sorry again. We live next door - the house with all the hockey sticks.”
Without hesitation, Pugsley launched into an introduction: the Addams family, the move, his rare beetle collection, a personal ranking of neighborhood lawns (the Sinclairs came in second, only because the Addams hadn’t had time to plant anything carnivorous yet). Enid listened, her smile growing less nervous with each passing moment, while Cheddar flopped onto his back, tail wagging.
It didn’t take long for Mrs. Sinclair to appear at the end of the driveway, arms crossed. “Enid! Leave the neighbors alone - we need to get ready for lunch!” Her voice had a no-nonsense edge, but her gaze softened when she saw Pugsley and Cheddar, both grass-stained and beaming.
“Sorry, Mom!” Enid called, waving. She glanced at Pugsley, torn between staying or leaving, then turned to Wednesday, who remained on the curb. “If you ever want to meet Cheddar officially, just drop by. He likes people who wear black. Or, at least, he’s never tried to eat anyone in black. Yet.” She flashed a crooked grin and tugged Cheddar back to her lawn, the dog resisting every step.
Pugsley, still starry-eyed from his brush with canine greatness, looked up at Wednesday. “I think we’re gonna like it here,” he declared.
Wednesday watched Enid wrestle Cheddar up the porch steps, the girl’s laughter echoing off the siding.
But she didn’t stay long. The Addamses were still negotiating with the moving men about where, exactly, to store the sarcophagus (Morticia insisted it belonged in the foyer; Gomez was angling for the library). Wednesday slipped away, boots silent on the stairs, leaving the racket and smell of fresh paint behind.
Her new bedroom was in the attic - a room with sloped ceilings and worn floorboards, likely a site for séances in an earlier century. Which made it perfect. A single dormer window jutted out, framing a view of the Sinclair house next door: blue siding, flower boxes, what looked like a faded Halloween skeleton tangled in the rosebush.
Closing the door, Wednesday inhaled the quiet. For the first time all day, she felt alone in a way that was almost comforting. She crossed the room and set her black suitcase on the bare mattress.
Unpacking was more than a chore; it was a ritual. She lined her polished black shoes beneath the radiator, neatly paired. With slow care, she stacked her true crime books on the windowsill - hardcovers first, then paperback, each one alphabetical by author, each one checked for bent corners. Titles like Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil , The Devil in the White City , and I’ll Be Gone in the Dark occupied pride of place. She ran a finger along the spines.
Next came her podcast equipment. She unzipped a padded case, withdrawing a microphone sleek enough to belong in a detective’s office. Jet black foam soundproofing tiles went up along the sloped wall. She pressed each one into place, smoothing out the wrinkles and checking for gaps. Cables were uncoiled and organized, the microphone clipped to the arm stand. Her laptop, covered in cryptic stickers, rested beside a stack of blank notebooks. She tested the pop filter, flicked the power switch, and watched the little red light glow. It was a space made for focus, for stories, for uncovering what others overlooked.
Somewhere downstairs, her parents’ voices filtered up - Morticia’s slow and velvety, Gomez’s exuberant delight over every new creak in the floorboards. A mover cursed as something toppled on the porch, followed by Pugsley’s laughter. But Wednesday tuned it out, retreating into her private world.
From the window, the Sinclair house caught her attention. Music spilled through - something poppy, at odds with the rest of the quiet street. In the middle of it, Enid Sinclair appeared, now in a pink hoodie and shorts, standing on her bed to tape up a curling poster of Taylor Swift. After a failed attempt, the poster sagged. Enid shrugged, then, as a new song began, she leaped off the bed into an impromptu dance solo.
Wednesday watched, unnoticed, feeling a prickle of curiosity. The room was a mess - clothes draped on the desk chair, trophies crammed together, a string of fairy lights blinking in uneven bursts. Enid, catching Wednesday’s silhouette in the glass, suddenly froze. Their eyes locked across the yard.
Enid offered a sheepish, awkward wave. Caught, Wednesday held perfectly still , then turned away, swiftly pulling the blackout curtain. Yet she left a slim gap, just wide enough to keep watch. Surveillance, after all, was her specialty.
She turned back to her books, straightening a crooked stack. The attic felt less strange now, the furniture less alien. Her hand rested on her notebook, already envisioning tomorrow - new halls to haunt, new secrets to discover, and maybe a mystery worth unraveling; even if it was just one wrapped in smiles and pink sweaters.
Downstairs, the last box thudded against the banister, signaling one thing: the Addams family had arrived.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The Sinclair dining room was always a little too polished at night. A globe fixture sent soft light over the table set for six, plates arranged with a care that felt stubborn - a refusal to give up on the old seating chart, even with two brothers at college. Each place had a folded napkin, except for the far end, which was slightly misaligned with the others. Enid used to fix it, but her mom always adjusted it back.
Frames crowded the walls: photos posed mid-slapshot, team huddles, and a dozen glossy pictures of Enid and her brothers in matching purple and gold uniforms. Above the sideboard, a shelf held three battered hockey pucks and a trophy that shed faint sparkles onto the wood below. If you looked closely, nearly every photo included Esther Sinclair - pearls always around her neck, a hand placed delicately on a child’s shoulder, or visible at the rink’s edge, mid-shout.
Dinner smelled of roasted chicken and buttered noodles, but Esther moved around the table as if she were prepping for a magazine shoot. She inspected every fork, nudged the salad bowl two inches left, then circled to Enid and pressed her shoulders back with two fingers.
“Sit up, darling. You slouch when you’re tired.” Leaning in with a tight smile, she added, “You did wash your hands, right? And your elbows - off the table, please.”
Enid straightened, slipping her phone onto her lap. She had spent the last half hour group-chatting with Kent and Ajax about first practice and the Addams family. The conversation still buzzed at her fingertips: “She looks like she’ll bite if you get too close,” Kent typed, followed by a string of vampire emojis. Ajax, meanwhile, just wanted to know if Wednesday liked punk.
Murray Sinclair sidestepped behind Enid’s chair, moustache a little crooked from an afternoon of handiwork, humming to himself. “Hope you’re hungry, kiddo - smells like Esther’s pulled out her full secret arsenal for this one.” He winked, attempting cheerfulness, then popped the salad tongs for effect. The sound faded as Cheddar thumped his tail on the kitchen tile, ears perked hopefully toward Enid’s plate.
“Cheddar, bad,” Esther reminded him. The dog slunk to his mat under the window, though not without a glance that promised retribution later.
“Mom, I did wash my hands,” Enid protested, but she scrubbed her palms on her jeans just to be sure.
She glanced at the framed jersey on the far wall - #13, purple and gold, with stitched letters spelling “C. Sinclair” - above the family crest. Her mother had polished the glass before dinner and would undoubtedly do it again after everyone cleared out.
Esther caught Enid’s gaze and followed it before blinking back to the table. She aligned the salt and pepper shakers perfectly and finally sat down, smoothing her skirt. “So. First day tomorrow. Is your bag ready? Supplies? I don’t want a repeat of last year with the broken zipper and the mess in your locker.”
Enid took a piece of chicken, trying to sigh. “Yeah, I’m ready. Everything’s in my bag - except my gym lock. I think Caleb took it by accident.”
Esther’s mouth pinched briefly. “You know you can ask your father for a new one. Also, make sure you’re polite with the new neighbors. Friendly, but not clingy. We want a good first impression, not to scare them off. Did you see what they wore earlier? It looked like Halloween came early.”
Murray slid into his chair, napkin tucked into his collar. “Now, Esther, perhaps they’re just artistic. Or maybe it’s a new trend. I saw a boy in the grocery store with purple hair last week.”
Esther ignored him. “And don’t go barging into their house, Enid. You know how excitable Cheddar is. We can’t afford another incident with the Johnsons’ cat.”
Enid blushed, stabbing at a carrot. “That was two years ago.”
Her dad tried again. “I’m sure we’ll all be friends before you know it. By the way, did Coach email about practice? Kent’s dad saw him at the rink today, said he’s got big plans this year. You all ready to hit the ice?”
Enid perked up, grateful for the subject change. “Yeah, he sent a group email. First practice is tomorrow afternoon. He wants us on the ice ASAP.” Excitement colored her voice, mingling with nerves. She glanced again at the jersey in its glass shrine, her stomach twisting.
Esther offered another tight smile, folding her hands. “Remember, Enid, this year matters. Colleges start looking during junior year. Stay focused. And—” she flicked a crumb from the tablecloth “—don’t let distractions get in your way. I know the summer has been… difficult. But you’re captain now. Your brother would want you to give it your all.”
Enid glanced at the photos on the wall - Caleb at seventeen, hair sweaty under his helmet, grinning with an arm over her shoulder. She recalled the thuds of his skates through the house before every practice, the sound of pucks against the garage door. “I know, Mom,” she replied, but it felt like she was trying to convince herself as much as her mother.
Murray reached for the peas, seeking a light moment in the conversation. “If you get nervous, just remember - don’t fall on your face in front of scouts. That’s how I lost my shot at the NHL.” He grinned at his own joke, but Esther pressed her lips together, not rising to the bait.
Cheddar let out a muffled sigh from under the window, as if sensing the tension. Esther cleared her throat and dabbed at a spot on her sleeve with a napkin. “One more thing, Enid - about the Addamses. Be polite, but don’t feel obligated to include them in everything. Not everyone fits in immediately. Remember how hard it was for Caleb in his first year?”
Enid nodded, thinking of how her brother used to mask his nerves behind jokes and bravado, the way he’d always managed to fit in anyway. It never seemed easy from the inside.
Esther’s gaze wandered back to the #13 jersey. She stood and polished a smudge off the glass with the napkin’s edge, eyes lingering. “I just want you to be careful, that’s all,” she said quietly. “This is a significant year.”
Enid didn’t answer right away. She glanced at her phone, a new text from Ajax appearing (“You bringing Ched to practice? He’s our mascot”), and let the message disappear. The dining room fell silent for a moment.
Murray tried for another joke about a rogue slapshot, but Esther didn’t laugh. Her gaze remained on Enid, her expression complicated, before she returned to her salad. Enid forced a bite of the chicken, eyes catching one last time on the purple jersey - #13, untouched, untouchable.
Dinner slipped by in a blur of clinking forks and reminders - Esther urging Enid to take more salad, Murray sharing a story about running into Coach Vlad at the hardware store, Cheddar sighing dramatically with every passing minute. Enid kept her head down, responding when prompted, her mind only half-present. She noticed stray details: Esther refolding her napkin three times, Cheddar’s tail squeaking against the floor, Murray debating which hockey rink had the worst locker room smell (Enid said Old North, he insisted it was the rec center). But everything felt slightly faded, as if the table were just a stage set - everyone playing their parts, missing lines they once knew by heart.
When the plates were cleared, Enid helped stack them in the sink. Esther insisted she go “rest for tomorrow,” and Murray gave her a one-armed squeeze as she passed. Cheddar followed from the kitchen, nails tapping, tail still hopeful for a dropped snack.
Enid padded down the hall, her steps slowing as she approached the room at the end - Caleb’s room. The door remained closed except for the occasional search for an old charger or his favorite mug, the one with the broken handle and Boston Terriers logo. Her hand lingered on the doorknob, thumb worrying the chipped paint. Silence was foreign in the Sinclair household, yet it was all that was left in the wake of her brother. College had taken her eldest siblings years ago, but Caleb’s absence echoed in spaces she couldn’t quite name: the shelf lacking a battered baseball cap, the empty hook by the door.
Inside, the room was caught in a moment before departure. A purple and gold bedspread lay slightly askew. Hockey sticks propped in a neat row, some wrapped in worn tape, one still sporting a sticker from last year’s tournament. The Boston University pennant hung at a confident slant on the wall, flanked by team photos with curling corners. Many of the shots appeared nearly identical - boys shoulder to shoulder, helmets pushed back, faces split in wide grins. Caleb always occupied the center, somehow managing to draw everyone’s attention.
Enid crossed to the desk, fingers gliding over notebooks and hockey pins. A skate, laces undone, rested at the edge as if Caleb planned to return any minute and finish tying it. The lamp bore a scorch mark from his ill-fated attempt to fix it with a hair dryer last winter. She smiled at the memory, then sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress give beneath her.
Her hand reached for the framed photo that typically sat by the lamp. In it, Caleb wore his full uniform, cheeks rosy from the cold, arm around two teammates - one grinning, the other mid-laugh, while Caleb beamed straight into the lens. Enid carefully ran her thumb over the glass to avoid smudging it, then pressed the picture to her chest. She waited, like she always did, for the wave of grief to subside. It never truly did.
Clearing her throat, she spoke softly. “Coach Vlad says I should wear your number.” She offered a sad smile at the photo. “Not sure how that’ll go. You’d probably tell me not to mess it up.” The words flowed more easily than anticipated; it felt less like talking to herself and more like infusing a thought into the space he left behind.
Cheddar nudged his way through a crack in the door, circling twice before settling at her feet with a gentle huff. He placed his chin on her sock, brown eyes looking up as if he understood this ritual by heart. Enid stroked the back of his head, warmed by his fur.
She stared at the wall for a long moment, letting her gaze wander from pennant to the photo and the slightly crooked shelf of trophies - MVP plaques, team awards, medal for “Most Spirited.” She remembered every game Caleb had dragged her to as a child, every time he made her run laps on the driveway until she could barely lift her stick.
“You always said practice is more important than luck,” she murmured. “I wish you could see me now. I wish you could tell me I’m doing this wrong.” She pressed the photo to her chest again, resting her forehead against it. “I’ll try, okay? I’ll try.”
For a moment, the room felt less lonely. Cheddar shuffled closer, providing a quiet companionship, never asking her to move on or break the silence.
After a while, Enid placed the picture back on the desk, realigning it so Caleb faced the door. She stood, taking in the room one last time - the hockey stick leaning in the corner, the untidy stack of comic books, the faded post-it note on the dresser (“Buy more tape, E!”). She considered taking the stick with her for luck but left where it belonged.
As she shuffled back to her own door, Cheddar trailed behind, pausing to sniff at the jersey display in the hall. The house felt settled for the night, her parents’ voices low in the living room, dishes clinking in the sink. Enid slipped into her room, shut the door, and fell back onto her bed with a sigh.
Her phone buzzed - another message from Kent, now in all caps (“ENID. YOU ALIVE?”), and a gif from Ajax of a puppy attempting to skate. She smiled, thumbs quickly tapping out a reply, the knot in her chest loosening a little.
Through the window, the last of the daylight faded. She rolled to her side, staring across the small gap to the Addams house. A faint glow shone from the attic window - a lamp, maybe, or the glow of a laptop screen. Enid imagined Wednesday surrounded by stacks of books, likely as restless as she was. For a moment, she almost expected to see Wednesday looking back. But the curtains remained dark, and Wulfric Street was quiet.
Cheddar leapt onto the bed, curling beside her knees. Enid exhaled, her gaze drifting to the team poster taped lopsided above her desk. She thought about the morning - new year, new captain, new neighbor - and wondered which of those would prove most difficult.
The answer, however, was the one least expected. And that suited Enid just fine.