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FROM: Principal Mortimer Pembroke, Ed.D., Office of the Headmaster
TO: All Students, Nevermore Academy
SUBJECT: Welcome to Academic Year 2023-2024 — Mandatory Reading
DATE: August 28, 2023

 

Dear Students,

Welcome back to Nevermore Academy. For returning students, I trust your summer provided adequate time for reflection, recovery, and—where applicable—regeneration. For those joining us for the first time, allow me to extend the Academy’s traditional greeting: may your stay be long, your education formidable, and your survival assured.

Please review the following announcements carefully. Failure to comply with outlined policies will result in consequences both administrative and, where warranted, supernatural.

 

ACADEMIC UPDATES

Several departments have transitioned to digital submission requirements this term. Students enrolled in Botany (Dr. Johnston), Advanced Literature (Mr.  Randall), and History of Outcasts (Dr. Roth) must submit all coursework through the Academy’s secure portal. Handwritten submissions will not be accepted. Students without personal computing devices may request a loaner from the Bursar’s Office, though availability is limited and the waitlist is, as of this writing, already three weeks long.

The library’s restricted section remains accessible by faculty permission only. Requests must be submitted in triplicate, notarized, and accompanied by a written justification of no fewer than five hundred words. Requests citing “curiosity” as justification will be denied and flagged.

 

CAMPUS SAFETY

Following the events of the previous academic year—which the Board of Governors has formally classified as “resolved”—several updated protocols are now in effect:

• Curfew is 8:00 PM on weeknights and 10:00 PM on weekends. Students found outside dormitories after hours will face disciplinary action. Students found outside dormitories after hours and off campus will face disciplinary action and a mandatory meeting with myself, which I am told students find more distressing than the disciplinary action.
• The north woods remain off-limits between dusk and dawn. This is not a suggestion.
• Any student experiencing visions, premonitions, or prophetic episodes is required to report to the Infirmary within twenty-four hours. Failure to disclose precognitive information relevant to campus safety may result in suspension.

 

WELLNESS PROGRAMMING

The Academy is committed to supporting student mental health, particularly in the wake of last year’s disruptions. Mandatory wellness check-ins will be conducted by Dr. Watts throughout the semester. These sessions are brief, confidential, and non-negotiable. Students who miss their assigned appointment will be rescheduled. Students who miss their rescheduled appointment will discover that Dr. Watts has a gift for finding people who do not wish to be found.

Additionally, peer support groups will meet weekly in the Crypt. Topics include but are not limited to: transformation anxiety, dietary restrictions, generational trauma, and inter-species relationships. Attendance is encouraged. Participation in group discussions is optional but, I’m told, “totally helpful.”

 

DIGITAL CITIZENSHIP

A reminder that Nevermore’s network monitors all online activity conducted through campus infrastructure. This is not surveillance; it is documentation. Students are free to express themselves digitally but should do so with the understanding that all online activity can have real-world consequences.

To be explicit: anonymity does not absolve accountability. The belief that one can operate without consequence simply because one operates without a name is a fantasy indulged by those who have not yet learned otherwise. I encourage you to learn it here, under controlled conditions, rather than elsewhere, under less forgiving ones.

 

CLOSING REMARKS

Nevermore Academy has educated outcasts for over two centuries. We have weathered plagues, persecutions, and the occasional dimensional incursion. Last year’s events, while unprecedented in certain respects, did not fundamentally alter our mission or our methods. We remain a place of learning, a sanctuary for the strange, and a community bound by mutual understanding of what it means to exist outside the ordinary.

I expect each of you to uphold the standards befitting that legacy.

Welcome back. Conduct yourselves accordingly.

 

With measured optimism,

Principal Mortimer Pembroke, Ed.D.
Nevermore Academy
“Unitas est invicta.”

 

This message was sent to all registered students. Do not reply directly to this email. Replies will not be read. Replies will, however, be archived.

In her first year at Nevermore, Wednesday had braved claws and blades, the threat of strangulation, and had, on more than one occasion, faced murder attempts with unblinking calm. She had looked into the hollow gaze of a resurrected pilgrim intent on genocide and driven a sword into his undead heart. But now, standing before the black door of her dorm room, she was assaulted by something wholly unfamiliar: nervousness.

It was illogical.

Wednesday Addams did not succumb to nerves. She registered potential threats, devised tactical responses, and relished the anticipation preceding violence. What she did not do was suffer from the breathless tightness that had bloomed in her chest forty-seven minutes prior, when the family hearse rolled her up to Nevermore’s gates. 

Thing patted her collarbone, spelling out a pointed you’re being absurd. She ignored him. He’d been insufferable since they’d left the estate, managing to radiate smugness in each tap and gesture whenever Wednesday’s mind wandered too long. The fact that he was correct about her preoccupation only sharpened her annoyance.

Because the core of the matter—the issue Wednesday admitted only privately, where nobody could reach—was Enid Sinclair.

Specifically, how thoughts of Enid wormed themselves into Wednesday’s mind, multiplying like some pastel-colored, glimmering contagion. She had spent three hundred and four days determined to classify, analyze, and finally eliminate this persistent obsession that had anchored itself during Nevermore’s closure. 

She failed every attempt.

The memory always came back: Enid, eyes wild blue, claws out, barreling between Wednesday and death with a ferocity that upended every prior theory about pack loyalty, werewolf behavior, and Wednesday’s presumed immunity to “feelings.” The hug after was a terror in itself; Wednesday, against all precedent, returned it—a fact that should have been the most disturbing.

So she retreated to the library, combing through records on obsession, possession, and psychological manipulation, searching for a rational explanation. She found none that fit. Morticia noticed, slipping in subtle remarks about “the wolf girl” with that ghastly smile of hers. Even Pugsley had clocked a difference—though he limited his questioning to why Wednesday always seemed to be staring at a certain Poe Cup team photo.

Thing tapped again, sharper now. Wednesday looked down at him, exhaled, then set her gaze on the door. Enid waited behind it, and after nearly a year, they would see one another again. Their contact over the months had been patchy at best; Enid’s last text, three days ago, said she was “totally decorating before you arrive!” and it contained seven emojis, which Wednesday spent an embarrassing span of time decoding the potential difference between the purple and the pink hearts. She hadn’t replied. She never did, by principle. But Enid still sent messages religiously, five a day, packed with bright bulletins about her family, blog stats, transformations, and other things Wednesday would never admit to having memorized.

She wrapped her fingers around the cold brass knob, feeling the condensed dampness of a thousand nervous hands, and twisted.

Everything detonated in color.

The eye-watering vividity began with the walls, which had been papered over in neon splatter decals, as if a barrel of radioactive glow sticks had detonated inside. Fairy lights—hundreds—blazed overhead and wound around every available anchor point. The side windowsills were teeming with plants: succulents, trailing vines, something carnivorous. They jostled for sunlight alongside a small shrine of glittered resin wolf figurines. A closet gaped open, its contents arranged in a sort of ombre, starting at funereal black (Wednesday’s own meager contributions) and whiplashing to a scream of fuchsia and lemon on Enid’s end.

The bedspread on Enid’s half was new—a violence of Lisa Frank cat motifs, offset by an army of plushies ranging from the conventional (a large bunny in a tutu) to the deranged (a shark wearing a tiara and, for some reason, lipstick). There were at least four new posters: one of a K-pop group Wednesday could not have named under threat of actual torture, one of Olympic track-and-field stars crouched at the starting line, one of a grinning, pastel-haired werewolf influencer that Wednesday dimly recognized from a headline about “the Outcast Lena Dunham,” and, most inexplicably, a blown-up candid of herself and Enid at last year’s Poe Cup. The memory lanced her—she’d forgotten how her own mouth could look in the act of happiness.

Enid herself stood at the epicenter of the room, surrounded by open boxes, hands braced on her hips as she surveyed everything. She was wearing shorts, pale denim, with tiny red hearts dotting the hem, and a t-shirt that said “GIRL BOSS” in sequins. Her hair, which Wednesday remembered as blonde and soft and wild, was now shorter and tipped in a new electric purple that should have clashed with every other color in the room, yet somehow did not. Her calves and upper arms were corded now, the muscle more developed than before, visible even beneath her babydoll attire. She looked less like the puppy that Wednesday recalled and more like some rare subspecies of wolf, recently released from a wildlife rehabilitation program and already plotting its next joyful, celebratory mauling.

But it was not the physical changes that halted Wednesday’s attention. It was Enid’s face, transformed at the moment she entered the room. All the residual tension vanished; her features unspooled into that signature Enid joy, as if someone had hit her with a direct injection of helium and sunlight. She bounded forward, eyes huge, and shrieked:

“WEDNESDAY!”

Before Wednesday could brace herself, Enid traversed the room in three leaps and enveloped her in a hug. Wednesday, who had prepared for this very moment and had drafted, in her head, at least seventeen possible responses, found herself defaulting to paralysis. Enid’s arms were warm and unfamiliar and—somehow—exactly the same as they’d always been, just… more. The hug was not merely prolonged; it was a siege.

Wednesday remained stiff, clutching her suitcase like a flotation device as Enid continued to radiate affection. She tried to count the seconds, to mathematically determine the usual span of an embrace between roommates, but Enid shattered the curve, holding on for at least eight. At the ninth, Wednesday relented, her arms drifting up to complete the hug, but Enid was already detaching, breathless and incandescent. 

She stepped back, cheeks flushed, and exploded into a sustained, oxygen-free monologue.

“I missed you so much! You would not believe it—summer was literally insane. My mom nearly lost her mind when my little cousins flooded the guest room with neon slime, and then Dad tried to fix it and nearly burned the house down, but that wasn’t even the dramatic part, because the pack…” She sucked a breath, face shining with pride. “The pack elders came to visit! They were all, like, super intimidating and did this whole sniff-around thing—they said they hadn’t seen transformation control like mine in ‘a late-bloomer’ since, I don’t know, forever? Validation much?” She beamed, canines glinting. “But that’s not even the best part. The blog, Wednesday, the blog is blowing up. Like, I started this advice column as a joke—‘Ask the Alpha’—and now we’ve got outcasts from, like, twelve countries writing in. There was this one kid from Finland who wanted to know if it’s okay to dye your fur with beet juice, and I had to do, like, actual research. Oh, and we hit fifty thousand followers in July! It was a whole thing—Yoko made a custom cake, and I tried to mail you a slice, but apparently frosting is a ‘biohazard’ if you try to send it by air. Who knew?”

Wednesday had been rendered immobile by the onslaught, her affect unchanged from the outside. Internally, though, she found herself cataloging each line of Enid’s chatter as if it were evidence—each detail proof of a life lived at full intensity. It should have been exhausting, but the effect was strangely… comforting.

Enid continued, undeterred. “Anyway, the advice column is kind of a liability, because apparently my honest opinions make people either ‘super empowered’ or, um, the opposite? I got this hate mail from an Incubus who said my taste in music was ‘criminally basic,’ which, rude, but whatever, I’m not here to please demons. Not unless they pay me.” She waggled her eyebrows, then remembered herself and recentered the conversation. “Sorry, sorry, I’m rambling. But there’s just so much to tell you! And—”

Wednesday cut in before Enid could hyperventilate. “Enid,” she said, as deadpan as ever, “breathing remains essential for survival.”

Enid stopped short, chest heaving, a flush coloring the tips of her ears. Then she laughed, a pure sound of delight that made Wednesday’s skin prickle. “You’re right. I always forget how to breathe when you’re around.” She grinned, big and bashful. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

The words struck Wednesday with an impact she hadn’t anticipated. She composed herself by slowly setting her suitcase down. “My summer was uneventful by comparison. Only three murder attempts. All family.” She paused. “And one insurance fraud, but that was dismissed as a creative misinterpretation of estate law.” She looked directly at Enid. “Uncle Fester’s new wife tried to poison the entire reunion dinner, but the arsenic levels were amateur at best.”

Enid clapped. “Classic Fester! I hope you left a review on Yelp. But wait—did you get new boots? Are those the ones with the hidden blade, or just the regular ones?” She dropped to her knees to inspect, hands hovering just above the scuffed leather. “I made a Pinterest board for you. I called it ‘Murder Chic.’ There’s a lot of black. And spikes.”

Wednesday found herself at a loss for reply. She wasn’t used to being the recipient of this kind of attention—focused, genuine, and almost terrifying in its constancy. She reminded herself that this was Enid: unpredictable, effervescent, and—despite all evidence to the contrary—her friend. Possibly her best friend, if such a label could be applied without irony.

As she turned to recalibrate, Wednesday’s gaze landed on her desk—and stopped.

There, precisely centered and gleaming under the single beam of unfiltered sunlight, was a new laptop. It was matte black and still wore the factory’s half-peeled plastic shell, the corners sharp enough to cut. Next to it, propped at a jaunty angle, was a card bearing a skull and crossbones, with the words WELCOME BACK, ROOMIE rendered in painstaking calligraphy.

Before Wednesday could react, Enid appeared at her side, almost vibrating. “Ta-da! Okay, I know you think tech is, like, the slow death of civilization, but the new Botany teacher only accepts digital submissions and also—” her voice dropped, “—I thought maybe you could, you know, email me sometimes? Instead of your ‘never answer texts’ thing?” She radiated hope. “Plus, I encrypted it myself. I watched, like, fourteen tutorials. There’s not even a camera in it. I know how you feel about surveillance.”

Wednesday stared at the device, then at Enid, her face as unreadable. She ran her fingers along the keyboard, felt the tactile snap of each key, and considered—for the first time—what it meant to receive a gift chosen so carefully for her. It was a calculated gesture, but a deeply personal one, and that realization unsettled her more than any attempted homicide.

“I won’t use it,” Wednesday said flatly, though her brain had already catalogued at least four potential uses: secure communications for field work, source-hunting for her novel, digital archiving of her family’s more scurrilous legal exploits, and, perhaps, the occasional encrypted dispatch to Enid herself.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say,” Enid sang. “It’s just there if you need it! Like, in case of a cyber-emergency or something”

The quip that brewed in Wednesday’s throat died when she turned. Enid was closer than calculated—hovering inside Wednesday’s personal space with a wide, effervescent smile and eyes that seemed to reflect the riotous fairy lights strung above. Time warped, and seven seconds ticked by before Wednesday managed to say, “Thank you. It’s… practical.”

Enid’s smile grew even wider. She dropped her gaze, almost bashful, and then whirled back to her mountain of unpacked chaos, narrating her progress aloud—mainly to Wednesday, though she addressed the entire room with equal exuberance. Her voice rose and fell in a stream of consciousness: complaints about the new Principal Pembroke’s draconian “curfew,” speculation on the return of the Nightshades, and a vivid retelling of Yoko’s latest debacle involving energy drinks, a set of stolen teeth, and a vampire coven disciplinary hearing.

Thing, for his part, had already sprawled across the keyboard of the offending laptop, tapping methodically at the keys and spelling out BETTER THAN A TYPEWRITER in a perfect march of capital letters. Wednesday fixed him with a glare but Thing only shrugged and went back to his one-man show.

The next hour unfolded with the steady chaos of any Addams-adjacent event. 

Enid flitted from task to task, her conversation never flagging. She hung up a poster of something called “BTS,” which Wednesday privately assumed was an acronym for a cult, and then spent ten minutes lining up a row of plush, grinning cats on a shelf. All the while, she supplied a running commentary: which classmates had messaged her, the latest memes on TikTok, the wild rumor that Bianca was secretly dating a member of the fencing team.

As Enid worked, Wednesday observed her with the detachment she reserved for autopsies, except there was nothing detached about the sensation building beneath her ribs. The new muscle in Enid’s arms was not lost on Wednesday, nor the calluses at the heel of each palm—the result of constant training, or maybe brawling, or maybe the idiotic werewolf games Enid got too competitive about.

At some point, Enid began humming. Irritatingly, it was a song Wednesday recognized: a theme from an 80s teen horror flick, repurposed into a sugar-pop cover. It should have been offensive. Instead, it was oddly… reassuring. Wednesday waited for her customary irritation to manifest, but instead felt the faintest sense of stability, as if Enid’s chaos somehow neutralized the ambient threat of the world.

That itself was dangerous. Wednesday made a mental note to reestablish boundaries at the earliest opportunity. She retrieved a set of black lace curtains from her trunk, intending to shroud her side of the room in literal darkness, but paused when she heard her name.

“Hey, Wednesday?” Enid’s tone was different now—subdued, almost cautious. Wednesday turned to see her roommate standing there, clutching a sweatshirt emblazoned with cartoon wolves, her expression raw and unguarded in a way few people ever showed Wednesday Addams. “I know you don’t really do feelings, but, um… I’m really glad you’re here. I totally freaked you might ask for a single room after last year. But you didn’t. So… thanks.”

There was a momentary silence, and then Wednesday replied, “The agony of your presence is preferable to the void of your absence.” 

Enid’s eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners. “Was that a compliment? From you?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

By sunset, the light slanted through the smeared glass in dramatic gold, igniting the colors in Enid’s hair. They were both silent then, each lost in private thoughts. Wednesday finished setting up her poisons collection and looked over at Enid, who was curled on her bed reading a battered paperback with a wolf on the cover. She was biting the end of her pen as she read, a habit that should have annoyed Wednesday, but instead made her want to steal the pen just to see the reaction.

Thing scuttled up the wall and flicked on the fairy lights with a dramatic flourish, illuminating the room in a warm, improbable glow. Enid beamed, looking over the tops of her book, and for the first time in her recollection, Wednesday Addams did not mind illumination.

She looked down at the card again, running a thumb along the wobbly black outline of the skull, and tried to parse the unfamiliar emotion pooling in her chest. 

As Enid began to explain pack dynamics to Thing, Wednesday continued unpacking. She adjusted her obituaries and crime scene photos, safely placing the card into her top desk drawer. The laptop, however, remained on the surface; its screen dark and silent and absolutely untouched.

THE NEVERMORE HOWL 
Your favorite outcast lifestyle blog since 2021

 

WE’RE BACK, BABY!! 🐺✨

Posted by: Enid Sinclair | Date: August 29, 2023 | Category: Life Updates, Announcements

 

Okay so I know I’ve been kind of MIA for the last few weeks but I have a VERY good excuse which is that I was literally in the mountains with my pack doing intense wolfy things and there was zero cell service and honestly? It was probably good for me to touch grass (and also dirt, and also several deer).

BUT WE’RE BACK AT NEVERMORE.

I know, I know—some of you never left (shoutout to my summer semester people, you absolute warriors), but for the rest of us, today marks the official return to campus and I just... I have so much to tell you. So let’s get started!!!

 

Summer Check-In: Transformation, Pack Drama, and Elder Approval (!!)

So you know how I’ve talked before about being a late bloomer? How my whole pack was basically side-eyeing me for years because I couldn’t fully transform? And then I did and also totally, very casually, lowkey saved the entire school? WELL. *cracks knuckles*

The pack elders came to visit in June. And when I say “visit” I mean they showed up unannounced at 6 AM, made my dad cook them a feast, and then took me into the woods for what I can only describe as a werewolf performance review. They watched me transform. They watched me run. They watched me do things I genuinely didn’t know I could do until I was doing them.

And then—AND THEN!!—the head elder, this woman named Margot who’s like 200 years old and has never smiled at anyone in her life, looked at me and said: “You’ll do.”

That’s it. That’s the whole compliment. “You’ll do.”

…I have never been more proud of anything in my entire life.

I know I talk a lot about self-acceptance and loving yourself wherever you’re at in your journey, and I still believe that, I do. But also? It feels really, really good to finally feel like I belong somewhere I’ve been trying to belong my whole life.

Okay I’m getting emotional. Moving on.

 

(P.S. we’ll be doing a whole “Full Moon Survival 2.0” series this year, so send your questions in now if you have them!)

 

The Glow-Up: 50,000 Howlers and Counting

Now for the part that actually matters:

FIFTY. THOUSAND. FOLLOWERS.

We hit it in July and I literally cried. Like actual tears. Yoko took a video and I’ve threatened her with things I cannot put in writing but the point is—YOU DID THAT. All of you. Every single one of you weirdos who clicked follow and left comments and sent in questions and shared posts with your friends. I started this blog freshman year because I was bored and lonely and honestly kind of spiraling about some stuff, and now?? Now we’re a whole community?? I don’t have the words. (Me?? Not having words?? Write that down, it's historic.)

 

This Year on The Howl: What’s Coming Back (and What’s New)

Get ready, because I have PLANS.

 

🐺 “Ask the Alpha” – REOPENING

For newbies: this is my advice column where you can send in questions about literally anything—transformations, relationships, outcast identity stuff, roommate drama, whether it’s weird to have a crush on someone from a rival species (spoiler: it’s not, we appreciate a good enemies to lovers here). I’ll be answering one or two questions per week, and yes, you can submit anonymously. No judgment, ever. My inbox is a safe space.

 

🛏️ “Roommate Relations” – SEASON 2

Yes, I’m still rooming with Her. You know the one. The infamous one. My favorite gothic cryptid who would probably hate that I just called her that but she doesn’t read this so what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me. (Update: she arrived today. She brought her typewriter AND a new collection of antique torture tools!!!)

This year, we’re expanding:

• More anonymous submissions about your roommates
• Tips for surviving conflicting schedules, clashing personalities, and wildly different ideas of “fun”
• Occasional success stories, because sometimes the person who terrifies you at first becomes the person you trust most. (Don’t tell her I said that.)

 

💬 Comment Section & Community Stuff

Yoko is back as unofficial moderator, which means:

• Spam probably won’t get deleted (beware of any suspicious links or “HOT SINGLES IN YOUR AREA” or “JESSICA IS FIVE MILES AWAY” because she is not!!!)
• Any rumors, trolls, or chaos will definitely be encouraged. (But please be kind! Disagreement is allowed; dehumanizing each other is not. We’re outcasts. We know what that feels like. Let’s not recreate it here.)

 

P.S. I’ve also got some new segment ideas I'm playing with—maybe a personal “Full Moon Diaries”? Some campus fashion content? A collaboration with other bloggers? Let me know what you want to see!!

 

AND FINALLY:

I know last year was... a lot. For all of us. Some of you reached out over the summer to say that this blog helped you feel less alone during everything that happened, and I just want you to know that those messages meant more to me than I can say. We’re a community, you know? That’s not just a thing I say because it sounds nice. It’s real. You’re real. And whatever this year throws at us, we’re gonna get through it TOGETHER.

So yeah. Welcome back to The Nevermore Howl!

Now go unpack your stuff and hydrate and maybe take a nap before the Welcome Assembly because Pembroke’s emails are already giving monologue energy.

Love you guys. Talk soon. 🖤🐺

— Enid
Alpha-in-training, full-time howler, your internet big sister even if I’m technically younger than you

Comment thread on “WE’RE BACK, BABY!! 🐺✨”

[32 Comments]

howlyoudoin · 2 hours ago

I was literally about to drop out emotionally and then this post hit my feed. 😭

Late-bloomer here and honestly? Hearing about Margot “You’ll Do” Elder Approval™ gave me HOPE. Thank you for sharing the messy parts, not just the shiny ones.

cryptidkid94 · 2 hours ago

“Werewolf performance review” is sending me 💀

Also congratulations on 50k, that’s INSANE. I’ve been here since the header was Comic Sans and the sidebar music auto-played every time. Day one howler reporting in!

YokOnoUDidnt · 1 hour ago

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: I CAN CONFIRM THE CRYING WAS REAL AND WEIRDLY AROUSING.

Also, ignore any and all slander about “HOT SINGLES IN YOUR AREA” in the comments, that’s just me trying to help Ajax get a new girlfriend.

 

↳ Absolut_mess · 1 hour ago

@YokOnoUDidnt I clicked one of those links once and my phone tried to sign me up for a pyramid scheme made of blood smoothies. No singles in sight. Never again.

 

↳ YokOnoUDidnt · 58 minutes ago

@Absolut_mess send? 👀

beesandthings · 1 hour ago

Hi Enid!! 🐝

Um, this is Eugene. I just wanted to say I’m really glad you’re back and that the elders finally saw what the rest of us already knew. You’re, like, the bravest person I know. (Also if you ever want a “Full Moon Survival ft. Bees” collab post I have… notes.)

 

↳ admin-enid · 55 minutes ago

@beesandthings EUGENE 😭 a bees collab is ABSOLUTELY happening, are you kidding?? “How To Keep Your Hive Calm When You’re Not” is writing itself.

sirenshipwrecker · 59 minutes ago

The way you talk about community makes me feel less weird about needing one. Thank you for that. 🖤

ihatemyroommate774 · 43 minutes ago

PLEASE bring back “Roommate Relations,” I am begging. Mine keeps hanging wet socks on the ceiling fan “for airflow” and I need coping mechanisms that isn’t a coke problem.

 

↳ admin-enid · 38 minutes ago

@ihatemyroommate774 Roommate Relations is BACK, baby. Send me the full sock horror story via the anon form and I’ll see what I can do.

NotLikeOtherFurs11 · 35 minutes ago

Congrats on 50k. Since you’re planning a “Full Moon Survival 2.0” series, you might want to be a bit more precise about your werewolf facts this time around.

In your post you imply that elders doing an informal assessment in the woods is “pretty standard” and that late-bloomers settling after a big turning is normal. That’s… not strictly accurate. In most established packs, late-bloomers are considered statistical outliers and are usually monitored by trained lupine medics, not a bunch of relatives playing “chase the puppy” at dawn. 

For younger or more anxious readers, this a little misleading. There are actual protocols, genetic factors, and risk profiles involved. Might be worth doing some basic research before you start presenting your personal experience like generalized lore.

Just a thought.

 

↳ admin-enid · 24 minutes ago

@NotLikeOtherFurs11 Hey, thanks for taking the time to write all that out. 💛

You’re totally right that there are formal protocols and that my situation isn’t universal—different packs handle late-bloomers in very different ways, and some take a much more medicalized route (which can be really important for safety). I’m definitely not trying to present my experience as the One True Lore™.

I really do appreciate corrections and extra context—especially from people who know more than I do—but I also want this space to feel safe for readers who are still figuring things out and might already be scared they’re “doing it wrong.” So I’ll keep sharing my perspective, and I’ll also start linking to more resources and interviewing people with different experiences so we can round out the picture.

If you have any articles, books, or pack guidelines you recommend, feel free to drop them here or send them via the contact form—I’d love to feature them (credited or anonymous, your choice). 🐺✨

newaccforgotpassword8 · 20 minutes ago

Honestly the reason I trust this blog is BECAUSE you say “this is just my experience” instead of acting like the lore police. Keep doing that.

sufferingyearninglesbian · 17 minutes ago

“Sometimes the person who terrifies you at first becomes the person you trust most” WHY ARE YOU ATTACKING ME PERSONALLY IN MY OWN HOME 😫

YokOnoUDidnt · 10 minutes ago

Actual reminder: You can disagree with each other without chewing anyone’s face off. Save the actual maulings for the bedroom. 💋

Wednesday waited until the door clicked shut behind Enid before she allowed herself to exhale.

The werewolf had finally departed for what she called “pack dinner with the furs”—a new weekly tradition where Nevermore's lycanthropes gathered in one of the private dining rooms to eat and discuss significant matters. Enid described the event in exhaustive detail: the seating arrangements (hierarchical but “super chill about it”), the menu (protein-heavy, every type of raw meat), the conversational topics (territory disputes, transformation techniques, who was dating whom within the greater northeastern network).

Wednesday declined the invitation to join—which was extended with characteristic enthusiasm and zero recognition that she was neither a werewolf nor interested in anything communal. Enid laughed, called her “such a hermit,” and bounded out the door trailing the scent of vanilla and barely contained social energy.

The silence that followed was exquisite.

Wednesday stood motionless for a full thirty seconds. The fairy lights continued their insipid twinkling—she would address that later, possibly with wire cutters—but without Enid narrating her every movement, without the constant soundtrack of humming and rhetorical questions and unsolicited updates about people Wednesday never hoped to meet, the space became almost tolerable.

She retrieved her typewriter.

It was a 1936 Royal Quiet De Luxe with satisfying keys and a carriage return that sang when struck. The machine belonged to her great-aunt Calpurnia, who used it to compose both her memoirs and her enemies list (the latter significantly longer than the former). Wednesday had written three novels on this machine, two confession letters for relatives facing trial, and one very detailed document outlining methods for disposing a body in the Vermont wilderness (purely theoretical, though Uncle Fester requested a copy “for reference”). The typewriter understood her in ways that no human—and certainly no computer—ever could. It did not autocorrect. It did not suggest alternatives. It did not underline her sentences in disapproving colors or offer to “help” with already flawless grammar. It simply transferred her thoughts to paper

She placed the machine on her desk, positioning it at a precise angle, and paused.

The laptop sat inches away, its presence an affront to everything her typewriter represented. But it was, admittedly, a well-chosen model—matte black, minimal branding, no garish gaming aesthetics or LED displays. Clearly, Enid had put thought into the selection. Likely from research. Or perhaps some kind of knowledge about Wednesday's sensibilities

This only made it worse. A thoughtless gift could be dismissed; a thoughtful one demanded acknowledgment.

Thing scuttled across the desk and pressed the touchpad experimentally. The screen flickered to life. Before Wednesday could intervene, he navigated to a word processing program and typed out, with self-satisfaction: It has better fonts.

“The typewriter has character,” Wednesday argued. “A quality you wouldn’t recognize, given that you lack a body to house one.”

That earned her a middle finger before he continued writing: Courier is not a personality.

“Courier is a statement. It says: I am serious, I am professional, and I have no interest in making my documents ‘visually appealing’ to people whose opinions I do not value.” Wednesday reached over and slammed the laptop shut. “Which is everyone.”

Thing tapped the lid in a humorous rhythm.

Wednesday made a mental note to hide his moisturizer before turning her attention to the other suitcases.

Unpacking was a task that demanded methodical attention and prevented engagement with both the laptop and its advocate. Her manuscripts went into the top drawer—the novel-in-progress (a psychological thriller about a mortician who discovers her clients are being murdered by the same person who then hires her to make them presentable), several short stories awaiting revision, and the first three chapters of an experimental piece told from the perspective of a decomposing corps.

Her case files went into the bottom drawer, organized by crime type and alphabetically by perpetrator surname. These were personal records—newspaper clippings, court documents obtained through means she preferred not to detail, her own notes on method and motive. The incidents from last year had their own subsection, though whether to file them under “Solved” or “Ongoing” was yet to be determined. Some questions remained unanswered. Some threads remained unpulled.

The collection of antique surgical tools found their place on the shelf above her bed. A Civil War bone saw. A Victorian amputation kit, complete with original leather case. A trepanation drill that belonged to a doctor who used it on patients that were not, strictly speaking, in need of brain surgery. The collection had grown over the summer; Grandmama contributed a lovely set of 18th-century forceps as a “welcome back to school” gift, and Wednesday discovered a promising lead on a plague doctor’s lancet at an estate sale in Massachusetts.

The laptop glowed in her peripheral vision.

Wednesday angled further away. She had no intention of using it. The typewriter would serve for her creative work, and for academic submissions that demanded digital format, she could simply…

She paused.

The new Botany professor required digital submissions. Dr. Johnston, according to campus gossip from Enid, was also “obsessed with going paperless” and threatened to fail any student who submitted handwritten work, regardless of quality.

So did Advanced Literature. Mr. Randall, who seemed perfectly reasonable in his acceptance of typewritten pages last year, sent a department-wide memo about “preparing students for professional environments” and “twenty-first-century communication standards.” Wednesday considered responding with a letter about the artistic and historical value of analog writing, but ultimately decided that Mr. Randall was not worth the ribbon.

History of Outcasts was, ironically, also “modernized” over the summer. Dr. Roth, who taught it from lived experience, had been quoted in the school newsletter as saying that “our students must learn to navigate the emerging digital world.” Wednesday suspected this was code for I am tired of transcribing assignments and have lost the will to resist administrative pressure.

Three of five subjects. Sixty percent. A threshold that could not be ignored or circumvented through sheer stubbornness.

This had to be a conspiracy. Possibly orchestrated by companies seeking to render all handwritten methods obsolete. Possibly by Nevermore’s board, which always viewed her with suspicion. Possibly by Enid herself, whose gift now seemed less like thoughtfulness and more like strategic maneuvering—a Trojan horse of black plastic, designed to infiltrate Wednesday's defenses under the guise of practicality.

She turned to face the laptop.

“I’m checking the syllabus,” she announced to no one in particular. “This is purely functional. A concession to bureaucratic requirements, nothing more.”

Thing tapped lazily against the pillowcase: Sure.

Wednesday sat down, adjusted the chair, and opened the laptop fully. A browser window materialized—one that Enid seemed to have left open. It loaded in a cascade of color and enthusiasm that burned Wednesday's retinas.

The header image featured a cartoon wolf howling at a moon made entirely of emoji—yellow circles and sparkles and a purple heart orbiting like a satellite. The sidebar overflowed with widgets: a “Recent Comments” feed scrolling too fast, a “Featured Posts” section with garish thumbnail images, a tag cloud where words like “self-care” and “transformation tips” and “ROOMMATE DRAMA” jostled for prominence in varying sizes. A counter sat near the bottom, its digital display reading: 50,247.

THE NEVERMORE HOWL, proclaimed the banner. Your favorite outcast lifestyle blog since 2021.

Wednesday’s finger moved toward the corner ‘X’.

Then it hesitated.

If she closed the tab now, the browser history would show that she’d immediately navigated away from Enid’s blog. A clean departure. A clear rejection. And Enid would check—probably within hours of returning from pack dinner, probably while Wednesday pretended to sleep. And she would pull that face and say, “Oh, that’s totally fine, I didn’t expect you to actually read it or anything.” A masterwork of passive acceptance that would make Wednesday feel guiltier than any in her case file collection.

It was strategically advantageous to scroll down. To spend at least a few minutes on the page so that the browser history would register engagement rather than dismissal. It was social maintenance, nothing more. Prophylactic effort to prevent future emotional labor. She was protecting herself from an inevitable conversation by performing a minor, meaningless action now.

The logic was sound. The logic was unassailable.

So, she scrolled.

WE'RE BACK, BABY!! 🐺✨

The post was recent—today, in fact, timestamped only hours ago. The opening paragraph hit her with the force of Enid’s speaking voice: run-on sentences, rhetorical questions directed at an invisible audience, an energy that vibrated through the screen itself. Wednesday’s cataloged the excessive exclamation points (seven in the first paragraph alone), the liberal deployment of emoji (she counted fourteen distinct varieties before losing patience), and Enid’s tendency to treat every minor life update as worthy of documentation and celebration.

The prose was not what anyone would call refined. Sentences tumbled into each other without proper transition. Parenthetical asides multiplied like rabbits. The word “literally” appeared in contexts where it literally did not apply.

Still.

The section about the pack elders was surprisingly restrained, by Enid’s standards. Wednesday had heard some of this already—the breathless recounting during that first overwhelming hour,—but the written version was different. More structured. The chaos had been shaped into something approaching narrative. 

You’ll do.

Two words from a woman who allegedly never smiled. And Enid wrote about them like they were a coronation, a vindication, a door finally opening after sixteen years of knocking.

Fifty thousand followers. 

Wednesday scrolled back up to confirm the number, certain she had misread. The counter remained stubbornly fixed at 50,247. Fifty thousand people—outcasts from “twelve countries,” according to the post—had voluntarily subscribed to Enid Sinclair’s thoughts on werewolf self-care and roommate dynamics and the appropriate use of beet juice in fur-dyeing.

That was... not insignificant.

Wednesday told herself she wasn’t impressed. Impression implied admiration, and admiration implied that Enid had achieved something worthy of respect, and that was a resource Wednesday distributed sparingly. She was merely acknowledging an objective metric. A data point. Anyone could accumulate followers if they were sufficiently shameless about self-promotion and willing to deploy enough pink font and cultivate a persona of relentless, weaponized positivity.

The number glowed on the sidebar: 50,247.

She scrolled further, muttering about syllabus links that surely existed somewhere in this digital chaos.

The post continued, outlining plans for the coming year. “Ask the Alpha”—an advice column, apparently, which Wednesday filed away for future analysis. “Roommate Relations”—a segment that the phrase alone made Wednesday’s eye twitch. Community guidelines about kindness and disagreement. A promise to “get through it TOGETHER.” And then, near the end, almost casual:

“Yes, I’m still rooming with Her. You know the one. The infamous one. My favorite gothic cryptid who would probably hate that I just called her that but she doesn’t read this so what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

Something flickered in Wednesday’s chest. She paused, fingers still on the touchpad, and attempted to identify the feeling through systematic elimination. It wasn’t quite irritation, though that was the closest approximation. Irritation was comfortable; irritation was home. This was different. Warmer. More complicated. 

Gothic cryptid. The descriptor was inaccurate on multiple levels. 

Wednesday was not a cryptid—she was simply a person with unusual interests, a family that tended toward the macabre, and a lack of interest in normalcy. Cryptids were creatures of legend, unverified and mysterious. Wednesday was extensively verified. Her school records alone ran to forty-seven pages, not counting the incident reports.

And yet.

The phrase had a fondness embedded in its absurdity. Enid hadn’t called her “weird roommate” or “that creepy girl” or “the one who conducted an autopsy on a squirrel in our bathroom.” She called her infamous. She’d called her favorite. She capitalized Her like it was a title, a proper noun, a designation that required emphasis.

She doesn't read this, Enid wrote.

She was wrong, obviously. She was wrong now.

Wednesday considered the implications.

This was meaningless. People said things like this on the internet constantly. Hyperbole was its native language. “Favorite” probably meant nothing more than “the one I complain about most frequently.” It was performance, not sincerity—a character Enid played for her audience, a version of their relationship packaged for public consumption.

Wednesday clicked on the “Roommate Relations” tag and told herself it was research.

The archive loaded in a vertical cascade—dozens of posts stretching back to their first semester together, each one tagged and dated and illustrated with small graphics. The earliest entry was from late September, last year, titled MY NEW ROOMIE IS A LITERAL NIGHTMARE with a skull emoji and a heart emoji side by side.

Wednesday began to scroll through the history of herself as rendered by Enid Sinclair.

She recognized incidents immediately. 

The time she’d hung her aunt Phobia’s taxidermy collection on the wall and Enid had screamed for eleven seconds straight before demanding to know if they were “going to move or anything” and, upon being assured they would not, deciding they were “actually kind of metal, in a creepy way.” The negotiation over room temperature that had nearly resulted in diplomatic incident: Wednesday preferred conditions suitable for the dead; Enid preferred conditions suitable for sustaining human life; the compromise had involved a space heater on Enid’s side and Wednesday’s solemn vow not to tamper with the thermostat more than twice per week. The morning Enid discovered Wednesday’s research notes on the optimal conditions for decomposition and, inexplicably, asked questions rather than fleeing. “So like, does humidity matter? For the... you know... the rotting?” She seemed genuinely curious. Wednesday explained the role of moisture in bacterial activity for fifteen minutes, and Enid listened, nodding along, occasionally saying “gross” in a tone that was more impressed than horrified.

Each story was told with chaotic affection.

The complaints were there—Wednesday’s inflexibility, her morbid interests, her refusal to participate in “normal bonding activities” like movie nights or shared meals or whatever else Enid considered essential to cohabitation—but they were wrapped in something softer. Something that suggested the complaints were part of the appeal rather than despite it.

She hadn’t made Wednesday sound normal—that would have been an insult to both of them. But she made her sound interesting. Worthy of documentation. A presence in Enid’s life that was notable enough to chronicle for fifty thousand strangers.

My favorite gothic cryptid.

Wednesday clicked on “Ask the Alpha.”

The archives were extensive—far more than she had anticipated from what she assumed was a frivolous hobby. Questions stretched back months, organized by date and loosely categorized by topic, each one representing an outcast who chose Enid, of all people, as their confidant. Timestamps noted submissions from Berlin, São Paulo, Melbourne, a small town in Finland that Wednesday had to look up to confirm existed. Outcasts worldwide, it seemed, had discovered this corner of the internet and decided it was safe. 

The questions themselves ranged from the mundane to the absurd to the genuinely heart-wrenching.

A young siren in her first year at a normie high school, terrified of accidentally influencing her friends during emotional conversations, asking how to tell if she was manipulating people without meaning to. A gorgon whose parents had scheduled an appointment with a specialist in contact lenses, wanting him to “pass” at family gatherings where extended relatives didn’t know about his “condition”—he’d written three paragraphs about feeling like his own eyes were something to be ashamed of. A vampire newly turned at fifty-three, struggling to maintain relationships with adult children who would age while he didn’t, asking whether it was selfish to stay in their lives. A werewolf dealing with the aftermath of a transformation gone wrong, one that had hurt someone she loved, someone she’d been trying to protect, asking how to forgive herself.

Wednesday read this last one twice. The details were sparse—deliberately so—but the anguish was unmistakable. The question wasn’t really about specifics. It was about whether some things were unforgivable, and what you were supposed to do with yourself if the answer was “yes.”

Enid’s response ran to six paragraphs.

She didn’t minimize. She didn’t offer platitudes about time healing all wounds or suggest that the writer “just forgive herself.” Instead, she wrote about the difference between guilt and shame—guilt being about actions, shame being about identity—and suggested that the writer might be experiencing both simultaneously and might need different approaches for each. She recommended a specific book on trauma in shapeshifter communities. She shared about always feeling responsible for a body that wouldn’t obey, and how it nearly consumed her before she learned to separate who she was from her wolf.

“You are not your worst moment,” Enid wrote. “You are also not your transformation. You’re the person who wrote this letter, who cares enough to ask the question, who is trying to figure out how to live with something terrible. That person deserves compassion—from others, yeah, but also from yourself. I know that’s easier to say than to feel. But I’m saying it anyway, because sometimes we need someone else to say it before we can start to believe it.”

Wednesday stared at the screen.

The response was, against all expectation, thoughtful.

She scrolled through more, telling herself it was establishing a pattern rather than becoming invested

Each post was tailored to its recipient—different tones for different needs, different resources for different situations. A scared freshman got gentle reassurance and practical tips. A confrontational asker got firm boundaries delivered with warmth. A long-time reader going through a crisis got Enid’s personal email with an invitation to write anytime, day or night, “because some stuff shouldn’t wait for the advice column queue.”

Fifty thousand followers made slightly more sense now.

Wednesday checked the time in the corner of the screen and discovered that forty-seven minutes had passed since she’d first opened the laptop. Forty-seven minutes. Nearly an hour of her evening, consumed by a blog she had intended to dismiss within seconds.

This was unacceptable.

She rapidly clicked back to the original page, prepared to take her overdue exit. 

Until the comment section appeared…

Her fingers curled into a fist once she scrolled. 

The responses were largely positive—expressions of support and welcome-back enthusiasm that blurred together after the first dozen. Returning readers announced themselves with varying degrees of familiarity (“Day one howler reporting in!”), new followers introduced themselves with shy enthusiasm, and the characteristic chaos of someone named “YokOnoUDidnt” threaded through the entire section like a particularly unhinged Greek chorus. 

Wednesday scrolled past these with minimal interest. Social dynamics she already understood held no value as intelligence.

Then she reached a comment that made her stop.

Congrats on 50k. Since you’re planning a “Full Moon Survival 2.0” series, you might want to be a bit more precise about your werewolf facts this time around…

The comment continued for another two paragraphs, detailed and citation-adjacent. Late-bloomers as “statistical outliers.” Protocols and genetic factors. 

Might be worth doing some basic research before you start presenting your personal experience like generalized lore.

Wednesday read the full comment twice. 

Then she read Enid’s reply.

The response was gracious. Irritatingly so. Enid had conceded the valid points about varying pack protocols. She acknowledged that her experience wasn’t universal. She invited the commenter to share resources and offered to feature them on the blog, credited or anonymous, their choice.

But there was something else beneath the diplomacy. A firmness that didn’t apologize for existing. 

I really do appreciate corrections and extra context. but I also want this space to feel safe for readers who are still figuring things out and might already be scared they’re ‘doing it wrong.’

Wednesday’s jaw tightened.

The realization surfaced with uncomfortable clarity: she was annoyed at the commenter.

The correction about pack protocols was technically accurate. Wednesday had done her own research on lycanthropic developmental patterns during her investigation last year—the Hyde case required extensive background on supernatural physiology, and she didn’t limit her studies. Late-bloomer treatment did vary significantly by pack. Some took medicalized approaches. Some prioritized traditional rituals. The diversity of practice was well-documented in the academic literature, such as it was.

But the phrasing.

Might be worth doing some basic research. 

The sentence was designed to diminish rather than inform. It positioned the commenter as an authority and Enid as negligent, careless, a girl feigning expertise. When the reality was simply that Enid shared personal experience, clearly framed as such.

The distinction mattered. A genuine correction would have acknowledged Enid’s experiential knowledge while offering supplementary information. It would have recognized that first-person narrative and academic overview served different purposes, reached different audiences, held different kinds of value. This comment did neither. It weaponized accuracy in service of condescension.

Everything about the comment was designed to make Enid feel small.

Wednesday found this personally offensive.

Because she could have done it better.

If Wednesday had wanted to correct Enid’s werewolf lore—which she didn’t, obviously, she had no investment in this blog or its accuracy or the emotional well-being of its author—she would have done so with precision. Real precision, unlike the blunt instrument wielded by NotLikeOtherFurs11. 

She would have provided specific sources: the Lyceum Studies journal, the archived protocols from the North American Pack Council, the ethnographic work that Dr. Weiss did on late-bloomer experiences across seventeen different pack structures. She would have been devastating in her thoroughness. Impossible to argue with on factual grounds. And yet, crucially, impossible to characterize as rude. 

And it would have been almost... positive. A correction that improved the blog while establishing intellectual superiority. A contribution that Enid needed to acknowledge and thank her for, publicly, in front of fifty thousand followers.

Not that she was considering it.

Because then she was engaging with the blog, becoming part of its ecosystem, allowing Enid’s pastel corner of the internet to claim Wednesday’s attention and energy. The fact that she already spent forty-seven minutes here was an aberration, not a precedent.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a force that suggested either enthusiasm or structural damage. 

“Oh my GOD,” Enid announced, collapsing onto her bed. The mattress springs protested, an army of plushies scattering. The tiara-shark tumbled to the floor, where it lay face-down in solidarity with its owner. “I ate so much. Like, an actually concerning amount. Like, I think I might have broken some kind of record. Or a law. Are there laws about how much meatloaf one person can consume in a single sitting? There should be. For public safety.” She rolled onto her back, one arm flung across her eyes, the other pressed to her stomach. “I wanted to impress the senior wolves, you know? Show them I’m serious about pack stuff now that I can actually transform and everything. So I just kept accepting whatever they put in front of me. ‘Oh, Enid, try this venison casserole.’ ‘Oh, Enid, you haven’t had the elk tartare yet.’ ‘Oh, Enid, it’s disrespectful to refuse seconds.’” She groaned, a sound of genuine distress. “My stomach might actually explode. Like, literally. Like, there might be a crime scene in this room tomorrow and the crime will be ‘death by competitive eating.’”

Wednesday said nothing. Experience had taught her that these monologues required no participation; they were self-sustaining weather systems, generating their own momentum regardless of audience response. Still, she watched. Enid’s face was flushed—exertion, overeating, or some combination. Her hair had escaped its earlier styling, purple-tipped strands falling across her forehead in disarray. Her shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above her waistband where her hand still rested. The new muscle definition was visible even in her current state, a reminder that the girl sprawled across the bed was not quite the same girl who had left Nevermore last year.

“Also,” Enid said, apparently transitioning to a new topic without any indication that the previous one had concluded, “Ajax is already in trouble and it’s literally day one. DAY ONE, Wednesday. We haven’t even had classes yet. We haven’t had orientation yet. And he’s already got a disciplinary file started.” She lifted her head slightly to peer at Wednesday, her hand rubbing idle circles across her stomach. “He accidentally turned someone to stone during move-in. A freshman. Because he forgot to put his beanie back on after showering in the communal bathroom—which, first of all, why was he showering in the communal bathroom, his room has a private one—and this poor kid just walked around the corner and BAM. Instant statue.”

Wednesday raised an eyebrow. “The freshman made direct eye contact with an uncovered gorgon in a dormitory hallway?”

“I KNOW, RIGHT?” Enid’s head dropped back to the pillow with a thump. “Like, buddy, this is Nevermore. Rule one: don’t look directly at anything you haven’t identified first. But apparently he’s from some tiny outcast community in Wisconsin where the most dangerous thing is a guy who can make milk curdle by thinking about it, so he just… wasn’t prepared.” She sighed heavily. “Now there’s a whole thing in the infirmary, and I think Pembroke might actually murder Ajax. Like, actually. I saw Pembroke’s face when he got the report and it was… it was not a face that suggested mercy.”

“Petrifaction is reversible within the first twenty minutes,” Wednesday offered. “After that window closes, the calcite crystallization becomes self-propagating. The cellular structure begins converting independent of the original gorgon influence. Ajax should be more careful.”

“That’s what I said!” Enid jabbed a finger at Wednesday without looking. “Well, not the calcium-crystal-whatever part. But the careful part. I literally said ‘Ajax, babe, you have to be more careful,’ and he just gave me that stoner—ha, stoner, get it?—that wise stoner look and said something about how the universe would provide.” She shook her head. “The universe provided a statue freshman and a meeting with the disciplinary committee. Great providing!”

“The freshman’s current status?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Mostly. He’s just…” Enid waved a hand vaguely. “Standing in the corner of the infirmary. Being a statue. The nurse said she’ll have him unfrozen by midnight but until then he’s just… there. Apparently Kent put a party hat on him as a joke and now nobody can figure out how to get it off without damaging the stone surface.” She snorted. “Very undignified first day. I almost felt bad for him but then I remembered he’s the one who looked directly at an uncovered gorgon head, so really it’s a learning experience.”

A comfortable silence settled.

Enid’s breathing began to slow, the food coma advancing with the predictable momentum of biological inevitability. Her hand stilled on her stomach, eyes drifting half-closed. Then, as if remembering something important, she lifted her head again and squinted across the room at Wednesday’s desk. Specifically, at the laptop, which sat closed and dark beside the typewriter.

“Wait. Did you—did you use it? The laptop?”

Wednesday considered her options.

She could lie outright—claim she hadn’t touched the device, that it remained as pristine and unopened as the moment Enid had placed it there. But Enid would check the browser history eventually; she was constitutionally incapable of not snooping, and the timestamp evidence would contradict any denial. Inconsistency invited suspicion. Suspicion invited questions. Questions invited conversations Wednesday was not prepared to have.

She could tell the complete truth—that she spent forty-seven minutes reading Enid’s blog, that she scrolled through months of “Roommate Relations” posts chronicling their shared history, that she read advice column responses with something approaching respect, that she was currently composing mental corrections for anonymous commenters. 

Instead, settled on a selective presentation of facts. 

“I checked my academic schedule. The botany syllabus confirms digital submission requirements.”

For a moment, Enid stared at Wednesday with an unreadable expression.

Then her face transformed.

The food-induced lethargy vanished. The exhaustion, the complaints about her overtaxed stomach, the theatrics—all of it disappeared, replaced by a smile so bright and unguarded that Wednesday resisted the urge to look away. It was too much. Too direct. Like staring into something that could burn if she let it.

“You used it!” Enid pushed herself up onto her elbows. “You actually used it! I knew you would—I mean, I hoped you would, I didn’t want to assume—I mean, that’s totally great, I’m really glad it’s useful, it’s fine if you just use it for school stuff, that’s totally what it’s for, that’s why I got it, I didn’t expect you to like—”

The words tumbled over each other, a verbal avalanche of relief and pleasure that seemed disproportionate to the stimulus. Wednesday had checked a syllabus, technically. Somewhat. At the very least, she performed a minor task on a device designed for minor tasks.

“—use it for fun or anything, I know you think fun is a concept invented by people who aren’t interesting enough to entertain themselves, which, rude but also fair, but I just thought maybe if you had it you’d—”

“Enid,” Wednesday cut in. “Sleep. You’re approximately thirty seconds from unconsciousness regardless of your current enthusiasm. Your body is diverting all available resources to digestion. Continuing this conversation will only delay the inevitable.”

“I am not—” Enid began, indignant. Then she yawned, blinked, and frowned. “Okay,” she admitted, slightly slurred. “Maybe I am. But I’m happy. That you used it.” She was already sinking back into her pillows, body giving up the fight with visible relief. “Just so you know. I’m happy.” 

She burrowed into her covers with a full-body shimmy, the tiara shark now retrieved and tucked under one arm. Within two minutes, her breathing deepened into genuine sleep. Occasionally punctuated by small, satisfied snores.

Wednesday remained at her desk.

The laptop sat closed in front of her, no longer quite the affront it had been an hour ago. The typewriter waited at her left, sheet of paper still blank and waiting for a novel chapter. 

She should work on it. The pacing in the middle section dragged. The reveal of the killer’s pattern came too early. These were solvable problems, craft work that Wednesday usually found satisfying, and the hours after Enid fell asleep were typically her most productive.

Instead, she found herself mentally composing a response to NotLikeOtherFurs11.

Your correction, while technically accurate regarding the existence of formal protocols, fails to account for significant variation in pack practices across geographic regions, generational lines, and socioeconomic contexts. The North American Pack Council’s guidelines—which you appear to be referencing, though you notably failed to cite them directly—are recommendations, not mandates, and compliance varies widely. Furthermore, your framing suggests that personal experience is inherently less valuable than systematized knowledge—a position that ignores the documented limitations of existing lycanthropic research, much of which was conducted by non-werewolf academics with limited access to actual pack dynamics and a vested interest in pathologizing developmental variation.

The words arranged themselves.

If your concern is genuinely educational—if you truly wish to “help” readers access more comprehensive information—you might consider that condescension is a remarkably ineffective pedagogical tool. Readers who feel diminished are less likely to engage with supplementary material, not more. Your comment, as constructed, prioritizes the performance of expertise over the actual transmission of knowledge.

Wednesday’s fingers twitched toward the laptop.

In summary: if you’re going to correct someone, at least do it properly. This was neither thorough enough to be useful nor gracious enough to be welcomed. It was simply unpleasant—a quality that serves no one, least of all yourself.

She wouldn’t send it. Obviously.

The entire concept was ridiculous. Wednesday Addams, leaving comments on a lifestyle blog. Engaging in petty internet disputes about werewolf developmental psychology with anonymous strangers who had nothing better to do than police other people’s personal narratives. It was beneath her. It was pointless. It would serve no purpose except to satisfy a fleeting irritation that she should be capable of dismissing through pure force of will.

There was no reason for this particular comment to lodge itself so persistently in her thoughts. No reason for her mind to keep returning to it, refining arguments, sharpening counterpoints, constructing the perfect response.

Thing crawled up the side of the desk and tapped against her shoulder in question: Are you going to do it?

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She pulled the typewriter closer, centering it on the desk, and began working on her novel. The keys struck the paper with their sharp reports—clack, clack, clack—each word a step further into the story she was supposed to be telling.

But the comment waited. Patient for something Wednesday would never give in to.

Thing tapped once more against the desk surface, and then scuttled away, leaving Wednesday alone with her novel and her certainty and the reply that would be written whether she wanted to or not.