Return to Nevermore

This winter is not like a fairy tale. After all, the trees, the city streets, and the lonely castle in the wilderness were not strewn with snow-white shavings of snow. Only dirty yellow foliage underfoot. But even on such swampy days you can find joy. - Lucy, just watch your step. Do not fall. — A soft female voice scattered along the forest path. - Fine! — the girl responded, running forward. A young family leisurely walked along forest paths, looking at the winter-spring landscape. A little girl collected blackened leaves while a man and woman examined the greenery. - Dad! Look what a bouquet I collected! — The girl ran up to the man, smiling from ear to ear, holding out a large broom of orange and dark walnut foliage. - How beautiful, when we get home will you make a herbarium? - Yes! And what are you doing? - Do you see these little sprouts? Soon they will grow up and we will be able to pick them. — Mom whispered caringly, smiling. — Well, is it time to go home?

***

The black car was driving along the highway, and from the pressure of the tires, the snow mixed with mud and flew in different directions. Inside the salon, vintage tunes of Italian jazz were routinely played. Wednesday looked at her parents without interest and with slight disgust. Everything is the same as a few months ago: they shamelessly show tenderness to each other, as if no one is around. And the clairvoyant sits opposite, motionless, with her eyebrows furrowed. The pale hand itself reaches out to the technology and, only the plague knows, how often it checks the ill-fated chat. Three messages in a row, and then silence for several months. Here a quick sound is heard, and the fingers slowly stretch out. are you coming soon?!!!!! Wednesday has to restrain himself from the urge to inhale more air and then exhale it sharply. She definitely shouldn’t have told Enid about Xavier’s surprise gift. Firstly, this was accompanied by an incomprehensible ambiguous look and grin from Sinclair, and secondly, another number had to be added to the only contact. The writer quickly adapted to the millimeter keyboard and sent a response without hesitation.

In 13 minutes.

Ignoring the she-wolf is more expensive for yourself, otherwise kilometer-long one-line sentences and calls will rain down. Just as the girl wanted to put the phone down, there was another message. See you in Nevermore Wednesday blinked and finally put the smartphone down with the screen facing down, averting her black eyes, looking at the depressing landscape outside the window.

***

The stone corridors greeted us with their coldness and darkness. Everything here is the same as Addams remembers, but there were still minor changes, from the cosmetic renovations that had to be resorted to after the “incident” to the virtual absence of students. To Wednesday’s disgust, the parents were extremely surprised when their daughter herself started talking about an earlier arrival. They did not specify the reason. Knocking heavy boots on the parquet floor, as if carving out space, the dark figure moves along the corridors, and then stops near the door of one of the rooms, a little fiddling with the lock, and now — for the first time in many months, the clairvoyant finds herself at the threshold of her room. Everything here is the same as on the day she left. The rose window with frames reminiscent of a cobweb was half covered with watercolor patterns — this was perhaps the only thing that was truly familiar here. It is empty, dark, quiet and absolutely every surface is covered with layers of dust. Unfortunately for Wednesday, this won’t be the case for long. The girl slowly enters the room, while the Thing crawls out of her briefcase and climbs onto her shoulder, actively gesturing with her fingers. - I remind you that I only allow you to be here because you are useful. — If you try to dissuade me again, I’ll tear out your nails. — The girl said calmly, after which the Thing calmed down. Ink eyes caught on a bright pink spot — on the left side, there were bags by the bed, and this meant only one thing. Suddenly the door of the room opens wide, and a disheveled miracle freezes on the threshold. Enid froze for just a moment before rushing towards the goth girl and stopping half a meter away, miraculously stopping herself from pouncing straight on her friend. Wednesday could have sworn that she saw the she-wolf jumping in place like a ball, smiling widely. - Finally! I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long! While Sinclair smiled widely and squealed with delight, Addams managed to catch some changes in her friend’s appearance. Her blond hair had grown noticeably and now touched her shoulders. And the girl’s style itself has changed noticeably; she still has a lot of colors, but they have acquired more pastel colors, and only her eyes, lined with blue pencil, have remained unchanged. - We have so much to discuss! We should definitely go to a cafe and to the cinema. We also need to update the office. — Enid. — The brief sound of Wednesday’s voice slightly reduced Sinclair’s fidgeting, but everything became much worse the moment the she-wolf noticed her beloved spa friend on Addams’s shoulder.

***

The girls slowly walked along the stone corridors, as they had done a few months ago, walking around the entire pentagonal courtyard. Sinclair had the ability to fill a noisy space — even with a small number of students, Addams felt that it was not the beginning of the semester, but a school break for another working day. - You can’t imagine how much news there is.” Because of the “incident,” Enid raised her hands and showed quotation marks. “Many people transferred to other schools, and they also reported that we must do our best to hide the real cause of the “fire” so as not to further turn the normies against us. — Interesting logic. The Normis did it, and we are to blame. — Addams muttered. The girls re-entered the main hall and then walked up the stairs. The last time Wednesday was here was when Xavier gave her a gift. At this time, the gates of Nevermore opened again and a column of black cars with darkened windows drove into the academy territory. Addams noticed how the teachers began to suspiciously gather towards the exit of the school, they looked nervous and somehow even excited. The cars drove up to the main entrance of the academy. The teachers went outside and looked excitedly in the direction of the cars. The drivers punctually opened the doors and important guests got out of the cars. The girls froze near the railing of the second floor, when Wednesday’s gaze catches on the figures entering the main hall. A strange tension hangs in the air, as if oxygen is condensing. - Oh Lord God. — Enid whispers, trying to get the phone out of her pocket with her hands. - Who is this? — When asked by the clairvoyant, Sinclair looked at her friend as if Wednesday had just said unimaginable nonsense. - Addams, even you should be ashamed not to know this,” the she-wolf hisses. — This is Aconite. - Something familiar… - This is the main council of outcasts. — Enid lowers her voice as if she’s afraid they’re being overheard. — They are the ones who solve global issues related to species and a bunch of other important problems. — What are they even doing here? The friends looked down again, watching carefully. Three figures entered the academy unhindered, their movements were erratic and a slight nervousness was visible in them. Suddenly the guests hesitated, and another person entered the main hall. His behavior was different. Wide strides and straight back, as if he reliably knew every millimeter of this place, as if everything around belonged to him. Wolfsbane did not slow down again, the four figures disappeared from view, and the teachers silently followed them. - Why are they here? Won’t they close the school? — Enid whispered excitedly. Wednesday was probably about to respond, but then a notification caught her attention. unknown number Sent you a message

***

There is no sun in Nevermore. The sky here is swallowed up by a gray veil of frost and fog. Bare trees and sickening slush underfoot. Wednesday was delighted, but her boots were not. The inky eyes darted from side to side, as if expecting that at any moment a Stalker could jump out from behind the branches of the bushes. It was stupid, insane and unjustifiable stupidity. As soon as he sent a photo of the already pretty boring Gates house, the clairvoyant instantly ran towards trouble, ignoring the Thing’s reproaches and logic. She had no questions: why, for what reason is the Stalker calling her and is he calling her? What does he want from her, and will it lead to murder? What would be nice to diversify this day. Ignoring the frost in her fingers, Wednesday entered the gates of the hated place. Memories of that evening when she made an unforgivable mistake and trusted someone who should have been strangled came flooding back, so the clairvoyant pushed the thoughts away from her as if they were annoying flies. The girl looked around the house with a stern look, as if she expected that the pursuer in a terry robe and with tea in his hands would now come out onto the veranda — this would be extremely comical. - Look around. — The Thing’s fingers reluctantly poked out of the backpack; he shivered unhappily from the cold and disgust. He quickly twitched his fingers, expressing his reluctance to get up in the winter slush. — Now I’ll pull out the hangnails. — The hand jumped to the ground and disappeared from sight. Wednesday doesn’t hesitate any longer, she takes a deep breath and takes the first step towards home. Wooden parquet creaks underfoot from moisture and age. The writer looks around the room, all that surrounds her is only the deathly silence of the gloomy walls and the sound of the wind from the broken windows. Almost nothing has changed here, only layers of dust and the mayhem that Hyde left after his ostentatious performance. The narrow corridors, hung with paintings, looked especially comical against the backdrop of the shabby walls. And yet in daylight this place looks completely different. Having crossed the threshold of the next room, Wednesday hears a sound — footsteps, clearly and loudly. Fingers grope for the hilt of the sword, Addams slowly moves forward, listening to every sound, changes in wind currents, at some point it even seemed that the writer heard blood flowing through the arteries. Wednesday creeps up to the next door. Movement, a silhouette flashes before your eyes. The clang of steel. She attacks. But here iron comes into contact with metal. Addams is taken aback for just a second, but then continues her attack. Strike, attack, step, strike, counterattack. The corridor is too narrow and cramped. A counterattack, another, each attempt breaks like a match, because for every Wednesday blow there is a defense — rough, fast, and definitely does not fit into the rules of fencing. The writer can’t really make out even the silhouette of the person she’s fighting against—everything is changing too quickly. All that Addams manages to disassemble. Red. The sound of iron on metal. Finally, the clairvoyant’s sword ends up centimeters from the opponent’s neck and everything freezes. - Do you attack everyone or am I special? — a voice echoes into the empty rooms of the house. The writer breathes heavily through her nose, she gently steps forward, the silhouette repeats her movement exactly the opposite — stepping back, not allowing the sharpened dagger to touch the neck. And so they finally got out of the shadows of the corridors into the illuminated hall. The first thing Wednesday notices is the reflection of the sun through the spiral-twisted threads of hair, and as if through this light, the stormy sky looks at her. - Who are you? — Addams frowns, frozen in an attacking stance. - Maybe you can remove this first? — the girl glanced sideways at the sword at her neck. The calmness in the stranger’s voice sounded like fuel to the fire of Wednesday’s self-control. - Who. You. Like this? — Addams says through his teeth, hissing - Kindergarten. — The stranger rolled her eyes. Clang, Wednesday’s sword brushes aside a blow, something… The writer glanced sideways at the strange object in the girl’s hand. An oblong metal stick. Did she fight her on “this”? The Goth’s outrage knew no bounds. Meanwhile, the stranger, as if nothing had happened, put away the rod and, putting her hands in the pockets of her red sweatshirt, leaves the hall of the house. - You won’t go anywhere until you answer my questions. - As you can see, I can walk perfectly well even without your permission…! — the stranger takes another step forward, but immediately falls to the ground with a crash. — Yours! What?! — her leg was grabbed out of nowhere by the Thing that appeared and grabbed the sneakers with a death grip. - I told you, until you answer, you won’t leave. — — The clairvoyant sounded in a victorious tone. - Maybe you can tell this “thing” to let me go? What is this anyway? — the stranger glanced sideways at Addams, looking at him from different angles. — This is a robot? Spider from Chernobyl? The girl pointed her finger at the Thing, for which she received a slap on the arm. - Ay! Aggressive. - It’s a Thing, and it doesn’t like to be called a spider. So, who are you…? - So it’s alive?! I was kidding! — the stranger still did not let up, and then sharply kicked her leg so that Addams flew into the wall. — Sorry! I did not want. Isn’t he in pain? Will his stitches come apart?! - Are you even listening to me? - So, stop! If it’s alive, — the girl pointed to the Thing coming to its senses. — And you are definitely abnormal. So you’re from Nevermore? - Your powers of observation are worthy of a Nobel Prize. The stranger finally got to her feet and, quickly brushing the dust off her jeans, walked up to Wednesday. And she stopped as soon as the goth girl took half a step back. The writer examined the foreigner from head to toe and only now realized that the girl in red was half a head taller, although both wore a platform. — This is the first time I’ve seen someone from the Academy. There’s just one thing I can’t understand, you’re clearly capable of taking care of yourself, not to mention a tame Cerberus. Why did you call? - What? — Wednesday raised her eyebrows in confusion. - Are you saying it’s not you? - I just came here. - Yes, you are driving! — The stranger arched her eyebrows in disbelief. — I was passing by and clearly heard someone screaming. For a few moments, deathly silence reigned in the room and, it seems, even in the entire mansion. The two girls looked at each other, not fully understanding whether the other was telling the truth or not. A strong wind blew outside the window and a whistle was heard in the room. Wednesday looked behind the stranger, the writer walked around her and stood in front of the fireplace. The stone product was painted lengthwise and crosswise with frescoes of animals, people, decorative elements and a voluminous amount of detail, and on it itself stood a stack of heavy books. It would seem like just a fireplace in an ordinary abandoned house, but still, something haunted the clairvoyant. - Holy shit! — it sounded very close, inky eyes glanced towards the approaching girl. — Dickens, White, Kafka, Poe — these are rare publications, they have not been published for 50 years, on eBay they will give you a hundred for one, no less. — What else are you interested in, besides housebreaking? - This is an abandoned house. Only it’s too well preserved; in real life, homeless people and drug addicts would have settled here long ago. — The girl said, while simultaneously stuffing books into her briefcase. — “The Art of War”, “My Struggle”, “Hero of Our Time” — did psychopaths with an inferiority complex live here? - Yes, especially “ardent” admirers of outcasts. — Addams muttered, continuing to look at the fireplace. - Outcasts? Is that what you call yourself? — In China, the ears of curious people were cut off. Shall we continue this wonderful tradition? - Is that why you cut off your friend’s hand? Sorry. — The girl looked at the Thing, then continued to remove the books from the fireplace. And then the goth’s gaze catches on the cleaned surface. Wednesday brushes away layers of dust and then takes a marker out of his briefcase. She feels the surface with her fingers and runs the ink across them. - What’s this? — the stranger looks over his shoulder. - Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’entrate. Abandon hope, everyone who enters here. — The writer reads, noticing out of the corner of her eye how the Thing climbs onto the fireplace. - This is from the Divine Comedy. Wednesday and the Thing looked towards the foreigner together. — In addition to smuggling, selling substances and killings strictly on Tuesdays, I also enjoy reading. A hobby, so to speak, — the girl in red rolled her eyes. — However, what difference does it make, it’s just an inscription. Yes, on the fireplace and clearly hidden from others, but the rich have their own quirks. And these quirks go double when their main goal is to exterminate all the outcasts. — The writer mutters under her breath, continuing to inspect the fireplace. The feeling that Wednesday was missing something did not go away, as if the answer was completely on the surface. Black eyes turned their gaze to the frescoes. — Having completed half of my earthly life. “I found myself in a dark forest,” — Addams whispers, running his fingers along the frescoes where a man and a forest were depicted, -And then, at the bottom of a steep slope, an agile and curly lynx, — she pressed on the image predator and under his fingers the drawing failed, like pressing a button. There was a click and a pop, the girls locked eyes and looked at each other, the stranger walked around Addams, the writer glanced at the girl’s red manicure as she began to run her fingers over the frescoes, as Wednesday did. - But, again constraining him with horror, a lion came out to meet him. The girl in red stopped at the drawing of a lion and just as easily clicked on it. — And don’t return to the wild lair, she-wolf. The Thing clicked on the last clipping. At that moment, the work of mechanisms could be heard throughout the room. The outline of a hatch appeared on the floor of the hall, right in the middle of the room. Addams, walking with heavy soles, approached the opening. There was a staircase going down under the wooden floor, the writer reaches for her briefcase and tries to feel for her phone, but then a girl comes up and starts flashing hers. - Looks promising. — She comments. - Do you have to poke your nose in? — the goth girl’s brow furrows. - Naturally. Besides, you were clearly not liked here. If you go there alone, the ghosts will eat you. - Ghosts don’t have a functioning digestive system - You’ll smell it in the cemetery. Let’s go. — Addams lets them forward and both of them go down the stone stairs, where the only source of light was the phone’s flashlights. - You didn’t say your name, — the stranger whispered. —Are you afraid of waking up the ghosts? - Don’t evade the answer. — Wednesday Addams. - Seriously?! God, I’m your fan. The Gotka trembled, and then looked over her shoulder at the girl. - What do you mean, Stalker? - I mean, I admire how you were able to wear down the sheriff’s nerves, so that he remembers you at every opportunity, — the girl in red rolled her eyes. — And you, Thing, right? — Addams, sitting on Wednesday’s shoulder, immediately moved his fingers approvingly. Then the three’s attention turned to what was directly in front of them. A small stone room that looked more like a bunker than a basement. Small cabinets with books, a table filled with junk and a huge cork board on which hung a map of the city, dozens of sheets, stickers, photographs, and all this was connected by a red web of threads. In general, a detective board. - Now this is exciting. — The writer came closer and began to examine each note, while simultaneously photographing them. — Look for something interesting, — said the writer to the Thing, and he immediately jumped off the shoulders of his ward. — How long has no one lived here? - About 30 years old, the writer stopped short, so much so that she even looked away. — At least, no one made their way here specifically, the paper is completely yellow. — Addams mumbles under her breath, as if forgetting that she is not alone here. - Whoever did this was clearly looking for something, — the stranger examines the card on which notes and bunches of red threads were hung. — Only one thing is unclear. Who was screaming here anyway? The hatch door slammed sharply. The girl cursed, and Addams glanced at the stairs. After a few moments of silence, Wednesday calmly spoke: - It’s just the wind, the mechanisms are old and acting up.- The writer’s attention switches to the desktop, the clairvoyant came up to evaluate the discovery of the Thing. It turned out to be a notebook with the golden initials E.G. - And here is our mysterious detective.

***

Having safely escaped from the secret vault, they finally found themselves on the street. Wednesday stood on the porch, looked into the distance and thought about everything that had happened over the next few hours.

The unexpected arrival of Aconite, the strange behavior of the Stalker and another mystery related to the Gates family. A terrible start to the school year.

The girl was brought out of her thoughts by the sharp noise of a motor, and the figure of a familiar girl on a motorcycle appeared before her eyes. - Do you need a ride? Addams looked at the vehicle with all the coldness and severity, and then silently walked over, accepted the helmet and sat down in the back.

***

Streams of frosty wind flew with such force that it seemed they could penetrate the skin and bones — this was the best therapy to relieve the brain after everything that had happened during this half-day. And the sky remained the same cloudy and depressing. The time spent on the road passed so quickly that the writer was almost surprised when they found themselves in the school yard, almost at the doorstep. There was a noticeable increase in the number of students, and their curious looks spoke very eloquently of how unusual the picture before them was. Addams easily stood up from the motorcycle and took off her helmet; for some reason, the stranger did the same. -Are you going back to that house? — inky eyes looked at the girl. - Let’s see. The writer gave up the helmet and was a second away from leaving, however… - Wait, — the stranger took a business card with a pen from her pocket and began to write something on it. — I work part-time in a bookstore, this is my number. She gave the business card to the clairvoyant, the goth girl looked first at the white card, then at the girl in red. - If you need company to go somewhere creepy. — She shrugged her shoulders. - Why do you need it? It would be wiser to stay as far away as possible from the outcast, who causes nothing but problems. — The girl frowned slightly at these words and tilted her head, looking into her unblinking eyes. - Do you consider yourself a problem? - The writer couldn’t find anything to answer to this. — Wednesday, I’m just an average 16-year-old girl, nothing ever happens in my life. And if I don’t make it rich, who will? Addams looked at her interlocutor carefully, and then hid the business card in her pocket. - Your name. You didn’t say. The girl smiled so much that a dimple appeared on her cheek. - Marina, Marina Drach. Putting an end to the conversation with silence, Wednesday turned around and entered the huge doors of Nevermore. Marina looked at the writer and then hid the Addams helmet under the seat. She was about to turn the key, but something tugged at the girl—a sudden need to look up. Drach raised her gray eyes and glanced along the huge stone walls of the academy, only for a moment lingering her gaze on one of the windows that looked directly at her. For some reason, Marina felt a strange premonition, as if a special atmosphere was flying around. Only now, because of the lighting, the girl could not make out what was on the other side of the glass. Having pushed away the strange premonition, Marina quickly started the engine and drove out of the academy’s driveway.

***

- Mister Rembrandt. — The voice of one of the teachers sounded in the principal’s office. A tall man stood in front of the window, he carefully watched the scene taking place on the street, near the main entrance to Nevermore. It was difficult to determine what specific emotion was on his face, but what was really obvious was that he was more concerned about what was happening on the street than the conversations in the office. The window light outlined the already sharp features of the face, and gave a special color to the light green eyes. The man turned away, hid his hands in his pockets and spoke with unshakable calm in a soft timbre. — Let’s return to our question.

***

Wednesday slowly wandered through the corridors of the school. It’s surprising that with all of Hyde’s search and attempts to succeed in her studies, there were still corridors in the academy that were unknown to her. Like, for example, the “corridor of shadows.” It received such an original name because of the huge number of windows, but at the same time they were all very narrow, so that in the light, no matter day or night, there were always clear shadows in the corridor. As in all traditions of Gothic castles. It was so quiet here that you could involuntarily be afraid of your own echo. The girl notices a wooden structure — floors for construction, right in the corridor. Wednesday sees something small falling from the very top onto the floor, Addams comes up and realizes that it is a brush. - Damn, — a voice echoed. There was movement and finally Wednesday saw who needed to draw on the walls in the quietest corridor of the school. The clairvoyant, by inertia, raised her head high so that she could clearly see the face of the long-suffering artist. — Wednesday. — Her own name, created by its timbre and echo, seemed to her deathly special. Even more special than it actually was. Having tightly closed her purple lips, the clairvoyant took the brush in her hand and easily climbed up the stairs. Xavier wanted to extend his hand, but stopped himself in order to avoid Addams' discomfort. - Thank you, — Thorpe whispered, accepting the brush from the writer. — How long have you arrived? - A couple of hours ago. — Have you already gotten yourself into something? — the artist asked, wiping his hands of paint. - Partly. Xavier lowered his head and grinned, softly and openly, just like the last time they met. - You don’t change. - Should I have? - No, without this you won’t be yourself. — The inky eyes touch the green in Xavier’s eyes. The guy relaxedly walked up to his makeshift table with tools and put down his paints. - So, what are you up to?