Chapter Text
The Appalachian Mountains are among the most ancient beings on Earth, older than bones and the rings of Saturn, and home to fictitious cryptids used to lure in tourists that only conceal the real wights that are too clever to be caught or catalogued. If it weren't for the promise that pushed her through countless sleepless nights, towns built on secrets and lies, and uncharted wilderness, Wednesday would've reveled in traveling through such a sensational place.
It'd been over a year since Enid's worst fear came true: permanently morphed into a beast and doomed to live a life of solitude on the run from other wolves intent on self-policing their population. In that time, Wednesday had coursed Canadian blizzards, watched as the conifer leaves dried up and died, only to be buried under blankets of pillowy snow, which then melted into streams to give birth to azaleas sprouting from the earth and newborn fauna.
Her quest brought her down to the Smokey's, the pine trees slowly transitioning to deciduous forests as she traveled south, all in search of a rabid wolf leaving behind deer carcasses in its wake, the only indication of the beast being the friend she once knew the pale gray and white fur with fading prismatic stripes caught in wildlife cameras; and posted on Facebook cryptic groups claiming she was irrefutable evidence of the Jersey Devil existing.
Wednesday met the Jersey Devil once at a family reunion, and to have Enid compared to that repugnant prick made Wednesday want to remind those blogging fools why they should never post so much personal information online that gives away their location—the internet is a wild wasteland full of strange people, after all.
But, Wednesday didn't have time for distractions. Not when she had a promise to fulfill, one that she would make good on come hell or high water—preferably both.
"Ohh, a cemetery!" Uncle Fester exclaimed while pointing to his left, which Wednesday barely heard sitting in the sidecar from the deafening wind roaring in her ears, then he grinned ear-to-ear, "Almost smells like home."
Nose kept in a book on Lycanthrope Biology, she reluctantly glimpsed aside, where gravestones dotted a glade, surrounded by a thick barrier of trees with branches that reached for the dead. If they weren't in a rush, she might've considered stopping to store up on graveyard dirt.
"Eyes on the road." Wednesday muttered, leafing through the textbook's coarse pages, holding down the edges with her arms to keep them from flapping in the wind.
"You know I can't drive without distractions!" Uncle Fester snickered, then faced the road, "We're almost there, anyways."
Wednesday forwarded her gaze, where the one lane road ahead was lined with deadening forestry, the leaves mustard, burnt orange and carmine, barely clinging to dried out branches. A sun bleached billboard peeked over the tree tops, written in bold black letters;
JESUS WILL RISE AGAIN
Wednesday rolled her eyes. One of her great aunts was resurrected from the dead once, but of course a woman's achievements will always be overshadowed by a man.
As the cruiser tore down the road, dirt dusting in their wake, a sign in the distance gradually grew in size until it revealed their location: Eatonton, Georgia.
Wednesday stiffened. They were almost to their destination. Almost to Enid.
They'd been dead in the water with lack of leads since they'd reached the end of Appalachia, left only with scraps of information from drunken squallers convinced a stray dog was the Wolfman and mutilated deer. When in doubt, always follow the trail of blood; that was her philosophy.
But, another key element Wednesday clung to as the closest thing to gospel was her gut. And that exactly is what'd led her here.
Lake Sinclair.
Call it a hunch, but if she knew her friend and roommate as well as she'd hoped, Enid always chased after familiarity, finding comfort in what she knew. A wild wolf stumbling upon something with her name on it had to trigger something in her, no matter how far gone Enid might've become.
Hopefully. Maybe Wednesday was simply desperate. What other choices did she have? She had to find Enid, no matter what. She promised to hunt her down. Enid was only in this state in the first place because Wednesday got sloppy and waltzed into a trap.
The trees receded to a clearing, unveiling a town. It seemed to be ye old average historic town, one where the brick buildings stacked along the sidewalks like someone had attempted to gentrify the old west, replacing saloons with artisan wine tastings and boutiques, attempting to put on a mask of quaint small town charm to distract from the fact that in these very buildings people once debated what rights human beings are permitted to have depending on the color of their skin.
"I know a great spot for us to chat up the locals," Uncle Fester elbowed her as they halted at a stoplight, which she sent a glare up at him to, "Find out the latest rumors, murders and all that good stuff."
"What are you waiting for, then?" Wednesday seethed, her eyes burning holes through him, "Step on it."
"On it, boss!" Uncle Fester saluted, revving the engine before peeling out despite the stoplight still being red, zig zagging to avoid crossing traffic.
"This is the place to pick up intel?" Wednesday deadpanned, picking her book off the table, the leather cover sticking to the thick layer of residue that's seemed to cover the table's entire surface. Even the sunlight flooding through the wall of windows next to them revealed crusted food bits and coffee rings all over the table.
"Yep!" Uncle Fester beamed, drumming hands on the table before throwing out his arms to show off the shabby diner, "Welcome to the House de la Waffle, home to all the local innings and happenings, a glimpse into the native culture. And, you can even watch them cook your food."
Glare unflinching, Wednesday straightened her spine like a viper preparing to strike—the chipped red pleather booth behind her gritty against her back—dipped her head and spat, "If you're wasting valuable time, then I'll be compensating by cutting your time on this earth short."
"Don't I know it!" Uncle Fester chuckled with that irksome giggle-snort of his, grabbing a fistful of pink Sweet'N Low packets, "This place is legit. In towns like this, everybody knows everything about everyone, and this is the best place to get that juicy small town gossip."
Brow twitching, Wednesday plopped the book back onto the table and cracked it open to her bookmarked page: the Effects of Wolfsbane. Which at this point, she'd read over a hundred times, but remained convinced there was some answer hidden between the lines she'd missed.
"You know," Uncle Fester started cautiously—some of the prior enthusiasm washed away—while thrashing the pink packet, paying her a reluctant glance, "There's never been any proof of Wolfsbane bringing back a fully fledged Alpha."
"So, I'll be the first." Wednesday replied indifferently, tracing the page with her calloused fingertips.
"I don't doubt that, that Wolfsbane oil you made'll probably be our best bet, but, I still think we need to make precautions for the worst case scenario." Uncle Fester advised, clasping hands together over the table with a sigh, "We both know the longer a werewolf stays in wolf form, the more they start to be more wolf than person, and it's already been a year–"
"It will work." Wednesday snapped and leered at him. There's wasn't a second option. It had to work.
Over the last year, she's witnessed as the wolf left a trail of torn up dumpsters and campsites, sometimes even garages were broken into with a strangely large, well-mannered wolf caught on camera raiding fridges; all up until the so kind Enid who gave every single one of her stuffed animals a name began to leave trails of blood, carnage and carcasses in snow.
Enid must be getting desperate, persistently hunted by other werewolves and pushed deeper and deeper into the woods, further away from humanity and what she knew of it.
Wednesday had to find her before she lost herself. She had to save her before there was nothing left to save.
A waitress stepped up to the table and tossed menus onto it. Before the waitress can part her ruby lips to ask them anything, Wednesday whipped a wildlife cam photograph from the bag sitting in the plastic booth seat next to her and extended it towards her—careful not to allow it to catch against any table residue—to interrogate, "Have you seen this wolf?"
"Wednesday," Uncle Fester sang, pointing a finger up, "We're taking up this pretty lady's table, we should at least order something first."
He winked at the waitress, and she rolled her eyes with a smirk and subtle wink back at him, then spoke in a raspy smoker's voice, "What can I get y'all to drink?"
Though Wednesday refused to desist the death threats she sent to him with her dark eyes alone, she spewed through gritted teeth, "Coffee. Black."
"And you, hon?" The waitress cooed, batting her glittery eyelashes at him and swinging bleach blonde hair over her shoulder.
"Just a water. I'm trying to cut out sugar." Uncle Fester snickered, ripping open a Sweet'N Low packet and pouring it into his mouth, then mumbled through sugar crystals, "This stuff's got zero calories! It's amazing!"
The waitress gasped, hand in a pearl clutch, then narrowed her eyes at him flirtatiously. Glancing at Wednesday, she took once last look at the photograph, then tapped the table to add, "I'll ask around about the wolf."
"Thanks, sweet cheeks!" Uncle Fester cheered with a grin, then whisked his hand, "Go ahead and bring me handfuls of every meat you got." He winked at her, "I like things salty and sweet."
Blushing, the waitress staggered back, then bit her lip before sauntering off, looking longingly over her shoulder as she did.
"What are you doing?" Wednesday hissed, leaning towards him, "We don't have time to waste on your senseless philandering."
Uncle Fester exhaled and held up his hands, his bald head shining like a beacon, "Look, I wanna find your werewolf wife as much as you do, but you gotta know how to play the crowd here to get info."
"She's not my wife." Wednesday corrected, crossing arms and glancing away. However, she couldn't help but notice the way her cold, cadaverous heart jolted to life at the thought—something she would take to the grave.
"Sure, you've only spent over the last year traveling the entire Appalachian Mountains trying to find her," Uncle Fester chuckled, sporting a cheeky grin, "Gotta say, your Gomez is showing."
"I'm nothing like my father." Wednesday insisted, then her gaze fell, and she spoke softly, "I simply have a promise to uphold. Nothing more."
"There's nothing more powerful in this world than an Addamses' promise." Uncle Fester sighed, then as the waitress set down their coffee and water, he smiled at her, "Thanks, toots!"
The waitress fluffed up her hair and smiled back at him. Ripping open more pink packets to pour into his water, he eyed Wednesday and asked, "You gonna order something?"
Wednesday decided to let her silence answer for her, leafing the page of her book, and took a sip of coffee—which was stale and harsh, she'd eaten mud pies that were better tasting than this.
Uncle Fester grinned at the waitress and waved a hand, which she took as her cue to depart down the row towards the clattering, bustling kitchen, where bacon sizzled in the air and waffle batter dripped down the metal racks.
"You should probably eat something, kiddo. You can't just live off coffee and spite," Uncle Fester advised, sprinkling salt and pepper into the water glass, "You're getting to be all skin-and-bones, which you know isn't optimal for combat, especially with wolves that can snap a grown man in half like a toothpick."
"Size doesn't matter when you have skill." Wednesday intoned without lifting her head.
"Still wouldn't hurt to pack on a few pounds, makes you harder to throw," Uncle Fester suggested, patting his round stomach, "Nobody's been able to throw me in years! This body's primed for combat."
Wednesday clenched her jaw as her glare hardened. It was impossible to concentrate with his senseless babbling. Her head shot up, and her hollow, maddened eyes bore into him as she seethed, "Enid's killings have been progressively getting more and more brutal, showing that she's killing not just for food, but for pleasure. She's aggressive, lashing out. The latest pig carcass we found had been disemboweled and torn apart. Every second we waste, Enid slips away from humanity and succumbs to the instincts of a wolf, becoming a rabid, bloodthirsty monster that we may not even be able to save her from. I don't have the luxury of wasting time. I have to find her."
Uncle Fester frowned, gave her a sympathetic smile, and set a hand on the middle of the table to express, "We'll find her, Wednesday. In the meantime, you won't be in any shape to hunt if you keep up like this. You're getting sick."
Wednesday cast her gaze aside. She certainly felt sick, but it wasn't an ailment incited by whatever her uncle was suggesting. It was a fever of the soul, an agonizing ache that kept her awake through endless nights, an affliction in her bones that kept her forever searching, longing; trapped in a perpetual inflammation of the senses and mind, walking the line between madness and anguish.
She couldn't stand the thought of Enid alone, shivering out in the snow and storms and moonless nights alone, so wound up with fear that sleep would never come to her. The same girl who couldn't sleep without a stuffed animal, always had a night light on so she wouldn't have to be in the dark, who would rather befriend her wretched, gloomy roommate than bear to be alone in her dorm. The same roommate who got her into this situation in the first place.
This was all Wednesday's fault.
"Finding Enid is the only thing I care about." Wednesday replied coldly, her throat taut, despising the knot of emotions that tangled up her stomach as she spoke her name. Emotions were supposed to be locked away in a box somewhere deep within, slowly eating her away like acid, but Enid Sinclair had managed to sink her rainbow-painted nails into the stronghold and tore it wide open.
"Trust me, I know. You've always been an obsessive one," Uncle Fester snickered, then sighed and lifted a finger, "I know I'm the cool, fun uncle, and I don't like to play this card, but your parents left you with me, meaning I am, somehow, miraculously, the responsible adult in charge here–"
"A responsible adult wouldn't drive us into a ditch on numerous occasions from operating the vehicle under the influence." Wednesday scolded, straightening her posture and folding arms over her chest with a judgmental squinch.
"You know I can't drive without my road beers!" Uncle Fester gawked gruffly using those bulging pop-eyes of his.
"Here's a plate of bacon, ham, sausage, and turkey deli meat," The waitress butted in while sliding a white plate in front of him with a charming smile, "Just for you."
"Oh, oh, oh!" Uncle Fester cheered, rubbing his hands together with small sparks zapping through the friction in his palms, "Thanks a million!"
"Also, I asked around about the wolf," The waitress started, turning to Wednesday, whose breath caught in her throat as met her gaze with anticipation burning in her eyes, "We don't really get a lot of wolves around here, but one of the guys from out-of-town camping by the lake says—sure enough—there's been a wolf breaking into coolers and dumpsters. A real big one like the one from the picture you showed me. Says it went and ate all his leftover ribeyes last night."
"That's her." Wednesday blurted, her eyes going wide and heart skipping a beat, rifling through her bag to retrieve a map, which she sprawled over the table and stared up at the waitress imploringly, "Where?"
The waitress removed the pen cap with her nicotine-stained teeth and circled a spot on the map, then added, "It's at this campground here, should be just straight up the road from here."
As Wednesday jerked the map to plan her route, Uncle Fester spoke the words too foreign for his neice to ever voice, "Thanks a ton, you really are a sweet thing!"
The waitress winked at him, then sashayed off and away to another table.
Throwing the book and map into her backpack, Wednesday muttered, "She's breaking into dumpsters again. She's remembering."
"It's a solid sign, for sure." Uncle Fester nodded, cramming handfuls of sliced ham into his mouth.
"I'm going to scope the area now. I need to search for tracks before it gets dark." Wednesday announced, slipping arms into the backpack straps and flying up to her feet.
"But I just got my food!" Uncle Fester protested while smacking, glancing longingly at the sizzling bacon on his plate.
"Stay here. I'll investigate on my own for now. It's not too far." Wednesday insisted, and though standing still, her eyes were already glaring at the door, half way down the road.
"Sounds good to me! Besides, I've got something I've been wanting to try out here," Uncle Fester replied, laying his head on his palm as he dreamily gazed at the waitress pouring coffee at another table, who gave him a sultry smile and wave. Shaking his head, he faced his neice, "Plus, you ever get in a fight in one of these places? They're wild! And, everyone here's got a gun on them! It's a real party."
Wednesday stopped listening to him after the first sentence, impatiently grinding her teeth as she scratched at the backpack straps.
"You wanna take the cruiser?" Uncle Fester asked while holding up the keys.
"I'll find a ride." Wednesday answered, deciding this was the correct time to dismiss herself, so she sharply pivoted towards the door and started marching.
"Don't start any of the fun stuff till I get there!" Uncle Fester hollered after her, but they both knew all too well that likely wasn't happening.
Wednesday stormed across the diner chairs and rammed through the doors into the parking lot, and though the air was crisp with autumn, the late-afternoon Sun still beat down with all its merciless vigor, reflecting off the pavement and blinding her.
She made her way over to the cruiser, where she slung her crossbow over her shoulder and snatched her sheathed silver saber—an Addams heirloom belonging to one of her distant cousins who'd attempted to poach werewolves only to, ironically and fittingly enough, be mauled to death by werewolves—then positioned herself along the road to raise up a hitchhiker's thumb.
An unfortunate soul in a beat up Ford Ranger with its windows rolled down sputtered to a stop, brakes squealing like a dying cat, and a man wearing a cap and overalls waved her inside.
Wednesday nodded, yanked the door open and sat on a car seat covered in cigarette burns.
"Where you going to, little miss?" The man inquired, a cigarette pinched in the corner of his mouth.
"Take me to as close to the campgrounds up here as possible." Wednesday instructed with a point forward, posture straight as an arrow, clutching the jeweled basket hilt of the saber in her lap.
"Yes, ma'am." The man agreed with a dip of his hat, then the engine roared as he pressed on the gas, and the car lurched forward down the road. Taking the cigarette out to flick the ash off i the window, he glimpsed at her and advised, "You know, a little thing like you should be careful hitchhiking around here. There's some real weirdos out there."
Wednesday side-eyed him with a glint in her gaze, ashen bags dragging down her bloodless face, and as she unsheathed a sliver of her sword's blade, warned, "You just picked one up."