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Laurel, her body still aching from her recent death, watched the scene unfolding before her with a mix of rage and disdain. "Karma is definitely a bitch," she repeated in her mind over and over as she faced the cold, calculating eyes of the Addams clan, each member of that cursed family staring at her with a smile that held not a shred of mercy. Worst of all, the very spirit of Goody Addams, the ancient ancestor, was presiding over this macabre trial in the afterlife.
There was something profoundly humiliating about being surrounded by those specters, ghostly figures floating above the stone and shadowy floor. But what tormented her most was that little mortal Wednesday, that soulless child, had killed her without an ounce of compassion. Laurel could almost still feel the stomping of her boots crushing her body. She had been swarmed by bees before, but the true pain, the one that lingered, was feeling that girl's boot stomping her into this dark fate. Karma really is a bitch.
The bluish flames of that spectral fire illuminated the cave. Stone walls covered in soot, as if marked by an ancient and forgotten fire. The shadows danced, reflecting the cruelty in the Addams' eyes, as they all waited for the judgment to fall on Laurel like a hammer.
"Laurel Evangeline Gates Trupper, your punishment has been decided," Goody proclaimed in a grave voice that echoed in the depths of the cave. The woman resembled Wednesday in many ways, but her blonde hair and ancient aura made her even more terrifying. Goody’s voice, filled with centuries of knowledge and contempt, shook the air like a thunderstorm.
For the first time since arriving at this condemnation, Laurel noticed the hellish nature of the place she was in. It wasn’t the traditional hell—there was no fire and brimstone—but there was something worse: the silent contempt, the malicious anticipation of the Addams family, who neither forgot nor forgave. They knew what she had done, and they looked at her like a helpless prey about to be devoured. Her eyes scanned those cadaverous faces, twisted smiles, eyes gleaming with malice. There was no compassion here, not after what she had attempted. She had attacked their kin, tried to kill Wednesday and everything she represented. There was no forgiveness for someone who dared to try to exterminate the outcasts.
Goody stepped forward, her spectral figure nearly touching the ground, her eyes locked on Laurel as if she could read every corner of her corrupt soul. "You know, for someone who hated outcasts so much, you have a curious attachment to Tyler Galpin, that monster you enslaved, who belongs to my dear great-great-granddaughter," she remarked in a biting tone, almost as if she relished it. Goody scrutinized her like a butterfly pinned to a board, her gaze cold and unforgiving. "Your sins are many, but don't worry, each one will be punished."
Laurel tried to hold Goody’s gaze, refusing to yield to the fear crawling up her spine. She knew this trial would not end well for her, but she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her beg. She stood tall, though inside, a torrent of emotions consumed her. She clearly remembered Goody’s words: "Abusing a young Hyde to do your dirty work, torturing him, using him as a tool, treating him like a sex puppet. And worst of all, you killed my descendant, my little great-great-granddaughter." Laurel hadn’t fully understood the laws of magic. She thought she could control the power of her ancestor, but that hadn’t saved her. And now, she couldn’t even die again. "Wednesday was kind to you," Goody said. "She killed you without much pain."
Kind. Laurel almost laughed at the absurdity of the word. Kind! That brat had no trace of kindness. She remembered how her body had been stomped mercilessly, how life slipped away in a frenzy of bees and boots. It hadn’t been quick, nor easy. It had been painful, torturous. The only relief had been the dark embrace of death, but even that respite had been stolen.
But she knew she couldn’t stand up to Goody. She couldn’t allow herself to show weakness. So instead of protesting, she snorted disdainfully, not even bothering to say a word. She wouldn’t give them the pleasure of hearing her plead for mercy.
However, Goody wasn’t done. "I see you're obsessed with the Hyde… with Tyler… and with my great-great-granddaughter. You’ve always wanted to manipulate the two of them. And that’s why your punishment will be fitting," she continued with a cruel smile, her words dripping with sadistic delight. "You will watch as Tyler Galpin follows my little Wednesday like a loyal dog, as he was always meant to. Because they were destined to be together, with or without you. You never mattered, Laurel. You were just another tool, a shadow, a bad memory. And the worst part is, you’ll be forced to watch them… forever."
Goody snapped her fingers twice, and in an instant, everything went black. A complete, deep darkness enveloped Laurel, but it wasn’t a peaceful darkness—it was a void filled with despair. The distant echo of the Addams' laughter reverberated in her mind, an echo that would haunt her until the end of time.
She couldn’t escape. She couldn’t run. The judgment was clear: there would be no rest for her. She would have to endure an eternity of watching what she hated most—Wednesday, that damn raven, and Tyler, the Hyde she had tried to control—together, walking as if she had never existed.
As the darkness swallowed her, she could hear the words clearly, like a sentence etched into her soul. A mocking, cold, and final voice: "Karma is a bitch."
And it was.
Laurel awoke suddenly, as if a sharp cold had run down her spine. Around her, the air vibrated with the roar of an armored truck's engine moving along a desolate road. But what disturbed her the most wasn’t the place itself, but the fact that no one seemed to notice her presence. It was as if she didn’t exist. For a moment, she thought it was a nightmare, but soon the bitter reality returned: she was dead. A mere specter, trapped in limbo. Invisible. Intangible. Lost.
She turned her head and saw him there, sitting beside her, completely still. Tyler Galpin—her creation, her monster—chained and restrained like a wild animal. The boy was in a straitjacket designed to withstand the impossible, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit with thick chains wrapped around his body. A prisoner of the system, but what caught her attention was the scar running across his face, a violent, deep mark that crossed one of his eyes, giving him a rough, almost attractive look. Laurel couldn’t help but feel a dark fascination seeing him like that. It was a hot, dangerous sight.
Even though Tyler was trapped and drugged, he maintained a kind of lucidity that unnerved her. She knew he was conscious, even under the effect of the sedatives. It was something that had always bothered her: no matter how many drugs she administered, she could never completely knock him out. His Hyde had a resilience that bordered on the superhuman. The best she could achieve was to slow him down, make him appear more docile or disoriented, but never, ever, fully unconscious. And now, there he was, trapped under layers of security, his body bound like a circus beast.
The guards, scattered around the truck, watched Tyler with obvious fear. They knew what he could do, even with all those safety measures in place. It was only a matter of time before he tried to break free. Laurel could sense it; she could see the tension in his body despite the drugs. But what caught her attention most wasn’t the stiffness in his muscles or the slight tremor in his hand—it was the expression in his eyes. His pupils, dilated by the sedatives, avoided looking directly at her, but they gleamed with a contained fury. There was something beyond simple anger... something deeper.
Suddenly, Tyler began to move. At first, it was a slight spasm, as if something inside him was fighting to break free. The guards exchanged nervous glances but said nothing. They knew what was coming, but didn’t know how to stop it. However, they couldn’t hear what Laurel could. A barely perceptible sound, a whisper that made her frown.
“Wednesday,” Tyler muttered in a barely audible voice. His lips formed the name with a mix of desire and hatred.
Laurel felt a sharp pang in her chest. It wasn’t because of Tyler, nor because he didn’t mention her, but because even drugged and bound like an animal, that name remained at the center of everything. Wednesday. That pesky little Wednesday Addams, always interfering, always at the heart of what should have been hers. Laurel’s hatred bubbled up again. How was it possible that this girl had dominated him so completely? No matter what she did—the punishments, the control—Tyler always returned to her. It was a connection that Laurel couldn’t understand, nor could she bear.
But it wasn’t just the whisper that changed everything. Tyler began to writhe violently. His body convulsed under the chains, the straitjacket groaning under the pressure. The guards started shouting orders at each other, and chaos broke out inside the truck. Laurel watched silently, unable to intervene. She could only watch as Tyler ceased to be Tyler, as the Hyde took over. His pupils dilated completely, his breathing became a guttural growl, and his body began to expand, the chains around him trembling under the strain.
“He’s changing!” one of the guards shouted, his voice gripped by panic. There weren’t enough drugs in the world to stop what was about to happen. Tyler, or what was left of him, let out a roar, a primal sound that made the air seem to vibrate.
The entire truck shook as he, in his Hyde form, began to tear everything apart. The guards tried to restrain him, but it was futile. Tyler was a hurricane of rage and brute strength. Laurel, still invisible and untouchable, watched with a mix of fascination and anger. She had created this monster, molded him to her will. And now, even in death, he remained her masterpiece… or so she wanted to believe.
One by one, the guards fell, brutally torn apart by Tyler’s hands. No one survived. The inside of the truck became a bloodbath, a chaos of bodies and screams that quickly faded into the silence of death. Laurel watched it all without blinking. It wasn’t the first time she had witnessed something like this, but there was something different this time. The monster wasn’t acting out of instinct, wasn’t just killing for the sake of killing.
He was searching for something.
Tyler, or the Hyde, broke the last of the chains and exited the destroyed truck, without glancing back at the carnage he left behind. And that was when Laurel realized what was truly happening. He wasn’t looking for her. He was following a trail, a clear direction.
In the distance, on the deserted road, a black hearse moved slowly. The unmistakable vehicle belonging to the Addams family. And without hesitation, Tyler sprinted after it, his massive figure running like a wild animal toward its prey.
Wednesday.
Laurel wanted to believe, with all her being, that Tyler was chasing the car to avenge her, to end the Addams family for what they had done to him. But a part of her knew the truth, a truth that corroded her like poison. Tyler wasn’t chasing after them to kill her.
Goody Addams had been right. No matter how many times she had tried to control him, Tyler was destined for the little raven. And now, as he ran after that hearse, Laurel understood with painful clarity that she had never held the power she thought she had. She had been irrelevant all along.
The wrecked truck was left behind, silence enveloped Laurel, and only one phrase remained etched in her mind, echoing in the void of her existence:
Karma is a bitch.
The days slipped by with tedium and monotony for Laurel. She was condemned to an immaterial existence, without purpose, except to observe. At first, her attention was fixed on Tyler—on his latent fury, the restrained brutality that fascinated her. But in some cruel, ironic twist, she was now condemned to watch Wednesday Addams, and frankly, she couldn’t understand what on earth Tyler saw in that girl. From her perspective, Wednesday was the very definition of monotony: predictable, cold, and boring. Day after day, the girl followed an exasperatingly repetitive routine.
She woke up at the same time with clockwork precision. Dressed in black, of course, as always. She had breakfast with her peculiar family, a quiet meal loaded with uncomfortable silences that Laurel found unbearable. Afterward, she would pick up some dense book, reading in complete silence before proceeding to torment her brother with sharp comments and cold glances, then resumed playing her cello. At tea time, she sat with her mother and brother, and the evening passed without incident. Later, she wrote in her diary and went to bed, repeating the cycle over and over. It was as if time had stopped in that house. Nothing changed, nothing broke the routine.
Laurel wondered, with growing irritation, what Tyler saw in that girl. What drew him to her like a moth to a flame? What obsessed him to the point of forgetting everything else, even her? Wednesday wasn’t ugly, she reluctantly admitted, but she couldn’t be considered a classic beauty either. Beyond her gloomy presence, there wasn’t a single trait that made her stand out. Where was the magnetism? Where was the spark that had captured Tyler to the point that he followed her even in death?
“She doesn’t even have tits,” Laurel thought with contempt, torn apart by bitterness. It was as if Tyler had been drawn to an empty gravestone. A tomb without a soul, without life. “She’s got nothing. No personality, no appeal. She’s a damn coffin with legs.”
Today, however, something was different in the atmosphere. Laurel sensed it even before the events began to unfold. Wednesday was particularly irritable, and although Laurel couldn’t read minds, she could perceive the slight change in her demeanor. The girl was tenser than usual, her movements quick, almost mechanical. And then, Laurel understood: it was that damned phone.
Xavier Thorpe, the poor fool, had the bright idea to give Wednesday a mobile phone. Laurel rolled her eyes imagining the scene. What kind of idiot would give someone like Wednesday Addams a phone? From the very first day, the girl had ignored all of Xavier’s messages, leaving them unread as if they were insignificant. Days passed, and the calls piled up, until Wednesday, fed up with the device, decided to hide it beneath one of the wooden floorboards in her room, burying it like an annoying corpse she wished to forget.
Today, however, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was a constant, unbearable buzzing. Every few minutes, it vibrated beneath the floor, breaking the stillness of the room. Laurel watched with a mix of curiosity and amusement as the young Addams tried to concentrate on her reading, but the noise was persistent, incessant.
Finally, Wednesday gave in. With an expression of utter indifference, she yanked the wooden board off with a sharp pull. Without even bothering to check who was behind the calls, she tossed the phone to the floor. Laurel, observing it all from her spectral prison, felt a dark satisfaction at what happened next. In one swift, determined movement, Wednesday lifted her foot and crushed the phone with the force of a hammer. The crunch of plastic and glass shattering echoed through the room, and with it, the annoying buzzing ceased.
“At last,” thought Laurel, a sarcastic smile on her lips. Though it pained her to admit it, she shared the sense of relief with Wednesday. Sometimes, things just needed to be destroyed.
The Addams girl didn’t bother inspecting the remains of the device. She gathered the scattered pieces and tossed them into the trash with the same carelessness as someone discarding an unwanted letter. Then, as if nothing had happened, she sat back on her bed and resumed her book. For hours, she did nothing but read. Laurel watched, desperate for any change, for any event that would break the routine, but nothing came. Wednesday didn’t move from her spot for six damn hours.
Laurel’s frustration grew with each passing minute. She was trapped in a loop of boredom and silence. But just as desperation began to sink deep into her being, something changed.
The young Addams, still sitting on the bed, closed her book and rose with a slow, deliberate movement. She walked over to her desk, opened a drawer with the precision of someone who knew exactly what they were looking for, and pulled out a sheet of paper. No, it wasn’t just a sheet. Laurel moved closer, intrigued, as Wednesday held a photograph in her hands. And it wasn’t just any image.
It was a photo of Tyler and her, together at Rave'N. She had kept it all this time. Laurel felt a stab of jealousy as she saw the way Wednesday looked at the picture. The girl showed no emotion; her face remained as impenetrable as ever, but something in the way she held the photograph told Laurel that it meant something.
Wednesday studied the photo for a few seconds, as if evaluating every detail. Then, casually but meaningfully, she used the photograph as a bookmark for the book she had been reading before returning the book to the shelf.
Laurel watched with a mix of rage and confusion. That photo was proof that, after all, the little Addams wasn’t so different from other teenagers. Maybe she would never admit it, maybe her cold facade would never crack, but even someone like her kept memories. Even someone like Wednesday had something to hide, something that tied her to the earthly world, to the past. To Tyler.
The silence returned to the room, but Laurel’s mind was a whirlwind of dark thoughts. No matter how much Wednesday tried to appear as an unfeeling creature, it was clear that the young Hyde held a special place in her life. And that realization burned Laurel from the inside.
But what could she do about it? Nothing. Just watch, tormented, trapped in the prison of an eternal spectator.
Karma is a bitch.
Once again, Laurel found herself trapped in Tyler’s world. This time, she discovered him in a hunting cabin deep in a dark forest, where the light barely filtered through the treetops, casting an eerie twilight over the surroundings. The boy wore a red plaid shirt, tight across his chest, and black jeans that were clearly stolen from somewhere, as they were a bit too short and frayed around the ankles. Kneeling on the blood-and-mud-covered ground, he was skinning a rabbit with a strange mix of joy and determination. His hands, stained crimson, were busy separating the animal’s organs, humming a cheerful tune as he went about his macabre task.
"Wednesday would love this," he muttered with a grim smile, as though he were speaking about a charming gift rather than a repulsive scene. "I should dry it with borax and salt and make her a necklace. She’ll love it." His laughter, filled with madness, reverberated through the room, echoing off the walls as if they absorbed his sinister glee.
Laurel couldn’t help but grunt in disdain at his words. As she looked more closely at the surroundings, she noticed the floor was covered in dirt and dried blood—a horrifying tableau that reflected Tyler’s psychopathy. A tattered mattress lay in one corner, stained and littered with remnants of a past that seemed to vibrate with an unsettling energy. The walls were full of marks, scratches, and scrawls. Some were simple scratches, while others bore Wednesday’s initials or her full name. A crude drawing resembling a little girl with braids was scrawled on the wall, like a child’s memory echoing a dark nostalgia.
"This is madness!" Laurel screamed, but her shout was like a whisper in the wind, ignored by Tyler, who couldn’t see or hear her. His mind was sinking into the confusion of what he once was and what he had become.
As the boy began cooking the rabbit meat, he spoke aloud as if having a conversation with himself. Was this the madness that had consumed him? Perhaps his time as a Hyde had loosened a few screws, or maybe he was simply adapting to the peculiarity of the Addams family, finding a way to fit into the madness that surrounded him. His words were nonsensical at times—sometimes just grunts, other times his tone shifted, as though two conflicting souls were cohabiting his body.
Laurel understood it instantly; he wasn’t talking to himself. It was a conversation between Tyler and his alter ego, Hyde. She had always known that Tyler retained a certain level of control and understanding over his dark side, but she had never imagined that their connection ran so deep. She had read about it in books, understanding that they were two distinct entities, but the strength of their bond surprised her. And to her frustration, she didn’t care in the slightest. She was supposed to be Tyler’s mistress, his master. He belonged to her. There shouldn’t exist such an intimate connection between them, let alone an understanding that challenged her dominance.
"I know, brother," Tyler continued, his voice filled with emotion and madness. "I miss her too, our cockroach, our Wednesday. We’ll see her soon, don’t worry. I’ve got it all planned out. It’ll take some time for her to forgive us, but I know she loves us as much as we love her. We’re hers, and she’s ours."
Tyler’s brow furrowed, and his eyes darkened. Hyde’s voice emerged, deeper and instinctual. "You… grrr… know… grrr… right?" The transformation was palpable, and Tyler’s face shifted from the intensity of a frown to a sweet, yet twisted, smile.
"Yes, she let us in. She wants us. We just need to earn her forgiveness. But once she lets us back in, everything will be perfect," Tyler murmured as he extinguished the fire under the rabbit and began eating directly from the pot. "We have to get rid of every obstacle."
"Gr… kill… the seer boy?" Hyde growled, his voice low and cold, dripping with dark desire.
Tyler’s expression shifted, clearly showing that it was him about to speak. "Mmm… kill Xavier? Tempting, but I’d rather keep him alive—tortured, disturbed. Let him be a warning to anyone who thinks they can take our Wednesday from us," Tyler muttered with a sneer laced with contempt. "We could even torture him with piranhas, in honor of our goddess."
"That’d be fun, castrating him like our beautiful Wednesday did to that idiot who dared hurt her brother, our queen’s brother," Hyde laughed, relishing the thought.
Laurel was furious, her heart pounding. She felt shattered, trapped in a cycle of despair. Everything she had fought for, every sacrifice she had made to ensure Tyler Galpin and his Hyde belonged to her, was slipping away because of that Wednesday Addams bitch. Rage bubbled inside her, an overwhelming, searing sensation she could no longer contain.
"Karma is a bitch!" Laurel screamed with all the fury she had accumulated, her impotence and frustration consuming her as her words echoed into the air like a cry unanswered.
That day, Wednesday Addams found herself in a grim, dilapidated shed, located in some forgotten corner where the sun never reached, and the shadows seemed to dance to the rhythm of a wind whispering ancient secrets. In front of her stood a burly, bald man dressed in a worn leather jacket, looking at her with a mixture of amusement and seriousness. The scene was heavy with tension, but Wednesday, her gaze unwavering, appeared to have complete control. Her outfit—a short dress, sheer black tights, sturdy boots, and a black knit sweater—gave her an even more authoritative air, very different from the morose girl Laurel had observed days before.
"My dear niece, are you absolutely sure about this? I can stay for support... if you want," offered the man with a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with contained madness.
"I'm perfectly fine, Uncle Fester. I don’t need help," Wednesday replied with the firmness of someone who doesn’t tolerate contradiction. With nothing more to add, Fester nodded and left the shed, leaving her alone. Laurel watched everything from her spectral prison, unable to intervene, but feeling the tension thicken in the air.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, she noticed the figure of a man tied to a post. His head was covered with a black cloth bag. The air was thick with the smell of fear and the looming inevitability. Unbothered, Wednesday toyed with several tools resting on a small metal table, evaluating which would be best for the task at hand. After a brief moment of reflection, she picked up a taser and, without hesitation, walked over to the captive man. She placed the electric weapon right over his abdomen, where the kidney should be, and activated the device. A spark, followed by an agonizing groan, broke the silence. The man, unconscious until that moment, awoke suddenly, his mind drowning in terror.
“Where... where am I?” he shouted desperately, his voice full of panic and confusion. Unfazed, Wednesday pulled off the bag covering his head, revealing his identity. Laurel felt a wave of disgust and disdain upon seeing Dylan Crane, her former accomplice, the man she had completely deceived. He had helped her forge her identity, had given her money, and had been key to faking her death. And now, tied up and vulnerable, he was at the mercy of Wednesday Addams.
“Hello, Mr. Crane,” said Wednesday with an icy calm, while she toyed with the taser in her hands, as if it were a mere plaything. “I’m Wednesday Addams. Welcome to my family’s grounds.” Her tone was as expressionless as her face, but each word carried an implicit threat. “I must thank you... I was getting bored.”
“You’re the damn bitch who killed Laurel!” Dylan shouted, full of rage. His desperate attempts to free himself from the ropes only made the knots tighter. Laurel watched with a mix of fear and satisfaction as the man tried in vain to intimidate Wednesday. But she didn’t flinch; she merely raised an eyebrow, almost bored.
“Yes,” she replied bluntly. “I kicked her to death, to be precise, right after the bees stung her. She was allergic, by the way. It took me a while to clean my favorite boots of her... cerebrospinal fluid.” Her tone remained neutral, but her words were a dagger straight to the soul. Laurel shuddered at the cold description of her own death.
Wednesday leaned slightly toward Dylan, her gaze piercing him like a sharp blade. "But you're not here because of that. First, you tried to enter my property. You were stupid, and you were lucky my Uncle Fester found you before our lioness Kitty or the coyotes we keep as pets." She paused for a moment, gauging Dylan’s reaction, who seemed more and more terrified. “Second, you have information I want. And you’re going to give it to me. One way... or another.”
Without giving him time to respond, Wednesday pressed the taser’s trigger again. Dylan screamed, his body convulsing from the electric shock.
“I’m not telling you anything, bitch!” he exclaimed between gasps, with what little air he had left. Wednesday allowed herself a small smile, but there was a dark shadow gleaming in her eyes.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she murmured with unsettling calm. She set the taser down on the table and picked up a folder of documents. “Dylan Phillip Crane, 39 years old, born in Bouton, Iowa, on March 30, 1983, at the state hospital,” she began reading aloud, wasting no time. “Your father’s name was—”
“Alright, fine! You know things about me, but no matter how much you torture me, I won’t tell you anything about Laurel’s plans,” interrupted Dylan, with a mix of desperation and pride. Laurel, still watching from the shadows, could barely stifle a sarcastic laugh. Dylan had always been pathetic, but now, chained and terrified, his mediocrity was more evident than ever.
Wednesday looked at him with indifference. “I don’t need to know anything about Laurel. I’ve done my research. I know you were the one who provided her with the false identity and the documents to get her accepted as a teacher at Nevermore. I know you helped her fake her death and that you gave her money when her family went bankrupt. She used you. Made you believe you had a chance with her. But while she was sweet-talking you, she was abusing a 17-year-old boy. She never desired you. You never stood a chance.”
Laurel felt rage boiling in her chest, rising like an uncontrollable tide, threatening to overflow. She hadn’t abused Tyler; he had desired her, wanted her! He had resisted at first, yes, but in the end, he craved her, she knew it in the depths of her soul. How could it be otherwise? Yet, Wednesday’s cold and impenetrable gaze, like a shadow that enveloped everything, silently challenged that certainty with disdain, as if refuting every word without needing to speak.
“That’s not true!” Dylan shouted suddenly, his eyes bulging and his voice trembling with fury, breaking the tense silence.
“Of course, it is,” Wednesday responded, sounding bored, as if this were a trivial matter. “You know it. Laurel would never be interested in someone like you: a middle-aged man living in his mother’s basement, unable to maintain a relationship for more than three months. The only thing remotely interesting about you is your skill as a hacker, but even in that, you failed, because the feds found you, and you had to run. And what happened then? Your mother kicked you out. It was about time, don’t you think?”
Laurel watched in disbelief as Wednesday dismantled Dylan piece by piece, reducing him to nothing more than a shadow of the little dignity he once had. Each word was a dagger, a reminder of how insignificant he was.
“But what I really want to know,” Wednesday continued, leaning even closer to Dylan, “is what you thought you’d gain by entering my property with a necromancy spellbook. Did you think you could revive Laurel?” She paused, savoring the confusion on Dylan’s face. “Breaking news: to cast a spell from that book, you need at least a drop of magical blood. And even if you could, without necromancer magic, Laurel would come back as a brain-dead vegetable. Just like when she died.”
The silence following her words was devastating. Dylan trembled, realizing he had completely underestimated the teenage girl before him. Wednesday was far more dangerous than he had ever imagined—an unstoppable force, a living nightmare that knew no compassion or remorse.
“And now,” Wednesday added, with a coldness that made even the air heavier, “I’d like to know how you got hold of this book. It belongs to my family, so I hope you have a good story to tell.” And with that final sentence, the real torture began.
The torture lasted an eternity. Wednesday Addams, meticulous and ruthless, seemed to be in no hurry. Though at first Laurel thought the girl was merely seeking answers, it soon became clear that this was no simple quest for information. Wednesday didn’t need to know anything more about Dylan Crane; what she wanted was pure, simple revenge. A reprisal for daring to steal the Addams family’s book, for attempting dark magic on her turf, for making the fatal mistake of invading her home. She used the taser, an electric prod, a baseball bat that echoed with every dull thud against flesh and bone. With cold precision, she also employed a hammer and a knife, making measured cuts, calculated blows to keep him on the brink of death, but never enough to let him escape his suffering.
Hours passed like a slow, cruel whisper. The shed, once dimly lit, began to sink into darkness. Night approached, cloaking the place in a blackness that seemed to fuel Wednesday’s insatiable cruelty. However, as the light faded, something in her changed. Her previously exact and cold movements began to slow, as if she was growing bored of the game.
Finally, after what seemed like centuries of torture for Dylan, Wednesday let the baseball bat drop with a metallic echo, wiped the nonexistent sweat from her brow, and walked over to the table where she had left her black sweater. She put it on with an almost ritualistic calm. Then, she picked up the stolen spellbook, and with the same disinterest one might show when leaving a trivial conversation, she began to walk away.
Finally, after what felt like centuries of torture for Dylan, Wednesday let the baseball bat fall with a metallic echo. She wiped the nonexistent sweat from her forehead and walked over to the table where she had left her black sweater. With a nearly ritual calm, she put it on. Then, she picked up the spell book that Dylan had stolen, and with the same indifference one might use when abandoning a trivial conversation, she began to walk away.
Dylan, his face swollen, his eyes half-closed from the pain, tried to shout at her with the little voice he had left, his throat shredded by the screams he had unleashed for hours. “Where... where are you going?” he managed to stammer, though each word cost him monumental effort. His body was shattered, but his mind still clung on, if only for the need for an explanation.
Wednesday turned slightly, just enough for her dark eyes to meet his one last time. “I’m going home,” she responded, her tone so neutral it was almost insulting. “Grandmama’s making roast phoenix with mashed potatoes. And I can’t let my brother Pugsley eat it all.” The explanation was as simple as it was absurd, but in her gaze, there was a flicker of something more, a small mockery that Dylan, in his state, could barely grasp.
Then, a shadow of malice crossed her face, and her lips curled into a thin smile. “Make sure to scream really loud when the coyotes come for you,” she said with an unsettling sweetness. “I like sleeping to the screams of my victims. It makes my dreams more pleasant. Goodbye, Dylan Phillip Crane.”
Dylan, broken, could barely process what was happening. His body convulsed with involuntary spasms, and though pain consumed him, his mind clung to a thread of hope, searching for a way to escape his imminent fate. He screamed, pleaded, begged for mercy. “Please! Don’t do this!” His broken voice echoed in the heavy air of the shed. But Wednesday, as always, remained unmoved by human emotion. She kept walking toward the exit, her small yet sinister figure fading into the darkness, without looking back.
As she walked away, the night filled with Dylan’s agonizing screams, echoing like macabre whispers in the silence of the forest surrounding the Addams mansion. But those screams were nothing more than background noise, an insignificant murmur to Wednesday. Laurel, trapped in her spectral helplessness, watched it all with a mix of fury and despair. She knew she couldn’t do anything to stop what was happening, but every passing second made the rage inside her twist even more.
Wednesday walked calmly, reading the stolen book with absolute concentration, ignoring everything around her. When her eyes landed on a particular page, her steps came to an abrupt halt. It was as if each word in that text trapped her in her own dark universe. Laurel, watching over her shoulder, shuddered as she realized what Wednesday was reading. The chapter detailed the nature of the Hydes, those creatures that shared a body with their human host but were, in reality, entirely different entities.
“Hydes are creatures formed by a human mutation,” Wednesday read quietly, her fingers tracing a drawing of a beast that seemed ready to leap off the page. “They are artists... dangerous when they want to be, but they are also incredibly creative.” The description continued, revealing dark details about the symbiosis between the Hyde and its human, how one could dominate the other, how the master of a Hyde was not an absolute controller but rather an anchor, a necessary connection to maintain the balance between the two.
Laurel felt a chill run through her ethereal spirit. She couldn’t stand the idea of Wednesday getting closer to the mystery of the Hydes, much less discovering Tyler’s secret, the boy who had been her deadliest weapon and most valuable possession. Tyler, her Hyde, her slave, belonged to her completely. The mere possibility of Wednesday interfering in that bond was intolerable. Although, in some way, she had already infiltrated that connection, slowly displacing her from her place.
However, Wednesday kept reading with that cold concentration, as if every word in the book was a crucial clue. “Forced anchors can enslave the Hyde, but not for long,” she muttered softly, her eyes gliding over the text. “In the end, the Hyde will always seek freedom, and if the master does not fulfill their true role, their death will be inevitable.”
Wednesday closed the book, but not before uttering a name that made the air around Laurel freeze with pure rage. “Tyler...” she whispered softly, almost affectionately, as if the thought of that name brought her a morbid satisfaction. Wednesday’s fingers ran over the book’s cover as her lips curled into an almost imperceptible smile. “Thing, I need information on Tyler’s whereabouts. Make sure you find him. I... have a lot to investigate.”
Suddenly, a small hand scurried onto Wednesday’s shoulder, wiggling with enthusiasm. Thing, her loyal companion, was ready for the task. He gave an affirmative gesture before disappearing into the darkness to carry out his mission.
Laurel, watching helplessly, felt a wave of pure frustration consume her. Her silent screams echoed into the void, but no one could hear her. No one could stop Wednesday. Tyler was slipping further into that cursed girl’s clutches, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
“Karma’s a bitch,” she muttered through gritted teeth, her anger palpable in every word. The tears of rage threatened to come, but the helplessness was even more suffocating.
Tyler had settled in a hidden cave about a mile from the Addams mansion. His improvised refuge lay deep in the forest, far from prying eyes. This time, he didn’t bother cooking the rabbit he had hunted; instead, he tore into a raw deer, ripping the flesh with his sharp claws and devouring it with beastly hunger. His transformation into Hyde had progressed to the point where human customs no longer mattered to him. The crunch of bones and the blood dripping from his hands pleased him more than any cooked meal.
The walls of the cave were disturbingly adorned. Photographs of Wednesday covered every corner, captured with a Polaroid he had stolen somewhere in town. There were images of her in everyday situations: one sipping tea in the garden, another sitting under the shade of a tree, engrossed in reading a book, and several more of her playing the cello with that dark perfection that always surrounded her. But the most unsettling was a photo of her undressing, stolen in a moment of complete intimacy.
"Miss… Wednesday," Hyde groaned, his voice guttural and broken, almost like that of a lost puppy. His words were clumsy, filled with a devotion that should have been for someone else, thought Laurel, who observed helplessly from her ethereal form. He shouldn't miss that cursed girl; he should be thinking of her, of Laurel, his mistress. "Wednesday… pretty… no… beautiful… our… Wednesday," the monster continued, awkwardly caressing one of the photos where Wednesday stood on her balcony under the moonlight, a scene as beautiful as it was eerie.
Suddenly, Tyler’s face changed, and in an instant, the beast retreated, giving way to the human. His gaze, though calmer, was filled with the same insane adoration as before. "Yes… our Wednesday is devilishly perfect," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the photos as if each one fed his obsession. He smiled faintly, lost in dark thoughts.
A little later, Tyler left the cave, his instincts guiding him through the forest. He began sniffing the air, following a trail with almost animal-like precision. The forest led him to Westfield, a charming suburban town that looked like it was plucked from a postcard. The streets were lined with lush trees, the colonial houses immaculate, and the green parks filled with families who seemed oblivious to the darkness lurking so close. Laurel had always thought that such a picturesque place could never be home to someone like the Addamses, but the mansion's deceptive facade fit perfectly with the contrast offered by the town.
From the edge of the forest, Tyler saw her. There was Wednesday, sitting alone at a small café, immersed in a book while sipping from a cup of coffee. He wasn’t the only one looking at her. The people around her were staring too, their gazes shifting between fear, discomfort, desire, and curiosity. But none of those looks resembled Tyler’s, whose face radiated a disturbing and absolute devotion.
For Laurel, that adoration felt like a dagger to the heart. Every second Tyler spent watching that girl was an affront, an unbearable insult. He should be hers, only hers, her servant, her slave. She should be the one receiving those admiring and longing glances. But there he was, looking at Wednesday as if she were his reason for being, while Laurel boiled with impotent rage.
The situation worsened when a group of boys, dressed in college jackets, approached Wednesday with flirtatious smiles on their faces. Laurel, like Tyler, felt a surge of growing anger. What could those fools see in that girl? They approached confidently, but they had no idea of the danger they were walking into. One of them, the obvious leader, sat down across from Wednesday without asking permission, followed closely by his friend, who also took a seat with an arrogant grin.
"Hey, what’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone? Let us keep you company," said the first, flashing a smile that only highlighted his ignorance.
Wednesday looked at them with disdain, raising an eyebrow but not bothering to respond immediately. Her indifference carried a violent edge, as if every second of silence was a threat in itself.
“Did I give you permission to speak to me or sit with me?” Her voice was sharp, cutting. “No. So disappear,” she ordered without a hint of courtesy.
Tyler growled from the shadows, his frustration palpable. Laurel watched, knowing that if given the chance, he would leap from his hiding place and tear those boys apart with his bare hands. But something about Wednesday’s calm kept him restrained.
The boys laughed, completely underestimating their target. “You’re funny, aren’t you, sweetheart?” the other one said, reaching out to touch her hand. It was at that moment that Laurel could almost see Tyler preparing to transform, ready to pounce on them. But it wasn’t necessary.
With a fluid and lethal motion, Wednesday pulled an obsidian dagger from her bag and drove it into the table, right between the boy’s fingers. The sound of the blade sinking into the wood echoed through the café. The young man immediately withdrew his hand, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
Tyler smiled, almost like a proud child watching his warrior. "My girl," he murmured to himself, admiring her even more, if that was possible.
Wednesday leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with restrained malice. "You don’t know me, but if you look at the terrified faces around us, you’ll understand why. Last semester, I punished the captain of the water polo team by castrating him with killer piranhas. Unfortunately, I couldn’t kill him. A blow to my ego, no doubt. But at least I did the world a favor, leaving him with only one testicle," she recounted with unsettling coldness.
The boys, pale and terrified, instinctively covered their groins, trying to protect themselves from any potential attack. Wednesday, without further ado, called the waitress, who, unfazed by the scene, accepted the girl’s payment and generous tip.
“And,” Wednesday added as she tucked her dagger away, "I have a powerful and lethal monster looking after me. If I need him, I’ll know how to call him." With that final warning, she rose from her seat and left, heading toward the hearse where Lurch, her faithful servant, waited patiently.
As the vehicle made its way back to the mansion, Wednesday began talking to Thing, who rested on the dashboard. "Tyler was nearby, wasn’t he? And you say he almost jumped out to protect me?" she said with a barely perceptible smile.
Thing gave an affirmative gesture, wiggling its fingers excitedly.
"I don’t need his protection, but I’m glad to know he’s close," she added, looking out the window with a satisfied expression.
Laurel, consumed by a suffocating rage, wished Wednesday could hear her. She wanted to scream at her, to tear her from existence and chain Tyler back to her, to make everything as it was before. But nothing was going as planned. Everything was falling apart, and the injustice of it all was eating her from the inside.
"Karma’s a bitch, little Laurel," Goody Addams’ mocking voice whispered in her mind, as laughter echoed through her consciousness like a cruel reminder.
Wednesday was getting ready for bed, wearing a nightgown of exquisite taste—discreet yet elegant. The garment draped over her youthful body with the delicate touch of silk, giving her a more mature appearance than Laurel had imagined. How could this girl, always so cynical and sarcastic, have chosen something so provocative in its simplicity? To Laurel, little Addams had always been a prude, but now, dressed in such a suggestive way, she revealed a new side that the woman hadn’t foreseen.
The Addams mansion was unusually quiet. Wednesday’s parents had gone to a party in the neighboring town, among the eccentricities of the marginal high society. Grandma and Uncle Fester were off somewhere in the world, searching for dark ingredients for the next family feast, and Pugsley and Pubert were enjoying a night out, accompanied by their cousin What. Everything seemed orchestrated for Wednesday to be alone, as if the family had decided the girl needed time for something more than just a solitary evening. Laurel suspected there was something else, that her last meditation on a pentagram of pig’s blood and black candles wasn’t just a typical teenage ritual.
But now, the young girl was in bed, waiting. Laurel felt it, she knew it. Something was about to happen, something that would make everything inside her burn with uncontrollable fury and jealousy. And how right she was.
When the clock struck midnight, Tyler appeared on Wednesday’s balcony. He carried with him a black envelope, sealed with blood-red wax, and a bouquet of flowers that Laurel recognized instantly: foxgloves, grape hyacinths, oleanders, and aconites. The selection was as deadly as it was beautiful, a macabre message wrapped in floral delicacy.
“I got your message,” Tyler murmured, his voice filled with an almost tangible admiration as his eyes roamed over Wednesday’s body. He didn’t linger on the obvious curves; his eyes gleamed as he observed every line of her collarbone, her bare thighs. “I knew if anyone could find us, it would be you. You’re our girl, our brilliant and wonderful Wednesday.”
Tyler’s murmur was accompanied by a soft caress on Wednesday’s cheek. Laurel, watching from the corner like a trapped shadow, felt her soul tear apart from helplessness. She wanted to separate them, push them apart, but her incorporeal form allowed her to do nothing but watch. She was invisible, nonexistent to them. Not even a cold chill signaled her presence.
“Our girl? Since when am I yours, Galpin?” Wednesday’s voice hung in the air, soft and dangerous. Laurel wished she would reject him, tear him apart with her sharp tongue, but no. There she was, accepting, playing with the desire in her words.
“Technically, Cockroach, you and I never ended. From the day we said we were more than friends, you’ve always been ours. Although, to be honest, you were ours long before that. Since we met, we were destined. Hyde knows it, I know it… and you know it too.” Tyler’s voice sounded like delirium, like a madman convinced of a truth only he understood.
Any other girl would have run from such a declaration, perhaps nervously laughing as she looked for an excuse to escape. But Wednesday wasn’t any other girl. With a barely visible smile, she tilted her head and whispered, “That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, Tyler.”
Tyler responded by wrapping his arms around her, gripping her waist tightly and pulling her close. Wednesday didn’t resist; on the contrary, her arms rose to circle his neck, and in an almost automatic gesture, she stood on tiptoe, surrendering to the embrace.
“Does Hyde agree with you, Tyler? Am I his too?” The question flowed with calculated sensuality, a poison disguised as curiosity.
“More than agreed. You’re ours, only ours. No one else can touch you, speak to you, or even look at you. Yesterday… those boys who dared speak to you… you don’t know how badly we wanted to tear their throats out.” The growl that accompanied his words revealed that Hyde had emerged. His voice was different now, deeper, more animalistic. And Wednesday noticed. Her eyes gleamed with recognition, with dark satisfaction.
“That’s right, Hyde,” she whispered, taking his face in both hands, “I’m yours, Tyler’s, both of yours. But remember: you’re mine too. No one else can touch you. If anyone tries, I’ll destroy them.”
Laurel tried to look away, she wanted to escape, but something held her to that moment, a prison from which she couldn’t flee. She was forced to witness the scene unfolding before her eyes. What followed was an act Laurel didn’t want to see, but from which she couldn’t turn away.
Tyler approached Wednesday with an exasperating slowness, as if each step he took were a stab to Laurel, each inch he closed between them a cruel reminder of her defeat. His hands moved with torturous precision, as if he knew exactly how to prolong Laurel’s pain. He touched Wednesday’s delicate silk nightgown with the devotion of a worshipper caressing a sacred relic, his fingers tracing the contours of her body with unbearable softness. Each touch, every sigh between them, was a dagger plunging into Laurel’s soul, who watched helplessly as the ritual unfolded.
The first contact between them was almost chaste, but the air around them was heavy, dense, charged with electricity. Tyler kissed her neck, and the way his lips moved over Wednesday’s pale skin made her shudder with pleasure. Laurel wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She was trapped, as if an invisible force compelled her to witness every movement, every gesture. Her body tensed more with each passing second as Tyler’s fingers slid down Wednesday’s shoulders, pulling aside the fine fabric that covered her figure, exposing her to him and to Laurel, who felt each garment fall away as if layers of skin were being ripped from her.
Tyler gently pushed her toward the bed, as if handling her with the utmost care, a precious object that no one else could touch. Laurel felt her heart shatter again and again with every step they took toward the consummation of the inevitable. The kiss they shared at first was slow, deep, but it soon turned into something rawer, more voracious. Their tongues met in a dance that was both a promise and a threat, and the desire between them became palpable, a yearning that Laurel could neither stop nor escape.
When Tyler entered her, he did so with a delicacy that shattered Laurel from within. Every inch he sank into Wednesday felt like a direct stab to her heart, a blow that repeated with each thrust, each muffled moan that escaped Wednesday’s lips. The way their bodies moved in unison was almost poetic, a dance that spoke of something dark and deep, something Laurel could never understand, let alone interrupt.
Wednesday clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs tightening around his waist, as if they wanted to merge into a single entity. Then, she took control, turning over him with overwhelming confidence, a decision that felt like a low blow, a betrayal from which Laurel could not escape. Wednesday mounted him, and her movements were so precise, so calculated, that it seemed she had always known how to control Tyler, how to subdue him with just a shift of her hips. Her breasts swayed softly with each motion, and Tyler’s fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs, holding her as if fearing she might escape.
But then, everything changed. Tyler’s eyes darkened, and Laurel knew the monster was taking control. Hyde emerged, with a primal fury that thickened the air in the room, making it hard to breathe. Wednesday felt it, and instead of resisting, she welcomed it with a dark smile. Hyde roughly turned her, taking her from behind with a violence that Laurel had never imagined, a violence that only heightened her own suffering. Hyde thrust into her again and again, his body pressing her against the sheets, his animalistic growls filling the space as his hands gripped Wednesday’s waist with such force that they left deep marks.
Each thrust was harder than the last, and Laurel felt it as if her soul were being ripped away. The sound of their bodies colliding, Wednesday’s uncontrolled gasps, and Hyde’s savage growls surrounded her, making her feel trapped in a nightmare from which she could not wake. Wednesday, far from rejecting him, moaned with an intensity that made the situation all the more unbearable. Laurel wished she weren’t there, wished she didn’t have to witness how that girl who was supposed to be her sacrifice surrendered completely to the monster she had created, how she merged with him in a way that was impossible to undo.
Hyde took her like an animal, without control, without mercy, and Wednesday accepted him, inviting him for more. Laurel screamed silently, unable to bear the sight of their intertwined bodies, of watching them devour each other with a desire that consumed her. And when it was all over, when Hyde let her fall onto the bed, exhausted but satisfied, Laurel thought maybe the punishment had ended. But she was wrong.
Tyler took control again, his face softened by fatigue but his devotion intact. He gathered her in his arms, kissing every inch of her skin, cleaning every trace of their previous encounter with his tongue, while Wednesday shuddered under his touch, exhausted but pleased. Laurel couldn’t look away. She was trapped in that eternal moment, in that endless cycle of desire and power that would never be hers.
And she understood. This wasn’t just a fleeting moment. This was her eternal punishment. She was doomed to watch every time Tyler and Hyde took Wednesday, to witness their twisted love, their dark connection, over and over again. She would have to see them love, marry, have children, and watch those children grow up, knowing that each one was the product of the union between the monster she believed belonged to her and the girl who should have been her sacrifice.
She couldn’t escape. She couldn’t change it. And as she watched, heartbroken, a final laugh echoed in her mind. The mocking laughter of Goody Addams, reverberating like an echo in her head.
“Karma is a bitch,” that voice whispered in her ear, and Laurel realized that this torture, this endless agony, was exactly that. Karma had finally caught up with her. And now, all she could do was hate it.