Chapter 3: Fragments and Phantoms
Sleep at Nevermore was different. The old building settled around us with creaks and whispers that sounded almost like conversations, and the shadows pooled deeper than they should have. Eugene had been asleep for two hours, his breathing even and peaceful, while I stared at the ceiling and tried to make sense of the fragments rattling around in my skull.
Wednesday Addams. The name kept circling back, carrying weight I couldn't explain. The goth girl from that show I'd barely paid attention to. Something about a school for monsters, murder, and—
The nightmare hit like a freight train.
Trees. Dark trees and something moving between them with too many joints, too much hunger. The shape tears through underbrush, and someone is screaming, but the sound cuts off wrong, like a recording skipping.
A boy's face twisting, bones cracking, muscles reshaping into something that shouldn't exist. Tyler—the name comes with copper taste and terror. His eyes go white, pupils disappearing, and when he opens his mouth there are too many teeth.
A woman falling. Elegant, blonde, authority in her posture even as she collapses. Weems. Principal Weems, but older somehow, surrounded by plants that reach for her with predatory intent. Her face contorts and—
Golden light. Wolf form, massive and beautiful and terrifying. Blonde fur caught in moonlight, alpha presence that makes everything else bow down. Enid, but not the nervous girl hanging decorations. This version has found her fangs.
And through it all, a pale girl in black watches everything with dark eyes that see too much. Wednesday. The center around which the chaos spins.
I woke up gasping, the word "Hyde" torn from my throat before I could stop it.
The taste of copper filled my mouth, and my hands shook as I checked to make sure Eugene was still asleep. He stirred but didn't wake, and I waited until his breathing settled before reaching for the notebook I'd started keeping under my pillow.
Things I'm Not Supposed to Know.
My hand cramped as I scribbled fragments:
Hyde = monster, transformation, Tyler?Weems dies - plants/poisonEnid = werewolf alpha eventuallyWednesday = center of everything
The memories were maddeningly incomplete. I'd watched the show half-drunk on a Tuesday night, checking my phone through most episodes, missing crucial exposition while scrolling through social media. Now those scattered images were all I had to navigate whatever was coming.
Hyde. The word felt important, dangerous. Something about a monster that could look human. But was Tyler the monster or another victim? The nightmare showed him transforming, but dreams were unreliable at best.
I wrote until my hand stopped shaking, then hid the notebook and tried to sleep again.
Dawn came gray and unwelcoming, matching my mood perfectly.
"You look terrible," Eugene observed over breakfast, studying me with the concerned attention usually reserved for sick bees.
"Bad dreams."
"Stress dreams are normal for transfers. New environment, new people, powers acting up." He stabbed his scrambled eggs thoughtfully. "Speaking of which, how's your training going?"
Carefully. I'd been limiting myself to basic exercises in our room, testing range and duration without pushing boundaries. But the library session yesterday had shown me what was possible with proper shadow coverage.
"Good. Think I'm ready to try some advanced techniques."
"Cool! Let me know if you need a spotter or anything. Bee powers aren't exactly intimidating, but I'm pretty good at first aid."
Noted. Though if my suspicions about the nightmare were correct, first aid might not be sufficient for what was coming.
The morning passed in a blur of classes and note-taking, but my attention kept drifting to the students around me. Which one was Tyler Galpin? The barista from Jericho who might or might not be a monster in disguise. How was I supposed to identify a Hyde when I didn't even know what one looked like in human form?
Focus. I had more immediate concerns. Like figuring out whether my powers were developing or developing a mind of their own.
The abandoned west wing felt like stepping into a tomb. Dust motes danced in shafts of afternoon light, and the shadows pooled thick enough to swim in. Perfect for serious training without observation.
I'd found this section yesterday during my exploration—four empty classrooms connected by a hallway that nobody seemed to use. The windows were boarded up, leaving only narrow gaps that painted everything in stark contrasts of light and dark.
Time to see what I can really do.
My shadow responded eagerly, stretching across the floor toward the far wall. Seven meters. Eight. The familiar headache started building, but I pushed through it, extending the darkness until it reached the crumbling plaster.
Now for something new.
Instead of simple extension, I tried to form a construct. A hand. The shadow thickened, taking on crude shape and dimension. Not solid—I could see through it—but more substantial than before.
Grab something.
A piece of broken chalk sat on a nearby desk. My shadow-hand reached for it, fingers closing around the white cylinder. The mental strain intensified, feeling like someone was driving nails through my skull, but the chalk rose six inches off the wooden surface.
Success.
Then something shifted.
The shadow-hand didn't release the chalk when I tried to relax my concentration. Instead, it squeezed tighter, and I felt an alien hunger ripple up my spine. Not my emotion. Something else's.
What the hell—
The construct curled into a fist without my permission and slammed into the stone wall hard enough to crack the mortar. Dust rained down, and pain exploded through my head as the connection severed abruptly.
I collapsed, blood streaming from my nose and ears, staring at the spiderweb of damage my shadow had caused. The chalk lay crushed to powder on the floor.
It moved on its own.
The thought was terrifying. For fifteen seconds, maybe twenty, I hadn't been controlling the shadow. It had acted according to its own impulses, and those impulses involved destruction.
Are the shadows alive? Or am I losing my mind?
I spent the next three hours curled on the dusty floor, too nauseous to move, processing what had happened. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel that alien hunger again—patient, waiting, watching from the darkness behind my eyelids.
When I finally made it back to the dorm, Eugene took one look at me and started fussing like a worried parent.
"What happened? You look like you got hit by a truck."
"Migraine," I said. Close enough to the truth. "Training went longer than expected."
"You need to pace yourself. Powers are like muscles—push too hard too fast and you'll do permanent damage." He handed me a water bottle and two aspirin from his desk drawer. "Whatever you were trying to do, ease up on it tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Assuming there was a tomorrow, and my shadows didn't decide to strangle me in my sleep.
Principal Weems' voice echoed across the morning assembly, carrying the kind of forced cheer that administrators used to deliver bad news.
"I'm pleased to announce that Nevermore will be welcoming a new student this afternoon. Wednesday Addams comes to us from a distinguished family with deep ties to our school's history."
Wednesday Addams.
The name hit like a physical blow. Every fragmented memory crystallized around it—the pale girl in black who would turn this place upside down, the protagonist of whatever supernatural drama I'd stumbled into.
She's the center. The reason everything happens.
Around me, students whispered about the famous Addams family. Eugene bounced in his seat with excitement, rattling off facts about their contribution to outcast rights and supernatural law. But all I could focus on was the timeline.
Wednesday arrives today. Which means the plot starts now.
Across the quad, Rowan Laslow stood perfectly still, his expression shifting from calculation to something like determination. Whatever he'd been planning, whatever timeline he thought he was following, Wednesday's arrival was clearly significant.
First domino falling.
My instincts screamed warnings I couldn't articulate. Something about Rowan and death and prophecies that might or might not be true. The nightmare's images flashed through my mind—trees and darkness and something hunting in the night.
"You okay?" Eugene whispered. "You went really pale all of a sudden."
"Fine. Just processing."
But I wasn't fine. I was calculating distances and escape routes while watching Rowan watch the crowd like a predator selecting prey. The kid was planning something, and instinct said it involved the girl who hadn't even arrived yet.
Position myself close enough to protect Eugene but far enough to stay invisible.
The strategy was simple. Stay on the periphery, gather intelligence, and try to prevent the worst outcomes without revealing what I knew or how I knew it.
Should be easy enough.
The assembly dispersed, but I remained seated, watching Rowan disappear into the crowd with purposeful strides. Whatever he was planning, it would probably happen soon. Protagonists didn't arrive at supernatural schools without triggering immediate chaos.
Time to figure out which side of that chaos I wanted to be on.
That afternoon, I positioned myself at a second-floor window overlooking the main entrance. Eugene was off somewhere tending to his bees, and I had the hallway to myself.
The black car arrived exactly when Weems had said it would, pulling up to Nevermore's gates like a hearse delivering its cargo. The driver got out first—a tall man in an expensive suit who moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd never met a physical challenge he couldn't overcome.
Then the passenger door opened, and Wednesday Addams stepped out.
There she is.
Even from fifty feet away, she was exactly what I remembered from the show. Pale skin, dark braids, funeral attire that made her look like she was attending the world's wake. But it was her expression that caught my attention—the way she looked at Nevermore like it had already disappointed her.
Unimpressed. Calculating. Dangerous.
She dragged a black suitcase toward the entrance while her father—had to be Gomez—gestured enthusiastically at the architecture. Wednesday's response was visible even at distance: tolerant patience masking complete disinterest.
The protagonist has arrived.
My shadow stretched unconsciously toward the quad below, drawn by some instinct I didn't understand. For a moment, the darkness seemed to reach toward Wednesday like it recognized something familiar.
Then it moved without my permission—just a few inches, but definitely independent action.
Again.
The shadows were developing their own agenda, and I had no idea what they wanted or how to control them. First the training incident, now this. Either my powers were evolving in ways that defied explanation, or something else was influencing them.
Something connected to Wednesday Addams.
I watched her disappear into the building, probably heading for Weems' office and the same interview process I'd endured three days ago. But unlike my arrival, hers would matter. She was the catalyst, the center around which everything else would orbit.
And I'm about to get caught in her gravity well.
The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, it felt almost like relief. For three days I'd been stumbling around in the dark, trying to piece together fragments of a story I barely remembered. Now the real plot was beginning, and I could finally stop guessing.
Time to find out what happens next.
My shadow rippled against the window glass, and this time I didn't try to stop it.
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