Noah P.O.V
To say the Addams mansion was peculiar would be the grossest understatement ever uttered. Peculiarity here wasn't a decorating accident; it was the very essence of the place, meticulously cultivated like a poisonous garden.
The property announced itself not with a gate, but with a cemetery. Ancient, tilting headstones, some with hilarious inscriptions, dotted the dark lawn right in front of the house, like a macabre reception for visitors. The trees weren't content with being merely old; they were twisted, their bony branches contorted against the overcast sky like petrified claws trying to grasp the low clouds. Nothing here grew towards the sun; everything leaned into the shadows, as in reverence to a colder master.
The plants were a study in deliberate decay. Wilting, yes, but with a color palette bordering on the supernatural: shades of burnt orange and deep darkness in the leaves and petals, as if painted with soot and amber. It wasn't the negligent death of abandonment, but an ornamental death, celebrated and displayed.
And the roses... were the final statement. Someone had cut every single one of their flowers. Only the stems remained, proud and thorny, like a row of lances pointed at the sky. It was the denial of conventional beauty, the declaration that true strength lay not in the ephemeral flower, but in the resilient, sharp stem that supported it.
It was an intriguing and deeply interesting sight. Every detail was a puzzle, a statement of intent. There was no chance here, only a dark and impeccably executed aesthetic.
But it could also be frightening. And I understood perfectly why. For an untrained eye, for a soul that seeks normality as a refuge, this place was the materialization of all childhood nightmares.
The Strange, when you are part of it, becomes common, even comforting in its inverted logic. It is the language of your own soul. However, for outsiders, the Strange is fearful and frightening.
It is a mirror that reflects a version of the world from which they flee. And fear, as I well know, is the fuel of prejudice. They don't just fear what we are capable of doing; they fear what our mere existence says about the ordered and safe world they insist on believing they inhabit. They fear because, deep down, they know that normality is the true facade.
The car's interior was a cocoon of silence and leather, but the real journey was about to begin. I extended my hand, palm facing the immaculate windshield. In my mind, the contours of a spell born from necessity and my own dual nature as a Seer/Psychic materialized. It wasn't a ritual borrowed from a grimoire; it was my own creation, an organic extension of my understanding.
[Passage].
Upon touching the glass, there was no sound of breaking, but a sensation of infection. A point of distortion, like a drop of oil in still water, appeared under my fingers. And then, it spread. Quickly and silently, a mirror texture covered the entire interior surface of the car—windshield, windows, even the ceiling. In an instant, the outside world was nothing but a distorted blur reflected on a silvery shell. And then, I took a step. Not through the door, but into that mirrored world.
[Passage] is a spell I created, using Spirituality to generate a sphere of deprivation around me, a bubble of personal space. Inside it, I could use Cogitation anywhere, without the crutch of my Topaz Pendulum. The sensation was similar to being above the Gray Mist, but without the frightening vastness and the entities that inhabited it. It was the manifestation of the phenomenon of knowing, seeing, and hearing all things, but filtered through my own will. A portable sanctuary of clarity.
The reason behind its creation was simple: to avoid constantly entering the Gray Mist. Every time the Mist manifested in the physical plane, an immense amount of Spirituality was released, like a psychic tide, which affected other Pariahs.
Experienced Psychics and Da Vincis, as my grandfather explained to me, learn to control their sensitivity, to "tune" their perception to avoid the Madness that comes from feeling such a dense and chaotic spiritual "crowding." It was like trying to hear a single conversation in a packed stadium during a rock concert—a task that could tear apart an unprepared mind.
My grandfather taught me to control my emission and limit it, so as not to be a blinding and potentially dangerous beacon to others. And it was during these lessons that something deeper, and somewhat disturbing, came to light.
Spirituality, the universal force that fueled all Pariahs, was also corruptible.
He spoke of individuals whose spiritual essence had been contaminated—by trauma, unchecked ambition, or by feeding on impure sources. These corrupted people exhibited strange behaviors, violent or self-destructive tendencies. Their visions became distorted nightmares, and many heard voices whispering insinuations and dark orders.
It was strange. Even the fundamental power of this world, the energy that should be the purest, was not immune to rot.
I closed my eyes, letting the familiar sensation of Cogitation flood my senses. The intention was simple: to get a glimpse of the Addams Family, to feel the spiritual signatures inhabiting that peculiar place.
But the vision that formed wasn't of a family. It was of a beast.
The image crystallized in my mind with cutting clarity. The weapon, of dark wood and polished metal, was firmly aimed at me. And the one holding it... was a girl. She couldn't have been much older than me. Hair black as ebony, parted in the middle and tied into two long braids that fell over her shoulders. A straight, heavy fringe cut across her forehead, framing a face of pale skin and sharp features. Her eyes, deep and intense, were a brown so dark they almost seemed black, surrounded by a precise halo of black shadow that accentuated her fixed and merciless gaze.
And then came the physical reaction, unexpected and involuntary: I felt my cheeks burn. A fleeting heat, an autonomic response to an image that was, undeniably, a composition of pure, concentrated intensity.
But beyond the superficial heat, something deeper echoed within me. A resemblance. Not in features, but in essence. Those eyes... they weren't just dark. They carried the strange. They were portals to a domesticated darkness, familiar and comfortable for those who dwelled in it. And probing deeper, I felt the complex web of emotions behind the coldness: there was a deep and unshakable love, a fierce attachment to her family and her darkness, masked by a facade of nihilism. And also, unmistakable, there was arrogance—the certainty of her own uniqueness—and stubbornness enough to defy the world.
It was a fascinating soul. A walking contradiction wrapped in braids and holding a crossbow.
A name rose to my lips, a whisper within my mirrored sanctuary, laden with a newborn curiosity and instant respect.
"Wednesday Addams."
...
A subtle shift in the air, a murderous intent piercing the atmosphere and the gloom of the mansion. It was a danger, so close I could pinpoint its origin and its target.
Yet, a peculiar calm descended upon me. It was the serenity of the predator who knows it is being hunted but trusts absolutely in its own claws. My body reacted before my mind needed to give the order. My right hand rose in an unimpeded movement, not in a gesture of desperate defense, but with the quiet precision of someone catching a fallen apple.
Whoosh.
The sound was muffled, almost nonexistent. The arrow, coming towards the nape of my neck, simply stopped. My hand enveloped it firmly, a few inches from hitting its target, feeling the residual vibration of its trajectory dissipate against my palm. The cold metal tip rested harmlessly against my skin.
My gaze then followed the invisible trail back to its source. And there she was. Exactly as in my vision. The same motionless figure, crouched like a gargoyle at the top of the staircase. The girl with black braided hair. The crossbow was still in her hands, but now empty, her gaze of absolute coldness fixed on me, analyzing, dissecting my impassive reaction.