At Nevermore, Wednesday moved quickly through the halls.
Ethan's dorm room was empty, with no sign that he had been there. She checked the bathroom as well and found it empty.
She turned and headed back toward Ophelia Hall.
When she reached her own dorm room, the door was already open. Enid was stretched out on her bed, scrolling through her phone, and Thing sat on the desk beside Wednesday's typewriter, fingers resting still.
"Have either of you seen Ethan?" Wednesday asked, getting straight to the point.
Enid glanced up. "No. I thought he was with you."
Wednesday's gaze shifted to Thing. "You?"
Thing's fingers paused. Then he snapped once, as if remembering, and hopped down from the table.
He rummaged through a drawer, pulled out a thin file, and slid it across the desk. He signed quickly: He told me to give you this. This morning.
Wednesday took the file and opened it.
Photographs. Official records. The Gates family.
Father. Mother. Son. Daughter.
All four listed as deceased.
She flipped the page.
The daughter's name appeared again Laurel Gates —this time stamped STATUS: ALIVE. Beneath it was an address. A map. The Gates family house, marked clearly at the edge of Jericho.
Wednesday's eyes narrowed.
She turned another page.
Typed notes filled the sheet.
The Gates family are direct descendants of Joseph Crackstone. Their hatred for Outcasts mirrors his—systematic, obsessive, inherited.
At the bottom, one final line stood alone.
If you want answers, go to the Gates house. At night.
Wednesday closed the file slowly.
"It seems he still has the energy to pull these kinds of pranks," she said, unimpressed—despite the fact that she'd been worried about him minutes ago.
Perhaps the vision wouldn't come true after all.
And yet… the Gates family didn't fit neatly into her investigation. The monster was an outcast—everything pointed to that. Not a normie. But then there was the vision. Joseph Crackstone, alive. Walking. Speaking.
And now this: a Gates descendant officially declared dead, but very much alive.
A connection was forming, jagged but persistent. Crackstone. The Gates bloodline. Hatred preserved across generations.
Wednesday looked up.
"Enid," she said, "do you have any plans tonight?"
Enid blinked. "No?"
"Good. Be prepared. We're paying a house visit."
Enid sat up straighter. "At night? Whose house?"
She didn't know that Wednesday had relatives in Jericho.
"A family of psychopaths."
"Eh?" Enid looked confused, unsure why they were going to such a dangerous place.
***
Night settled over Jericho.
The Gates family mansion loomed ahead of them, half-hidden behind an iron fence choked with overgrown ivy.
The house was large, old, and neglected—windows dark, paint peeling, the structure sagging as if it were tired of pretending to be alive.
Enid stopped short.
She stared at the tangled vines crawling up the stone walls, then at the house itself. "Wednesday… are we sure we want to go in?" she asked quietly.
"Because this looks like the kind of place where people disappear and become cautionary tales."
Wednesday examined the structure, unimpressed.
"It's a house, Enid. Not a myth."
"That's what people say before the myth happens."
"At least be grateful," Wednesday replied, pushing the gate open. "If you die here, you'll be remembered as a ghost story. Immortality of a sort."
Enid stared at her. "That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Wednesday stepped through the gate without hesitation. After a moment, Enid followed—uneasy, reluctant, but unwilling to be left alone.
The door creaked as they entered the house, the sound echoing behind them.
Wednesday swept the flashlight across the room. Every surface was layered with dust, thick enough to suggest the house had been abandoned for years. Nothing looked touched. Nothing lived here anymore.
Then she lowered the beam to the floor.
The dust was disturbed—clear footprints cutting through it.
Recent.
"Someone was here before us," Wednesday said.
Enid stiffened immediately and grabbed her hand. "Before us… like recently?" she whispered. "Is it a ghost?"
"No," Wednesday replied without hesitation. "Ghosts don't have mass. They don't leave footprints." She followed the trail with the light. "This is either human—or the monster which is currently terrorizing Jericho."
Neither option comforted Enid.
She stayed close as Wednesday moved forward, tracking the prints deeper into the house.
The footsteps led them into a library.
Tall shelves lined the walls, packed tight with old books, their spines dulled by dust and age. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and the air smelled stale, like paper that hadn't been disturbed in years.
Wednesday scanned the room methodically. If someone had been here, they would have left a discrepancy.
She stopped.
One section of the bookshelf didn't match the rest.
Most of the shelves were coated in dust—but one symbol carved into the side of a shelf was clean. Too clean.
Without hesitation, she pressed it.
A soft click echoed through the room. The bookshelf shuddered, then slid sideways, revealing a narrow compartment hidden behind it.
Enid's breath caught. "Of course there's a secret room."
Inside was a crude altar: candles burned down to wax stubs, a painting of Joseph Crackstone, and dark writing smeared across the walls in dried blood.
Fire will rain when I return.
Enid took a step back. "Okay. Who doesn't have a spooky, blood-written altar hidden in their family library?"
"Ours is in the living room," Wednesday said calmly. "Better lighting."
Enid stared at her. "That's not reassuring."
Wednesday leaned closer to the altar, studying the candles.
"Someone's been using this," Wednesday said. "Recently."
Behind her, Enid's voice cut off.
"Wednesday—!"
Wednesday spun around.
"Enid?"
There was no response.
Only Enid's flashlight lay on the floor behind her, rolling once before coming to a stop, its light aimed uselessly at the ceiling.
Enid was gone.
*****
A/N: The Patreon version is already updated to Chapter 97, so if you'd like to read ahead of the public release schedule, you can join my Patreon
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