Wednesday hummed as the episode came to an end. "It's unfortunate the Gargoyle King arc ended like that; I was expecting something a lot more sinister," she said, unimpressed. "Although the atmosphere was sufficiently creepy, it didn't quite live up to its potential," she said with a frown. "Riverdale, how pedestrian and uninspired. You and your penchant for series revolving around teenage melodrama. It's a tiresome and vapid, yet predictable, preference in entertainment," she said, glaring sideways at the individual on the couch beside her.
The black teddy bear Mortimer stared at the television in silence.
She frowned at him. "You are the one who wanted to watch it; do not blame me for your poor choices in entertainment." She paused. "....I was only watching it because it was on. I have no interest in such hackneyed television shows." She turned the TV off and stood. "That's enough of that nonsense for one night. It's late and I should retire for the evening."
Then, quite unexpectedly, her landline began to ring, and she marched over to her desk and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Wednesday! It's so good to hear your voice again," the voice gushed.
Wednesday froze. She hadn't checked the caller ID to see who was calling; she had slipped up and just answered it, realising her mistake too late. "Hello Mother," she replied.
"How are you, Wednesday? It's been so long since we last spoke," Morticia said.
"I am fine. My investigations keep me very busy, and the acquisitions trade is competitive and intriguing as always," Wednesday said. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call? Especially at this late hour."
"Why? Do I need a reason to be calling my only daughter?" Morticia asked with a hint of amusement. "Especially when it's been six months since we last spoke."
"Experience has taught me you always have an ulterior motive of some kind," Wednesday replied.
Morticia laughed. "Oh Wednesday. Well, if you need a reason, then yes, I can produce one. We need to know if you're coming to Cousin Itt's wedding. The time is drawing near, and you haven't responded to the invitation."
"I was hoping my silence would be taken as a sign that I won't be attending," Wednesday said. The thought of recent events entered her mind. The exorcism they had performed on Lupe, the search for the missing teenagers, discovering the Vorlack conspiracy and the nest of ghouls beneath the city. "I've been….preoccupied."
Morticia sighed. "Oh? And why aren't you coming? It would be lovely to see you after so long. Your father and I miss you so much, and Uncle Fester will be there. Thing is excited to see you, and of course Cousin Itt would love if you could attend. It's his big day after all!"
"His fourth big day," Wednesday pointed out. "Give it a few years and he will be divorced again and on the prowl once more. I've just chosen not to participate in the charade this time."
"Regardless of Itt's complicated romantic history, you should come and spend time with your family," Morticia insisted. "I'll tell Cousin Itt you're coming, so if you change your mind, it's not too late."
"How nice of you to decide what I'm doing for me," Wednesday said, her tone ice. "One would ask if that's what you intended to do, then why bother calling in the first place?"
Morticia tsk tsked. "Oh Wednesday, you're impossible! Why must you always insist on being so difficult and stubborn?"
"I'm not being stubborn; I'm standing up for myself and defending my interests. Of course you would interpret that as combativeness," Wednesday retorted.
"Wednesday, please! I don't want to fight with you! Come to Cousin Itt's wedding; have a good time and catch up with everyone. We can have a nice long talk," Morticia said, extending an olive branch. "We've not spoken since our unfortunate....disagreement. And that was six months ago," Morticia said with a pause. "Look, I'm sorry about Goody's book. I said it before and I'll say it again if I must. But I did what I thought was the best thing for you at the time to get you away from that silly obsession of yours before you got yourself or someone else seriously injured, or worse!"
"You took one of my most prized possessions from me and burned it like it was garbage, with no regard for what it meant to me or my well-being. You were just trying to control me once again. I've experienced these talks more times than I care to remember, and I'm not interested in being gaslit and manipulated yet again," Wednesday hissed. "Goodbye Mother." She hung up.
She sighed as she walked to the window and stared out at the park across the street, the trees blowing gently in the spring breeze. She let out a long, slow exhale. That had been an unpleasant and unexpected encounter.
Wednesday barely got any sleep that night; unspoken anxieties and subconscious stressors kept her awake until the early hours of the morning. Her alarm went off at its usual time, her eyes snapping open as always seconds before it was to go off, fully alert and ready to face the day. She briefly contemplated going back to sleep for a couple of hours but dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to her. She had a set routine for the day, and nothing could be allowed to alter its course. Without any further delay she got out of bed and began getting ready.
Enid greeted her when she came downstairs into the office at 9.15am sharp, as she did every morning. "Good morning, Wednesday!" Enid beamed, then paused. "Oh, you don't look too good. Rough night?" She asked, her eyes widening as something occurred to her. "Did you have that dream about Kirby again?"
Wednesday suppressed a shudder at the mention of the pink menace. "Unfortunately, no. That would've been considerably preferable," she said, walking into reception and getting herself a cup of coffee from the pot Enid had just made. "I got a phone call last night….from my mother."
"Oh wow!" Enid said, her eyes going wide once more. "What happened? What did she say? Did you guys get into it again?"
"No. She wanted to know if I will be attending Cousin Itt's wedding," Wednesday explained. "Her insistence that I attend has guaranteed that I won't."
"Ah, well, I mean if you really don't feel comfortable going, then don't. But you might regret not taking the opportunity," Enid said with a shrug.
"Hhmmm," Wednesday thought about it, then added, almost as an afterthought. "I have been having some strange dreams lately. Now that you mention it."
Enid's attention was riveted to the news broadcast on her PC. "....fog front has moved across the city, being blown onto the coast from the sea," the weatherman was saying as the screen showed images of NYC coated in a blanket of grey fog. The upper levels of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings had seemingly vanished, large parts of the harbour were hidden behind the misty haze, and the Brooklyn Bridge looked like a ghostly phantom. "So be careful out there if you're driving around and remember to take an umbrella because we'll likely get a good bit of rain beginning this afternoon and continuing long into the evening."
"Ugh. Looks like we're in for some gloomy weather," Enid commented. "It wasn't fun trying to navigate the way to work this morning with this fog everywhere."
Wednesday took a sip of coffee as she watched the images of the city coated in a thick layer of fog. "What a beautiful day," she said, almost cheerfully. "It makes for the perfect atmosphere for contemplation or quiet study."
Enid looked sideways up at her and smirked. "Look at you, all happy because of the weather," she teased.
Wednesday gazed down at her and narrowed her eyes. "Where's Agnes?" she asked, changing the subject.
"At university? She has classes on Tuesdays, remember?" Enid replied with a look of concern.
Wednesday gave a curt nod. "Of course."
"And in our next story, a vicious series of gang-related killings has swept the city in recent weeks, with a total of six victims so far. The most recent attack occurred in the early hours of this morning," the reporter said as the broadcast showed images from the crime scenes. "All of the victims come from different walks of life, and the crime scenes have seemingly little in common, with the exception of this yellow sign left by the killer or killers at every scene." The symbol displayed looked roughly like three question marks in a triangle shape, joined at the bottom. "Police have confirmed the identity of the latest victim as one, Paul Fazio, who was murdered in this alleyway in Queens at approximately 5am this morning."
Wednesday crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. "It seems some opportunistic individual has taken advantage of the weather," she commented drily, tapping a nail on the rim of her mug. "That symbol…it looks oddly familiar, yet I cannot place it anywhere specific."
Enid shook her head. "Six murders? That's a gang with a real vendetta."
Wednesday's brow creased ever so slightly. "I can't say for certain, but I don't think these murders are gang-related."
Across town Detective Roberts watched the mouth of the alley as two men emerged from the fog. Visibility was relatively fine for twenty meters, but then people disappeared like phantoms in the clouds of mist that hovered over the city. Detectives Doyle and Gallows greeted Robert's and his partner before turning their attention to the crime scene. "So, what happened here?" Doyle asked, noting the body had already been collected by the coroner's office.
"Our victim's a cab driver named Paul Fazio. Stopped here to take a piss. Fresh urine is on the side of that dumpster and pooled beside it," Roberts said, gesturing. He zipped up and turned to leave when our assailant attacked him from the shadows over here," he said, moving to the other side of the alley beside a stack of old crates, moving as he re-enacted the crime. The detective moved about in the fog, cloaking everything in an ethereal mist that gave the crime scene an eerie atmosphere.
"He cracked Fazio over the head with a blunt instrument and knocked him down here," he said, pointing to a bloody patch on the cement. "He then proceeded to belt Fazio over the head three more times to ensure he was dead."
Doyle shook his head. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Any idea as to a motive? What's our current hypothesis?"
Roberts shook his head. "Like all the previous victims, there's no apparent motive. He wasn't robbed; his keys and wallet were still in his pocket, and his cab wasn't touched."
Doyle nodded. "We passed it on the way here."
"We originally suspected organised crime," Roberts said. "But none of the victims have any history of connections with it. So we began to suspect gang violence, but without any clear motivations, that idea quickly fell apart. Now we have good reason to believe we are dealing with a serial killer."
Doyle talked with the other detectives on the task force while Gallows drifted back towards the mouth of the alley to look around, only remembering the crowd of journalists there when they suddenly came into view, held at bay by officers on crowd control.
"Gallows!" He heard his name from beyond the barrier and turned to see Fiona waving at him. With a nod he walked over. "Hey, fancy seeing you here," he said with a smirk. "You're Wednesday's press contact, right? We met briefly last week. Great job on that story about the Vorlack controversy."
She smiled back. "I'm something of a crime buff," she replied. "And yeah, a front page story with a four-page editorial is a good career boost," she said, then asked. "What's going on here?"
Gallows went to answer, then spotted another journalist watching them. He frowned, Fiona glared, and they moved off to the side. "Not a lot. I've only just been added to the task force. With this latest killing, the case has been made a priority, and there are now eight detectives on it."
"Any ideas as to a motive or suspects?" She asked, making it sound like casual conversation.
"Not that I'm aware of," he admitted. "They've gone from suspecting organised crime to gang violence and now believe we're dealing with a serial killer."
Her eyes lit up. "Wow! A serial killer? That's a hell of a scoop! Fiona beamed. "Thanks for the tip! You've just given me another front-page story!" She paused. "You know, you're not half the stiff Wednesday makes you out to be."
"I gave you two sentences; that's hardly a news story," he said, perplexed. "Wait….Wednesday said I was a stiff?"
Fiona chuckled. "Oh honey, I'm a journalist! I'll turn those two sentences into a two thousand word editorial."
He frowned and went to say something else when Doyle interrupted. "Gallows!" He barked as he approached, walking among the other detectives. "Come on, man! we've got a case to solve! You can chase tail on your own time!" he said, exasperated.
Gallows looked at Fiona, who smirked and wiggled her eyebrows at him. He suddenly felt very awkward as he turned back to Doyle. "I wasn't…." he shook his head. "Right! Let's go!"
Doyle squinted through the windscreen as rain pattered on the glass, the windscreen wipers moving back and forth as the fog obscured the road ahead. "Damn fog," he grumbled as he drove.
"Well, interviewing Fazio's friends and family was a bust," Gallows said from the passenger seat. "No leads, no compelling evidence. The guy's life is more boring than ours, which is sad."
"Eh, I dunno. At least he enjoyed the dogs at the track," Doyle said. "Even if he racked up a fifty-grand debt in the process."
Gallows snorted in amusement. "You know what strikes me as odd about our victims? ….They were all normal people who had very little in common. Apart from a few incidental things, they were pretty different, which makes me wonder. What are we missing?"
Doyle raised an eyebrow but didn't take his eyes off the road. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, we're looking for a serial killer, right? They typically go for a certain type of victim; the types of crimes and murder share specific common traits. This case has none of those. It doesn't fit the MO of a serial killer," Gallows explained.
Doyle nodded. "Richard Ramirez," he replied. "Remember him? The Night Stalker case in the 80's changed what we know about serial killer psychology and revealed a different type, the chaotic killer. None of his victims really had anything in common either," he said, looking over at his partner.
"True, the victims didn't, but the cases did," Gallows pointed out. "Ramirez was an opportunistic killer and burglar. He killed all his victims late at night in their homes, often when they were sleeping. That's something significant they did have in common. Our victims don't even have that."
Doyle was silent for a moment as he thought about it. "Interesting point," he said with a nod. "So, where are you going with this?"
"Well, looking at the map of where all our victims were killed, it's apparent at least half of them lived nowhere near our killer, and he had to really go out of his way to kill them. From Staten Island to Queens, that's a long way to go to kill someone when surely there are other potential victims much closer," Gallows said. "Unless….."
"He's hunting them specifically," Doyle finished.
"Yes," Gallows agreed. "We have to figure out why he's targeting them."
"That's why he hadn't robbed any of them," Doyle added. "Every victim still had their valuables on them. Watches, jewellery, money, purses and wallets. Nothing's missing. That's the difference between this case and the Night Stalker. He was a burglar and an opportunistic killer; the killing was secondary to his goal of robbery. In this case, it didn't even seem to occur to him, yet he's been all over the city killing these people, apparently at random, but something links them together; something we've missed. Now we just have to figure out what."
The following afternoon Gallows and Doyle sat side by side at their desks going over the victim's files, checking for anything that could possibly connect them that they might have missed. Employment histories, medical records, education, club memberships and affiliations, financial records, they left nothing unchecked.
Doyle sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "This is pointless; we've spent a good eight hours going over every record we have and can't find anything that could even remotely be significant," he protested.
Gallows hummed, his brow creased in thought. "At least we can rule these things out for certain. Whatever it is that connects them isn't in any official documents."
Doyle nodded. "What about scams or cults? Religious orientations and experiences. Maybe they were all in the same place at the same time and witnessed something, a crime taking place, or were all affiliated with a cult of some sort, were the victims of the same scam," he paused. "Or they all have some dirty laundry they never got busted for; maybe they've all cheated on a spouse and this is some kind of deranged fruitcake enacting some sort of divine punishment?"
"It's possible," Gallows agreed. "Unlikely, but not implausible."
"Hey, it's another avenue to look into. We can't leave any stone unturned," Doyle reminded him. "But this means we're going to have to interview the friends and family again. Ask them about all this sort of stuff. Last time the questioning was a lot more general. We've got to get a lot more specific and dig deep into their personal lives. Whatever connection they have, I'm sure that's where we'll find it."
He scratched at the stubble on his face. "Hell, I'm inclined to think they were all sucked into a cult of some sort. The whole thing with the weird symbol, it's the exact sort of shit those lunatic cults are into. Like the Manson Family, People's Temple, or Heaven's Gate," Doyle said.
"That did occur to me; it could be a cult or even occult symbol," Gallows agreed. "Which means we should get her help."
Doyle shook his head. "Oh no! We are not bringing her into this. This is official police business, and I don't want her snooping around and making a nuisance of herself. Especially with her methods, which are dubious at best. I've already had to lie my ass off with the whole Vorlack affair, and that's far from over," he said with a look of disdain. "Vorlack will almost surely walk if they find out most of our evidence against him was illegally obtained, thanks to her."
Gallows smirked but didn't comment on the Vorlack case. "Your professional disagreements with her aside, the fact remains Wednesday Addams is an expert on the occult and is quite knowledgeable of cults and their psychology. Bringing her onto the case, we could get her to handle all of that and not have to worry about it. That means less work for you, more efficiency, and we know she can guarantee results," Gallows countered. "And besides, it's not like you would have to work with her. She can work on that while we continue our investigation. She would just be making reports on her progress," he added. "As for police business, she's an independent contractor with an account with the city who's worked with law enforcement numerous times because she's a certified expert on more….unusual topics," he said, picking apart his partner's objections.
Doyle sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Okay, fine! But you can handle all that. And you've got to get Roberts' approval first; he's leading the task force after all. And whatever you do, don't mention anything about that damn Question Mark Killer article that's on the front page of the Times," Doyle warned, between gritted teeth. "I can't believe you just handed Fanelli classified information. Roberts would have both our asses if he knew."
Gallows looked sheepish at the mention of the journalist but smiled and nodded at agreeing to bring Wednesday onboard. "Gladly," then stood and went to call her.
Gallows returned, and they put together a list of questions to ask the friends and relatives of the victims to get more specific, personal information that may connect them to each other. They had just began to review the list when another member of the team approached. "You boys look like you could stand to get out of the office for a while. Let's go! Roberts wants everyone up and moving out right now!"
Doyle frowned. "What? Why?"
The detective's expression became serious. "Because, there's been another murder. A double homicide!"
The house was typical of those in the suburban neighbourhood north of the city. A two-storey timber home with a front porch and well-maintained yard. But the scene was anything but typical. The heavy fog drifted lazily through the air, obscuring vision and blanketing the home in a ghostly mist. And this particular home just happened to be the scene of a gruesome double homicide.
Out the front of the house, a trio of unmarked sedans, a handful of squad cars and a meat wagon from the coroner's office littered the street. Police cordoned off the street with rolls of yellow tape. A press of media figures, neighbours and curious onlookers were being kept at bay by a handful of officers on crowd control, many of them asking questions about the case of the Question Mark Killer and if this was indeed another crime committed by the killer.
She drifted through the crowd, nudging her way past before she casually ducked under the tape and strode purposefully towards the house. She appeared out of the mist like a small black-clad revenant, appearing like part of the fog itself as she emerged and solidified into human form, dressed in a fancy black coat lined down the front with elaborate white embroidery and shining onyx buttons that gave her appearance the impression that she had stepped out of the fog of space and time from the 19th century.
She walked with an air of such confidence that the first officer to notice her assumed she was with the coroner's office or something. As she marched across the yard, another officer moved to intercept her. She stepped around him and continued on her way, without breaking her stride as she mounted the porch and walked inside.
"Hey!" the cop yelled as he gave chase to apprehend her. "You can't be in here!"
She waved him off dismissively with a gloved hand.
"What the?" he cried, reaching to grab her by the shoulder.
Her hand moved like lightning as she grabbed him by the wrist, stopping his hand dead in its tracks with a vice-like grip. "I wouldn't," she said deadpan, her gaze burning up into his.
Gallows noticed her entrance and called out. "It's okay, officer! She's with us!"
The cop nodded and retreated outside.
"What the hell, what're you doing here?" Doyle demanded.
"Investigating the case I was asked to assist with," Wednesday replied, her eyes taking in the crime scene as she absorbed every detail. The two dead bodies splayed out on the floor with their heads bashed in; the pools of blood around them; the splatter of blood on the walls, carpet and furniture. The yellow sign was painted with delicate care over the portrait of the family of four that hung over the fireplace. She noted the tacky aesthetic of the room: light pink walls, white couches and eggshell white carpet. "It seems a double homicide wasn't the only crime committed here," she remarked dryly.
"How did you even find out about this?" Doyle demanded.
"Through my extensive networks of contacts and connections," she replied, not making eye contact as she continued to assess the crime scene.
Doyle grunted, beside himself. "See! This is what happens when she gets involved," he said to Gallows. "Poor concept of boundaries," he scoffed with a shake of his head.
She ignored him and removed her gloves, taking out a pair of black disposables and putting them on as she walked into the room and crouched by the corpse of the husband, examining the head wounds on him and his wife, who lay on the other side of the coffee table.
Detective Roberts came to stand beside Gallows and Doyle as they watched. "Does she know what she's doing?" he said softly.
Gallows nodded. "Oh yeah. Finished top of her forensics class."
Wednesday studied the head wounds, noting the shape of the indentations, the positioning of the strikes and the flow of blood, and calculated the damage each blow had caused to the skull and brain. "Interesting," she said as she stood and removed the gloves, handing them to an officer nearby as she put her far more fashionable gloves back on.
"What's the verdict?" Gallows asked.
"Nothing I'm sure you haven't already concluded yourselves," she replied. "You've identified the victims?"
"Yeah. Mr and Mrs Harris, married couple in their mid-70s," Roberts piped up.
She gave a curt nod. "The assailant took them by surprise, entering through either the front or back door that was unlocked, seeing as there are no signs of forced entry and they were unaware of an intruder until he appeared at the entrance to the lounge room. Mr Harris was watching the evening football on TV, while his wife read a book," she began, gesturing to the discarded novel on the floor. Upon seeing the intruder, Mr Harris leapt to his feet and confronted him, only to be struck in the side of the head with a heavy blunt instrument, most likely a pipe wrench, as can be seen by the significant wound to the side of his skull and the blood spatter on the carpet and TV screen. His wife attempted to flee, but she didn't get far as the assailant strode past her husband and hit her over the head with the weapon with a downward overhand strike, which sprayed a smattering of blood onto the family portrait above the fireplace and beside the couch she was sitting on. The assailant then proceeded to hit her another three times and then returned to her husband and did the same with him. Satisfied that their job was complete, they painted the yellow sign over the portrait and promptly left," Wednesday said, summarising the events that had led to the grisly scene before them.
"Very good, Ms Addams," Detective Roberts said with a nod. "But we believe the weapon was a crowbar, not a pipe wrench."
Her eyes flashed with indignation. "Incorrect, Detective. The indentation in the skull from the murder weapon is slightly wider than that of a crowbar. Furthermore, the hooked depression caused by the top of the weapon is shallow and round, not deep and sharp enough to be caused by the hook of a crowbar but perfectly fitting with that of a pipe wrench," she explained. "And the backhanded strikes with the blunt side of the weapon show more signs of rounded blunt-force trauma than the more angular curves of a crowbar. Again, more consistent with the sort of injury caused by a pipe wrench."
Detective Roberts looked impressed and nodded as she continued. "You can rule out any sort of experienced assailant or professional hit. This job, while done quickly, was conducted in a rush and with a sloppy perpetrator who didn't stop to confirm that his victims were dead. It is evident that Mrs Harris was still alive for a good five to ten minutes after the assault, although she clearly wasn't going to survive. The oversight and the chaotic nature of the murders with multiple emotional and improvised strikes indicates this isn't someone acquainted with murder or even violence, for that matter."
The detectives were all keenly interested now. "Oh? And how can you tell that?" Roberts asked.
"The grinding of the blood deep into the carpet and the subtle signs of smudging indicate she was moving after she had been struck four times. For all intents and purposes, she was as good as dead, but her brain wasn't as thoroughly destroyed as her husband's and hence, she still had significant brain activity continuing for five to ten minutes after the perpetrator left. Her body appears to have gone through a fit of convulsions and involuntary spasms as her brain fought to try to keep her alive. I won't bore you with a lecture on the neurology of blunt force trauma, but these are the essential facts of the case," Wednesday said.
Roberts looked impressed, then his expression changed to one of annoyance, then scepticism. "That's all well and good, but I don't know who you are. You're a private investigator, according to officers Gallows and Doyle, correct? Why should I believe your word over that of half a dozen other detectives?"
She gave a curt nod. "Correct, and I assure you, Detective Roberts, I am less than impressed with the way you have conducted this investigation so far. We now have eight victims, and you have nothing but numerous differing theories as to the nature of the killer, and no definitive one at that. You are flip-flopping between different theories based on what you find at crime scenes. A most ineffective way of investigation that, ultimately, is meaningless and wasting precious time."
Roberts' fists clenched at his sides as his face turned red, the veins in his neck throbbing as he looked like he was about to blow a gasket.
Wednesday turned and gestured at Mrs Harris' handbag that sat on the coffee table. "Has it been inspected and dusted for prints?"
One of the detectives confirmed it had, and she picked it up and began rifling through it. She didn't know what she was looking for or why, but she felt strangely drawn to the handbag, and ocassionally she picked up the residue of psychic energy that often came in the form of clues. There was nothing of interest in the handbag, and she was about to put it back when she noticed the internal side pocket and the piece of folded paper inside. Wednesday reached in and withdrew it, unfolding and opening it up to see it was the program for The King in Yellow, the play she and Enid had seen a few weeks ago.
It hit her like a tidal wave of psychic energy as the vision coursed like electricity through Wednesday's brain. She froze, and her head jolted backwards as she stared wide eyed at the ceiling. Images flashed through her mind in a kaleidoscope of scenes. She saw the play being performed on stage, the dramatic appearance of the King in Yellow himself emerging from a mist surrounded by flames, wearing flowing yellow robes, a spiked crown and a featureless mask of pale yellow. She saw them in the audience from Mrs Harris's point of view, her husband next to her, her hands gripping her purse tight. She observed Mrs Harris thrashing about in her sleep and waking from "such dreadful nightmares about that damn play." She saw them at home enjoying a peaceful evening, then the intruder appeared, wielding a pipe wrench and clad in black beneath dark blue robes, the events of the crime unfolding in her vision exactly as she had predicted. She saw the attacker carefully paint the yellow sign over the family portrait above the fireplace, before their mutilated bodies. She saw the yellow sign glow in front of her and then the sign displayed upon the stage floor as the King in Yellow descended to the stage as he addressed the assembled members of the royal court of Carcosa. Then the world around the King in Yellow changed and became the abyssal, icy darkness of space, galaxies slowly rotating behind him as the king pointed a finger at Wednesday and uttered an unmistakable curse. Then the world snapped back into place, and she was standing in the lounge room.
"What happened? Are you okay?" Doyle asked.
Wednesday nodded, grasping the bridge of her nose. "A sudden fit. I get them occasionally. I must be going. I have to take my medication."
Then without another word, she turned, walked out of the house and vanished like a ghost into the fog.
As she drove back to the office, Wednesday pondered the implications of her vision and began to formulate a plan. She pulled over to the side of the road and took out her phone. She called Enid.
Enid answered almost immediately. "Ahoy! What's up?"
"I need you to research The King in Yellow and collect all the information you can on it," Wednesday said.
"What, the play we went and saw the other week?" Enid asked.
"Yes."
"That's an odd request, but sure. Am I looking for anything specific?"
"It's history, inspiration, the source material, who wrote it, who's involved with the current production, anything unusual connected with it," Wednesday said.
"Okey Dokey!" Enid replied, chipper.
"I'll be back at the office in about an hour. I expect a full report by then."
"Gotcha! See ya then!"
Wednesday hung up.
Enid gazed around her colourful workspace with a sense of purpose, turning to a small plush dragon. "Well, Mr Sparks, it looks like we've got work to do!"
Wednesday messaged Agnes next. "Need you at the office ASAP. When?"
Agnes replied via text about thirty seconds later. "In a lecture right now, be there in two hours?"
"Acknowledged."
She called Fiona next.
"Oh! Would you look at that! I had this horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, and an inexplicable sense of dread overcame me, then right on cue, you called!" Fiona said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
"Dispense with the comedy act," Wednesday chided her. "I need a favour. I need you to find out who's involved with the play currently on Broadway called The King in Yellow. Names and contact details for the cast and crew, anyone in management connected with it," Wednesday explained.
"Huh, I guess I could, but are you gonna tell me why?" Fiona asked.
"No."
Fiona snickered. "What's in it for me?"
Wednesday rolled her eyes. "A potentially huge story. It's part of my investigation into the Question Mark Killer case," she explained.
Fiona inhaled audibly. "Ooohh...you really know how to tempt me. Okay fine. I'll look into it and see what I can dig up. Wanna meet up tonight to discuss it? That new cafe on Bridgeport is amazing."
"Email me," Wednesday replied, then hung up. She made a final call to Gallows, who, much to her irritation, took some time to answer. "Hello?"
"I need you to see if any of the victims' friends or family reported them as having nightmares, night terrors or any strange dreams recently. Including anything that caused them to have disrupted sleep patterns, unusual behaviour or sudden serious anxieties or phobias."
"Okay. I'll consult the records," Gallows said, not bothering to ask why.
"Also include the questions in your next round of interviews," Wednesday insisted.
"I can do that," he replied. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. Inform me when you have something." She hung up, then began driving once more, taking a slight detour on her way back to the office. She had a stop to make first.
He was chatting with what appeared to be a regular as she approached. His tiny convenience store was essentially a two-meter-deep recess in a wall that had been outfitted as a newsstand and tiny bodega. Clouds of fog lingered in the air, obscuring vision and painting the street in a ghostly haze. Which in this neighbourhood made the rundown buildings look unsettling and sinister.
He saw her as she approached and smiled, a smile full of yellowed and rotting teeth. "I should've known it were you. I say to myself 'Oh, who dis little girl in black walkin' outta the fog? O' course it's Wednesday Addams, he he he," Willy said with a chuckle. "Don't you ever wear nothin' that ain't black?"
"No. In fact, I'll keep wearing black until they invent something darker," Wednesday said.
He chuckled nervously. "Well, looky here, seeing Wednesday on a Wednesday! Imagine that!" The old black man said with a smile. "How you doin', Wednesday?"
She nodded. "Willy, I am fine, thank you. I require information," she said, getting right to business. "You are aware of the Question Mark Killer, I am sure. I need to know what the word is in the underworld. And you can dispense with the illiterate, uneducated act," she added.
He ignored the last comment, frowned, then chuckled. "What makes you think I know anythin' bout that?"
"You're my eyes and ears on the streets. People talk, especially those involved in the criminal underworld. Rumours, whispers, anything lately about the emergence of a new gang in town, a mysterious figure with a lot of resources and connections, a cult, or even an esoteric movement of some sort recently setting up shop somewhere," she explained. "I need you to ask around and see what you can learn."
He smiled. "And what I get outta that?"
"You get to not earn my ire," she replied.
Willy frowned, then smirked at her. "Naw, no deal."
"Must I remind you what happened the last time you refused to assist me?"
Willy froze as the vivid memories surfaced, swallowing hard as his expression changed from one of mild amusement to nervous terror. His eyes widened and he began breathing heavily, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as his hands trembled. "H…h…hey now! I…I…I…don't want n…no...no trouble," he stammered.
She nodded. "I didn't assume you did, which is why you will be happy to be of assistance, correct?"
He nodded vigorously. "O…of course!" He said, forcing a smile. "Anythin' for Wednesday!"
"Very well, I shall return in several days to receive your report. For your sake I hope you have something useful to tell me," she said, then turned and promptly left, vanishing into the fog.
Wednesday entered the office as Enid was typing furiously at her computer. "Wednesday!" Enid cried as she entered. "I did what you asked and hoo boy, did I discover some very interesting information!" she said, bristling with excitement.
Wednesday removed her gloves, unbuttoned her coat and took it off, slinging it over the empty chair.
"And what did you discover?"
"I looked up the King in Yellow, and the play was written in the mid-18th century by an unknown playwright. The play was originally performed in France and became quite popular, spreading to England, Germany, and Italy before something weird happened. People who had seen the play began having weird nightmares and stuff. It drove them insane! Like, wearing a straitjacket in solitary confinement, screaming level looney tunes!"
Wednesday listened, intrigued at the mention of the play having a significant psychological impact on some of its audience. "A theatrical performance that drove its audience insane….David Lynch could only dream."
Enid raised an eyebrow, smirked, and continued. "It quickly got a reputation for being evil and cursed. Even the pope issued a decree against it!" Enid said with excitement. "It was banned everywhere; all performances stopped and all copies of the script were rounded up and destroyed!"
Wednesday nodded. "Such attempted purges are rarely ever entirely successful. Time is a slower but more thorough source of destruction in many cases."
Enid continued. "The play largely disappears from history afterwards. It's mentioned by various secret and occult societies during the 19th century and gained some renown during the early 20th century when a few modern occultists like Aleister Crowley wrote about it. It achieved a decent level of popularity into the 1970s as a literary device in horror and weird fiction, but apart from that, it's been mostly forgotten. No known copies of the script exist, except for a part of the second act that's survived as a fragment," Enid finished, glowing with satisfaction at her report. "Then I remembered the city from the play, Carcosa, and I searched for that too. It's supposed to be a magical city in another plain of existence. It's kinda like Atlantis, this beautiful city that's the highlight of culture and sophistication that has a spectacular fall from grace. I couldn't figure out what apparently happened to Carcosa, but the King in Yellow rules it, and now it's just a deserted ruin."
"Very good," Wednesday said with a curt nod, the equivalent of gushing praise from her. "You've uncovered the play's history and explored its surrounding mythology. This gives us some valuable intelligence. We can conclude copies of the play are extremely rare and that someone involved with the production must have somehow stumbled across it, likely by chance, possibly buried deep in the recesses of a private library somewhere. Its sudden reappearance as a Broadway production lends to the hypothesis that this individual is someone well connected and likely very wealthy, as indicated by the plausibility of the script being found in a private library. Likely old money, either European or with strong ties," Wednesday said.
"That's quite a bit of speculation," Enid commented.
Wednesday flashed her a look of irritation. "It's also the most plausible scenario based on logical reasoning and established patterns," she retorted. "Centuries old texts don't just appear at your local bookstore. They do in ancient public libraries occasionally, but statistics indicate a far stronger link to private collections. Seeing as they're handled by significantly fewer people and aren't half as diligently maintained."
Enid bit her lip. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Regardless, the specifics are irrelevant," Wednesday continued, covering her tracks, lest she be mistaken.
Enid noticed the rational dismissal but didn't comment. Wednesday had this uncanny ability to be proven wrong, yet through a combination of mental gymnastics, tricks of rhetoric, and impassioned, persuasive speech, could have anyone convinced she had been right all along.
"Oh! And one more thing: I learned the name of the king, Haster…..Hastur! That's it!" Enid declared.
The name made Wednesday flinch as if a jolt of electricity had passed through her. "Hastur," she echoed; the name was familiar, surfacing from memories of stories she had read in high school.
She blinked. "I must consult my books," she said as she turned and abruptly left.
Wednesday was at her desk reading an entry on Hastur, the King in Yellow, when Enid and Agnes came up the stairs.
"Agnes is here," Enid said as they crossed the floor to her desk. "Did you find anything on the king?"
"I did," Wednesday said, looking up. "This is bad."
"Oh, how bad?" Enid asked.
"Very bad, like apocalyptic levels of bad."
"Uh, that's not good," Agnes said.
"According to legend, Hastur will find a way into our realm, and his arrival will coincide with a wave of pestilence and plague that will consume the earth," Wednesday said, with her typical deadpan delivery.
"Plague?" Enid said, fiddling with the hem of her skirt.
"A supernatural pestilence from another realm..." Agnes said, her eyes wide with comprehending horror. "Something humanity would be defenceless against. Billions would die."
Wednesday closed the tome in front of her with a thud. "I believe we have our motive. Hastur, through some connection with the play, is seeking to complete a ritual that will enable him to enter our world. The murders are a sort of prerequisite sacrifice before the final part of the summoning. Such rituals and occult magics are typically theatrical, and what's more theatrical than a theatre performance itself?"
"Eep," Enid squeaked. "Okay, so we've got to stop that play!"
"Indeed, but I believe there haven't been enough sacrifices yet; the number ten is significant. His crown has ten spires, Carcosa had ten members of its royal council, and Hastur had ten priests," Wednesday said.
"There have been eight victims so far," Agnes said. "Two more..."
Wednesday stood. "Correct. We can't prevent the sacrifices for certain. We will continue to work towards that goal, but our primary focus should be stopping the ritual. The performance after the tenth sacrifice will be the finale. This has gone from being a murder investigation to a potential apocalyptic event; the stakes have been raised catastrophically."
Wednesday began delegating tasks, deciding they were going to attempt to predict who the next victims were. She put Agnes to work finding a list of people who had purchased tickets to the show, and Enid prepared a list of factors that could identify a future victim. While she looked further into the mythology of the King in Yellow for anything that could potentially be useful. She knew the chances of locating a future victim were slim, but they had to explore every avenue available, at least until all her contacts got back to her. It irritated Wednesday that she was hamstrung by waiting for information; she wanted to be taking action, not sitting around reading books and waiting on others.
Agnes got the list. She and Enid were going over it when Fiona walked in the door. "Hi Enid," she said with a smile.
Enid glanced up from her computer screen to see who it was and brightened when she saw the journalist. "Fiona! Hi! Thank god you're here! Wednesday's been going mental waiting for your report, she's…." Enid jumped as she turned to gesture to the staircase leading to Wednesday's office, and Wednesday was standing right beside her.
"I told you to email me," Wednesday said.
"I know, but I was in the neighbourhood, so I thought I would stop by and say hello and hand it to you the old fashioned way," Fiona said with a grin.
Wednesday huffed.
Fiona handed her a folder. "I did some digging and asked around. I got a complete cast list with addresses and contact numbers of both the cast and crew. Also, the production team and details on everybody involved from ticketing companies to the doorman," she said with no small amount of pride. "And a load of other info. I don't know how valuable it is, but it might be useful. The real thing of note you asked me for was interesting. The playwright is some Italian guy no one has heard of before. He seems to have appeared out of nowhere with this fantastic script in hand and made a name for himself just like that," Fiona said, clicking her fingers.
Wednesday opened the dossier and began reading; the playwright's name was there with the credits. "Sergio Rossi," she read. "He is the source of all this. A willing and capable servant of the King in Yellow or a clueless, useful idiot? He found the script, then used his connections to get it into the possession of someone reputable on Broadway. Ronald McGuire, the director. He is a veteran?"
Fiona nodded. "Yeah, he's won a few awards for his productions. Prior to this, he directed the adaptation of Beetlejuice: The Musical."
"So we attack the source. Is Mister Rossi still stateside?"Wednesday asked.
"No, he returned to Italy last week. He wasn't here on a visa, so he could only be in the US for three months before he had to return home," Fiona explained. "He came to see the play get into production, stayed for an extra week or so, then went home."
Wednesday paused as she considered their options.
"How do you know all this?" Enid asked, suspicious.
Fiona smirked. "I'm a journalist; it's my job to know things."
Enid narrowed her eyes.
"Travelling to Italy to interrogate Rossi is a risky gambit that will consume time we don't possess. We don't know enough about the nature of our enemy to know if it would yield any tangible results. It could solve everything, highly improbable, or it could be a complete waste of time," Wednesday said. "What we do know is the play is in production here. The King in Yellow and his agents are operating here, so we will focus our efforts on what we can confront."
"King in Yellow and his agents?" Fiona asked. "What are you talking about?"
"The play has awakened the power of an entity whose name shares its title. The King's servants are behind the Question Mark Killer murders in a pre-ritual series of sacrifices to prepare for a summoning ritual. The King in Yellow is seeking entrance into our world, an act prophesied to commence with a wave of plague and sickness that will devastate humanity, thus triggering a literal Armageddon. We believe this ritual will take place during a performance after a required ten sacrifices have been successful," Wednesday explained, deadpan and matter of fact.
Fiona stared at her in stunned silence, unable to determine if she was serious or not. Wednesday didn't have much of a sense of humour, so it wasn't a joke. Fiona looked to Enid and Agnes, a look of uncertainty on her face as she tried to gauge their reactions.
"I am deadly serious," Wednesday insisted.
Fiona nodded and breathed deep, letting out a long exhale. "Ooohhh, okay, that's a lot! What do we do?"
"We need to prepare for the coming conflict. We must stop the ritual from taking place no matter the cost," Wednesday said, her eyes flashing with fierce determination.
Her phone rang. It was Gallows.
"Hopefully Detective Gallows has information we can utilise." She answered the phone. "What have you found?"
"I've got a definitive answer for you already. We had to call all the victims' contacts and establish interview times. Long story short, I threw in a question about the nightmares and four of the six confirmed the victims had been having nightmares or severe sleep disturbances in the past few weeks. The other two were unable to assert anything. One lived alone; the other's roommate said it wasn't discussed and they didn't notice anything."
A look of satisfaction briefly crossed Wednesday's face. "Excellent, we can confirm a connection between the victims."
"Yeah, but not everyone who saw it had nightmares. A few of the spouses we spoke to didn't. Fazio, his wife said he had terrible nightmares the last week, yet she slept fine," Gallows pointed out.
"Enid didn't have any dreams either," Wednesday confirmed.
"Why do you think that is?" Gallows asked.
"At present all we can do is speculate. Perhaps the play only really affects more psychically sensitive individuals. Ensure you ask questions relating to any history of psychic ability or sensitivity."
"Okay, if you think it'll help," Gallows agreed.
Wednesday ended the call and turned back to the others. "I am still awaiting intelligence from another source. But we have to focus on the immediate threat and formulate a plan to disrupt the ritual. Which means researching what the specific ritual is and what it involves. We can't plan to counter something we don't understand. She began thinking, dictating tasks to them. "Fiona, I require an expert on summoning rituals, preferably someone who is capable of performing them and is willing to participate. We are going to need all the expertise we can gather."
"Done. I'll have someone within twenty-four hours," Fiona replied.
"Hhhmm, that fast?" Agnes said.
"My mum's long been part of New York's outcast social scene. The siren community is close-knit and connected. When you throw in Mum playing the role of socialite, it creates a very well-connected and informed network," Fiona explained.
"Enid, search all the online databases, encyclopedias, and guides to summoning magic you can. Collect all relevant information that may be useful."
"Right! I'm gonna need a pizza, some BLACKPINK, and a whole lot of caffeine, and I'll be ready to rumble!" Enid said with enthusiasm.
Wednesday turned to Agnes. "Consult my library and determine whatever you can concerning summoning rituals and related sacrifices."
Agnes gaped at her. "Huh? But I don't...."
The rest of her protest was cut off as Wednesday glared at her.
Wednesday said nothing further as she picked up her coat and put it on, taking up her gloves and slipping them on as she walked for the door.
"Hey, where are you going?" Fiona asked.
"I have...errands to run."
Wednesday Addams stood behind her car with the trunk open, her breathing heavier than normal as she fixed her messy hair and regained her composure, controlling her breathing and willing her pulse to come back down to a normal pace.
There was a thud from inside the trunk as a muffled voice began screaming.
Wednesday looked into the trunk and frowned in annoyance. "Sssh! I insist that you cease being difficult. This will be considerably easier and far less unpleasant if you cooperate."
The muffled screaming continued as she sighed and rolled her eyes, shutting the trunk to stifle the sounds of the irritating and dramatic screaming.
Agnes opened the door to the equipment and supply room and turned on the light. She flinched in surprise at the sight that greeted her. Tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth, a young woman who had been sobbing looked up and began struggling against her bindings, her words muffled as Agnes studied her, processing the scene. She tilted her head. "Hhhmmm, isn't that odd," she said, then shrugged, turned off the light, and closed the door.
Agnes walked into reception. "Enid, do you know why there's a woman bound and gagged in the equipment room?"
Enid's hands froze over her keyboard as she turned to regard Agnes. "No. I certainly don't," she replied, wide-eyed. "I would ask you the same, but since we both have no idea….." she trailed off.
She stood up, her movements stiff and mechanical as she made her way down the hallway, Agnes following her.
Enid opened the door and reached inside, flicking the light switch. The light flashed to life, displaying the young blonde woman who'd been sitting bound and gagged in the dark. Enid gasped as she and Agnes stared from the doorway. She looked up and met their gaze, making no effort to struggle as she sat there looking forlorn and helpless. Enid turned the lights off and on again, as if to make sure she was actually there and not an optical illusion. She remained in place, rolling her eyes as if knowing what Enid was testing.
"What are you doing?" A stern voice demanded as they both jumped, and Wednesday was suddenly there.
"Wednesday, why is there someone tied up in the equipment room?" Enid asked, pointing at the young woman.
"There is?" Wednesday asked, then stepped forward and peeked inside before looking back to Enid, her expression impassive. "So there is. It appears I put her there."
Enid narrowed her eyes, scrunched up her nose, and shook her head. "And why did you put her there?"
"She is a cast member of The King in Yellow. We need to create an opening in the cast so we can insert an agent into the production. It provides us with the opportunity to conduct reconnaissance, gather intelligence, and adjust our plans accordingly. While having an agent nearby when the ritual commences," Wednesday explained.
"Oh my god!" Enid cried, burying her head in her hands. "I'm an accessory to kidnapping; that's a serious crime." She gave a horrified squeak. "I'm going to jail!" Enid cried, chewing her nails. "I can't go to jail; I'm too cute to go to jail!" She wailed. Enid stiffened and puffed out her cheeks. "I can't let you do this, Wednesday! This time you've gone too far!"
Wednesday's glare was ice. "Agnes."
Agnes grabbed Enid by the arm in an iron grip as Enid shot her a look of utter betrayal.
"Get a hold of yourself!" Wednesday demanded. "This is preferable to the alternative," she said, reminding Enid what was at stake, motioning for them to follow her into the briefing room.
Enid paused then nodded, taking a moment to collect herself. "Okay, okay….you're right. We've got to think of the bigger picture."
She sat at the table and took a deep breath, then looked at Wednesday. "So, what's the plan?"
"As I stated, we get an agent onto the cast. While I will infiltrate the crew, so we have two agents with fast and easy access to the stage. Fiona will be in the crowd with the other and her sorcerer to assess the situation and provide assistance where it is necessary and interfere with the ritual. Detectives Gallows and Doyle will storm the venue with a heavy police presence, conducting crowd control and arresting the King's acolytes as they commence cleanup operations," Wednesday explained.
"How many acolytes do you think he has?" Agnes asked.
"Judging from the information we have gathered on summoning rituals, it's not a simple undertaking. I estimate between four and six individuals."
"So who's going to replace our actress?" Enid asked.
Wednesday stared at her impassively as their gazes met. Enid looked at Agnes and saw her staring back with her unsettling wide-eyed stare, a smirk on her lips.
Enid's expression turned to one of dawning horror as the colour drained from her face. "….Me?…oh no! No! No! No!" She insisted, shaking her head defiantly.
Enid huffed as she blew some strands of hair out of her eyes and put on her best performance smile, summoning all the enthusiasm she could as she burst into the room. "Hi! I'm Erin! I'm replacing Melissa for the role of Cecelia," she said, extending a hand towards the director. He shook it with a smile. "Thank you for taking the role at such short notice. I know it's a lot, but thankfully you've only got thirty lines."
Enid chuckled nervously, a look of panic in her eyes. "Thirty lines?"
The director beamed at her. "I'm sure you'll do fine! Go see Patricia and she'll see you're all set for rehearsal."
She forced a smile and nodded. "Of course! Mind over matter; I just have to apply myself!" Enid said with a definitive nod and more confidence than she felt. Her eyes widened as she noticed the director held a copy of the script rolled in one hand, and in the other he clutched an old book with "The King in Yellow" written on the spine. She had to get that book and pry the original script away from him. If they couldn't confiscate it and shut the production down, the whole deadly nightmare could begin again.
"Come on! Come on, people! Let's get moving! We begin in twenty minutes!" the director, Ronald McGuire, cried, clapping.
People bustled about on stage as she sought out Patricia, trying to wrap her mind around everything she had to do. She had to determine when in the play the ritual would commence; discover who the king's disciples were, and who the ringleader was, get that book, and all while remaining undercover, learning her lines and delivering a convincing performance. "Right, no pressure," she said to herself.
They came to the scene where the King in Yellow descends to the stage at the start of the third act when six figures in the dark blue robes of the acolytes came on stage. Enid gave a whimper. Of course it was during this part of the play! It was the most ritualistic, most theatrical and dramatic part of the whole performance. The blue robes replacing the black ones they had worn previously. Were those playing the roles of the priests his acolytes? It seemed far too easy, but then it didn't have to be difficult. But she still had no idea who the ringleader was.
"Don't worry about it! It's just a rehearsal!" The woman who played Cassilda said with a reassuring smile. "You did good for your first time with a new script. I'm sure you'll be great tomorrow night!"
Enid smiled and nodded, muttering a small thank you, as she fought to keep her composure. Inside she was screaming. There was no way she would be able to remember all that by tomorrow night!
She wrung her hands together with a worried whine. Enid had a copy of the script for rehearsal, and all things considered, she managed to survive and not make a fool of herself, although a few cast members were clearly unimpressed with her performance.
Mr McGuire approached her when they were all preparing to leave and she was getting a drink of water.
"Good job, Erin!" he smiled. "But I need to know you're going to be ready to knock 'em dead tomorrow night!" He said enthusiastically.
Enid grinned. "You bet!" She froze as an icy shiver raced up her spine, and she took a step back. His eyes shone with a glint of yellow when they had been hazel before.
"What's wrong?" He asked, concerned. "Are you feeling overwhelmed?"
Enid forced a big smile. "Nope! Just very excited!" She swallowed hard and flashed him another smile and a thumbs-up. "Tomorrow night's going to be a night to remember!"
"….and then his eyes turned yellow!" Enid finished, bristling with excitement.
Agnes' eyes widened.
Wednesday, impassive, nodded.
"So he's possessed by the king?" Agnes asked.
"Unlikely. To the extent of my considerable knowledge, trans-dimensional possession is not possible," Wednesday replied.
Fiona and her companion burst into the briefing room. "Sorry we're late. The morning traffic is a nightmare in this damn fog!" she said, flustered as she plonked herself into a seat.
Wednesday shot her a look of irritation. "The most likely scenario is a case of significant supernatural influence where Hastur has Mr. McGuire unknowingly doing his bidding. His heavy involvement in the production and his close proximity to the original script. It provides Hastur with an opportunity to impress a psychic influence on his unwitting servant. For all practical intents and purposes the end result is the same," Wednesday explained.
Enid made an O face. "That's why you didn't think it was worth pursuing Rossi? He was unknowingly doing the king's bidding?"
"Correct. The fact he likely stumbled upon the script and saw an opportunity to benefit from it financially suggests he was under a strong influence from Hastur," Wednesday said. "Such entities can wield a strong influence over the weak minded who are easily manipulated by appeals to their sense of vanity or greed."
Agnes shuddered. "Ugh, somehow that seems even creepier. He's the puppet master and they don't even know they're the puppets."
Wednesday turned her attention to Fiona. "You've acquired the assistance of a ritual expert?"
Fiona nodded. "Yep! This is Theodore," she said, gesturing at the ageing man beside her, who looked the stereotype of a college professor, glasses, tweed jacket and all.
Agnes put a hand over her mouth to stifle a fit of giggles.
Wednesday shot her a dirty look, then turned to Theodore.
"You're an expert in ritual and summoning magic?"
"Indeed I am," he confirmed.
She gave a curt nod and explained the presence of the yellow sign at the crime scenes and the nature of the play. "Our research was largely inconclusive as to the specifics of the ritual being conducted. We have a lot of general knowledge of summoning rituals as a result, but nothing appropriate for these sort of ceremonies."
"That's understandable. The sort of ritual that meets the criteria of what we're looking at is an archaic, yet extremely powerful magic," Theodore said. "The type of summoning rituals that invoke a blood sacrifice typically involve the sacrifices being conducted at the time and place of the summoning. The chances of error are significantly less. However, considering the location of the summoning it's not a viable option. Alternatively a containment vessel of some description for the…..energy derived from the sacrifice is typically used and deployed at the commencement of the ritual. Here we have no such instruments. Instead the conductor of the energy is the occult symbol of the yellow sign itself, the sigil of Hastur."
"So the sign is like a battery and the murders are charging it?" Enid asked.
He nodded. "To put it simply, yes. An incantation would be chanted while painting the signs, then another would be chanted at the ritual itself to unlock the accumulated power. Which combined with the theatrical performance and chants of the acolytes would summon Hastur and enable him to pass through a portal and into our world," Theodore explained.
"We must destroy the yellow sign at the ritual to prevent the energy from being utilised, correct?" Wednesday asked.
"Correct. Either destroying it physically or tarnishing its image will work well enough," Theodore agreed.
"The situation is dire," Wednesday said. "Gallows rang this morning and informed me that there was another double homicide last night. The crime was discovered minutes after it had occurred."
Enid gasped. "The next performance is tonight!"
Wednesday nodded. "We have to accelerate our plans as a result. We have little time to organise and plan, but we must stop this ritual at all costs." She looked to Fiona and Theodore. "What kind of skills do you possess to interfere with the ritual?"
Theodore shook his head. "None. I'm a professor, not a practitioner. I'm afraid I can't be of much help."
Fiona nodded in agreement. "Sorry Wednesday, but I'm not a fighter. I don't know what I could do in such a situation."
"You're a siren," Wednesday retorted. "Your skill could be extremely useful in exerting an influence over the acolytes on stage or subduing the audience."
Fiona shook her head. "I'd like to, but I can't. I haven't used my ability since…..the incident." She and Theodore stood to leave. "It's been years, I'm not even sure I can anymore. I can't risk a relapse, the temptation to use my ability, especially in my line of work would be too great."
Wednesday glared at her in barely restrained anger.
"I'm not a fighter either!" Enid protested. "You….you think I know how do deal with all this?" she asked, waving a hand around. "Well, I don't. But someone needs to! And if you just sit back when you could be helping, but don't, it….." she trailed off unable to finish her sentence.
They watched Fiona and Theodore shuffle out, as Fiona avoided eye contact with them.
Wednesday inhaled. "The odds against our favour just increased significantly. I'll contact Gallows, get him with Agnes in the crowd. Doyle will have to lead the police raid himself." She paused. "…..we have to devise a plan."
Enid was so nervous she couldn't stop her hands from shaking, so she wrung them together. That looked just as bad, so she went to shove them into her pockets and remembered she was in costume. She forced them into her lap while her makeup was applied.
"Nervous about the show?" The makeup artist asked.
Enid flashed her a smile. "Something like that. I just hope everything goes according to plan; otherwise we're doomed."
The artist chuckled. "It certainly seems like that. But don't worry, if things don't go perfectly it's not the end of the world."
Enid emitted a nervous whine. "Oh you have no idea."
A member of the crew moved into the alleyway for a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long puff as, from the shadows, something small and nimble darted towards him without a sound. Wednesday's hand struck like a cobra, jabbing him in the neck as he croaked in surprise and went limp, collapsing in a heap. Wednesday retrieved his crew lanyard and slipped inside through the back door.
Agnes and Gallows made their way through the crowd to their seats, halfway up the aisles of the dress circle. An excellent view of the stage, but further away than they would've liked.
Agnes was dressed in an elegant evening gown, fancy fan in hand as she fanned herself.
Gallows was dressed in a trendy suit, sans tie, looking ready for action. "You're a bit overdressed," he said.
Agnes scoffed. "A lady always endeavours to look her finest. Plus, if this really is the end of the world, I want to go out looking fabulous," she said, as she scanned the stage.
"Fair enough, but that dress isn't very practical."
"Silence!" With a flick of her wrist, she folded the fan. "I shall tolerate none of your insolence!" she snapped; another flick and the fan slapped his ear, hard.
"Ow! Jesus! What the hell's wrong with you?" Gallows protested, rubbing his ear.
Some people nearby chuckled in amusement as they took their seats. Agnes settled into her seat with all the dignity and poise she could muster.
The performance began. Enid took the stage early in the first act and killed it, remembering her lines and delivering them like her life depended on it.
Above the stage, among the scaffolding and lighting rigs, a shadow moved overhead, watching everything with a predator's gaze as it moved with feline grace.
Gallows was reassured by the feeling of the gun at his side. Agnes watched with the detachment of a regular theatre attendee absorbed by the performance.
The performance continued without any issues until the beginning of the third act when the King in Yellow made his dramatic entrance.
The expansive banner baring the yellow sign was rolled out onto the stage. The six acolytes in their blue robes marched on stage chanting like they always did in this scene, but this time their chant was different. It was more primal and sinister as the chant increased in volume, filling the theatre.
Enid took her cue and began to intercept a robed figure, grabbing him by the robe as she yanked it hard, making him stumble as another rushed towards her and grabbed her arm.
The one who had stumbled regained his footing and grabbed her other arm as, with a snarl that was all grit teeth and lupine rage, she yanked her arm free of the acolyte in front of her and kicked him square in the crotch, doubling him over in pain as she span on the other and, extending her claws, raked a hand at his chest.
He brought his free hand up instinctively to ward off the blow as Enid's claws shredded his forearm and blood spattered across the robe as he screamed in agony and released her.
Wednesday leapt from the scaffolding, grabbing hold of a lower lighting rig, and used her momentum to swing herself through the air as she descended towards the stage.
The acolyte turned just in time to see her boot collide with his face as he went down like a tonne of bricks.
Wednesday rolled as she hit the stage and came up in a crouched fighting stance, ready for action.
The crowd burst into a murmur of confused conversation; this clearly wasn't part of the show.
"What's happening, Harry?" A woman behind Gallows and Agnes demanded.
"We'd better get moving," Gallows said, turning to look to Agnes. Her seat was empty.
"Shit!" he cursed as he stood and began making his way into the aisle and down towards the orchestral pit.
The director was screaming in fury, gesturing at Enid and Wednesday like a madman as he shouted at the actors. His eyes flashed a malevolent yellow as several of the actors near Enid converged on her and started grabbing her, three people restraining her as she snarled and threw one off of her with surprising strength, only for two others to grab hold of her.
The yellow sign on the stage floor began to glow and pulse with an increasingly bright light.
Two stagehands rushed towards Wednesday as she dodged aside from one's lunge at her and ducked under another, jabbing a hand up into his solar plexus as he gave a grunt of pain and staggered backwards.
One of the actors restraining Enid released her and staggered aside as her elbow smashed him in the face. "Wednesday! Help!" she cried, being swarmed by the cast. Enid grappled with Cassilda as the other woman tried to drag her to the floor. "You don't understand. We've got….to stop….this ritual!" Enid said through gritted teeth as she made eye contact with Cassilda and saw her eyes were yellow. "Uh oh!"
Wednesday side kicked another in the gut and pivoted, jumping into the air and bringing her other leg up and booting another in the chest, sending him sprawling across the stage.
Meanwhile, on the high point of the stage, a fog from smoke machines billowed out over the stage, blanketing it in a grey mist as a ring of flames burst to life and the King in Yellow made his appearance. The actor froze in place, not knowing what to make of the scene before him as the audience looked on in stupefied disbelief.
Then, above the yellow sign, a swirling vortex began to gather, and people rushed to avoid it.
The audience began to scream, shaken out of their shock by the supernatural event taking place before their eyes.
McGuire watched in wide-eyed fascination as the vortex swirled and grew. He yelped in sudden pain as his leg gave out at the knee and something hit him in the head as he fell on his rear and dropped the book he was clutching. To his utter astonishment, it rose up by itself and began to float away, before Agnes appeared and began fleeing through the crowd.
The doors to the auditorium burst open as several dozen uniformed officers led by Detective Doyle burst in, only adding to the chaos as they attempted to subdue the audience, some of whom were panicking.
Gallows drew his gun, firing several rounds high into the stage as members of the cast and crew screamed and began to flee.
The last three of the acolytes continued their chanting; the vortex swirled and grew to the size of a large TV as what resembled a star-filled night sky appeared on the other side.
Wednesday hissed and made for the sigil in the centre of the stage.
A member of the crew grabbed at her as she dodged around him and several cast members. The flash of a blade, a spray of crimson gore as he screamed with agony as she opened a long, deep gash in his forearm, and he leapt away from her. Time was running out and she was done playing.
Two of the acolytes withdrew nasty looking knives and converged on Wednesday, desperate to stop her.
Gallows fired again. One…two…three shots riddled one of the acolytes as he convulsed with the gunshot wounds and collapsed in a rapidly expanding pool of blood.
Another stagehand ran at Wednesday from behind, a metal bar raised above his head. He stumbled and fell face-down, Agnes appearing behind him, having swept his legs out from under him.
The other acolyte was almost upon Wednesday when Enid, running on all fours, leapt onto him and crash-tackled him as he screamed in terror.
With the path now open to her, Wednesday rushed up to the sigil, took out the bag o' soup satchel from within her top, popped the nozzle and squeezed it hard, spraying blue paint all over the sigil as the yellow sign immediately began to hiss and burn. "Oops," she declared as McGuire began to scream. "Nooooo! You idiot!"
The vortex began to shimmer and crackle with displaced energy as Wednesday watched it die. Then he appeared.
Hastur, the King in Yellow, stood on the other side of the vortex, his pale yellow mask studying her as he radiated rage and hatred. "Aruk sull seeka ylem chamore zak! He bellowed, his voice an ethereal and menacing hiss as he raised a hand and pointed a pale yellow finger at her from beneath his flowing robes.
Wednesday glared back at him. "You've lost your highness," she said, the last words dripping with sarcasm. "And I refuse to be intimidated by someone who would wear such a gaudy outfit," she said deadpan, her dark gaze burning into his as the vortex shivered and died, collapsing in on itself as the theatre became very abruptly and eerily silent.
The End.