Plot: When Harry was eight, Fester Addams found him abandoned. He is quickly brought into the Addams Family and adopted. He stays hidden until he is seventeen, when the Wizarding World suddenly comes knocking. How will he adapt to the world that expects so much of him? Will he do as expected, rebel, or cause all sorts of havoc with his collection of cleavers?
Chapter 1: The Little Boy
Fester Addams never left the family estate at 0001 Cemetery Lane. He had learned his father's lessons well and he took them to heart. His father taught him that he wasn't supposed to meet people from beyond the house and wouldn't let him touch a battle axe -a favorite toy of every child in the Addams family- until he was eight. Even after his beloved father finally joined their ancestors in the graveyard, he had followed all of his rules.
Well, most of the time.
This night was just such a night. He had left their family home to visit a distant relative, a cousin who had been lost in the Siberian wilderness for years until he was found stranded on an iceberg near the North Pole. The old man had always loved cold weather. Strangely, his dear cousin had refused to return to the States. He'd moved to England for some reason that Fester could not fathom. Sure, the history of crime and punishment was fascinating and Morticia often told the children stories about the many decapitations that the English had preformed. His cousin, however, hadn't moved to an area where beheadings were common and Iron Maidens were rare.
His dear cousin had moved to this boring and bright neighborhood with colorful flowerbeds and pruned gardens. The streets were all clean and the sidewalks swept. There wasn't a bat or a raven in sight. Nothing dreadful about it and Fester hated it.
At least there is a nice full moon to enjoy, he thought as he snuggled down in his heavy robe and cowl. It's always so relaxing, although nothing can truly beat my screw press or the rack. Too bad Cousin Muerto got rid of his.
With the heavy sigh, he glanced around him at the silent houses and shuddered. So peculiar. He didn't understand how anyone could live here. They must be so unhappy. Who would willingly remove the weeds from their yards? Such beautiful thorns and thick bark.
Suddenly, something caught his attention. It was hidden in the shadows, crouched along a garden wall. It was hunched over, tiny hands gripping its knees. The dark hair that was set upon its head was thick and unruly, just like Morticia'a favorite crawling poison ivy. Heavy despair washed off the tiny body like smoke from Gomez's cigars or his sister's brew.
A shiver ran up his spine. The amount of misery and darkness was just riveting. This being –as it a changeling or a dryad perhaps- was full of despair, but he didn't see a torture device in sight. No swords or whips or anything of the sort. What then caused this despair?
He cackled in delight. Perhaps the creature had something disastrous hidden on it!
The creature looked up and another shiver ran through him. The creature wasn't a creature at all, but a boy! A haunt, bloodied, and bruised little boy.
How precious, he thought with a smile. But those rags won't do. Not a piece of heavy velvet or wool in sight in. Not nearly dreary enough and all too revealing.
He frowned as the boy noticed him and began to slink away, pulling further and further into the shadows. The green eyes were luminescent in the dark, glowing like a cat's, but narrowed with suspicion. The curled fingers brushed against the sidewalk as the child backed away.
"Wait!" he cried, taking a step towards the terrified child.
The boy paused and his eyes widened, fixing Fester with a wary stare.
"What is you name?" he asked. "You look like a lovely, dark boy. Please, tell me your name."
The boy seemed to curl in one himself, bunching his shoulders and pulling his head down into his thin body. As a cold wind blew by, the gaunt body shivered and quaked.
Fester's frown returned and grew heavy, concerned. He had thought the boy was like an Addams, ordinary in this strange and peculiar world. Now, he was not so sure. The boy surely had an inner darkness that he could sense, the electricity raging through his body with each moment that he was in the boy's presence, but there was something more. This kind of hurt was the one that he would never inflict upon his own family, certainly not one so young a boy. Wednesday couldn't be more than a year or two older.
"What is your name?" he repeated, kneeling down to the boy's height.
"I- I don't know," the raspy voice replied, high and cracking.
"You don't have a name?" Fester asked. "Well that is peculiar. Even my great-uncle had one, a beautiful one to be sure: Noname."
The boy's mouth jerked a little, but it quickly retreated back into the firm line it had been in before.
"Well," Fester continued, "Where do you live?"
The boy crept forward slowly, crawling on his hands and knees to the corner of the brick wall. He glanced around the edge to focus his green eyes far down the street on one of the many white houses. Raising a skinny finger, he pointed to the home of a most egregious family or so his cousin told Fester.
The husband was a hulk of a man, but nothing like Lurch's strong physique. He worked for a nearby company, selling drills. The very idea made Fester growl. Why sell them and not use them? The wife looked quite like a horse, thin and narrow of face. She stayed a home, but spent all of her day staring over the fence at the neighbors. Then there was the son. A monster he was, playing without the right equipment. As far as Muerto knew, he didn't have a blade or whip in his possession, yet all of his friends came back with bruises and cuts.
"Ah, you live with them. Tell me, does your cousin have many toys?" he asked.
The boy nodded slowly, frowning.
"Like Pears of Anguish, coffins and whips?" Fester asked, becoming excited once again.
"W-well," the boy replied, "They don't have any coffins and only the Lady likes pears, but-" Gulping and his eyes watering, the boy murmured, "-Sir likes the w-whips."
Eyes widening in terror, the boy scurried away, his worn shoes scraping on the concrete. Fester watched as the boy scrambled to his feet only to fall a moment later, his legs unable to support him. His head slammed against the concrete, cracking loudly as his forehead hit the ground.
Rushing after the boy, Fester crouched down beside him, examining the thin boy's body. Through the rips in his clothes, he could see several bleeding wounds and large bruises, which were already changing to a dark shade of purple. Older wounds and scars, those that were healed and halfway healed, adorned the boy's back and arms. His legs were largely untouched, but they were thin and stick-like. Dried blood was caked in his black hair. More blood trickled from between his closed lips, pooling on the concrete.
What a strange boy, Fester thought as he reached under the boy's body and lifted him up into his arms, And such a darkness in him. It's intoxicating. He'll be an absolute killer when he is older. Murderous intentions are usually so hard to detect in a child so young, but his future is so clear. I have to tell Gomez and Morticia. They would take away my stocks (1) if I didn't.
Straightening, he shuffled down the street towards his cousin's house, only the moon lighting his way. His natural electrical current had disrupted the streetlamps upon arrival. The additional energy surely made him feel closer to death than usual. How exciting.
When the boy awoke, he was confused. As his eyes fluttered open, he found himself staring at a white ceiling, but this one was not slanted like the ceiling of his cupboard. It was flat and free of cobwebs and stains from chemical fumes. Furrowing his eyebrows, he tipped his head slightly. The walls were white and unadorned, although heavy curtains hung in front of the window, blocking out any potential sunlight. He was lying in a four-poster bed that was made of dark wood with gray coverings. His thin hands were set atop a heavy quilt made of various furs stitched together by hand with some sort of sinewy thread. A single door led out to what he assumed was a hallway.
His chest was wrapped in bandages and a once-wet towel had been left on his forehead. All of his wounds had been attended to.
Slowly, he sat up on his elbows and blinked a few times. A single candle was lit on the bedside table, casting shadows across the room. He glanced over at the burning wick, fixing his green gaze on the small flame. With a quick glance around, he pushed himself up onto his knees and crawled towards it, hunkering down to stare up at the flickering flare from below.
As he stared, a small smile flitted across his face, his mouth morphing into a wicked smirk. Unbeknownst to him, his teeth became long and pointed, morphing into a full set of fangs. His fingernails grew out, sharp and dangerous. The dark hair turned to an even darker shade, as black as black could be, so gloomy a shade that it was soaked up any color thrown from the other objects around the room.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and the boy jerked back, nearly falling out of the bed. The door opened and the strange man he'd met earlier stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The boy's eyes widened as he once again took in the appearance of Fester Addams. To most, he would have been a horror, but the boy found his heavy clothing and bald head to be quite endearing. He was tempted to steal the man's cloak and wrap himself in it.
"Ah, you're awake!" he cackled happily as he stepped over to the bed.
The boy tipped his head to the side, fixing the man with a quizzical stare, which the man returned in full.
"It was hard for us to patch you up. I never have been good with healing poultices and things. I always made them so strong that the wounds just grow," the man continued.
"Never ask me why. Such a useless word," the man laughed, waving his hand dramatically, "But I suppose I should explain. You interest me. You're exactly like an Addams, but I have never heard of there being a relative such as yourself. So dark and menacing for someone so small and young; its wonderful!"
The boy straightened where he sat, his eyebrows furrowing further. He clasped his hands on top of his thighs, his legs tucked under his body. It would have been so uncomfortable for anyone else, but the boy had become used to the position and he preferred it above all other ways of sitting.
"You see, my name is Fester Addams. My family and I are from the US, although we do still have several cousins living in ancient castles and caves throughout Europe. Quite romantic, if you ask me. Anyway, I just had to get to know you. So few people are like us, even if we are so normal, but then you hit your head there and passed out so I brought you here."
"Here?" the boy asked.
"My cousin Muerto's house. He lives just a few blocks over from where your family does," Fester said.
"F-family? I don't have a family," the boy replied.
"No family? But my cousin said that you lived with that family, the Dursleys," Fester said.
"T-they're not my family. I work for Sir and the Lady. Dudley is their only son," the boy murmured.
"Why that's horrible!" Fester cried. "You have no family at all?"
The boy shook his head. "Sir said they abandoned me on their step when I was a baby."
Fester jerked back, his mouth setting into a firm line of concern. "What kind of family were you part of? No Addams would leave their family behind like that, certainly not with such strange and peculiar people as the Dursleys."
With a sigh, the boy nodded in agreement. He had seen how families acted and the Dursleys, despite raising him, certainly didn't consider him a part of it. Families took care of each other and accepted each other. The Dursleys did neither of those things with him.
"I must speak with Morticia about this," Fester murmured to himself before he scurried away.
The boy remained where he was, considering his current position as he waited for the strange man to return. The Dursleys had kicked him out into the back garden the night before, calling him freak and monster and all sorts of things. He didn't mind the name-calling, but the slices, cuts, and welts hurt in a way that he did mind. They did not inflict his wounds in good fun as he sometimes did to himself. They did it to make him like them, to rid him of the "evil" they proclaimed him to bear.
Sighing, he lay down on the hard bed and resumed staring at the ceiling once again. His internal clock told him that it must be at least one or two in the afternoon, far too bright for his pale skin. The Dursleys will be angry with him for making their breakfast, lunch or whatever else.
"What do you mean, Fester? He has no family?" the delightful voice at the other end of the line asked.
"None at all," Fester replied, shaking his head vigorously. "The people that look after him don't seem to appreciate the boy either. It's a wonder how he came to be with them. From what he said, it seems that someone dropped him off on the doorstep and left him there."
There was a pause at the other end of the line as she thought.
"Hm, that is peculiar. Clearly the family has no pride," she said.
"Clearly or they may be all dead."
"Wonderful," she replied with enthusiasm, her voice rising a little as she spoke. "I must come at once."
"You really want to come all this way, Morticia?" Fester asked.
On the other end of the line, Morticia held the phone delicately in one hand, her other crossed over her chest and settled carefully on her opposite bicep. Her long, sharp fingernails glittered as brightly as her blue eyes. Her pale skin was as supple as ever, her beautiful eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she thought about the future.
Morticia was never one for fortune telling, having always despised the practice. Her dear mother had always loved to tell the fortune of any passersby who were also winning to pay. It was so becoming of someone of their kind and after Morticia had married, clearly unbecoming of an Addams. This one time, however, she was quite willing to indulge in her hidden abilities, those that not even Grandmama was aware of.
Even from hundreds of miles away, Morticia could see some of the young boy's future. He was dark in his heart deepest of hearts and would thoroughly enjoy everything that being a member of the Addams family could give him. He could play with all of the knives, bats, and dunking stools he desired. He and Pugsley could destroy trains together, dodging Wednesday's guillotines and flying knives. Fencing would be an everyday lesson. The boy would be the perfect Addams son.
Moticia had even planned his first toy. She had made it especially for him with the help of her children and Thing, who was always willing to give a hand. It was a flail, complete with a heavy chain made of the thickest steel and a ball with over forty spikes. It was perfect.
The only trouble was going to be that horridly strange Dursley family, but Morticia was never unprepared.
"I will be on the first plane to London tonight, Fester. I want to meet this boy you've found. He sounds like a wonderful addition for the family."
The boy awoke the next morning to a most beautiful woman by his bedside. She was tall and lean, gently seated upon the wooden chair with her hands placed gracefully in her lap. Her long hair, black, thick, and straight, fell easily over his shoulders, blending perfectly into the equally dark shade of her figure-hugging dress. Her lips were morphed into a most fascinating smile, one that spelled out pure and unadulterated mischief. The blue eyes were fixed on him, unwavering as a light as the pale, unblemished skin of her face.
"Hello, darling," she cooed as he sat up and stared at her. "I hope the bed was comfortable enough for you. It seems that Cousin Muerto has taken to sleeping on this spring mattress. Terribly uncomfortable, I would believe."
The boy stared opened mouthed at the woman before him, unsure of what to say. He knew that he had never met this woman before, but there was a familiar quality to her. She emanated a dark aura, the kind that seeps into the walls and the floors and refuses to leave. Slowly, he placed his hand above his head, pressing down in an attempt to ease the slowing of his heartbeat down to a less-than-normal level.
"My name is Morticia Addams. I believe that you have met my Uncle Fester," she continued, a knowing glint in her eyes.
"O-Oh, yeah," the boy replied bashfully, ducking his head a little. "He was the one who brought me here."
"How lovely. Oh, pardon me darling, but have you eaten yet? Fester is usually so affectionate and loving with children, but sometimes things just slip away from him occasionally," she murmured.
The boy nodded vigorously and his lips perked up into a small smile, closed-mouth smile. "He did. He said it was alligator and brought it to me on a tray and everything. I've never seen that before."
"I hope he decorated it for you," Morticia added.
"W-with a bat that he said he brought with him from Guatemala."
"Perfect, but you are still a growing boy. I am sure that you would like some more. I can fetch it for you."
The boy's eyes widened and he furiously shook his head, his hands gripping the fur quilt tightly. Morticia frowned in concern as she reached out with a pale, clawed hand to touch the boy's face. He stilled instantly, his body jerking as Morticia touched her soft, unspoiled fingers to his face.
"Oh my darling, I am sorry," she breathed.
"F-f-for what?" the boy asked, raising his bright green eyes to her for a moment, his body still shivering.
Sighing deeply, she traced her fingers across his cheek, following the curve of the bruise from his latest beating, behind his ear, and up to his hair. Dragging her hand through it, she examined the thickness and the length. It was wild, but still as tamable as Cleopatra. Slowly, she began to move her hand down his face, pausing at his forehead. Sweeping the dark bangs to one side, she examined the scar on his forehead, her eyes narrowing.
"You don't need to fear me, darling. I won't hurt you."
"You won't?" the boy asked.
"No. I do not hurt my own children, although your new siblings might," Morticia laughed.
"Children? Siblings?" the boy murmured, eyes wide with confusion.
"I want to take you home to where you belong. I want to adopt you. You will become an Addams," Morticia explained, gently taking the boy's hand.
She squeezed it ever so slightly and, after a moment of hesitation, he squeezed back. Smiling, she lifted the tiny hand clasped in hers and placed a gentle kiss along the back of the knuckles. Glancing up, her blue eyes met the boy's impossibly green gaze and she took in the look on his face. His eyes were soft and the muscles in his face were relaxed, smoothing away any lines of worry or stress. There was a slight turn to his head, his chin lowered just so that he had to look up at her. The corners of his lips were turned up so slightly.
He had copied her signature look already. Gomez was going to love him.
Less than 24 hours later, the paperwork was signed and Morticia, Uncle Fester, and the boy were on their way home. After a bit of persuasion on Morticia's part, the Dursley family had willingly signed over their guardianship of the boy before quickly tossing him and all of his belongings (which wasn't much) out onto the street. Uncle Fester had huffed about their lack of manners, but Morticia just smiled indulgently at him.
She, after all, was focused on the boy. After she had met him the morning before, she had spent a little bit more time peering into his future. She dared not look too far ahead, but she did a little investigating regardless.
The boy would blossom into quite a heartbreaker. Not only would he become one of the prettiest members of the family, but dissecting hearts would be a favorite hobby of his. With his knobby knees and gaunt form, he would always be thin and small, but Morticia was not concerned. She did not look so far ahead to see who her newest son would marry, but she automatically knew that whoever he was, he would certainly be taller. Perhaps he would be physically stronger, but no one could defeat her youngest magically. He was darker than dark, after all.
Lurch picked them up at the airport at six o'clock sharp. Morticia had insisted on a night flight for her and her returning family. It was always more comforting to be surrounded in shadows whenever flying. The boy seemed to enjoy it as well and when he met Lurch, he was unaffected by the sheer size of the giant butler. When Morticia introduced them, a most amusing thing happened in fact. The boy shook Lurch's hand and bowed with such precise movements that Morticia was nearly surprised.
Ah yes, Morticia thought as their 1933 Packard, a family relic that once belonged to Great Aunt Disastria Addams, turned onto Cemetery Lane. She glanced over at the boy sitting between her and Uncle Fester, his thick hair whipping around in the wind. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the looming form of the Addams family estate in the distance. He will get along marvelously.
The gate swung open as they approached, latching shut only when the Packard came to a stop in the driveway. Lurch was the first to exit the vehicle, opening the rear driver's side door for Morticia with a low groan and no flair.
"Why thank you Lurch," she cooed as she climbed out of the car.
Taking a few small steps along the gravel drive, she turned to watch the boy clamber out behind her, gaze drawn upwards to stare at the belfry that rose high above them. Morticia clasped her hands together and sighed happily inwardly as she watched the boy's fascinated stare. Reaching out, she took his hand and led him towards the house, his small stride nearly matching hers.
"Now darling, this will be your new home. I hope that you will come to love it as much as the rest of the family does. It has been the residence of the Addams family for many generations, purchased originally by Gomez's great-great-great grandfather when he first came to the United States from Spain. It certainly has not lost any of its charm, wouldn't you agree?" Morticia asked.
"It's beautiful," the boy murmured as Morticia took him up the steps and onto the front porch.
Before she could reply, the front door burst open and a shout of "Cara mía" erupted from the open doorway. Morticia was quickly swept into a hug from behind as the embracing figure fervently kissed at her shoulders and arms. She didn't let go of the boy's hand.
"Ah, Querida, I have missed you so," Gomez Addams cried as he lavished his beloved wife with attention and kisses.
"And I have missed you as well, darling, but," she quickly brushed his face and searching mouth from her right shoulder with a flick of her clawed fingers, "We have more pressing matters."
"Ah yes!" Gomez shouted as he swung around to Morticia's other side, taking in the appearance of the boy clutching her hand.
Kneeling down, he squatted in front of the small boy, a smoking cigar set between his teeth. He grinned at the boy and nodded once, his lips curling up and over his teeth.
Standing, he proclaimed, "He's perfect, Cara Mía! Where ever did Uncle Fester find him?"
"Living near Cousin Muerte," Fester replied from the bottom of the steps.
"Isn't he delightful, Gomez," Morticia cooed as she ushered the boy into the house.
The boy glanced around him at his surroudings, his mouth cringing into a small smile as he took in the entrance hall. It was dark and morbid, battle axes and a large painting of the death of Lord Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar adorning the wallpapered walls. A few lights adorned the four corners of the entrance hall, all shaped like wilting flowers. The floor below his feet was stained a deep color of muddy brown, a single Persian rug filling the center of the hallway. An ornate, French-style table stood in the middle of the room, a black vase filled with the stems of cut roses atop it. The boy decided, even without seeing the rest of the house, that he loved it.
Squeezing the boy's hand, Morticia tore his attention away from the decor and led him into the parlor, knowing that the little boy would find it even more fascinating than the entrance hall. She was right, of course. As soon as he entered the room, he stared with pure delight at the bear rug, the tank of piranhas that stood in the corner, and the various other pieces in the room. The two-headed turtle seemed to be a favorite of his.
"Take a seat, Darling," Morticia said softly as she stepped over to her favorite chair, a whicker armchair adorned with a single small black pillow.
"Wednesday! Pugsley!" Gomez shouted up the stairwell. "Come down here, children."
The boy carefully took a seat on the single couch, a small loveseat decorated in a design of dead leaves and bats, his gaze still moving around the room. Gomez stood just behind him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his smoking jacket and a new cigar fit in his mouth. Fester stood beside Morticia, grinning widely as the sound of explosions rocked the house.
Jerking, the boy stared up at the floor above him as the house around them rocked and swayed from the waves of sound and energy. He glanced back at Morticia, who smiled indulgently.
"Is my new grandson here yet?" Grandmama called as she sauntered into the room, her white hair wilder than normal and sticking up around her like a halo.
"Mama, what happened to your hair?" Morticia asked.
"Stuck my finger in a socket," the old crone cackled. "It was quite exhilarating."
Turning, she fixed her gaze on the boy sitting on the couch. With a toothy grin, she nearly skipped over to him with excitement and took both of his hands in hers. Taking the seat beside his, she stared deep into his green eyes, taking in the pale skin, the dark hair, and the black aura that surrounded him.
"You are quite the beauty, aren't you?" she asked. "You will give my dear cousin Jeers a run for his money. He's a model you know? Always posing for pictures in his favorite leather outfits. Quite a catch."
Suddenly, the sound of pounding feet filled the air and the family looked up to see their two older children come tearing down the stairs. Wednesday came first, her pale face frozen in a look of disinterest, although her rapid step told her family otherwise. Her twin braids flew around her as she tore around the corner of the stair landing, Pugsley's round form not far behind her. The two children stopped at the bottom of the stairs, taking in their new brother.
"He looks nearly dead," Wednesday said with no emotion.
"Perfect, isn't he?" Morticia asked.
"Quite," Wednesday replied, stepping over to the couch.
She stood in front of the younger boy, staring down at him. He met her gaze without fear, only interest. Reaching into her pocket, Wednesday pulled out her favorite bottle of poison and uncorked it. Taking a sniff, she nodded and held it out to the younger boy.
"Try it," she ordered.
Gomez and Morticia exchanged a look as the young boy took the bottle from the girl. Without hesitation, he took a swig and swallowed. Smacking his lips, he smiled sweetly and turned his head in that indulgent twist that he had picked up the day before from Morticia. Handing the poison back to Wednesday, he licked a single remaining drop from his lips.
"It's tasty," he said, his voice smooth for the first time since he'd come into contact with the Addams Family. The burning sensation had healed whatever had been giving him trouble in his throat.
"He's already an Addams, though and through," Gomez cackled, the smoke of his cigar rising around him like a forming cloud.
"What are we going to call you?" Pugsley asked, speaking for the first time.
"Yes, what is your name?" Wednesday asked, her emotionless voice filled with a hint of excitement.
The boy blushed a little and Wednesday grimaced. She would work on fixing that. The rosy color that came over his pale face was most unbecoming.
"I don't have a name," the boy replied.
"Well that just won't do," Grandmama whistled, shaking her head. "You need a proper Addams name. Something with distinction and filled with pride. A boy such as yourself needs a glorious name."
"The Dursleys used to call me Boy or Freak," the child offered.
"No, no," Morticia cried. "We would never call you the same thing as that horrid family. Besides, we already have a Freak in the family. She's the most precious little thing. You need a new name."
"Capitol, my dear," Gomez cried happily.
"Shall we consult the Addams Family book?" Grandmama offered. "Your name was a family name Morticia, named for the founder of the Frump family line, and Wednesday was named for a distant relative of yours wasn't she, Gomez?"
"Right you are, Mama," Morticia giggled calmly. "Darling, to become a true Addams, we will give a purely Addams name! Gomez, would you please go get the Addams Family Tree, please?"
The boy nodded in agreement as the patriarch of the family rushed out, eager to do as his wife commanded. He wasn't picky and he quite liked several of their names. Morticia, Wednesday, Pugsley, Lurch… they all sounded so beautiful to him. They were like nothing he'd ever heard before. Everyone he'd met had been named something so boring, like Petunia or Vernon or Michael. There was no excitement in their names.
Gomez returned with a heafty book under one arm. It was made of leather and bound with a chain and lock. Across the front in large gold letters were written the words: The Addams Family History. Easily unlocking the chain with a twist of her fingernail, Morticia pulled the book open with caution. Suddenly, the book jumped in her hands in an effort to escape, but she held onto it gently, forcing it to stay still as she began turning the pages.
"Vlad Addams? No, not bloody enough. Mordred Addams? No, there was another Mordred two generations ago. Misery? No, too ordinary. Caladium, Elapid, Asphodel-"
"-No no my dear. I think we need something with more strength, more character. After all, he just drank the poison that even gave Wednesday a stomach ache and doesn't seem to be having any problems," Gomez interrupted.
Morticia twitched her mouth back and forth for a moment, flipping rapidly through several more pages in the book. Finally, she found the page she desired and scanned one red nail along the paper.
"Darling," she said softly. "I have it."
Leaning over, Gomez read the name she was pointing to and grinned. "Capitol, cara mía. You always know just the thing."
Morticia nodded in agreement as she looked over at the newest addition to her family. The boy was smiling viciously, proud of his new name and family. He sat up straight in his seat, hands resting gracefully in his lap. He looked every bit an Addams.
referencing the medieval punishment device of course.
H.H. Holmes was a serial killer who set up his three-story home as a ver intricate system of tunnels, hallways, and rooms used for torture and experiments. He was convicted of four murders (but confessed to killing more than 27 others) before he was hanged in 1896.