It was completely dumbfounding. First they were in their dressing room, John and Paul bashing away at their guitars. Then, suddenly, a rush of color and sound, coupled with the horrible smell of rotting seaweed. Next thing they all knew, they were standing on a doorstep in front of a decidedly creepy-looking old house. And, of course, it was Ringo who stumbled against the doorbell by mistake. The bell, angry at such an uncalled-for invasion of personal space, launched itself outward, pelting Ringo into his fellow Beatles and scattering them all like dice.

The door opened with an audible creak. Paul, George, and Ringo, picking themselves up off the lawn with muttered oaths, were stunned into silence by the mere sight of the World's Tallest Butler. They stared at him wordlessly while John was busy extricating himself from the roseless rose beds.

"Yes?" Lurch asked simply.

"We want to see the head of the house," John announced bluntly, with the self-confidence of one whose requests are never denied. He was still too busy picking thorns from his tailored suit to notice the shocking sight standing in the doorway. "Now."

"Follow me," Lurch commanded. He stepped inside, followed by still-preoccupied John and, at a safe distance, the other three.

He proceeded to lead them into the living room—no one, fortunately stepped on the polar bear rug. Leaving them to gawk at their surroundings, he said succinctly, "Wait here."

"Why can't the fans send us things like this?" George wondered aloud to the other three, wandering over to stroke the two-headed tortoise experimentally.

"Never mind that; what are we doing here?" Paul demanded to know.

"Maybe it's a dream . . .or a nightmare," Ringo suggested, his eyes fixed incredulously on the absurd swordfish with a human leg sticking out of its mouth.

"Right, Ring," John agreed sarcastically. "We're all having the same dream at the same time. In a moment, we'll all sit down to tea with Buddy Holly."

"Have you got a better idea?" George piped up in Ringo's defense.

"No, but they'd better," John said darkly, nodding at the mustachioed man approaching them and leading a gorgeous woman by the hand. Lurch appeared from a side door, holding out a giant hand as if to make introductions. Then, realizing he didn't know their names, he merely shrugged and walked away.

"On your way to a costume party?" Paul asked, eyeing the woman's fantastic dress.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," the man answered with a genial smile. He extended a hand to shake Paul's. "Gomez Addams, at your service, gentlemen. This is my lovely wife, Morticia. Who might you four be?"

Paul opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to the punch. "John Leopard," he said, pointing to himself. "That's Paul McCharming, Ringo Stone, and George Parasol," he recited, indicating each of them in turn. "And we want answers."

"Splendid!" Morcicia declared, smiling serenely. "What would you like to know?"

"We want to know how we got here," the Fab Four chorused.

"Oooh, I love guessing games!" Gomez cried eagerly. He began puffing madly on his cigar, ticking off the facts on his fingers. "Let's see . . .judging by your foreign accents, your hyperbolic hairstyles, and the immaculate condition of your suits, I'd say you're a quartet of Italian businessmen who flew to America on a plane. Am I right?"

"Enough jokes," John said flatly. "Cut the wisecracks and tell us what we're doing here."

"I'm afraid we don't quite understand you," said Morticia, uncertain. "You see, we can't tell you how you got here; only you know that. Perhaps you walked, or rode bicycles, or—"

"Don't give me any of that!" John yelled, his voice rising as abruptly as his temper. "One minute, we're in our room; the next, bang, we're here—wherever here is. Will somebody tell me where we are, how we came here, and what—"

"We can tell you!" came a cry from the stairs. A chubby boy, followed by a toothpick of a girl, ran down the flight of steps and up to them.

"We brought you here—my brother and me," the girl explained.

"I said, enough jokes," John replied through gritted teeth.

"But it's true!" the boy insisted. "We used our grandma's spell book to bring you to America from a far-off land."

"Dear little Wednesday and Pugsley," Morticia said fondly. "So your spell worked, after all. Congratulations, dears."

"Of course a spell brought us here," John said, rolling his eyes. "Why didn't I guess? It's so obvious."

"Yes, you'll have to forgive our children," Gomez said with a chuckle, missing the other's sardonicism. "If we've caused you any inconvenience—"

"Oh no, no inconvenience at all," John assured them, sarcastic once more. "We've got a press conference and a concert in five minutes. I'm sure all the fans in Edinburgh won't even notice if we don't turn up."

"Gomez, I'm afraid that we've caused a lot of trouble for these young men," Morticia fretted. She turned to the Beatles with an apologetic smile. "We're very sorry to have inconvenienced you. Would you care to stay with us? We have plenty of rooms, and after all, it's the least we can do now that you're here."

"Just one last question," George put in, finally abandoning the tortoise and joining them. "Have you ever heard of a band called the Beatles?"

"Afraid not, old man," Gomez answered, shaking his head. "A shame, too—it's a brilliant name."

"Yes," Morticia agreed dreamily. "It certainly does have that something."

"We'll stay for the moment," George decided, causing the other three to squawk with protest. "Have you got a room big enough for the four of us?"

"Certainly!" replied Gomez, looking quite pleased. "You can stay in the best room in the house—the Sepulchral Suite."

"Lovely," George lied, nodding.

"Lovely?" John echoed, poking their guitarist in the chest. "Just what are you—"

"We can see ourselves up," George continued, elbowing John in the ribs. "Where's the suite?"

"At the top of the stairs, fourth door on the left," Morticia instructed with a charming smile. "And if you need anything, just shriek."

"Right," said George, telegraphing John, Paul, and Ringo a pointed glance. He took the stairs at a trot, while the others followed, whispering furious questions at him. They passed two peeling doors and what looked like the entrance to a dungeon before coming to their assigned room. The walls were covered with black wallpaper, and twenty beds (complete with black bedclothes) lined the perimeter of the room like soldiers. The single, tiny window at the far end looked as if it were specifically designed to let in as little light as possible.

"I'd be more comfortable in prison," Ringo said glumly. John, by now nearly apopleptic, struck an unfortunate George in the back of the head.

"I s'pose you're dead chuffed, now we've settled down in Spooksville, U.S.A.," he snarled. "Have you gone mad?"

"Would you rather have walked down the street to the nearest hotel; get mobbed by rabid fans?" George growled, rubbing his skull. "As long as we're unheard of here, this might be the only safe place to stay just now."

"I am not spending the night with these spastics!" John yelled.

"Who said anything about spending the night?" Paul jumped into the conversation, attempting to placate his song-writing partner. "We'll just ask to use their phone, call Brian, and have him sort this out."

"If it's sort-out-able," Ringo muttered. The door to their room opened to reveal the giant butler bearing a tray of what might be called food in another universe.

"A snack," he announced, setting the tray on the nearest bed. He lurched stiffly away as Wednesday trailed in.

"Hey, kid, have you got a phone we can use?" Paul asked. She shook her head matter-of-factly.

"Uncle Fester blew out the electricity last Friday," she said, helping herself to one of the smoking glasses on the tray. "He was overcharged. So now our phone doesn't work."

"But how can you get along without a telephone?" Ringo wanted to know.

"Oh, we're going to get it fixed," Wednesday assured them. "The man is coming tomorrow."

"Typical," Ringo moaned. "We're stuck here until tomorrow."

"It'll be fun!" Wednesday promised them eagerly. "Just wait till you see what we're having for dinner!"

"I can wait," John said bluntly with a nasty glance in George's direction.

"Well, I can't," Wednesday declared, oblivious to the palpable gloom that hung in the air. "Do you mind if I take one of the spider-web tarts? I'm hungry."

"Take them all," offered all four Beatles at once. Wednesday smiled brightly and complied, leaving the room with an armload of sweets. Paul shut the door firmly behind her, bolted it shut, and turned to his mates.

"Wednesday, Pugsley, Morticia . . .talk about daft nicknames," he commented with a shudder.

"And have you noticed the zombie butler?" George added, before catching John's eye and clamming up again.

"They have the maddest decorations," Ringo mused. "And I thought I'd seen it all."

"This is all an act," John stated confidently. "They're pretending not to know who we are, pretending to live in the Boo-Boo Land. Next thing you know, we'll be locked in the cellar, held for ransom."

"Which would still be safer than it is outside," George insisted, doggedly (and bravely) maintaining his argument. John stalked up to him and shoved his face so close to the other's that their noses were just shy of touching.

"We're sitting in the trenches about to get raked, and you talk about safe," he sneered.

"We're about to go down to an American dinner party, and you talk about risk," George retorted, well-aware that John was radiating challenge and well-prepared to meet it head-on.

"American dinner party, sure," John said sarcastically. "What are we having to eat, here in the typical American home? Broiled tentacle of octopus?"

"Certainly not!" Gomez called from the door, where he'd appeared with unnerving suddenness and mysteriously opened the locked door. "Eating the family pet? Unthinkable."

"Pet?" Paul and George repeated blankly.

"As a matter of fact, we're having eye of newt," Gomez informed them. "Only the best for our guests."

"The best?" John and Ringo repeated blankly.

"Certainly!" Gomez declared. "Can't beat fresh-baked eye of newt."

"Can't beat it," the four of them echoed faintly.

"Well, hurry up, gentlemen. Can't let it get cold," Gomez urged, galloping out ahead of them like a Spanish conquistador. The Beatles followed, trudging behind him like doomed gladiators.

Downstairs, the table had been laid with fine silver dishes and a black velvet tablecloth. Morticia smiled seductively as everyone sat down. "Lurch will be right in with the main course," she promised. The Addams children squirmed with anticipation; the Beatles squirmed with trepidation. Lurch brought in a silver platter and set it ceremoniously on the table. A grinning Gomez made use of the butler's sandpapery hands to light a match and, with flourish, tossed it into the center of the Spanish Newt Surprise.

KA-BOOM!

A deafening blast shook the house like an earthquake. In the resulting smoke and confusion, it was impossible to tell whether the Fab Four fell out of their chairs or vacated them voluntarily.

"I told you!" John shouted triumphantly to George. All four of them were lying flat on their stomachs and looked not unlike soldiers huddled in the trenches.

"Gomez, I think we ought to have warned them first," Morticia was heard to say from above. As the acrid smoke cleared, Lurch pulled the musicians to their feet two at a time.

"Warn them!" Gomez scoffed. "And take away the surprise? Just look at them!" He was clearly delighted by the sight: the foursome's tailored suits were encased in a fine layer of ash.

"You won't win any beauty contests, either," John shot back. This was true enough, as Gomez's face was blackened from the explosion.

"Gentlemen," Gomez said with an air of mystique and a wide grin, "beauty isn't the issue."

"Is it terrorism?" asked George, who seemed be siding with John at last.

"Wherever would you get an idea like that?" Morticia inquired, waving her hand gracefully to clear the smoke encircling her head.

"The issue is dinner!" Pugsley shouted, eager to start eating.

"Right, Pugsley—but remember, guests are served first," Gomez reminded him. The Beatles stared aghast at the main course which, aside from the fact that it was nothing more than eyeballs, was burnt to a crisp. George was the first to come up with an alibi.

"It all looks so delicious,"—his lip curled with barely disguised distaste—"but I'm afraid after all the excitement . . .getting poofed here and all . . .I'm just not hungry."

"I'm allergic to eyes," Ringo offered. "Make me break out in a rash."

"I'm on a strict diet," was Paul's excuse.

"Nonsense, gentlemen!" Gomez boomed. "I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"No." John knew how not to mince words.

"Well, if you put it that way. . ." Gomez backed off with a shrug.

"Oh, but I did so want you to try it," Morticia mourned. "It's my speciality."

"Look at it this way," Paul urged, instinctively smoothing feathers. "Why waste it on four guys who couldn't appreciate it? Y'know, with diets and allergies and all."

"I suppose," Morticia sighed.

"And don't worry about us; just enjoy your supper," Paul continued. "We know where the room is."

And, full of relief that they were still of sound body and mind, the four of them hightailed it back to their dismal suite.

"Are you sure this isn't a nightmare?" Ringo asked as George sank onto one of the beds and unfolded his long legs to lie down.

"We've got to get out of here," Paul hissed, pacing back and forth. John began playing a funeral march on his harmonica, which didn't improve the mood.

"Have you got any bright ideas?" George's question was heavy with sarcasm. "We still can't leave. No policeman, no protection? We'd be trampled underfoot like the Beatles we are."

"So we stay here until tomorrow?" Ringo asked, fear in his voice.

"We can take the night in watches, around two hours each," John suggested. "And if anyone attacks us, we'll sic Teddy-boy Ringo on 'em."

"Right," Ringo agreed. "I'll throw my teddy at 'em."

"I'll take first watch," Paul volunteered. And they switched sentry duty faithfully all night long, but nothing out-of-the-ordinary happened.

A/N: Being a HUGE Beatles fan, I will now outline where I got some of my dialogue and narrative. I don't have all the details, though.
1. "Bashing away" at their guitars. I'm pretty sure the Beatles (probably John) used this description somewhere when describing their playing.
2. John had myopia (nearsightedness), which is another reason why I had him never noticing how creepy Lurch is. He couldn't see well.
3. "Right, Ring." I'm not sure about the other two Beatles, but John was known to call Ringo by the nickname of "Ring."
4. "In a moment, we'll all sit down to tea with Buddy Holly." Sarcasm from John, as this story is loosely set in 1964, after Buddy Holly, Ritchie
Valens, and the "Big Bopper" died in the legendary plane crash.
5. "John Leopard...Paul McCharming, Ringo Stone, and George Parasol." John introduced them like this in one of their interviews.
6. I am well aware that, in one episode of The Addams Family, it is revealed that they do in fact know about the Beatles. (One of them suggests
that Cousin Itt join the Beatles.) However, in my story, they have never heard of them.
7. "Dead chuffed" means highly pleased, in Brit slang. After the release of their first album, Please Please Me, John said that the four of them
were "dead chuffed."
8. "Spastics." John was fond of this word. He seemed to use it loosely to refer to disabled people or people he thought were weird.
9. "The Boo-Boo Land." Another John original from one the Beatles' many interviews.
10. "Teddy-boy Ringo." Teddy-boys were tough guys in Britain at the time, gang members. Ringo was in a gang when he was young. He
dressed accordingly so that people could tell by looking at him that he was a gang member. He said that if you were from the Dingle (his
neighborhood in Liverpool), and weren't in a gang, you were in trouble. Before he joined their band, the other Beatles were rather afraid of
him.