Part Five: Psychological Warfare (Distressing Messages)

Pugsley sauntered back to the house, grumbling. Distracted by fatigue, fear and annoyance, Pugsley didn't see Lurch's lumbering form until he had barreled straight into him. Lurch growled in annoyance before looking down to see that it was Pugsley who had slammed into him. Raising his eyebrows at the boy, Lurch wondered what could possibly be so wrong with Pugsley that he hadn't noticed Lurch cracking the low hanging gutters (so as to increase the number of "lovely drips" that beat down on the Addams' visitors as they waited on the porch).

"Sorry Lurch," Pugsley mumbled without looking up as he continued trudging into the house. Lurch expressed his worry with a throaty growl and a shake of the head before returning to work.

Meanwhile, inside, Pubert had it in mind to challenge Thing to a duel. Foils in hand, Pubert knocked soundly on Thing's box. With a voice of challenge, Pubert called, "Come out Thing! Your demise is at hand! Today, we fight!" Pubert waited, grinning, for Thing to pop out of his box in the age old way and jump into the fray. But nothing happened. The box remained shut. Thing did not appear. Opening the box lid slowly, for fear of rudely interrupting Thing's privacy, Pubert called into the bottomless depths, "Thing?" The echo reverberated around the house, but Thing still did not appear. Disheartened and concerned, Pubert left to find his parents and relay the distressing news.

Across town, another honorary member of the Addams' clan was receiving distressing news. Totter sat perched in her usual spot on the roof overlooking the swamp, letter in hand, and her high-pitched wails filling the late-afternoon air. Startled by a sudden movement to her left, Totter jerked and nearly slid from her perch into the muck below. Thankfully, with inhuman speed, Dementia reached out and grabbed the tiny housekeeper, keeping her in her seat.

Catching her breath, Totter turned to look at her rescuer and found herself caught in the concerned gaze of her mistress. "Totter, dear, are you ok? All that wailing, I thought you were Fester. You know how he enjoys howling at the moon. I came up here to scold him for his impatience – the moon won't be up for hours – but I see now it's you, dear." Dementia's face relaxed into one of matronly concern. "Are you alright?"

Sniffling against tears and the last remains of shock from nearly falling off the roof, Totter numbly handed the letter in her hands over to Dementia. Between hitching sobs she was able to relate that, "Teeter – my sister – she – fell – she – they – don't know – if she – " before losing all composure and dissolving into a flood of tears and uncontrollable wailing.

Frightened for the child's well-being and wanting to get to the bottom of the issue, Dementia gathered Totter in her arms and the two of them descended into the house. Once she was wrapped in some blankets and had a steaming cup of henbane tea her hands, Totter began to quiet and Dementia read the letter in full.

She gathered from the letter that Teeter, Totter's twin sister, had been in some sort of accident while trying to unicycle across a tightrope suspended over the Grand Canyon. Dementia smiled at the vigor of youth and then sighed. It's always so sad when the young ones get injured enjoying the simple pleasures of play. As she reached the end of the letter, she found that the accident had not been fatal and that, while the doctors were skeptical, there was a chance that Teeter could be perfectly whole again.

Looking up at Totter's shivering form and tear-stained face, Dementia said, "Well, it's settled then."

Confusion was slow to twist the girl's face, but once it did, she asked, "W-W-What's settled?"

"Teeter will come stay with us for the duration of her healing process. Between the two of us, not to mention Fester's brilliance with chemicals, and Morticia has been telling me about Mama's newly-found creative brilliance, you know, since senility has set in, I know there's no better place for a speedy convalescence."

Incredulous, Totter was torn between a crashing wave of relief and gratitude and unspeakable awe for the generosity of her mistress. She smiled weakly, and tried to protest, "That's very kind of you Ms. Dementia, but you –"

"No, need, dear. We need you here, and your sister needs you. Truly, it's the only logical solution. Now don't worry, it's all settled. I'll go inform Fester about our new houseguest and you go call your sister at the hospital and arrange for her to come here."

Smiling openly now, Totter replied, "Yes, ma'am." And with renewed energy, she skipped off to make the plans.

Back at the Addams' mansion, Pugsley would have killed for some renewed energy. Instead all he got were strange looks from his parents and Lurch, a half-hearted strangle from Cleopatra, and suspiciously normal conversation from Wednesday. He wasn't such a fool to fall for her "we're back to normal" façade. In fact, he was sure she was only doing it to throw him off more. Unfortunately, he was getting to be too tired to care. Excusing himself and not particularly caring if Wednesday would use the opportunity to surgically remove all of his toes (or something), Pugsley went to bed.

He didn't know how much time had elapsed since he'd lain down to sleep, but when a creaking sound reached his ears, his eyes opened to a darkened room. Scanning the room quickly, he found that he was alone in the room, but, oddly enough, the door he'd locked that afternoon now stood ajar. It was the swinging of the creaking hinge that had wakened him. Scanning the room again, panic beginning to creep its way up his throat, Pugsley narrowed his eyes, straining to see even into the darkest corners of the room. Still, he found nothing. He ran his hands over his head, face, arms and shoulders, across his chest and belly, and all the way down his legs to his toes, just to check to make sure he was intact. Everything felt normal. He slowly climbed from his bed and moved to light the skull candle he kept always by his bed. Unsatisfied by the light of the candle, Pugsley turned on every light in his room and swept through – under the bed, in drawers, in the closet, behind the drapes – just to make sure that it was how he'd left it and that there was no one else in the room. Finishing that, and noticing that the breath that had been caught in his chest for the past several minutes was now starting to release, Pugsley relocked his door and prepared to go back to bed.

The stillness of his bedroom, that had felt so comfortable days before, now felt oppressive. He heard every sound of the old creaky house and of the lightning storm that had begun outside, but instead of taking comfort in the sounds of home, he imagined that each new creak was the sound of Wednesday entering his room and taking her revenge. And so he lay, eyes wide open, covered to the chin in blankets, staring up at the ceiling when his eyes weren't darting around the room.

He nearly shouted and jumped out of his skin when a lightning strike outside his window illuminated a corner of his room, revealing what looked like a dangling dark braid. He immediately grabbed for his flashlight and shone the beam over the spot. The braid in question appeared to be only the braided rope of the hanging noose used for summoning Lurch. Pugsley heaved a sigh of relief, but he couldn't entirely dismiss the feeling that the noose didn't completely look like the braid he had seen and perhaps two braids had hung in his room only moments ago.

Feeling overwhelmingly annoyed – at himself and his fears, at his damned sister, at the lightning storm, and at his inability to get even one damned night's sleep, Pugsley flipped off the flashlight, buried himself under his blankets and went to sleep.

The next morning, Pugsley awoke to what was possibly mid-day sun beating through his window. Although he'd gotten several hours of sleep, he didn't awake feeling refreshed. In fact, he had that sickening feeling that came from either drinking too much or sleeping too long after sleeping too little. Groaning against the sun in his eyes and temporarily forgetting that he should be on alert against attack, Pugsley tried to snuggle deeper into his covers. It wasn't long however, that Pugsley began to come to his senses, and when he did, he shot up in bed and began, however bleary-eyed, to scan the room. After the immediate recognition that he was indeed alone, Pugsley's slowing breathing was stopped altogether by a discovery that sent shivers down his spine. Left on his dressing table, in plain sight, was one of the scalpels that Wednesday kept always at hand. Sitting benignly on the table, the scalpel sent a message that was anything but benign. Pugsley stared at it, letting the full message sink in.

First of all, it was a warning. That much was obvious. It could be explicit – meaning that her revenge will be executed with a scalpel, or it could be more figurative, simply implying bodily harm.

Secondly, (and this is part that truly scared him) the scalpel, placed lightly on his dresser within his locked bedroom while he slept, despite the fact that he checked his room numerous times for intruders, was a clear message – You aren't safe. You are vulnerable. And you can't stop me when I come for you.

Pugsley shook himself as he registered that thought. In his mind he saw Wednesday's maniacal grin and the sadistic glint in her eyes, cackling as she dismembered him in his sleep. He'd already put her onto paralytics. She could immobilize him and take him apart and he'd be unable to stop her. Gritting his teeth against imagined pain, he shook his head to clear his mind.

Pitting his defensive strategies against Wednesday's offensive ones was never a good idea. Even if he had a defensive strategy in mind, Pugsley knew it would only encourage Wednesday to spend longer trying to break it and would inevitably mean a more gruesome punishment when she finally broke through. So, continuing the game was not a good option. But what were his other options? He couldn't go marching downstairs and announce – "OK Wednesday, you win. I'm scared to death." It might get her off his back, but it might incite her to continue – Wednesday hated weaklings. And think of what it'd do to his reputation. His parents would likely disown him and Pubert would look to Wednesday for guidance and advice. No, he couldn't give up his standing and reputation just to get Wednesday off his back. But then, what could he do?

Grumbling, he realized there really wasn't much he could do. Until Wednesday tired of her new game, Pugsley wasn't likely to find away out of it. Resigning himself to the possibility of feeling tired for the rest of his life, Pugsley went down for lunch.