School obligations kept Wednesday tethered to the mundane, so she and Aleksander struck a deal: Saturday and Sunday would be dedicated to solving cases—an enterprise only possible thanks to the far-reaching Morozova family network. Setting up their operation took barely any effort; centuries of connections opened doors wherever Aleksander needed.On a brisk Saturday morning, they stood before a street in New Jersey, Wednesday eyeing the rows of houses with a skeptic's precision.
She turned to Aleksander, her voice even. "Which of these is actually ours?"
Aleksander's hands shimmered with vibrant, whispy green energy, drawing subtle lines in the air. As he gestured, the space between numbers eleven and thirteen widened, the houses seeming to slide aside—willing or not—as a building squeezed itself into the vacant lot.The house itself looked battered but stubborn, front steps worn smooth, the battered door sporting a silver knocker—an ornate 'M'—but no keyhole or handle. The whole thing radiated secrecy and old magic.Aleksander pressed his hand to the door and it creaked open on its own. Inside, the house was a museum of shadow and quiet grandeur. Faded portraits lined a grand hallway lit with flickering gas lamps; a chandelier of odd, dark glass cast gray motes on the floor.
"It feels like home," Wednesday said, her voice softer than usual—a rare note of approval.Aleksander led her through to the first-floor drawing room: cracked but elegant windows, a fireplace heavy with carved flourishes, two glass-fronted cabinets collecting dust and shadows.
Wednesday settled on an ancient but dignified sofa, looking pointedly at Aleksander."Impress me. How are we actually going to get cases worth my time?"
Aleksander grinned, flames licking up around his palm before coalescing into parchment. He handed her a flyer:Mystery Inc Investigating Agency: For the Supernatural and the Suspiciously Normal.
"It's enchanted," he said. "It'll find its way to anyone in real need—supernatural or otherwise. They'll have a hard time resisting the urge to reach out, even if they don't know why."
Wednesday examined the flyer, eyes shining with mounting interest. "So, do we have any cases yet?""One," Aleksander replied. "Someone's coming all the way from Pennsylvania."Wednesday arched an eyebrow.
"What's the case?"Aleksander slid a report across the table. Wednesday's eyes scanned the missing person poster:Susie Salmon—ordinary, caucasian, hair a shade between brown and blonde, blue eyes clear in the photograph. The file noted a girl in transition: baby fat fading, her frame maturing.
Aleksander's tone dropped. "She's officially presumed dead. Police found a lot of her blood and her cap in a cornfield near the school—enough blood that, according to the coroner, survival was impossible without immediate medical intervention. They also found a cavity in the field. Some kind of structure."Wednesday's eyes grew even darker, a storm brewing in their depth. "Finally—a proper mystery."
Wednesday, usually resistant to new technology, made an exception when it came to macabre research for her murder mysteries. She scrolled through Aleksander's files, skeptical but attentive.
Aleksander's tone lost all trace of humor as he spoke. "Before we go further, you should know—the world's more complicated than Outcasts and humans. There are other entities out there. Some would call them gods or demons, though most are just things born of faith…or fear."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed, her curiosity sharpening to a point. "Historically, Outcasts using their powers have been mistaken for deities or demons. Mass hysteria and badly kept records do the rest."
Aleksander nodded. "To a degree, yes. But I'm talking about actual entities—ones people created. Some researcher in the past figured out that if enough humans believe in something, it tightens the knot. Sandman, Jack Frost, the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny… Santa Claus. Beings made real by myth and mass faith. The researcher? Raya Morzova—one of my ancestors. She started the stories, then watched as belief made them walk."
Wednesday paused on the name, taken aback. "So these… icons were science projects for your family? A test run for manifesting collective hysteria?"
Aleksander gave a short, rueful laugh. "Exactly. Each myth found its own domain—North Pole, China, elsewhere. All carefully cultivated. All very much alive now."
Wednesday flipped through another file, smirk barely contained. "That's dedication. I'm almost disappointed she chose the sentimental route and not, say, unleashing a mythic serial killer for data."
Aleksander shrugged. "She had a sense of spectacle, not pure malice. Frankly, I'm grateful."
Wednesday studied a fresh dossier Aleksander handed her. "Tell me the next legend is carnivorous," she muttered, eyes glinting with interest.
Wednesday scanned the report, her gaze flicking over the details—enchanted shack, chicken legs, endless appetite for children. She looked up, face unchanged.
"So, a predatory witch with a taste for the inconvenient. Frankly, the shack sounds more useful than most real estate," she deadpanned.
She turned another page, curiosity winning out despite herself. "Does the Baba Yaga accept visitors, or only meals?"
Aleksander tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a grin. "She takes what she wants. The line between guest and entree depends on her mood."
Wednesday's mouth curved, just barely—a shadow of a smirk. "Sounds like someone I could learn from."
She closed the file, eyes still sharp with interest. "The world is full of monsters. I prefer the ones who are honest about what they are."
Hearing Wednesday's reply, Aleksander's tone softened, just a shade. "True. But your perspective might change if it were your family on the line."
Wednesday met his gaze, her face unreadable—but she didn't argue. In her own dark way, she cared deeply for her family, even if her experiments on Pugsley were frequent and creatively hazardous. The idea of anyone she cared about ending up as Baba Yaga's next meal—however improbable—wasn't something she'd tolerate.
After a pause, Wednesday's lips twitched with the barest smirk. "Point taken."
Aleksander nodded, understanding the tacit agreement beneath her cool facade.
Jack Salmon drove steadily through the winding roads from Pennsylvania toward New Jersey. His medium-length, thick brown hair, parted just so, fell in soft waves brushing his forehead and framing a face worn by grief but still marked by sharp features—defined cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong jawline.
His brow was furrowed in concentration beneath defined eyebrows, eyes a focused light brown that flickered with both determination and exhaustion. His lips pressed tightly together, betraying the seriousness etched across his face.
Though lean, his broad shoulders gave him a presence grounded in the weight of his mission. Ever since Susie's murder, he had been consumed by the need to find the killer. That obsession clung to him like a second skin.
On his table back home, nestled among bills and unanswered calls, lay a flyer—Wednesday Investigating Agency. Part of him wanted to toss it aside, dismiss it as another false lead. But another voice inside urged him on, whispering that this might be his one real chance.
Clutching the steering wheel tighter, Jack didn't know what awaited him. But any hope was better than none at all.
Jack Salmon's fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he pulled up to the strangest house he'd ever seen. Number eleven and thirteen perched on either side, but this place… it sat where nothing should, squeezed in through force of will and something else he couldn't name. He almost turned back—almost.
But the flyer, weighted heavy in his coat pocket, felt different than the rest of the false leads and wild goose chases he'd chased down since Susie's death.He knocked, uncertain, and the door opened with a whisper. Inside, the air was thick with gloom and the hint of distant smoke. Two teenagers—almost children, he thought with a sinking heart—stood waiting.Confusion edged his voice, tight and tired. "Is… is this the Wednesday Detective Agency?"
Aleksander nodded smoothly. "This is."Uncertain, his pulse racing, Jack let himself be ushered into a faded, moody drawing room. He perched uneasily at the edge of a battered sofa, eyes flicking to every shadow and moving shape.He cleared his throat. "Where's Ms. Wednesday, the detective?"
A voice answered, flat, unwavering. "You're speaking to her."Jack looked at the pale girl across from him, dark eyes unblinking, expression unreadable. Something in him snapped from grief's tension. "This is a joke. You're both—children."
Wednesday's face didn't so much as twitch. "I don't joke, Mr. Salmon."He opened his mouth, anger close. Aleksander didn't give him the chance. He held out a palm, letting flames spiral into shape—a phoenix, vivid and impossibly real, wings unfurling in brilliant orange and gold. It circled the chandelier and vanished in a wisp of cinders.Shock broke across Jack's features. Horror mixed with a wild, desperate hope. Aleksander's voice stayed level. "We're capable of handling this case. Believe us."
Jack stared, trembling but unable to leave. "What are you?"
Aleksander gave a nonchalant shrug. "Call us sorcerers, if you like. We're part of a bigger world. Wednesday's a psychic—she can get glimpses of what happened to your daughter if you bring us something of hers. I'm… an empath. I feel things, especially guilt and motive. If the killer's close, I'll know."
Jack's skepticism warred with the last embers of faith. But the conviction in Wednesday's eyes—cold, relentless—drew him in.He slowly reached into his coat, fumbling for a small object—a charm bracelet. He set it on the table with reverence. His voice broke. "I know Susie's gone. I just… I need to know. I need her to rest."
Jack took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly as he clasped them together. His voice was low, heavy with pain, but steady—each word carefully measured."My daughter, Susie… she was just fourteen. A bright, curious girl. Too many dreams for this world."
He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "One day, she went out to the school… and never came back. Weeks passed before the police found her belongings—a cap soaked in blood, scattered in a nearby cornfield."His eyes darkened, haunted by the memory. "The blood was everywhere. So much that the coroner said she wouldn't have survived without immediate medical help."
Jack's hands clenched. "There was something else, a strange hollow beneath the corn—some kind of structure. The police never explained it fully. I've tried to get answers, but all I have are half-truths and silence."
He looked up at Wednesday and Aleksander, raw vulnerability breaking through his determined facade. "I don't know what happened to her after… but somewhere inside, I know she's still there, waiting for justice. I need to find her killer. I need to let her rest."His voice cracked, but he held their gaze, searching for the faith to believe.
Aleksander inclined his head. "We can't claim to feel your pain, Mr. Salmon. But we'll do everything in our power to give Susie peace."
Jack Salmon looked at Wednesday, finding no mockery, only razor-sharp focus. For the first time since he'd lost Susie, Jack Salmon felt the shift of something like hope.