A/N: I've seen some readers asking for longer chapters. I do want to write longer chapters, but there's one issue—longer chapters take significantly more time. Writing, revising, proofreading, and polishing them properly can take 2–3 days, and I don't want the story's quality to drop because of rushed updates.
That's why the current word count is usually between 800–1000 words. This lets me update more consistently while keeping the writing sharp and enjoyable.
Thank you so much for your patience and understanding—and for sticking with the story 💜
*****
The buses rolled into Jericho just after ten.
Wednesday, Enid, and Ethan stepped down onto the street, the town already dressed in its usual nauseating enthusiasm.
Banners bearing the face of Joseph Crackstone hung from lampposts and shopfronts, his pilgrim visage staring down at them like an accusation.
Jericho never missed an opportunity to worship its dead.
Enid squinted up at one of the banners. "Wow. They really love this guy."
"Fanaticism ages poorly," Wednesday replied. "Especially when the subject has been decomposing for centuries."
Principal Weems gathered the students near the curb.
"Listen carefully," she said. "You will proceed directly to your assigned volunteer locations. No wandering. No disappearing. And no skipping."
Her eyes swept over the crowd, lingering just a second longer on familiar troublemakers.
"If I catch anyone avoiding their duties," Weems continued, "they will be banned from Raven Night. No exceptions."
A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the students.
Nevermore's Raven Night was the equivalent of prom in ordinary schools—an event wrapped in tradition, social pressure, and exaggerated emotional significance. To most adolescents, missing it was nothing short of a public execution.
Wednesday, of course, remained unmoved.
For any teenager invested in popularity, romance, or the illusion of belonging, Raven Night was sacred. Skipping it meant social exile. Pitying looks. A fate worse than detention.
To understand why such events existed at all, one would have to examine the origins of prom culture—why teenagers clung to it so desperately, why a single night was allowed to dictate their self-worth.
But that kind of psychological autopsy was better saved for later.
…Wait. We were getting off the script.
Let's return to the present before someone made a regrettable life choice.
"Ethan, are you sure you want to skip this volunteer work?" Enid asked, lowering her voice. Being banned from Raven Night was a definite no-go for her, and if Ethan was banned, the question of who she would even go with became painfully real.
"Yes. You don't need to worry," Ethan said, his tone calm, almost dismissive.
***
The Nevermore group arrived at Pilgrim World shortly after, the cheerful chaos of the place clashing violently with their collective disposition.
Wooden buildings lined the streets, their artificial charm attempting—and failing—to romanticize a past built on intolerance and bloodshed.
Wednesday paused the moment they stepped inside, her expression shifting from indifference to faint disbelief. She surveyed the fake storefronts, the staged gallows, the costumed performers smiling far too enthusiastically.
People had not only decided to remember history like this—they had monetized it.
She found herself genuinely baffled by how stupid people had to be to build such a place. A theme park dedicated to glorifying pilgrims felt less like historical education and more like a public confession of poor judgment.
One of the female pilgrims approached them, her dress stiff and immaculate, her smile practiced to the point of discomfort.
"Good morrow, my young Nevermore kin."
"I am Mistress Arlene. A real OC."
The reaction was immediate and confused. Several students frowned, clearly trying to process what she meant by OC.
"Wait—what do you mean by OC?" someone muttered.
"Original colonist," Mistress Arlene clarified proudly, lifting her chin. "A true daughter of Jericho's founding stock."
The clarification did little to improve the situation.
"Now prithee," she continued, clapping her hands once for attention, "put your cell phones on vibrate and make haste, for you are about to travel back in time to the year of our Lord 1625, to Jericho's first pilgrim settlement."
They followed her as she began the tour of Pilgrim World.
"Yonder."
"Behold, the meeting house."
"Inside is a collection of artifacts related to Jericho's most beloved and pious founder, Joseph Crackstone."
"And beyond is our privy," Mistress Arlene added cheerfully, pointing toward a small structure at the edge of the path. "America's first gender-neutral restroom."
Wednesday immediately raised her arm.
"I haveth a query."
"Pray, be quick, child."
"In the meeting house," Wednesday asked,"which of Joseph Crackstone's artifacts are on display?"
"It is truly a treasure trove," Mistress Arlene replied enthusiastically, "including original farm tools, tableware, even the Crackstone family chamber pot."
Wednesday considered this. "Sounds fascinating. I volunteer to work in there." She lowered her arm with finality. Learning more about Crackstone—especially from the very source Jericho worshipped so fervently—was the better option, and her goal was to know more about him.
Mistress Arlene's smile tightened.
"Pray, no. That exhibit is being renovated."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Today, thou will all be working at the beating heart of Pilgrim World," Mistress Arlene announced, sweeping her arm toward the center of the square.
"Ye Olde Fudgery!"
Mistress Arlene clapped her hands sharply, reclaiming the group's attention.
"Volunteers, prick up thine ears."
"Fudge is the lifeblood of our humble community."
"And samples equal sales, so grab a uniform and a box and make our forefathers proud."
'Ye Olde Fudgery? More like ye olde diabetes in a box' Wednesday thought
Her gaze drifted, deliberately and lingeringly, toward the meeting house in the distance.
Just because someone said no did not mean she had given up.
In Wednesday's experience, denial was usually an invitation.