Chapter Text
Eleonora Finch
SEPTEMBER
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Somewhere folded in the thick forests of Vermont, Elle’s new life began on a quiet weekend in the small town of Jericho.
Jericho existed under a constant cover of trees. The air held a damp, resinous smell, and the sky hung low, the kind of blue that felt like it was breathing—calm, but ready to storm at any moment. The leaves now adorn green skin with hints of yellow, and she was attracted to the decaying scenery, the comfort of knowing summer’s fleeting beauty would soon succumb to autumn.
In the backseat, Elle sat curled into the corner of the window, her long wavy hair drifting forward and back in the stale AC. The End of the World by Skeeter Davis floated out from the car’s radio. Her mother’s choice, but the song hung in the air like a fragile curse.
She looked out onto the blur of trees rushing past, serving as a pity distraction from the reason she had to move here in the first place.
She had been ten when the shadows first spoke to her. Nights had a habit of claiming her, stretching long and quiet, filled with whispers no one else could hear. Memories that were not her own, murmurs of lingering spirits; she had learned to follow them, and she could envision events that had yet to come, to sense what others could not: clairvoyance.
She had learned to hide her powers, to keep the strange and the supernatural tucked away. But control is an illusion—and she had learned that harsh truth one morning at Governor’s Academy.
She remembered the accident. Nervous during a class presentation, her invisibility had slipped from her control—just a flicker—but long enough to make her vanish into nothing unexplainably. The boy near her recoiled as if burned by her very presence.
Witch, they had whispered. A curse. Soon, the whole town blamed her for any misfortune that occurred.
Her parents’ concern had solidified into a decision: Nevermore Academy. A “safe haven”, they thought, was merely a school for gifted children.
They did not know that it was something else entirely.
So there the Finches were; driving their strange, cursed daughter, from a private school in Boston to the shadowed forests of Jericho, Vermont.
Her fingers gnawed at the sleeves in her sweater as the car started to slow down. The edges of the campus emerged through the rain: Stone walls loomed high above with every line and crevice holding centuries of weather and whispers. Winding columns spiraled upward, so tall they seemed to disappear into the low, somber clouds. The shadows seemed to curl in recognition, as if the world itself were acknowledging that she had finally come home.
Her mother cleared her throat. “Well, Elle… try not to get yourself lost on the first day.”
When they finally got to the front gates, it was already raining. She stepped out, boots crunching on wet gravel.
“Take care of yourself,” her father said, voice soft but edged with relief. His hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment, and then they were gone.
The wrought-iron gates yawned open as if to swallow her whole. Elle moved forward, suitcase in hand, and for a moment she flickered, as her invisibility hummed beneath her skin. Nevermore was waiting, and she had finally arrived.
A wind stirred through the trees, carrying with it the echoed caw of crows. The murder burst upward in a flurry of black wings, scattering to the windowsills of the courtyard. One peculiar crow perched atop the werewolf statue in the center of the courtyard. It tilted its head, studying her. One eye was a cloudy, milky white, and the skin along the side of its face opened to flesh, raw, and uneven, as though stitched from shadow and bone. Then, it lifted into the air with the others, vanishing into the storm.
The hallways of Nevermore seemed to breathe.
Elle’s boots echoed off wooden floorboards, her suitcase wheels rattling in uneven protest as she followed the signs toward the dormitory wing. The air smelled faintly of candle wax and old wood—sacred and rotting all at once.
The dormitory door creaked open. Inside, the room waited in quiet stillness. The ceiling stretched higher than she expected; timber beams running like ribs across its width. At the far end of the wall a large window overlooked the courtyard where she had entered from earlier; the glass was fogged, rain weaving long rivulets that distorted the outside world. There were two iron-framed beds: her roommates half of the room unclaimed. Since she was a new student, she had come a day earlier than the rest to settle in.
She set her suitcase on her bed, the mattress thin and smelling faintly of lavender and dust.
One by one, she began to unpack her things; a folded sweater, a few school supplies, a chipped snow globe from Boston. She had never liked moving; seeing her whole life reduced to a couple of boxes and suitcases only reminded her how insignificant she really was—how easily she could be packed away and forgotten. But this kind of forgotten felt different to her. For the first time, it felt like she found a place where people were meant not to belong.
At the bottom of her suitcase lay a few scattered documents. She drew them out slowly, spreading them across the desk.
The first was a letter from her adoptive parents, written in her mother’s neat but hurried hand: little reminders—EAT WELL. KEEP UP YOUR GRADES. DON’T CAUSE TROUBLE. A gentle echo of the life she had left behind and outgrown.
Next came the school’s pamphlet, the figure of the new principal staring out from its cover. His smile was uncanny—his teeth that seemed too big for his mouth gleamed a subtle yellow against his old skin. His eyes did not quite match the smile. Elle’s gaze lingered on him, unease prickling like static along her arms. She knew the old principal had died last spring—‘an accident,’ but a quiet voice inside her, as steady and familiar as her own breath, suggested there was more beneath the surface.
Finally, the letter. The one she kept folded tighter than any secret.
She rubbed her thumb over the parchment, crackling softly as she opened it, the words etched in a way that was both desperate and loving.
Dear Eleonora,
If you are reading this, it means you have found your way out of the darkness that has kept you captive for far too long. Although we could not save ourselves we hope we have saved you.
You were brought to Willow Hill as part of a cruel plan that twisted your gifts before they could bloom. You are more than the shadows that chase you. You carry within you a light stronger than any fear.
There is a place where the forgotten gather—a school where those like you find sanctuary and strength. Nevermore Academy in Jericho.
We have left clues for you, hidden in the echoes of forgotten halls and deepest shadows of the Academy. Know that your powers are rare and precious. They are the key to unlocking the secrets of your past and the darkness that stalks you now.
We love you beyond words, beyond time, and we believe in your strength to find freedom and truth.
Stay brave, Eleonora. Your story is just beginning.
With all our love,
Your parents
Her throat tightened as she traced the last line with her fingertip. The words hummed and swirled inside her, settling deep in her chest.
Her adopted parents had found her one storm-laden night on their doormat. She had no memories of her real parents. Nevermore Academy was the first place that promised answers—answers to her powers she began to lose control over, and to her parents who had vanished from her life before she even had a chance to know them.
A sudden gust rattled the windowpane that made Elle shiver, folding the letter with deliberate care and sliding it into the drawer of her desk, before returning to unpack the rest of her things.
Somewhere outside, thunder rolled low and deep, and the shadows seemed to lean closer.
OCTOBER
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The morning sunlight broke unevenly through the web of Nevermore’s trees, now set ablaze with crimson red and umber orange, their shadows stretching long and skeletal across the courtyard. Students’ boots crunched on fallen leaves, crackling like faint bones snapping underfoot.
Elle walked with her scarf wound tightly around her neck, pale breath rising into the crisp autumn air. Wednesday walked alongside her. She didn’t bother with gloves despite the cold, her hands tucked neatly behind her back.
“You walk too quietly,” Elle said finally, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
“That’s the point,” Wednesday replied without missing a beat. “If one day I decide to kill you, you won’t see it coming.”
Elle smiled faintly, used to her by now. “Comforting.”
“I wasn’t aiming for comfort.” Wednesday’s black eyes flicked toward her.
Elle hadn’t expected friendship to come so quickly. While her roommate—a siren—only stuck to her friends of the same species, across the hall, Enid quickly reached out to Elle. By the second week, Enid was barging into Elle’s room with armfuls of nail polish bottles, technicolor sweaters, and a flood of conversation.
Wednesday was nothing like that. Where Enid’s presence was sunshine, Wednesday’s was shadow—measured, deliberate, and strangely magnetic in a way Elle could not explain.
They were both psychics, but the usual rules seemed to fail between them. Elle, who could normally trace the thread of someone’s intuition, found Wednesday’s mind unreadable. And Wednesday, who had grown used to piercing through the private thoughts of others, met only silence in Elle’s mind. It was common knowledge that psychics couldn’t read each other—yet the impossibility of it left them both with an unspoken thrill and draw to each other.
September came and went, and with it Elle felt steadier, her unfamiliarity with Nevermore settling into something that almost resembled belonging. She was beginning to think she could stay here, maybe even thrive.
The stone steps of the dining hall loomed ahead, stained with age, damp with morning dew. Arched windows caught the broken sunlight and refracted it across the marble floor. A pair of gargoyle statues hunched above the entrance.
Students brushed past, cloaks flaring, voices low with gossip, laughing, conversing. Across the path, a DaVinci flicked her wrist—sending a ripple of water from the fountain splashing up to soak an unsuspecting first-year. The crowd giggled as they hurried on.
Elle leaned closer to Wednesday. “Someone said they saw a banshee near the fencing hall last night.”
Wednesday’s expression didn’t shift. “People who swear are usually liars.”
“Maybe. But it makes breakfast more interesting, don’t you think?”
Wednesday considered that for a moment, then deadpanned: “The only thing that would make breakfast interesting is cyanide.”
Elle gave her a mischievous grin.
The dining hall stretched in dark symmetry, stone arches climbing high above the rows of long tables. Candlelight sputtered in iron chandeliers, dripping shadows down the walls like ink. Platters of sausage and breakfast foods steamed faintly, while bowls of porridge, blood-red apples, and pale pears were laid out abundantly. The air was a strange mix of sweetness and salt, sugar and smoke. Students filed into the room in clusters.
Wednesday and Elle slipped into their usual place near the center. Elle slid onto the bench quietly, tucking her hands around the rough wood of the table, while Wednesday poured herself a mug of earl grey.
“Nevermore porridge,” Wednesday said, peering into the bowl in front of her. “An invention of culinary despair.”
Elle chuckled. “At least it smells better than it looks.”
Before Wednesday could reply, Enid bounced into the seat across from them, setting down her tray with a clatter. The colors of her outfit—a shock of pastel pinks and yellows—looked defiant against the austere cafeteria.
“You guys started without me!” Enid pouted, stabbing a spoon into her porridge. “...I had to avoid Ajax.”
Elle tilted her head. “You still haven’t broken up with him?” she scoffed, “I told you this would get complicated.”
Wednesday glared at both of them. “Your romantic misadventures are hardly my concern. And it’s annoying having people bother the dorm.”
Enid rolled her eyes but laughed anyway. “You’re impossible, Wednesday.”
“And you’re impossible to date, apparently,” Elle said, stifling a laugh as she watched the spoon sink and vanish beneath the thick surface of her porridge.
Enid glanced at her. “Wow, taking Wednesday’s side? Rude.”
The two of them burst out laughing.
Wednesday’s gaze drifted past them, out the tall windows that looked out into the forest. “The crows were back last night.” Her voice lowered, “They killed Sheriff Galpin. Someone is interfering with their natural behavior. I intend to find out who.”
Enid had filled her in on everything that had happened here since last year—Joseph Crackstone, Tyler Galpin, Miss Thornhill, and the usual Nevermore peculiarities—nothing in detail, just brief stories.
Elle shifted a little, intrigued. “You think it’s deliberate?”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked back. “Nothing in this place is coincidence.” She lifted her teacup, taking a slow sip. “The question is whether it’s a student attempting a half-baked summoning ritual, or something older .”
Enid leaned forward, lowering her voice. “You’re not saying ghost older, right? Or like… Willow Hill older?”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “The latter. Naturally.”
Elle’s pulse fluttered in her throat, but she said nothing, only nodded. Willow Hill—the place her parents had vanished. The place that she knew she would need to go to if she wanted to find out what had happened.
“I can help,” Elle said quickly, surprising even herself.
Wednesday studied her with that unnerving stillness. Then, with the faintest curl at the corner of her lips, she nodded once.
“Good. I’ll need someone who doesn’t scare easily.” Her eyes moved deadpan to Enid.
Enid crossed her arms. “Please. I’m a werewolf, not a chihuahua.”
“We’ll find out if that’s true sooner or later.” Wednesday replied, unblinking.
Elle had spent the day in her usual schedule. Morning classes covered the arcane and psychic theory—the subtle manipulation of energy, reading auras, psychometry and precognition. In the afternoon, she had Outcast History, tracing the lineage of Nevermore and the study of Jericho’s past.
In the month she had been here, she felt her powers growing stronger and more controlled. Her interactions with other students were brief but polite; in all honesty, she loved her new life here. She had shed her old life like an ill-fitting coat.
Later, Enid had invited her to a small party. Her side of the dorm had throbbing rock music, chatter, and the sharp tang of beer. They played Spin-the-Bottle and another game she’d never heard of—“Potion Pong,” a version of beer pong where the cups were filled with potions instead. Wednesday had been absent, probably off chasing some other mystery. Elle had politely left early.
Every night, she snuck out of her dorm, moving through empty corridors and moonlit courtyards. Conveniently, her invisibility helped her avoid any trouble.
We have left clues for you, hidden in the echoes of forgotten halls and deepest shadows of the Academy.
The words billowed in her mind like a storm rising. Somewhere in the darkness, secrets waited. She wanted to make a life for herself here, but she also came here to unearth the truth of her parents and where they might be.
Now, she weaved carefully between the winding trees, mist coiling along the mossy ground. Roots twisted underfoot, gnarled and slippery, while shadows shifted unnaturally in her periphery. Noises of animals called in the distance, a shriek and a trill—perhaps a coyote—echoed through the fog, and branches scraped lightly against her coat. The damp, decayed scent of leaves and earth filled her nose.
Then a sound—low, almost like a whimper—trembled from deeper in the woods. It blurred between human and animal.
Something was off. She couldn’t name it.
A voice whispered in the back of her mind: You are not alone.
She inhaled sharply, letting a subtle flick of her mind cloak her in invisibility. The forest seemed to lean closer, watching. She stepped forward, drawn toward the source of the sound, every nerve alert.
She had reached a small clearing, and moonlight spilled across a figure slumped against a tree.
A boy.
She froze, heart hammering. Her psychic intuition screamed: Run. Run as fast as you can and don't look back. But something about him was unreadable, strange. The forest closed in around her.
Pale, slick with cold sweat, his brown hair matted—wore nothing but tattered remnants of pants. His face was contorted into a painful grimace. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin and staining his chest. Ragged claw marks and what appeared to be bullet wounds marred his skin, glinting viscerally in the moonlight. He whimpered again.
He shouldn't even be alive with these types of injuries, she thought to herself.
She had been holding her invisibility so carefully, clinging to it as if it were armor, but the rush of fear cracked it open. Her outline shimmered against the dark like a candle flame, flickering, just for a second. His gaze tracked it immediately. A gasp slipped out before she could stop it.
And then, impossibly, he saw her.