The storm broke like a bad omen over the Addams estate—sheets of rain cutting sideways through the trees, the wind howling with the voice of something ancient and restless. Thunder rolled in the distance, low and bone-deep. Lightning cracked across the sky, lighting the mansion's stained-glass windows like the eyes of a waking beast.

Fester stood at the upstairs landing, hunched in his thick wool coat, chewing on his fingers. Not out of hunger this time. Out of nerves. Of all things. His bones buzzed like a storm rod waiting to be struck. His scalp tingled beneath the soft fuzz of stubble. He could feel it. Something was coming.

Gomez stood below in the foyer, sharp as ever in pinstripes, twirling his sabre like a conductor's baton. "She's almost here, cara mia!" he called to Morticia, who descended the staircase with the grace of a widow at a funeral. Her gown rippled like smoke behind her, its black fabric absorbing the dim light while the white lace trim stood out like bone against shadow.

"I do hope she's punctual," Morticia sighed, her voice carrying the melodic cadence of someone reciting poetry at a graveside service. "And immune to curses."

"She'd better be fun," Wednesday murmured, appearing from behind the grandfather clock with her arms folded. The firelight glinted off her pale skin and dark braids, making her look like a small carved gargoyle come to life.

"The last nanny fled screaming when the wallpaper blinked," she added matter-of-factly.

"Maybe this one's blind," Pugsley offered hopefully, his eyes lighting up at the thought of having a nanny who couldn't see his more dangerous experiments.

And then... the door creaked open.

Lurch stood in the doorway like a monolith, soaked from the rain, his towering frame blocking most of the storm-lit entrance. And there—backlit by white lightning, haloed in mist—a woman stepped inside.

Fester forgot to breathe.

His stomach dropped. His hands went cold. His pupils dilated until the room was a blur—and there she was. Standing there like the villain in a romantic nightmare. Every inch of her was perfectly sculpted into steel: the sharp trench coat, the glossy lips, the heels that clicked like gunshots on the marble floor.

Morticia turned slowly, her elegant features softening into something like approval. Her lips curved upward slightly. "Delicious," she whispered, the word carrying more meaning than its simple definition.

Gomez inhaled deeply and sighed with appreciation. "Mmm. Danger and perfume. A heady combination," he said, swirling his sabre in a graceful arc that sent a shower of sparks onto the stone floor.

When she offered a pleasant, professional smile, warm enough to disarm, but with a cool calculation around the edges, Fester staggered a step backward, gripping the banister as though struck by an electric current. He squinted hard, as if trying to confirm she was actually real.

"No," he whispered to himself. "No way. She's... she's... real?"

Grandmama leaned around the hall archway with a mug of something steaming and blue, the vapors curling into tiny skull shapes before dissolving. "I smell bleach and lies," she cackled, her voice like dry bones rubbing together. "This one's a live wire."

"She's different," Wednesday declared, her voice flat but her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "She hasn't even looked scared yet."

She was introduced as the new nanny. Certified, reputable, experienced, charming. Gomez kissed her hand with a flourish that would have made lesser women swoon. Morticia offered her a black rose whose petals curled like charred paper, its scent like funeral lilies with a hint of cyanide. She accepted both with the ease of someone used to dancing through minefields.

Fester remained glued to the upstairs rail, unable to tear his eyes away.

His throat felt too tight. His hands twitched like they wanted to hold a match and a bottle of kerosene. "She's—" he rasped to himself, "She's like a... like a cobra in heels."

And when she glanced up for a second, her eyes met his.

Fester squeaked.

He dropped flat to the floor like a beached seal, heart hammering like a jack-in-the-box about to burst.

Downstairs, Gomez chuckled knowingly.

"Ohhh dear brother," he called up the staircase. "Did Cupid's arrow strike a little... low?"

Morticia floated beside him, her gaze following the direction of his nod upward. "He hasn't looked that pale since the electric chair," she noted with amusement.