Genesis. Volume 1.

May 29, 1985. Sunday. 8 a.m. The Walkers’ house. Someone was shaking Arthur by the shoulder. “Get up.” He peeled his eyes open with difficulty. Lisa was already dressed — jeans, a sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The smell of fried eggs and burnt toast drifted in from the bedroom doorway. “Breakfast is ready,” she added. “It’s eight. Mom’s at church, Dad’s at the construction site. We’re alone.” Arthur sat up, rubbed his face with his palms. His head was buzzing — they’d gone to bed late, had split up well past midnight after the garage. Outside the window a fine rain was drizzling, drops drumming against the tin flashing. “Is Max coming?” he croaked, pulling off the blanket. “Already here. Waiting downstairs.” He pulled on jeans and a T‑shirt and went down to the kitchen. Max was sitting at the table, warming his hands on a mug of tea. Grey shadows lay under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept at all. “How are you?” Arthur dropped into the chair opposite and pulled a plate toward himself. Max twitched his shoulders. “All right. I dreamed about the clown. He stood by my bed and watched.” “What did he do?” “Nothing. Just watched. I woke up — nobody there. But there was a red thread left on the pillow.” He rolled up his sleeve. The thread sat tight, biting into the skin. “Tried to cut it — the knife goes blunt.” Lisa set a frying pan of eggs on the table. Steam rose from the eggs; the edges were fried to a crisp. “Don’t cut it,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Maybe it’s a connection.” “To who?” “To Jack. Or to Crowley.” Arthur picked up his fork but didn’t eat — he just watched the yolk slowly spreading across the plate. Yesterday’s thoughts were churning in his head: Emma and Jenny in the garage, their white faces, the letter they hadn’t yet read, and tomorrow’s visit to the grandmother. “We meet at the garage at two,” he said at last, cutting off a piece of egg white. “Don’t be late.” “I’ll call Jack,” Lisa nodded. “He said he wants to help.” “Help?” Max gave a crooked smirk. “He’s afraid of his own shadow.” “He is afraid. But he’s here. That matters more.” May 29, 1985. Sunday. 2 p.m. Abandoned garage on Third Street. It was cold in the garage. The cinder‑block walls drew dampness; the broken windows let in the wind, and it stirred the pages of Lisa’s notebook. Everyone sat on crates and broken chairs. No one was smiling. Emma came last, Jenny clinging to her shoulder. Emma looked as if she hadn’t slept at all — red eyes, pale face, hands deep in the pockets of her jacket. “Here’s the thing,” Arthur looked around at them all. “We know nothing about him. Where he came from, what he wants, how to stop him. Total zero. So the first thing we need is information.” “And where are you going to get it?” Emma sat with her arms crossed, sceptical. “We’ve already been to the library. Empty.” “Not completely empty,” Lisa opened her notebook. “We found an article about the family from ’58. But it only talked about the murder. Nothing about a clown.” “Maybe he came from nowhere,” Jack spoke up quietly. “Maybe he was always there. Like the air. Or like death.” “Don’t talk like that,” Lisa cut him off. “Everything has a beginning. Even this… creature.” Max fidgeted on his crate. “What if we ask the old people? The ones who’ve lived in town a long time. Maybe they’ve heard something.” Jenny, who had been sitting next to Emma and staring at the floor in silence until now, raised her head. “My grandmother.” Everyone turned to her. “She’s been here since 1918. Since she got married. She always said the town was strange. That something’s wrong with it.” “What exactly?” Arthur asked. “She never said. Just grumbled.” Jenny wrapped her arms around herself. “But when I was little, she used to scare me with stories. About children who disappeared in the woods. About a house you must never go to.” “The Genesis mansion,” Max said. Jenny nodded. Arthur stood up from his crate. “Then we’ll go to your grandmother.” “She won’t talk to you. She’s old; she barely lets anyone into the house. Only me.” “Then you’ll go,” Emma said. “And Lisa. The two of you. An old woman is more likely to open up to girls than to a crowd of teenagers.” “Why me?” Lisa was surprised. “Because you know how to ask questions,” Arthur glanced at his sister. “And Jenny’s grandmother will find it easier to talk to the two of you.” Lisa nodded, shut her notebook. “All right. We’ll go.” “And in the meantime we’ll hit the town archive,” Max said. “If there is one.” “There is,” Jenny replied. “On the second floor of the old town hall. But you can’t get in without permission.” “We’ll find a way,” Arthur tossed out. “Not the first time.” Emma gave a quiet snort — not malicious, more surprised. “Are you always like this? Confident?” “No,” Arthur answered honestly. “But if we sit around being scared, he wins. And I don’t want him to win.” May 29, 1985. Sunday. 3 p.m. The road to Jenny’s grandmother. Lisa and Jenny were walking along the outskirts of Brookfield. The asphalt gave way to a dirt track; the lampposts ended. The houses here were old, wooden, with crooked roofs and overgrown front gardens. Here and there laundry hung on lines, grey from many washes. “Is it still far?” Lisa jumped over a puddle. “About ten minutes. She lives right by the woods.” The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves. Somewhere behind the trees a crow was cawing. Lisa kept turning her head, memorising the route — in case she had to come alone. “Are you scared of your grandmother?” she asked. Jenny hesitated. “No. But she’s strange. She mutters about spirits, about signs. Mom thinks she’s lost her mind.” “And you?” “I don’t know. But she’s never been wrong. Last year she said the neighbour would die. A month later he had a stroke.” Lisa shivered and adjusted the strap of her backpack. They turned the corner. The house stood on its own, wooden, with a lopsided porch and closed shutters. The roof was overgrown with moss, the chimney crooked, and a rusty sign hung on the fence: “Beware of the dog.” No dog was in sight, nor could one be heard. Jenny went up to the door and knocked three times — the way she’d been taught as a child. “Grandma! It’s Jenny. I’m not alone; I have a friend with me.” The door opened, not at once. In the doorway stood a stooped woman in a dark headscarf. Her face was cut with wrinkles, like dry earth with cracks. Her eyes were sharp, lively — quite young in the old face. She looked over her granddaughter, then shifted her gaze to Lisa and stepped back into the corridor. “Come in. Take off your shoes; I’ve washed the floors.” May 29, 1985. Sunday. 3:30 p.m. Jenny’s grandmother’s house. Inside it smelled of herbs, old wood, and something sweetish — like a pharmacy where they keep dried mushrooms. The old woman led them into a room that served as both bedroom and living room. Photographs in frames hung on the walls, icons in the corner, and embroideries with circles and intersecting arcs — Lisa had never seen anything like them before. The symbols resembled the ones she had drawn in her notebook. “Sit down,” the old woman lowered herself onto a chair. “Will you have tea?” “No, thank you,” Lisa said. “We wanted to ask you something. About the town. About the stories you used to tell.” The grandmother fixed her with a long stare. Then she turned to Jenny. “Why do you need this, girl?” “Because he’s back,” Jenny answered quietly. “The clown. We know.” The old woman’s hands, resting in her lap, began to tremble finely. She pressed her fingers together, but the trembling didn’t stop. “I told your mother. I warned her. They shouldn’t have built a house on this land. You mustn’t wake what sleeps.” “What do you mean, ‘wake’?” Lisa asked. The old woman turned to her. Something ancient, real, stirred in the depths of her pupils. “Do you know who built that mansion?” “No.” “The Brookses. Jenny’s great‑grandfather. He was a rich man; he ran a circus. Toured the whole country with clowns, acrobats, animals. And then he came here, bought the land, and built the house. The biggest in town.” “What happened then?” Jenny’s voice wavered. “Then he brought the circus. And in that circus there was one… person. A clown. People said he wasn’t like the others. Too pale. Too quiet. He never laughed; only his face was always smiling. Painted on.” Lisa felt cold, though the house was warm. “He came to your great‑grandfather and offered a deal. Fame, money, whatever you want. In return he asked for a place where he could live. Great‑grandfather agreed. And then the clown changed. Stopped being human. Or maybe he’d never been one.” “And what about great‑grandfather?” Jenny asked. “Died a year later. They found him in the cellar. Sitting facing the wall, smiling. The same smile as the clown’s.” Silence hung in the room. A mouse was scratching behind the wall — thin, insistent. “And how do you stop him?” Lisa asked, leaning forward. “How do you defeat him?” The grandmother shook her head. “You can’t defeat him, child. You can only lock him up. Shut him where he came from. But for that you need his name.” “We know it,” Jenny said quickly. “Crowley.” “No.” The old woman looked stern. “That’s not a name. That’s a title. A mask. The true name — that’s the one he lost when he stopped being human. If you learn it, you can control him. But no one knows it. No one.” “Then where do we look?” Lisa had already pulled out her notebook. The grandmother was silent for a long while, gazing at the dark icon in the corner. Then she rose heavily, walked to the chest of drawers, and pulled out the top drawer. She took out a yellowed envelope tied with a faded ribbon. “Here is a letter. Your great‑grandfather wrote it a month before he died. He gave it to my mother and said: ‘When he returns, give it to those who are not afraid.’ I’ve waited sixty years. Take it.” Lisa accepted the envelope. The paper was rough, crumbling at the edges. On the front, a single word in a trembling hand: “Forgiveness.” “What’s inside?” Jenny couldn’t take her eyes off the envelope. “I don’t know. I haven’t opened it. It isn’t meant for me.” The old woman crossed herself and turned away to the window. May 29, 1985. Sunday. 4 p.m. The forest path. Lisa and Jenny walked back in silence. The envelope lay in the backpack, pressed against the notebook, and it weighed unnaturally much — as if it held not paper but something alive. “Are you afraid to open it?” Jenny asked when the first houses appeared beyond the trees. “I am. You?” “I don’t know. Maybe it’s empty.” “Or maybe it’s everything.” The wind shook the branches, shook off drops of yesterday’s rain. Lisa glanced at the sky — grey, heavy, but with no promise of rain. “Your grandmother isn’t crazy,” she said. “I know. It’s just that no one listens to her.” “We will.” They quickened their pace. May 29, 1985. Sunday. 6 p.m. The abandoned garage. By six everyone had gathered again. Arthur had brought a thermos of tea and a packet of biscuits; Max, an old blanket. Emma and Jenny sat on a crate, leaning shoulder to shoulder. Jack stood by the wall, gazing out of the broken window, though dusk was already thickening outside. “Open it,” Arthur said, nodding at the envelope in Jenny’s hands. She took it; her fingers trembled slightly. She glanced at Emma — Emma nodded silently. Jenny tore the edge, drew out a sheet folded in four. Thin, almost transparent parchment. The letters had faded but were legible. “Read it aloud,” Max said. Jenny cleared her throat. Her voice was quiet, but in the garage every word echoed off the walls: “Whoever reads this letter knows that he has returned. I am to blame. I opened a door that should not have been opened. I thought I could control what I did not understand. His name was…” She fell silent, turned the page, brought it closer to the lantern. “It’s been erased. Only one word at the bottom: ‘Don’t repeat.’” “What?!” Emma jumped up from the crate. “We dragged ourselves to your grandmother, got the letter, and it’s blank?” “Don’t yell at her,” Lisa checked her. “It’s not her fault.” “I’m not yelling!” Emma jerked her shoulder. “It’s just that the whole day’s gone to the dogs. School tomorrow, and this clown…” “Quiet.” Everyone froze. Jack raised his palm, calling for silence. He sat with his eyes squeezed shut, his eyelids twitching faintly. When he opened his eyes, there was depth in them — or emptiness; it was hard to tell at once. “He knows,” Jack said. “He knew we were looking for the name. That’s why it was erased. He doesn’t want us to find it.” “How do you…” Jenny began. “I’ve always seen more than others. That’s why they teased me. That’s why I was afraid.” Jack spoke evenly, without a stammer. “I saw him before he came to me. Saw him in the eyes of the ones who laughed. He was waiting. Always.” “Jack…” Arthur took a step toward him. “We need to look somewhere else,” Jack went on as if he hadn’t heard. “In the archive. In old circus records. Somewhere his name must survive. The real one.” “And if we find it?” Emma crossed her arms. “What do we do? Shout it out loud and hope he gets scared?” “If we find the name,” Lisa opened her notebook to the grandmother’s words, “we can control him.” “Or destroy him,” Arthur added. “Or die trying,” Jack finished, and no one could find a word to argue. The silence stretched. Emma was staring at the blank page in Jenny’s hands. Useless, like everything they had done so far. “Then tomorrow we go to the archive,” she said suddenly. Everyone stared at her. “What?” Emma looked around at them all. “Am I getting this right? We’re looking for a name — so we look. If we need the archive, we go to the archive. If we need the circus, we’ll crawl into the circus. I’m not going to sit around waiting for that freak to decide it’s my turn.” “They won’t let us into the archive without permission,” Max reminded her. “We’ll figure it out. I can be persuasive.” In spite of everything, Jenny smiled weakly. “It’s true. She can.” Arthur nodded, reaching a decision: “Then tomorrow, after school. Meet at the old town hall. Don’t be late.” May 29, 1985. Sunday. 8 p.m. On the way home. They parted ways in the twilight. Lisa walked alongside Arthur and Max. Jack headed off alone, but tonight he didn’t look back. For the first time in many days, determination pulsed in his chest instead of fear. “Bye, Jack!” Max called after him. Jack raised a hand without turning around. Emma and Jenny walked together. They stopped at the gate of the Brooks house. “You okay?” Emma asked. “I don’t know,” Jenny admitted honestly. “My family, my great‑grandfather… this is all because of us. If he hadn’t opened that door…” “It has nothing to do with you. Your great‑grandfather was an idiot. You’re not.” “How do you know?” “Because today you went to your grandmother. You didn’t run. You’re here. With us.” Jenny swallowed; her eyes grew moist, but she didn’t cry — she just pressed her lips together and nodded. “Thank you.” “Go home. Tomorrow’s a hard day.” Jenny pushed the gate and disappeared into the house. Emma stood for a minute, looking at the light in the window, then turned and walked home. On the way she again felt a stranger’s gaze between her shoulder blades. But she didn’t turn around. Not because she was afraid. She had simply decided: if that clown wanted to take her — let him try. May 29, 1985. Sunday. 11 p.m. Genesis Mansion. Cellar. A damp darkness filled the mansion’s cellar. The walls were saturated with the smell of old blood — it had soaked into the stone and plaster decades ago, and now nothing could scour it out. Crowley sat on the floor, legs crossed. The clown suit was stained with dirt and paint; the makeup on his face had cracked, revealing grey, dead skin. But the smile held — painted on, red. He was studying a homemade map on the wall. Photographs of children, pinned with thumbtacks. Amber and Derek — crossed out in red. In the centre, six pictures: Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jack, Jenny, Emma. A long, pale finger with a black nail slowly traced the faces and stopped on Jack — on his mismatched eyes. “The game goes on,” he rustled. His voice echoed from the walls. “You are searching for my name. The one I forgot many years ago.” He chuckled. The sound was like the creak of a door that hadn’t been oiled in an eternity — or like the squeal of a mouse in a trap. “But when you find it… what will you do? Call me? I’ll come anyway.” He rose; his joints cracked. He took Emma’s photograph from the wall. Studied it: light hair, a bold, slightly narrowed gaze. “You are not afraid. That’s interesting. Those are the ones I love especially. They… taste good.” He pressed the picture to his painted lips, leaving a red smudge, and pinned it back. “Tomorrow,” he breathed. “Tomorrow the most interesting part begins.” He snapped his fingers. The candle on the floor went out, and the mansion drowned in oily darkness. From somewhere beneath the earth came a soft, creaking laugh. It lasted a minute and then faded. The house stilled. Only in the attic a mouse was scratching — or someone’s fingers were leaving scratches on the wall. Crowley did not sleep. He waited.