Genesis. Volume 1.

May 30, 1985. Monday. 6 a.m. The Walkers’ house. Arthur woke an hour before the alarm. He lay in the dark, listening to his mother clattering dishes downstairs — kettle, fridge, pot lids. From the second floor came the radio: Lisa had turned it on low, almost a whisper, so as not to wake anyone. A melody drifted through the wall, familiar from yesterday’s news. Usually it drove him crazy. Today he was almost glad. Any sound of normal life felt like a lifeline thrown into the murky water they’d been floundering in these last few days. He sat up, glanced at the empty cot. Max had slept over last night — his third sleepover this week; their mother grumbled but allowed it. Max himself had left before dawn, wanting to pop home and change. Arthur had heard him fussing in the hallway, carefully lacing his sneakers, trying not to make noise, then softly pulling the front door shut. The room still smelled of someone else’s sweat and Mom’s shampoo — Max had forgotten his own. Arthur got up and went to the window. The street was empty. A milky fog stretched across the asphalt; the lampposts blurred, like in an old photograph. The silence was so dense you could hear a faucet dripping somewhere in the house. His eye caught the maple tree across the street — old, with a thick, cracked trunk, planted by their grandfather. Pinned to the trunk with a rusty thumbtack was a circus ticket. Yellow, crumbling at the edges, exactly like the ones they’d found before. The tack was new, shiny — driven in recently. Arthur froze. Last night he had stood at this window, pressed his forehead to the cold glass, and peered into the darkness. There had been no ticket. He was sure of it. He dressed quickly — jeans, T-shirt, hoodie on top — and went downstairs. The staircase creaked as usual. His mother stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. Butter sizzled and spattered. “What’s with the frown?” she asked without turning around. “Not enough sleep?” “Everything’s fine, Mom. I’ll step outside for a minute.” “Breakfast in five minutes! Lisa, don’t turn that up all the way!” Arthur went out onto the porch. Cold. The fog settled on the railing in beads of water. The ticket still hung on the tree. He walked over, looked around — no one, only the neighbor’s cat crossing the road. He tore the ticket off. The paper was rough, almost crumbling between his fingers. It smelled of that same sweetish rot as the mansion. Blank on the back. He wanted to throw it away, but his fingers wouldn’t unclench. He went inside, back to his room, and slipped the ticket into his desk drawer — with the others. He thought: should show the guys. Then immediately realized — they already know. He kept it for himself. As a reminder that this wasn’t a dream. At breakfast, Lisa seemed calm, even cheerful. She told their mother about the still life with apples in today’s art class, laughed at their father’s joke. Under the table, her leg was trembling — Arthur could feel the vibration. She was afraid; she just didn’t show it. He looked at her and thought: how does she do it? Sit here, eat fried eggs and laugh, while somewhere in an old mansion something waits that turns everything inside you upside down and squeezes it into a lump like a wet rag. He finished, put his plate in the sink. “Max and I will be late after school,” he told his mother. “Again? You were just there last week.” “History report. Extra material.” “All right, but I want you home by six.” He and Lisa left at 7:40. The fog had nearly lifted, but the air stayed damp and heavy. At the corner, Max was waiting — paler than usual, dark circles under his eyes, lips chapped. He kept glancing at the bushes, at the parked cars, at the dark windows of houses. “What’s wrong?” Arthur asked. “Nothing. Just on my way to your place this morning, it felt like someone was following me. I’d turn around — nobody. But there were footsteps.” “Maybe the neighbor’s dog?” Lisa suggested. “The neighbors don’t have a dog. The neighbor died last month. The house is empty.” They moved on. By his fence stood Jack, gripping his backpack strap so hard his knuckles were white. He was staring at the road that led to the mansion. His gaze was empty — or overflowing with something he couldn’t express. “Let’s go,” Arthur called. Jack flinched, turned around. In his mismatched eyes was that same fear — sticky, heavy, like cement poured into your feet. “Everything all right?” “Yeah. Just looking.” “Don’t look at it,” Lisa said. “He wants us to be afraid. We won’t give him that.” Jack nodded, and they walked on. May 30, 1985. Monday. 8 a.m. Brookfield School. Entrance. The first person they saw in the school yard was Emma. She stood against the wall, leaning on one shoulder, smoking. The cigarette trembled in her fingers — or maybe it just seemed that way. Spotting them, she stubbed the butt out on the sole of her sneaker and stepped forward. “Jenny’s not here yet. I called at seven. She said she’d come later. Her mother made her change three times — didn’t like the dress.” “We’re meeting at the town hall after school,” Arthur reminded them. “Does everyone remember?” “I remember. But how are we getting in? There’s a guard, Uncle Frank on the first floor, checks everybody.” “I’ve got a plan,” Lisa said. “Our neighbor, Mr. Cross, works at the town hall. He’s nice. I’ll say we need it for a school project. He’ll let us in.” “And if he asks about permission?” “I’ll say we forgot. He’ll believe it. He always does.” Emma looked at her with respect. She lied to anyone herself — to her mother about sleepovers, to teachers about homework — but such calm, neat lying from a thirteen-year-old was rare. “All right. After school, then. I’ll let Jenny know.” “Are you going to class?” Arthur asked. “What, do I look like I’m cutting?” Emma smirked. “I’m going. The last thing I need is my parents getting called. My mom whined all last night: ‘You’re acting strange, you’re not eating, you’re not sleeping.’ I told her I’m in love. She backed off.” She walked away, leaving behind the smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume — a birthday gift from Jenny. “She’s weird,” Max said. “Strong,” Jack corrected. “She’s not afraid.” “Or pretending to be,” Arthur added. “Maybe that’s the same thing,” Lisa said. May 30, 1985. Monday. 9 a.m. School. Algebra class. The lessons dragged on endlessly. Arthur sat in algebra, staring at the board where Mrs. Fleming was writing quadratic equations, and didn’t hear a word. The numbers blurred into spots. In front of his eyes was the circus ticket on the maple. He thought about how Crowley knew their address. How he had turned up at Max’s house, at Jack’s. How he wrote names on glass. “Mr. Walker!” Mrs. Fleming’s voice yanked him out of his thoughts. “I asked a question.” “Sorry. I didn’t catch it.” The class tittered. Derek’s desk sat empty; the teacher tried not to look that way. The school already knew about the disappearance: the parents had come yesterday, crying in the hallway outside the principal’s office. Officially, they were saying — ran away from home, teenage rebellion, acting out. Arthur glanced at Bryce. He sat grim-faced, no trace of his usual smirk, silently spinning a ballpoint pen. At recess, they met in the cafeteria. Jenny was sitting at the far table, surrounded by empty chairs. Usually a crowd buzzed here; today, no one. Emma sat across from her, drinking tea and staring out the window at the basketball court. “How are you guys?” Arthur dropped onto a chair. “Fine,” Jenny answered. “Everyone’s staring. They think I know where Derek is. Or that I’m to blame. Yesterday Emily asked me in the locker room, ‘You guys were friends; what happened?’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t believe me.” “It’s not your fault,” Lisa sat down beside her. “I know. But they don’t.” “They’ll forget soon,” Max shrugged. “New rumors will start. Someone will kiss someone, someone will betray someone. They’ll stop staring.” “You think so?” “I know so. I’m the one people always stared at. Until someone even weirder came along.” He glanced at Jack, but Jack wasn’t offended — he just nodded and took a bite of a cabbage piroshki. The only one who’d grabbed anything from the cafeteria. “Taunts are like weather,” Jack said, chewing. “They pass.” Jenny looked around at them and, for the first time in a long while, felt something close to warmth. Not the fake admiration she was used to, not fear of her authority, but real. Simple. Human. “Thank you.” “No problem,” Arthur replied. “We’re a team now.” May 30, 1985. Monday. 3 p.m. Old Brookfield Town Hall. The town hall stood in the center, next to the post office and the pharmacy. Old, brick, with columns that were once white but now grey with soot. On the pediment, a coat of arms — a deer and an oak — and the date: “Founded 1823.” Lisa went in first. Arthur and Max followed. Jenny and Emma stayed outside to watch the entrance. Jack waited at the back door in case of a quick exit. Inside, it smelled of dust, old papers, and floor polish, with a trace of something sweetish. Arthur sneezed. A corridor with a high ceiling and chandeliers that hadn’t been lit since the seventies. On the walls, portraits of former mayors — all mustached men with stern gazes. Lisa found a door with a brass nameplate reading “Public Services Office” and knocked with her knuckles. “Come in.” Mr. Cross turned out to be a heavyset man in his fifties, with thick-lensed glasses and a jacket with patches on the elbows. His desk was perfectly neat: papers in stacks, pens in a holder, paperclips in a little box. On the wall, a calendar with a kitten. Seeing Lisa, he broke into a smile. “Lisa Walker? Hello, my dear. Are you here to see me?” “Hello, Mr. Cross.” Lisa switched on the very smile she saved for parents. “We have a school project on local history. We need to look at some old town documents. Can we go into the archive?” “Oh, the archive…” he scratched the back of his head, ruffling his thinning hair. “You can’t go in there without permission…” “We won’t be long,” Arthur put in, appearing over her shoulder. “Just some old newspapers. Our teacher said if we arranged it with you, it would be okay.” “Teacher? Who’s that?” “Mrs. Grove,” Lisa said quickly. Her heart pricked. Mrs. Grove was dead, but Cross didn’t know that — to the town, she had simply gone to visit relatives. “Ah, Mrs. Grove. A fine educator, God rest her soul,” he crossed himself automatically. “Well, if she asked… Usually a written permit is required. But for you, Lisa, I’ll make an exception. Just not for long.” “Thank you!” He led them to the second floor, unlocked a heavy door at the end of the hallway. Behind it — a windowless room crammed with shelving full of folders and bound volumes. It smelled of mice and damp. “Everything on the town is here. Newspapers, documents, censuses, old maps. I’ll be downstairs. No papers leave this room. I lock up at six.” He left. “We look for anything connected to the circus,” Arthur scanned the shelves. “To the mansion. To the Brookses.” “Where do we start?” Max asked. “With newspapers,” Lisa was already lifting a heavy folder off a shelf. “From 1920 to 1930.” They sat on the floor — there were no chairs — and began leafing through. Dust hung in the air; Max sneezed so hard the echo bounced around the room. An hour later, their backs ached and their eyes were watering. “Let’s move faster,” Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We’ve got two hours at most.” “I found something,” Max held up a yellowed clipping. “1924. A note about the circus. Look.” About forty minutes more, Arthur raised his head. “Found it.” The “Brookfield Herald,” September 12, 1924. On the front page — a photograph of the circus: a big striped tent, a crowd in hats and long dresses, animals in cages. Headline: “Brooks’ Circus Conquers Brookfield.” Arthur ran his finger along the lines and read aloud: — “Circus owner, the esteemed Mr. Jonathan Brooks, has brought an unprecedented show to our town. Acrobats, trained lions, clowns — they will all entertain the citizens of Brookfield for two weeks. Particular public attention was drawn by the clown Crowley, whose act became the sensation of the season.” “He was here even then,” Max whispered. “Keep reading,” Lisa urged. — “Mr. Brooks has announced that the circus will remain in town permanently. A plot of land on the outskirts has been purchased, where a new building for performances and living quarters for the performers will be constructed.” “The mansion,” Arthur looked up. “He built the mansion for the circus. And it became a home for him.” “Is there anything else?” Arthur turned the page. On the second page, in the corner, a tiny article next to an ad for coal. — “Mysterious disappearance. A local resident, Mr. Harold Finch, vanished after attending the circus. The family claims he went to the show and never returned. The circus owner denies any involvement.” “The first victim,” Lisa said. “Or not the first.” “Keep looking.” They found a few more items. A missing child in 1925 — an eight-year-old girl. A fire in the circus tent in 1926, three performers dead — the paper blamed faulty wiring. Closure of the circus in 1927 — “for financial reasons.” The last notice, 1928: “The Brooks Family Leaves Brookfield. Mansion put up for sale.” “They left,” Max set the newspaper aside. “And he stayed.” “They didn’t leave,” Lisa corrected. “They came back. Jenny’s grandmother said her father lived here. Someone from the Brooks family definitely returned.” “Jenny said her grandfather built the house,” Arthur added. “So they came back.” “We need to find out what happened between 1928 and 1958. Thirty years. Who lived in the mansion, what went on there.” They went on searching. The forties — empty, newspapers were rarely published. But they did find the familiar 1958 article about the mass murder, the same one from the library. And that was it. Cross looked in an hour later — time to close. Lisa thanked him, promised to come again. Outside, Jenny and Emma were waiting. “Well?” Emma peeled herself off the wall. “We found something,” Arthur said. “But not much. We need to figure out what happened in the mansion between the twenties and the fifties.” “And how do we do that?” Jenny asked. Arthur looked at her. In his eyes was something that made Jenny go cold. “We’ll have to go there. In the daytime. All together.” Silence fell on them like something heavy. Even Emma paled; she stubbed her cigarette out on the railing and tossed it without looking. “Are you insane? That’s his home. His territory. He’s strong there.” “That’s why daytime. And all together. He’s stronger when we’re alone. When it’s dark. If we’re together and in the light…” “He’s still stronger,” Jack said quietly. “But Arthur’s right. There’s no other way.” “We have to learn his name,” Lisa opened her notebook. “If we learn the name, we can control him. Maybe it’s there. In the mansion.” “Or in his things,” Max picked up. “If he was human, there’d be things left. Documents. Photographs.” “Tomorrow, then,” Arthur summed up. “After school. At the mansion. We go in together, search, get out before dark.” “And if he’s there?” Jenny’s voice wavered. “Let’s hope he isn’t expecting us in the daytime.” But deep down, Arthur knew: Crowley is always waiting. Always watching. Always knows where they are. The only question is who will make the first move. They parted ways. Max went to walk Emma and Jenny home, though they protested. Arthur and Lisa stayed by the town hall, watching the clouds thickening over the town. “Let’s go home. We have to get up early tomorrow.” “I won’t sleep.” “Neither will I.” They trudged along the wet sidewalk, skirting puddles. In the distance, thunder rumbled — rain was gathering but couldn’t make up its mind. May 30, 1985. Monday. 10 p.m. The Walkers’ house. Arthur’s room. Arthur wasn’t sleeping. He lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about the next day. The mansion. Crowley. The name they had to find, but nobody knew where. There was a soft knock at the door. “Come in.” Lisa peeked in. In flowered pajamas with a patch on the knee, hair loose, barefoot. Just a kid — not the serious girl who had negotiated with Cross, but simply his little sister, afraid of the dark. “Can’t sleep?” she asked. “Me neither,” Arthur answered. Lisa came over, sat on the edge of the bed. The springs squeaked. “Arthur. What if we don’t find his name? What if we go there and he…” “Don’t think about it.” “I have to think. I have to be ready for anything.” Arthur sat up, put his arm around her shoulders. She was warm, smelled of Mom’s shampoo and fear. “Listen. We will find the name. We’ll find a way to stop him. We’ll all come home. Got it?” Lisa nodded, but the fear still sat in her eyes — the kind that doesn’t leave because of promises. “And if we don’t?” “We will. I won’t let him take you. Or any of us. We’ll make it. We always have.” She pressed close to him, and they sat like that in the dark, listening to the wind outside. The clock on the wall ticked, counting off the minutes until morning. Somewhere in the center of town, in the old mansion, Crowley wasn’t sleeping either. He sat in the cellar, sorting through his trophies. In his hands — an old photograph: the circus, the crowd, and him in the center, in a clown suit, with a painted smile at the lens. “Tomorrow,” he rustled. “Tomorrow you will come to me. And I will show you true fear.” He raised a yellow, crumbling ticket to his lips, kissed it, and it flared blue, leaving bloody smudges on his fingers. “Welcome home, children.” He laughed. The laugh was soft, creaking, like the floorboards of an old house. The wind died down. The mansion lurked in the darkness. Arthur and Lisa sat pressed together, not sleeping. Tomorrow they would enter the house from which no one returned. They didn’t know this yet. They only knew there was no choice.