Genesis. Volume 1.

May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 3:30 p.m. Genesis Mansion. The Study. The laughter cut off as abruptly as it had begun. The silence that followed pressed down heavier than the music and the cackling combined. Arthur gripped the edge of the desk, listening to his own pulse. Beside him, Max still held his slingshot at the ready — the rubber stretched to its limit, his finger white. Lisa pressed herself against the wall, clutching tiny manicure scissors. Jack had lowered his hammer as if he’d forgotten why he was holding it. Emma and Jenny stood back to back, like something out of an old film whose title no one could remember. “He’s here,” Jack whispered. “I know,” Arthur answered just as soundlessly. “No,” Jack shook his head, and his flashlight beam brushed across his hollow cheeks. “That’s not what I mean. He’s in this room. With us.” The beams darted across the walls: bookshelves crammed with dusty volumes, a sagging sofa with stuffing poking out, a heap of papers by the cold fireplace. Nobody. But the cold was so deep that their breath misted. Not cellar cold, not outdoor cold — something else, creeping under clothes and under skin, making the hair on the back of the neck stir. “Let’s go,” Jenny’s voice shook as if she were freezing. “Please. Let’s leave.” “We haven’t found the name,” Arthur said stubbornly. “We won’t find it today. If we stay, we’ll only find death.” “She’s right,” Max unexpectedly agreed, lowering the slingshot but not putting it away. “We’re not ready. We should…” He broke off. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Not heavy, not the steps of a master — light, creeping, almost inaudible. But in the dead silence of the mansion they rang out clearly, like the beat of a metronome. Someone was approaching the study. Arthur raised a hand. Breathing stopped. The footsteps ceased just outside the door. Then the door, without a single creak, slowly opened. In the doorway stood a boy. Around fifteen or sixteen, in a dirty, once-white T‑shirt and ripped jeans with torn-out knees. Tangled hair full of dust and debris, a pale face, cracked lips, black hollows under his eyes. But his eyes were alive — they darted across faces, across hands holding weapons, assessing, pausing. Not fear. More like emptiness mixed with curiosity. “You came,” his voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in weeks. “I thought you’d chicken out.” Arthur shielded the others. “Who are you?” “Someone who wants to help. Or someone who wants to survive. Take your pick.” The boy gave a crooked smirk, but the smile came out joyless, as if it hurt him to make it. “How did you know we’d be here?” Lisa poked her head out from behind her brother’s shoulder. “He knew,” the boy nodded somewhere toward the ceiling. “He always knows. But I know too. I live here.” “You live here?” Max repeated. “In this house?” “Where else? I don’t have a home. My parents… never mind. What matters is that I know things about him that you don’t.” “And what’s that?” Emma stepped forward, not lowering her knife. The boy ran his eyes over her, and something like respect flickered in his gaze. “You can’t kill him. You can’t put a spell on him, shoot him, burn him. He isn’t human. He never was.” “We’ve already figured that out,” Arthur didn’t move. “We’re looking for his name. The real one.” “The name,” the boy gave a short laugh. “Everyone looks for the name. They think if you say the true one, he’ll vanish or obey.” “Isn’t that right?” Jack asked quietly. The boy turned to him, and his gaze lingered on the mismatched eyes longer than on the others. He tilted his head, like a dog listening to an unheard sound. “You see,” he said. “Not the way we do. Tell me, do you see my face?” Jack blinked. “Yes. Why?” “Because,” the boy stepped closer, and Arthur tensed but didn’t stop him. “I don’t have a face. Not anymore. He took it. He takes it from everyone who stays here too long.” He walked to the window, a hole covered in cobwebs, and turned his back. The light from outside fell on the back of his head, and Arthur noticed something he hadn’t seen before. The skin on his scalp was too smooth, without a single hair, without pores, without moles — like wax, like a stranger’s mask. “You promised to help,” Arthur reminded. “So help.” The boy turned around. “His name is carved on a stone. In the cellar. There’s an old well down there, bricked up. Open it and you’ll find the name on the wall. Written in blood. His own blood, the blood he lost when he stopped being human.” “How do you know that?” Jenny asked. “I went down there. Once. At night. I saw the name, but I couldn’t read it. It’s in the language of those who are already dead. Ancient. I didn’t know those symbols.” “Show us,” Arthur nodded toward the door. “Come down with us and show us the well.” The boy shook his head — slowly, wearily. “I can’t. He’ll find out. If I go down again, he’ll do to me what he does to those who know too much.” “What exactly?” Max asked. “He takes. Bit by bit. First your face. Then your voice. Then your memory. And then you’re not you anymore. Just an empty shell, wandering the house and waiting.” Jenny covered her face with her hands. Lisa squeezed the scissors until her knuckles went white. “Then why did you tell us all this?” Arthur kept his eyes on him. “If you can’t help, why did you come?” “So you’d know. So you wouldn’t search where there’s nothing. The papers, the newspapers, the letters — he planted all that to mislead you. The real thing is only in the well.” He backed toward the door. His sneakers were worn out, the sole coming away. “I have to go. He doesn’t like it when I talk to guests. Good luck. You’ll need it.” “Wait!” Arthur shouted, lunging after him. He dashed into the hallway — no one. Only dust swirling in a beam of light, and somewhere upstairs the music box began to play again. He came back. “Vanished. Like through a wall.” “Or through it,” Jack nodded sideways. “What do we do?” Max shifted his weight. “Do we go to the cellar?” Arthur looked at the map, at the crossed-out name, then at the door. “We go. If the name is down there — we have to find it.” “And if it’s a trap?” Emma crossed her arms. “What if it’s not? We don’t have another chance.” “I’m with you,” Lisa stepped forward. “Me too,” Jack said. “Me too,” Max stretched the slingshot’s rubber. Jenny and Emma exchanged a look. “Well, it’s not the first time,” Emma gave a grim smile. “Just be quick,” Jenny pleaded. They went out into the hallway. Their flashlights picked out strips of wallpaper, faded photographs, door handles covered in patina. Arthur stopped at the stairs, where under the flight a door to the cellar loomed dark. “Down there. Do you smell that?” “Sweetish,” Lisa pressed her palm to her nose. “Like old flowers.” “Or decay,” Emma added. “Not helping,” Jenny snapped. “I’m not trying to.” Arthur pushed the door. Hinges screeched. Beyond it — steep stone steps vanishing into blackness. A smell of earth, damp, and that sweet thing that had already become sickeningly familiar. “Lights,” he ordered. Max and Emma switched on their powerful flashlights. The beams picked out walls of rough stone covered in green slime, a low ceiling with cobwebs hanging in tatters. “Stay close. I’ll go first.” Arthur started down. The steps creaked and sagged underfoot. Lisa followed, clutching his backpack. Jack brought up the rear, glancing back again and again at the grey rectangle of the doorway above. The cellar was enormous. Stone columns propped up the low ceiling. In the corners, crates, sacks, broken furniture — legless chairs, a table with no top. It smelled not only of rot but of metal — like old coins or blood. In the center, directly beneath the parlor, gaped the mouth of a well. Old masonry of hewn stone, a heavy wooden lid sealed with grey wax full of bubbles. “Help me,” Arthur leaned on the lid. Four of them — he, Max, Jack, Emma — shifted it a couple of centimeters. The wood slipped; their fingers slid. “We need a lever,” Arthur gasped. Jack picked up a piece of rusty rebar from the floor. They wedged it in, pressed. The wax cracked. Another push — and the lid grated aside, revealing a black maw. Cold breathed up from the depths. Not the damp cold of a cellar — something other, seeping into the bones, slowing the heart. Arthur peered down and saw only blackness, and the blackness seemed to look back. “Shine the lights.” The beams plunged into the depths but didn’t reach the bottom. Instead, scratches and symbols emerged on the walls — sharp, angular signs that made the eyes blur. “Something’s written there,” Lisa crouched at the edge. “Letters.” “That’s not English,” Max illuminated the nearest one. “Not Latin either,” Jack added. “What does it mean?” Jenny whispered. “Maybe that’s the name,” Arthur leaned over. “Or a whole sentence.” “We’d need to go down.” “Are you crazy?” Jenny grabbed his sleeve. “You’ll fall!” “There are ledges. I can do it. I’ll go alone — you brace me. If I yell, pull me up.” He shrugged off his backpack, gave it to Lisa, clamped the flashlight between his teeth — the metal casing cold against his lips — and swung one leg over the edge. The stone was slick with slime. Arthur began to descend. Each foothold had to be felt out; his fingers clung to rough edges. The flashlight danced, picking out more and more signs. They covered every stone — paragraphs, lines, endless symbols carved by someone’s endless patience. Three meters. Four. His arms were trembling. The air grew stuffy, acidic. Arthur pressed his back against the cold wall, caught his breath, and aimed the light at the symbols. Some repeated. And among them — one word. On every third stone. On every fifth. It inserted itself into his mind, bypassing his eyes. As if the walls were whispering, the air vibrating, the stone growing warm under his fingers. Crowley. That one. The one they already knew. He had believed the boy. He had led his friends into a trap. The thought struck like a hammer. Arthur clung to a ledge, his nails aching. He stared at the ancient signs, at the repeated “Crowley,” and nausea rose in his throat. The boy had lied. Or had been lied to himself. But he had believed. Said “let’s go,” and they went. Said “climb down,” and he climbed down. And now they were stuck here, an hour wasted, and there was no name. “It’s my fault. I should have checked. I shouldn’t have believed.” He lifted his head. In the circle of light above — five silhouettes against the grey opening. “There’s nothing there!” his voice broke. “Just Crowley! What we already knew!” The echo seized the name, multiplied it, carried it through the cellar. “Climb up!” Lisa shouted. “Please!” Arthur started up. It was harder — hands slipping, feet losing their hold. They grabbed his wrists, hauled him up. Max, Jack, Emma. He tumbled over the edge, collapsed on the floor, breathing as if he’d run a mile. His palms were scraped raw, stone grit in the wounds. “A trick,” he forced out. “Only his name. Nothing new.” “The boy lied,” Jenny said. “Or was fooled himself,” Jack rubbed his forehead. “Maybe he believed it.” “What difference does it make?” Emma flared up. “We wasted an hour, climbed into this pit, and found nothing. It’ll be dark soon.” “She’s right,” Max glanced at his watch. “We need to leave.” Arthur looked at his own watch: a quarter past four. The sun was still high, but down here you couldn’t tell. “Let’s go. Up.” They made their way to the ground floor, passed the parlor with its dusty paintings, and stepped out onto the porch. The sun was sliding toward evening; the tree shadows stretched across the wet grass. It smelled of leaves and gasoline — alive, normal. “Now what?” Max asked. Arthur was silent, staring at the dark windows of the mansion, the boarded-up shutters, the ivy weaving over the facade. Anger was rising inside him — at the clown, at the boy, at himself. “Do we give up?” Jenny asked quietly. No one answered. Birds cried in the distance, the wind rustled the leaves. Each of them was thinking the same: they had risked themselves for nothing, the boy had lied, maybe Crowley couldn’t be beaten at all. “No,” Lisa said suddenly. Everyone turned to her. She stood on the bottom step, clutching her notebook to her chest, a white streak of chalk running down her jeans. Her eyes were red with exhaustion, but her gaze burned. “We don’t give up. We didn’t go through all this for nothing. We found the letter, the map, the cellar. We didn’t find the name — true. But we learned where it isn’t. That’s important too.” “Liz…” Arthur began. “No, listen,” she cut him off. “That boy — maybe he lied, maybe he was misled. But he said the main thing: the papers, the newspapers, the letters — they were all planted to confuse us. So we were looking in the wrong place. Not in the things he left. But somewhere else.” “Where?” Max asked. “I don’t know. But we’ll find it. The sun is still high. We have time.” Arthur looked at his sister and felt his anger slowly recede. “You’re right. We’re not giving up.” He looked around at the others. Max nodded. Jack gripped the hammer. Emma adjusted her knife. Jenny wiped away tears no one had noticed. “Let’s go,” Arthur said. “Again. But differently this time.” “How?” Emma asked. “We’ll search not for what he wanted to show us. But for what he wanted to hide.” He looked at the mansion, at the dark windows, at the door that had shut again, though they hadn’t closed it. As if someone had held it from inside. “Come on.” And they went back inside. The door closed behind them — without a creak, silent. For the second time.