Genesis. Volume 1.

May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 4:30 p.m. Genesis Mansion. Second floor. The door closed behind them on its own — it didn’t slam, but slowly, as if someone were holding it from the other side. Arthur pushed it with his shoulder — the wood wouldn’t give, cold and damp, as if after rain. “Locked,” he said. His voice sounded calmer than he’d expected. “He locked us in,” Jenny whispered. Her shoulders rose toward her ears. “Or we locked ourselves in,” Jack didn’t take his eyes off the door. “Maybe we walked in and closed it. And he’s just watching.” “Stop it,” Emma cut him off. “Stop speaking for him.” Jack fell silent. Not from hurt — he knew she was scared too, she just didn’t want to admit it. They stood in the entryway. Light from outside broke through the dusty windows, but the mansion’s walls devoured it, turning it into a grey twilight, like before a storm that never breaks. It smelled of damp, rot, and that sweetish odor that had already seeped into their nostrils. “We won’t get out until we find what he’s hiding,” Arthur looked around at his friends. “He wants us to search. So there’s something there.” “Or there’s nothing there,” Max adjusted the slingshot in his pocket. “And he’s just stalling for time.” “Then we’ll find that ‘nothing’ and leave.” Arthur was the first to head for the stairs. The steps creaked underfoot — each with its own voice: a low groan on the third, a piercing squeak on the seventh, a muffled moan on the ninth. Lisa came last, glancing back at the door below again and again. It felt as if someone was following. She turned — no one, only the empty corridor and the dancing shadows from the flashlights. “Don’t look back,” Arthur said, without looking at his sister. “That’s what he wants. Then you can’t see what’s ahead.” Lisa nodded and fixed her eyes on the back of his head. The second floor greeted them with a long corridor. Four doors — two on each side, all closed, brass handles covered in patina. Arthur pushed the first. A bedroom: a bed with a rotted canopy, on the nightstand a melted candle stub, on the walls dark rectangles where paintings had once hung. It smelled of dust and former lavender. “Nothing,” Emma quickly swept the room with her beam. “Next.” The second — a nursery. In the corner a dollhouse with smashed windows, on the floor a plush rabbit with a torn ear. Flowered wallpaper had peeled and hung in tatters. Lisa paused at the dollhouse, looked inside. In a tiny room at a little table sat a faceless doll. Beside it — an old circus ticket. Lisa slipped it into her pocket. “Someone lived here,” she said. “A child. Played, hid things.” “From whom?” Max asked. “From himself,” Jack answered, and no one understood what he meant. The third room — a dressing room. Empty hangers, an open trunk, at the bottom yellowed lace gloves. Emma flipped them over with the toe of her sneaker — a silver cufflink with the initial “B” fell out. “Brooks,” she tossed it to Jenny. “Your family.” Jenny squeezed the cufflink in her fist. The metal was cold, but quickly warmed from her palm. The fourth door wouldn’t open. The handle turned, but something held the door from inside — not a lock, something heavy braced against the wood. Jack pressed his ear to the cold surface, closed his eyes. “There’s someone in there. I hear breathing.” “Alive or…” Lisa began. “I don’t know. But breathing.” Arthur kicked it. Once — the door didn’t budge. Twice — something cracked. Three times — with a loud crash the door flew open, slammed against the wall, raising a cloud of dust. A small room. One window, boarded up from inside, as if someone didn’t want to see the light. In the center — a mahogany desk, an inkwell with dried ink, a pen with a split nib, a stack of yellowed paper. On the top sheet — letters traced by a trembling hand, with such pressure that the ink had nearly pierced through the paper. Arthur picked up the sheet. Read aloud: “I know you will come. I have waited for you. My name is…” After that — nothing. The letters weren’t crossed out — they were erased, as if someone had run a finger over wet ink until it blurred into a dirty stain, until the paper grew thin. “Again,” Max’s voice was flat. “Again the name is erased.” “Not erased,” Jack took the paper, held it to the window. Through the gaps in the boards, a grey dying light seeped in. The letters didn’t show. “Hidden.” “Maybe it’s not a name,” Jenny wrapped her arms around herself. “Maybe it’s a trap. Like in the cellar.” “Maybe,” Arthur carefully folded the sheet and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, where the red thread was. The thread was warm — warmer than it should have been. “But we’ll look anyway.” The corridor narrowed toward the end, as if someone were squeezing the walls together. The sun was sinking toward sunset, the light from the windows turning amber and thick. Arthur’s flashlight beam slid over dusty striped wallpaper, over old photographs with indistinguishable faces — and picked out a door they hadn’t noticed before. “There’s the attic,” Max pointed at a narrow staircase. Arthur climbed first. The steps sagged, one nearly gave way — he clutched the shaky railing, rusty nails scraping his palm. After him — Lisa, breathing fast and shallow. Then Max, Jack, Jenny. Emma brought up the rear, glancing down. The attic smelled of mice, old wood, and metal — pungent, iron, like blood. In the center stood a music box. The very one. Open, its lid up, but the mechanism was empty — a cylinder without pins, a broken spring. “Someone wound it and stopped it,” Max said. “Or it stopped on its own when we came in,” Jack responded. Arthur ran a finger along the edge — the wood was warm, as if the box had just been held. He looked inside. In a hollow at the bottom lay a small key of dark metal, with a round head and a short bit. Cold and unexpectedly heavy. “What’s it for?” Lisa asked. “We’ll find out,” Arthur slipped the key into his pocket. At that moment, downstairs on the first floor, something thudded dully — as if a sandbag had fallen, or someone had jumped from the stairs onto the parquet. Everyone froze. Even stopped breathing. “We’re not alone,” Jack said. “I know.” “No. I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about us. There are more than six of us here.” He slowly turned. Max’s flashlight beam slid after him and picked out a figure from the darkness — small, stooped, in a long coat dragging along the floor. “Who’s there?” Arthur aimed his flashlight. The light fell on a face. Old, wrinkled, white hair escaping from under a headscarf. Dark eyes, without luster. The woman who had given them the letter. “Grandma?” Jenny breathed. The old woman didn’t answer. She stared at Jack directly, unblinking. “You see. Tell me what you see now.” Jack blinked. Looked at the old woman — and through her. “I see a wall. There’s no one there.” “Correct,” the old woman said, and her face changed. Became younger, smoother. Her hair darkened to light brown, the wrinkles smoothed away, as if someone had run an iron over wax. “Because I’m not here.” It was no longer her voice. Quiet, insinuating, with notes of laughter hiding beneath the words, like a snake under a stone. Crowley’s voice. The figure vanished. Didn’t dissolve — simply ceased to be, like a light switched off. Dust swirled in the beam. “He was here,” Max whispered. “All this time.” “He’s always here. We just aren’t looking where we need to.” Arthur clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. “We search the attic. Every board, every crack. He didn’t show us this for nothing.” They spread out. Trunks, boxes, bundles of newspapers, books with fallen-out pages. Lisa worked quickly, almost mechanically. Max crawled into a corner where a rusty tricycle lay. She found an album. Leather binding, faded embossing. Inside — black-and-white photographs on cardboard pages, captions in pencil, nearly worn away. Women in bustle dresses, men in bowler hats. The circus: a striped tent, elephants in muzzles, tigers in collars. Clowns. “Look,” Lisa called, her voice cracking. In the photo — a group of clowns. Six or seven, in masks and with painted faces. In the center, one whose face was smeared — not erased, but as if the photo emulsion had run on its own, as if someone had been burning him out of reality. “Beside him, a girl,” Jenny brought the album closer. “Young. Beautiful.” “And a child in her arms,” Max added. “A family,” Arthur exhaled. “He had a family.” The music box began to play. Not on its own — the key inside turned, and the broken mechanism came to life. An old, sad melody. Not a circus march — a lullaby. “Take those,” Jack’s voice went lifeless. “Take them and get out. He’s coming now.” Arthur grabbed the album, Lisa snatched up the jangling music box, Max — an old Chicago Tribune with the headline “Circus Performer Missing.” They rushed for the stairs. They descended, nearly falling. Arthur slipped, Jack caught him by the elbow. On the second floor, at the end of the corridor, Arthur froze. “Wait.” At the end stood a man. Tall, in a long coat with the collar turned up. His face was impossible to make out — the darkness ate his features, leaving only a silhouette. “Don’t look at him. Just walk.” “Who is that?” Jenny’s voice trembled. “Nobody. Emptiness. What he leaves behind when he wants to scare us.” They walked past, trying not to look. Max stared at the wall, Emma at the floor, Jenny squeezed her eyes shut. The man didn’t move. Only when they drew level with him did he slowly, with a crack, turn his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw the face. His own. The same pale skin, the same green eyes. But older — by ten years, twenty. And in the eyes — emptiness. “Run.” They ran. Corridor, stairs — jumping two, three steps at a time. Downstairs the door stood wide open, its leaves banging against the walls, though there was no wind. They flew out onto the porch, crossed the wet, slippery yard, burst onto the street. They stopped only around the corner, by the wall of Joe’s Diner. They breathed heavily. Lisa was crying silently — tears just streamed down her cheeks. Jenny hugged her, herself pale as chalk. Max sat on his knees, face buried in his hands. Emma smoked a trembling cigarette, ash falling onto the asphalt. “What was that?” Arthur didn’t recognize his own voice. “Him,” Jack answered. “Just him.” “But the face…” “I know. I saw.” “What did you see?” Jenny raised red, dry eyes. Arthur and Jack exchanged glances. “Myself,” Arthur said. “Older. But it was me.” “And I saw all of you,” Jack said. “You were standing in the corridor, looking at me. Without faces. Completely.” Emma blew out smoke with a long, raspy exhale. “We need to leave. Now.” “He won’t follow us,” Jack shook his head. “He stayed there.” “How do you know?” Max got up onto his dirty, wet knees. “Because he showed us what he wanted. The photos. The family. The music box. He’s letting us know. But not all at once. Piece by piece.” “Like a toy,” Lisa wiped her tears. “He’s playing with us.” “Yes,” Arthur looked at her. “But we’re playing too. And as long as we haven’t given up, there’s a chance.” “For what?” Jenny asked. “To win? You saw what he can do.” “I saw. But I saw something else, too. He didn’t come out after us. He stayed in the house. He can’t or he doesn’t want to. And if he doesn’t want to — there’s a reason.” “What reason?” “I don’t know. But we’ll find out.” He glanced at his father’s watch. Half past five. “Tomorrow. The garage, eight in the morning. Bring everything we found. We’ll think.” “And today?” Max asked. “Today we go home. Sleep. And don’t look out the windows.” They parted in silence. Arthur and Lisa — through the park. Max — to his place. Jack — the long way around the mansion, through the woods. Jenny and Emma together — Emma promised to stay the night, drag out an old mattress and sleep on the floor. At the Walkers’ gate, Lisa asked: “Do you really think we have a chance?” “I think so,” Arthur looked at the dark windows of their house. “Otherwise, why would he try so hard to scare us?” Mother was setting the table — fried eggs with tomatoes, tea, yesterday’s pie. It smelled of home, food, safety. “Where have you been? I called Mr. Cross — he said you left at three.” “Out walking, Mom. Just walking.” “In the rain?” Arthur only now noticed it was drizzling outside. Drops on his clothes. On his face too. Or not rain. He went up to his room. Took the paper from his pocket, held it to the desk lamp. The light was yellow, hot; the paper glowed under it. “I know you will come. I have waited for you. My name is…” He stared at the erased letters and thought: who wrote this? Crowley? Or someone who wanted to help? The boy from the cellar? Jenny’s grandmother? Or himself — from a future he doesn’t want, from a past he doesn’t remember? He placed the paper on the desk, weighed it down with a mug. Lay down on the bed without undressing, kicked his sneakers onto the floor. Closed his eyes — shadows danced under his eyelids. Outside the window, the rain rustled. Somewhere in town, in the old mansion, the music box began to play again — the same lullaby, the same sad carousel. And someone was looking out the window at the departing day and smiling. The smile was red.