Genesis. Volume 1.

June 1, 1985. Wednesday. 2 a.m. Jenny's house. Emma woke to a sharp yank on her shoulder — someone else's fingers dug in through the fabric of her T‑shirt. Jenny stood over her, white as a sheet, holding a desk lamp in one hand with the cord dragging across the floor, and in the other, a crumpled sheet of paper. Her eyes looked as if she'd just seen someone crawl out of a mirror. "What's wrong?" Emma rasped, still half‑asleep. "There's someone there," Jenny whispered. "In the attic. Walking. And then… then in my room. Around the bed. I lay there and didn't move. At all." Emma listened. Silence. Outside, rain drummed steadily on the windowsill; water hummed in the pipes; the neighbour's house slept. "You imagined it," she said, but her hand was already feeling for the scissors on the nightstand. The metal was ice‑cold. "I didn't imagine it. I wasn't asleep. I was listening. And when the footsteps stopped… I glanced at the pillow, and there it was." Jenny held out the sheet of paper. Her hand trembled. A drawing. Childish. A clown with a crooked smile, red circles on its cheeks, watercolour smears. At the bottom, a clumsy pencil signature: "Jenny, age 4." "You drew this?" Emma lowered the scissors but didn't let go of them. "I don't remember." Jenny swallowed; her lips were dry. "But the handwriting's mine. I recognize those stupid little curls on the 'J'. Only I never drew clowns. Princesses, castles, dresses — yes. Clowns scared me. Always." "Then where did it come from?" "I don't know. I woke up and it was lying on the pillow. Right by my face. I was breathing on it." Emma shifted her gaze from the drawing to her friend. The fear on Jenny's face wasn't the kind that fades when you turn on the light. It was deep, ingrained, like the smell of smoke. "Let's go to the kitchen. I'll make tea." They went down barefoot; the staircase creaked — Jenny flinched at every step. In the kitchen, Emma lit the gas, put the kettle on, took out two mugs — a blue one with a broken handle and a white one that read "Best Sister." Jenny sat staring at the cellar door. "He wants me to remember something I can't remember," she said lifelessly. "Maybe you just forgot. Who knows what a four‑year‑old draws." The kettle boiled. Emma poured the boiling water; the tea leaves spread in dark clouds. Jenny picked up her mug, then immediately dropped her gaze to her empty palm. "Emma… where's the drawing?" "You had it." "I did." She opened her fingers. Empty. Only a red mark from the crushed paper. They searched the kitchen: under the table — nothing, under the chairs — nothing, behind the fridge — dust and a dried‑up piece of cheese. The drawing had vanished, as if it had never been there. "You didn't take it?" Jenny asked, her voice climbing. "No. I didn't even touch it. You had it the whole time." They stood in silence. Both knew: paper doesn't dissolve into thin air. "Go to bed," Emma finally said. "I'll stay close." They lay down in one bed, like when they were children. Jenny against the wall, Emma on the edge. They stared at the ceiling for a long time, where a crack resembled a riverbed. "Emma… thank you for being here." "Sleep." Emma herself didn't close her eyes. She watched the wet windowpanes and waited. June 1, 1985. Wednesday. 8 a.m. The abandoned garage. In the morning the garage smelled of damp, wet concrete, and old gasoline — the scent had soaked into the walls back when cars still stood here. Arthur arrived first, sat on an overturned crate, clutching the very paper from the mansion with the erased name. Lisa showed up next — no makeup, shadows under her eyes, silently sat beside him and dropped her head onto his shoulder. "Did you sleep?" "No. You?" "No." Max came in, looking around like a cornered dog. He sat with his back to the wall so he could see the entrance. Bags under his eyes, hair standing on end. "Someone was talking in my wall," he said without waiting to be asked. "My mom's voice. Calling from the cellar. But Mom only came home at one in the morning — I heard her key. The voice was earlier." "Did you go down?" Lisa asked. "No. I sat in the bathroom with the water running for two hours." Jack arrived last, carrying a newspaper rolled into a tube under his arm. He looked far too calm — the way people look when they've stopped being surprised. "He was sitting on the edge of my bed. Just sitting and watching. Then he got up and walked out through the wall." "Not scared?" Jenny asked. "Scared. But not as much as before. Getting used to it." He laid the newspaper on a crate and carefully, as if it were explosives, unrolled it. Yellow, crumbling paper. Date: October 15, 1924. Headline: "Crowley Family Missing." Arthur took the paper in his hands and read aloud, trying not to move it unnecessarily: "On the night of October 14, the family of a well‑known circus performer who went by the stage name Crowley vanished without a trace. The performer's wife, Margaret Crowley, and their two‑year‑old son, James Crowley, left their home and never returned. The performer himself was at a show that evening…" A silence fell so deep you could hear a drip somewhere in the corner. "Crowley is a surname," Lisa said. "Not a given name. A surname." "And we still don't know the name," Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The one he lost." "Maybe it was different," Max stretched the slingshot's rubber and let it snap back. "Human. And Crowley was just for the stage." "Or what was left," Jack added quietly. "After he lost his family." "You think he became a monster because of that?" Jenny raised her eyes to him. "Because someone took his wife and son?" Jack was silent for a moment. "They weren't taken. He himself… something happened. Something broke. And after that, he stopped being human." "We need more information," Arthur slipped the paper into his pocket. "Newspapers, police reports. Everything about the circus and the Crowley family." "There are bound volumes in the school library up to the thirties," Lisa said. "We could search there." "Then let's go. After second period." Arthur glanced at his watch. Half past eight. As they were leaving, Max lingered in the doorway. It seemed to him that someone was watching from the darkness. He peered in — no one. But the moment he stepped over the threshold, he heard a whisper. His own name, spoken in an unfamiliar voice: "Max." He shot outside, tripped over the doorstep, caught up with the others. He said nothing. Only gripped the knife in his pocket and walked without looking back. June 1, 1985. Wednesday. 11 a.m. Brookfield School. Cafeteria. The six of them sat at the far table by the misted‑up window. No one was eating — even Jenny, who usually got a pastry, was just warming her hands on an untouched mug today. "I saw him," Emma said, twisting a spoon in her fingers. "In the corridor, by the exit. He was standing in a bright suit, head bowed. In his hand, a ticket, yellow, almost crumbling. He was gripping it so hard the paper crackled." "Did anyone else notice?" Lisa asked. "I don't know. I didn't scream. I came to you. And when Jenny and I went back — he was gone. Only a red thread on the floor." "Like ours?" Max rolled up his sleeve and scratched his wrist. "Exactly the same." "He likes that we feel him," Jack pushed his glass of fruit drink aside. "He's not hiding here. He wants us to know." At that moment, Mr. Harris walked into the cafeteria. In his hand he held an old circus ticket — exactly like the ones they kept finding. He held it with two fingers, as if it were a dead mouse. "Whose is this? Who left it in the corridor?" No one answered. The teacher made to throw the ticket into the bin, drew back his arm — and froze. His face twisted. The ticket burst, not into flame, but into black oily dust that erupted like smoke and settled on his hands, his jacket, the table. It smelled of burning and sweetish rot. All that remained of the ticket was a red thread coiled around Mr. Harris's wrist. It tightened — he winced. "What the…" he coughed, tried to brush the dust off, but it had seeped into his pores in dark smears. "Go to class. It's just an old ticket. Nothing to worry about." He walked out. The other pupils hadn't noticed a thing. They laughed, clattered their trays. "He doesn't understand," Jenny whispered. "He will," Jack replied. "When it's too late." June 1, 1985. Wednesday. 3 p.m. School library. The library was deserted. The librarian, Mrs. Hall, had stepped out for half an hour, leaving the door open — she knew Arthur and Lisa; they often borrowed detective novels. Arthur pulled out a heavy folder of newspapers from 1924–1925. Lisa took 1926–1927. Max and Jack dug through later ones. Jenny and Emma sifted through photographs. "Look," Lisa, after half an hour, held up a newspaper sheet ready to crumble at the folds. "1925. 'Crowley's Circus Leaves Brookfield After Tragedy.'" "What tragedy?" Arthur came over. "It doesn't say. Only 'due to tragic circumstances.'" "And here," Max held up another paper. "1926. 'Mansion Built on Site of Old Circus. Owner — Jonathan Brooks.'" "Brooks built the mansion on the site of the circus?" Jenny repeated. "Looks that way," Max nodded. "'Genesis.'" "Maybe the circus burned down," Emma suggested. "Or was torn down." "Or it vanished," Jack said. "Along with the people." Jack found a notice about the disappearance of the Crowley family — almost the same as the one from the attic newspaper, but with one difference. The school's bound volume contained a line: "The performer himself, who went by the stage name Crowley, refused to testify and left town a week later." "He left," Jack said. "And then came back." "Or never left," Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Maybe whoever left town was no longer human." The door opened. Mr. Harris walked in. Pale, his forehead damp, on his wrist the red thread, biting in so deeply that the skin around it was inflamed. "You're still here? It's late. Go home." "We're leaving," Arthur hastily stuffed the newspaper into his backpack. "That ticket," the teacher was staring into space; his voice had gone hoarse. "I couldn't throw it away. I wanted to — and couldn't. My hands wouldn't obey. As if someone were holding them." "It's just paper," Lisa said. "No. I feel…" he broke off, rubbed his forehead, glanced at his hand with the thread. "Nothing. Go. And be careful." They left. Mr. Harris remained standing in the middle of the empty library. June 1, 1985. Wednesday. 5 p.m. The street in front of the mansion. Arthur and Lisa were walking home. Usually they skirted the mansion through the park, but today Arthur himself said, "Let's check." Lisa nodded silently. The windows were dark. The house looked abandoned, as always. But as they drew level with the wrought‑iron fence, Lisa grabbed her brother's sleeve. "Look." On the second floor, a window was lit. Yellow, warm, electric light — the kind from an incandescent bulb. "The electricity's been off since the seventies," Arthur said. "But it's on." A silhouette appeared in the window. A person was sitting in an armchair, looking out at the street. Then he raised his hand and slowly waved. Arthur froze. The gesture seemed familiar — the turn of the wrist, the bend of the elbow. He'd seen it somewhere. He did it himself. "Let's go," Lisa yanked his sleeve. "Wait." He stepped closer to the fence. The silhouette turned, but the face was impossible to make out. "Come on. Now." They almost ran home. Flew through the gate; Arthur bent over, hands on his knees, breathing as if he'd sprinted a mile. "It wasn't the clown," Lisa breathed. "I know." "Who was it?" Arthur looked at his hands. His palms were trembling. "Me. It was me. My figure. My gesture. I was looking at myself from the window." Lisa recoiled. "That's impossible." "I know. But it is." At home, it smelled of fried potatoes. Mother was setting the table for supper; Father sat with his crossword. Everything as usual. Arthur sat with his back to the window and didn't turn around until dark. He answered in monosyllables: "tired." And that night, when everyone was asleep, he took out a pencil and paper. Turned on the lamp, began to draw. The silhouette in the window, the hand, the line of the shoulder. Stroke by stroke. He finished, set the pencil aside, looked — and froze. On the drawing was his own face. His own eyes, his own smile. He was looking at himself from the page. Arthur turned the drawing over and left the room. He lay down on the sofa in the living room, covered himself with a blanket, and stared at the ceiling until dawn. The drawing remained on the desk. One corner of the paper lifted slightly — as if someone were turning a page. The wind? Or something else? And somewhere in the old mansion, Crowley was looking at another drawing — a child's, with a crooked smile and red cheeks, signed "Jenny, age 4." And smiling.