Genesis. Volume 1.

June 3, 1985. Monday. 7 a.m. St. Michael's Hospital. Bryce had been transferred to the city hospital the night before. Straight from school — by ambulance, lights flashing, but no siren. The doctors told his parents: nervous shock. "Adolescent crisis," one muttered, stroking his little beard. "Reactive psychosis," another clarified, young, with an acne-scarred face. The parents wept. Bryce didn't notice them. He sat on the hospital bed, legs tucked up, staring at the wall. He didn't blink. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. He only smiled. Arthur learned about it from Max — he called at seven in the morning. The receiver was ice-cold, the voice inside it hoarse, full of pauses, as if he hadn't slept or had just stopped crying. "We need to visit him." "Why?" Arthur sat on his bed, the blanket twisted, the room cold: his mother had aired it out and forgotten to close the window. "He's not talking anyway." "Maybe he'll talk to us. Not with words. Maybe we'll see something. With our eyes. In his face." Arthur wanted to argue that Bryce was a piece of meat with a smile, that not a word or a gesture could be gotten from him. But he changed his mind. "At the hospital at ten. After first period." "I'm not going to class." "Me neither." Arthur hung up. The hook clicked, the spring jangled. He went down to the kitchen. The smell of fried bacon and coffee. His mother was flipping fried eggs — the edges had already browned and were crisping. His father sat with the Brookfield Herald, crossword on page five, three letters filled in. Lisa was poking at an omelet with green peas, barely touched. "I'm not going to school today," Arthur sat down; the chair squeaked. "Why's that?" his father didn't look up from the paper, only raised an eyebrow. "I don't feel well." "Do you have a temperature?" "No. A headache." "Your head aches because you and Max stay up till all hours," his mother lifted the skillet off the stove. "Get some proper sleep — it'll pass." "Mom, I really can't today." Sophia froze with the spatula in her hand. She looked at him — and something surfaced in her gaze that Arthur hadn't noticed before. Not a light maternal worry, but something heavy, muffled — like a person who senses trouble but can't name it. "All right. But tomorrow you're back in school. And you'll retake the algebra test." "Thanks." Lisa raised her head. Her eyes were glistening — not from tears, from lack of sleep. "I don't feel well either." "You already skipped yesterday," his father turned the page. "My stomach hurts." "Your stomach hurts because you eat nothing but junk," his mother was wiping her hands on a towel. "Chips, soda, gum." "Mom, please." Sophia sighed — heavily, as before a long conversation. "Stay. But both of you, don't sit around the house after lunch. Go for a walk, or whatever it is you do." "Thanks." They finished breakfast — Arthur swallowed his eggs without tasting them, Lisa pushed her plate away — and went upstairs. Arthur shut the door, leaned his back against it. "Do you know why we're going there?" he asked. "To look at Bryce," Lisa sat on the bed, hugging her knees. "Max is right. Maybe we'll see something the adults don't see." "Or what he wants to show us." "You think it's a trap?" "I don't know." Arthur went to the window. Rain was gathering outside the glass. "But everything he does is a game. He's playing a match. And every game has rules. We have to figure out what they are." June 3, 1985. Monday. 10 a.m. St. Michael's Hospital. Corridor. The hospital smelled of medicine, bleach, and that sweet odor that had been haunting them from the very start. Arthur recognized it at once: a mix of antiseptic and the cloying rot from the old mansion. Here, among white walls and sterile sheets, it felt foreign, wrong. Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jack, Jenny, and Emma crowded at the entrance. Emma wasn't smoking — not allowed in a hospital — but her fingers trembled, and she kept reaching for the jacket pocket where the pack lay. "How do we get in?" Jenny huddled in her light jacket. Outside it was warm, but the air conditioning was running here, and the air felt freezing. "They won't let us." "We're his classmates, we have a right." "We don't," Jack shook his head. "We're not eighteen. Only with parents." "Then we'll say we're relatives," Lisa suggested. "Who? Seven pale teenagers? There are six of us." "I'm his cousin," Arthur stepped toward the reception desk. "And you're my friends. We came to visit." "What if they ask the last name?" Max doubted. "We'll say on our mother's side. A different last name. They won't check." "Stupid," Jenny tossed. "Do you have a better option?" Jenny stayed silent. Behind the counter sat a heavyset woman with thick-lensed glasses. In front of her lay a half-eaten sandwich and a cup of coffee. She lifted her head and looked over the lenses — weary, indifferent. "Who are you here for?" "Bryce Martin. I'm his cousin. We want to support him." "Cousin?" she squinted. "And where are your parents?" "They'll come later." The woman sighed — heavily, like someone who's paid far too little for such questions. "Room 217. Third floor. No more than fifteen minutes. He's not himself, you understand." "We know. Thank you." They went up in the elevator. The car was old, peeling, smelling of carbolic. The button for the third floor lit up a dull red. The corridor was quiet. Only the steps of nurses in rubber slippers and the distant cry of a child from the pediatric ward. Room 217 — at the end, by a window overlooking the parking lot. The door was ajar; cold and silence seeped through the crack. Arthur looked in. Bryce sat on the bed, legs tucked up, staring at the wall — at the empty white space between the window and the door. His parents weren't there. On the nightstand — an untouched glass of orange juice and a plate of stale biscuits. "Bryce," Arthur called, stepping in. He didn't turn. "Bryce, it's us. Arthur. Lisa. Max." No reaction. Only the smile — frozen, lifeless, painted on the pale face. They drew closer. Bryce's eyes were open, but his gaze — empty. Not absent — removed. Someone had scooped out the contents, left the shell. He wasn't blinking. Only his stomach rose and fell — slowly, like a sleeper's. "He looks like..." Jenny began and stopped. "Like him," Jack finished. "Like the clown." "No," Max objected. "Like himself. But without himself inside. He's here, but he isn't." Lisa sat on the edge of the bed; the mattress sagged. She carefully took Bryce's hand — his fingers were warm but lifeless, like a doll's left in the sun. "Bryce, can you hear us? If you can, blink. Once." Nothing. "He won't come back," Max said flatly. "Whatever he did, Bryce isn't in there anymore." "Don't say that," Emma cut him off. "Why? You can see it yourself. You look at him and you don't recognize him." "I see a boy who's frightened. Who's lost consciousness..." "Who's smiling like a clown," Max interrupted. "Doesn't blink, doesn't talk, doesn't eat, doesn't drink. You think that's just fear?" Emma pressed her lips together and turned to the window. Jack went to the windowsill. On the white plastic lay an old circus ticket — yellow, crumbling, with broken edges. Like the ones they'd found before. "Look." Everyone turned. "He was here. Last night. Or this morning, while everyone was asleep." "How do you know?" Jenny asked. "The ticket couldn't have appeared on its own. I can smell it. And the thread on my hand is getting warm." Arthur picked up the ticket. The paper was cold, sticky — as if soaked in sweat, blood, that sweetish odor that had already seeped into their nostrils. "We're leaving. Now." "Why?" Lisa asked. "Because if he was here, he can come back. He doesn't leave tickets for nothing." They stepped into the corridor. Empty. No nurses, no doctors. Only the buzz of the lights and the distant cry of a child. "Wait," Jack said. At the end of the corridor, by the exit to the stairwell, stood a figure. Tall, in a long coat — though it was June outside. The face was impossible to make out — the lights were too bright. "It's him." "Come on," Arthur pulled Jack by the arm. "No. I want to look." Jack yanked his arm free and walked. A step, another. The floorboards under the linoleum creaked. Arthur ran after him, the others followed. Max swore under his breath. Jack crossed half the corridor. The figure didn't move — its coat didn't stir, though a draft was coming from the ventilation. "Jack, come back!" Lisa shouted. He didn't listen. He came within arm's reach. Stopped. "Who are you?" The figure silently raised a hand and pointed at the stairwell door. The gesture was slow, unnatural — like a puppeteer jerking the strings. Jack pushed the door open. Behind it — an empty concrete staircase, the smell of damp and urine. The bulb flickered, snatching the steps and rusted railings out of the dark. "There's nobody there," he turned around. The figure was gone. Dissolved like smoke. "What did he want?" Max ran up. "I don't know. To show something. Or to distract us. While we were looking at the stairs, he could have done something in the room." "We're leaving," Arthur was already pushing everyone toward the elevator. "Now. Quick." They went down the stairs, left through the back exit. The sun was shining, but the wind was cold. Emma lit up — deeply, with a rasp. "I'm never going to a hospital again," Jenny said. "Never." "You will," Jack answered. "If it's necessary." They stood by the wall, looking at the grey sky. Rain was starting to drizzle — fine, nasty. June 3, 1985. Monday. 12 p.m. Rosa's Diner. They were frozen and hungry. Rosa's — a little place by the bus stop, with a yellow neon sign where the letter 'R' didn't light up. It smelled of fried onions, cheap coffee, and cigarette smoke. They ordered fries, burgers, cola. They sat by the window with its unwashed glass, behind which the rain drizzled. "What have we learned?" Arthur twisted a napkin in his fingers. "Nothing," Max pushed his plate away. "Bryce is a vegetable. A ticket in the hospital. A figure showed Jack an empty staircase. That's it." "Not all of it," Jack objected. "He wanted us to go there. Not to the room, not to the exit." "Why?" "Maybe there's something there. Maybe he wanted to lure us." "Or distract us," Lisa hadn't touched her burger. "While we were running after Jack, he could have been in Bryce's room. Or in another." Everyone fell silent. "Hell. Lisa's right." "Bryce is already... what could he have done there?" "Taken him completely," Jack said quietly. "Not just his face. All of him. We'd have come back — an empty bed." "We're going back," Arthur stood, tossed crumpled bills on the table. "Now? That woman at reception remembered us." "We'll say we forgot a jacket." "We forgot jackets?" "We will now." They burst out of the diner, nearly knocking over a waitress with a tray. June 3, 1985. Monday. 12:30 p.m. St. Michael's Hospital. Room 217. They charged into the room as a group. The door slammed against the wall; the glass on the nightstand clinked. Bryce was sitting on the bed — alive, warm. The smile was different now: not painted, not frozen, but alive, crooked, shifted to the left. He looked at them with brown eyes that had rusty flecks on the irises. "Bryce?" Max's voice cracked. Bryce blinked. "Max? What are you doing here?" "You... you're okay?" "I don't know. My head hurts. I'm hungry. Where are my parents?" He looked at his hands, at the glass of juice. "I'm thirsty." He picked up the glass, drank greedily, his throat working. Real orange juice, with pulp. An ordinary kid who wanted a drink. "I don't remember," he said, setting the glass down. "The last thing — school. The corridor. Then darkness. A dream. I dreamed of a clown; he said something, but I don't remember. And then you." "He came back," Jack whispered. "Who?" Bryce shifted his gaze from Jack to Arthur. "Nobody. Rest. We'll stop by later." Arthur led everyone into the corridor, leaned against the cold wall. "He gave him back." "Why?" Lisa asked. "Why give back someone he took?" "I don't know. Maybe to play. To show he can give back. That he's not just an executioner, but... Or to show he can take him again." "Or he wanted to pass a message," Jack added. "A message. Only Bryce doesn't remember." "And if he remembers?" "Then we'll find out. Or we'll die." They went down to the first floor. At the exit stood Mr. Harris — pale, with dark circles under his eyes, his fingers bunching the edge of his jacket. Around his left wrist wound a red thread — thin, almost invisible, but when he moved his hand, it glinted. "What are you doing here?" his voice was hoarse, as if he'd been shouting for a long time. "Visiting a friend." "Bryce? I heard he came to. Good news." "Good." Mr. Harris gave Arthur a long look. In his faded eyes — not a question, but despair. "You know something I don't." "No. Nothing." "You're lying. But fine. Go. And be careful." He trudged off toward the rooms, scuffing his soles. On his wrist, where the thread had been, a red stripe now showed — as if the thread were growing into the skin, like wire into wood. "He's next," Jack said. "Who?" "Mr. Harris. When the thread disappears altogether — he'll vanish. Or become like Bryce was. Or die." They stepped out into the rain. In the parking lot, between an old Toyota and a child's bicycle chained to a post, stood a man in a clown suit. Bright, gaudy, with red circles on his cheeks and white makeup cracked around the mouth. In his hand he held a circus ticket, and it burned with a blue flame without being consumed. "He's waiting for us," Jenny breathed. "I know." The clown waved at them — slowly, widely, like a wind-up toy. The smile was painted, but the eyes — yellow, hungry. Then he vanished. Simply ceased to be, like a popped soap bubble. The ticket fell onto the asphalt, crumbled to grey ash, and ran with the puddles into the storm drain. "Let's get out of here," Emma pleaded. "Please. I've had enough of hospitals and clowns for today." They walked away — six teenagers beneath a grey sky, in a fine, penetrating rain. No one looked back.