Genesis. Volume 1.

June 4, 1985. Tuesday. 8 a.m. Brookfield School. Mr. Harris didn't show up for first period. That in itself was strange — he was never late. Even on the day his wife had a migraine attack, he'd arrived ten minutes before the bell with red eyes and a cup of coffee in his trembling hand. Today his chair stood empty. The class buzzed. Someone said they'd seen him by the hospital yesterday — walking out pale, red marks on his wrist. Someone else said he looked like he hadn't slept for several nights. "Maybe he's sick," suggested a girl in the front row, tugging at her braid. "He's never sick," replied her neighbor without looking up from his textbook. Arthur sat by the window, staring at the empty teacher's spot. Light fell on the desk, covered in initials carved with a pen. Beside him, Lisa — pale, the shadows under her eyes even deeper than yesterday. Across the aisle, Jack — his right hand wrapped in a bandage; he'd told his mother he'd cut himself on a rusty nail in the shed. But he'd come to school. The walls at home were pressing in. Max didn't come. Arthur had called him in the morning — long beeps, then the line cut. He didn't call back. Jenny and Emma were on the second floor, by the biology classroom. For second period, instead of Mr. Harris, the vice principal, Mrs. Kane, walked in. Tall, dry, with perpetually pursed lips and a hairstyle unchanged since the seventies. She carried the class register and a folder of papers. "Mr. Harris is absent today," she said curtly, peering over her glasses. "Study on your own. Paragraph fourteen. I'll collect your summary notebooks at the end of the lesson." She left without waiting for questions. The door clicked softly. "Something's happened," Lisa whispered, leaning toward her brother. "I know." Arthur couldn't tear his eyes from the door. "Something's happened." June 4, 1985. Tuesday. 11 a.m. School cafeteria. Lunch break. They sat at the far table — the same one they'd claimed after the party. Emma wasn't smoking, but her fingers twitched and kept reaching for the pocket with her pack. Jenny held a glass of fruit compote in front of her, not drinking — staring into the yellow liquid as if it were a fortune-teller's ball. "Did you hear about Harris?" Jenny asked when the others sat down. "Vanished," Lisa set down her tray with untouched omelet. "Nobody knows where." "I know," Jack said. Everyone turned to him. He was gripping a glass of cloudy apple juice with his good hand. The other, bandaged, lay on the table like a foreign object. "He's at school. In the basement." "How do you know?" Arthur leaned forward. "I saw him last night. Not in a dream — I wasn't sleeping. I was sitting in the kitchen, drinking water. And he was walking down the corridor. Barefoot. Eyes open, but he wasn't looking. Just walking past." "And you didn't call?" Emma half rose from her seat. "Who?" Jack lifted his eyes. In his mismatched irises, there was a frozen emptiness. "The police? So they could say I dreamed it? So my parents could lock me up, like last time?" "We have to go down there," Lisa said. "Now, during classes." "What if someone sees us?" Jenny bit her lip. "We'll say we were looking for the bathroom, got lost," Emma shrugged. They left the cafeteria. The corridors were empty — everyone in class, only a muffled hum of voices and, somewhere far away, the rap of a pointer. Arthur led the way. Behind him, Lisa, Jack, Jenny, Emma. Five of them. The basement door was at the end of the first-floor corridor, behind the stairs. Usually a rusty padlock hung on it. Today the lock dangled open on its hasp, and the door itself stood ajar — a black gap a finger's width wide. "He opened it," Jack said. Arthur pushed the door — a long, drawn-out creak; the hinges hadn't been oiled since the school was built. The smell of damp, mice, and that sweetish odor that had been following them from the start. Here, in the concrete belly of the school, it felt even more alien. "A flashlight?" "I've got one," Emma pulled a small aluminum one with a worn handle from her backpack. They descended. The steps were concrete, worn, with potholes holding stagnant water. Lisa came last, glancing back again and again at the door above. It felt like someone was following. She'd turn — nobody. At the bottom, a long corridor with doors. Grey, painted once, with signs: "Electrical Room," "Storage," "Wardrobe." One at the end — ajar. "There." Arthur pushed the door. A small room, a former storage closet. Hooks on the walls, an old sofa with a spring poking out, a broken chair, boxes marked "Textbooks 1978." On the floor, a grey army blanket. On it — Mr. Harris. He sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. At an empty grey surface where someone had once drawn a heart in blue chalk. He was smiling. The same smile that had been on Bryce's face. Painted, lifeless, frozen. "Mr. Harris," Arthur called. No reaction. Jack crouched down, looked at the teacher's hand. The red thread they'd seen at the hospital had burrowed into the skin. The skin around it was inflamed — the thread seemed alive, growing in, like ivy on a wall. "He's becoming empty. Like Bryce. But he gave Bryce back. He won't give this one back." "Why?" Lisa asked. "He doesn't need adults. He doesn't feed on them. He's just playing. Pulling the strings, watching them dance." Just then, Mr. Harris opened his mouth. Not wide, not to scream. A sound escaped his throat — not a voice, not a rasp, something in between. "The well…" he rustled, his lips barely moving. "Don't look there… the name isn't there… Where he buried them… where he buried his family…" He fell silent. The smile returned, frozen into a mask. "We're leaving. Now." "Why?" Jenny asked. "If he doesn't give him back, Mr. Harris will die here. Or become like that boy in the mansion. Or worse." They climbed the stairs — the steps seemed steeper, the air heavier — and left through the back exit onto the schoolyard. Sunny, but cold. The wind tore the first yellow leaves from the trees, though it was only the beginning of June. "What now?" Jenny huddled in her light jacket. "Now we know the well is a false trail," Arthur said. "And that Crowley can take adults." "And that he gave us a clue," Jack added. "The cemetery. Where he buried his family." They stood by the school wall, looking at the grey sky. Rain was gathering but couldn't make up its mind. June 4, 1985. Tuesday. 3 p.m. School. Corridor after classes. Arthur and Lisa lingered by their lockers. The corridors were empty; only the janitor was rattling a wheeled trash bin. "Arthur," Lisa closed the locker door, "what if we never find his name?" "We will," his voice was a little hoarse, uncertain. "And if we don't?" "We'll think of another way." "What way?" He didn't answer. From Mr. Harris's classroom — the door was closed but not tightly — came a rustle. As if someone were sorting through papers. They walked over. Arthur peered through the crack. On the teacher's desk lay an old circus ticket. Yellow, crumbling, held down by a stack of textbooks. Beside it, a mug of cold tea — Harris drank green tea with jasmine, and the scent still hadn't faded. "Don't touch it," Lisa said. Arthur didn't. He closed the door and stepped back. "He was here. After we left." "Or during," Lisa looked at her hands. On her finger — a red thread. Thin, almost invisible, but it gleamed in the light. Tied in a bow. Neat, gift-like. "Liz, you've got…" "I didn't tie it," her voice trembled. "Take it off." She pulled at it with her nails — the thread wouldn't budge, bit in deeper. She yanked until it hurt — it tightened further. "We'll cut it off at home with scissors," Arthur said, but his voice held no confidence. He knew: they wouldn't help. Just as they hadn't helped Max. They walked out of school. Emma was smoking on the porch — damn the rules. "What kept you?" she blew smoke into the damp air. "A ticket on Harris's desk." "And a thread," Arthur showed his sister's hand. Emma glanced at it. Went pale to the lips. "I've got the same one," she pushed up her cuff. A red thread wound around her wrist, exactly like Lisa's. "Jenny called — she's got one too. A bow on her left wrist." "Hell," Arthur breathed. "What does it mean?" Lisa asked. "He's marked us. All six of us. Like Amber, Derek, Bryce, Harris." "But we haven't disappeared," Emma took a drag. "Yet." "Yet," Jack confirmed, coming around the corner. He'd been standing there, listening. "Until he decides it's time." June 4, 1985. Tuesday. 4 p.m. The Walkers' house. In the entryway stood police boots — black, rough, thick-soled, with dirt stuck to them. From the living room came an unfamiliar official voice. "Are you sure you don't know where they were?" "We don't know anything," his father's voice, quiet and strained. Arthur peered in. On the sofa sat the same officer from the station, with a mustache and a heavy jaw. Seeing the teenagers, he rose with a creak of his knees. "Ah, there they are." "We didn't do anything," Arthur said quickly. "I'm not saying you did." The officer pulled out a worn notepad. "Just a couple of questions. Did you see Jack Harris after school yesterday?" "Yes. We split up by his house. He went home." "Did he say where he was going?" "He said home." The pen scratched across the paper. "And you? Where did you go?" "Home too." "The three of you?" the officer glanced at Lisa. "We stopped at a store. Then walked Max home." "I see." The notepad closed, slipped into a pocket. "If you remember anything important — call. Any time." Mark saw him to the door, came back. His face was red, fists clenched, veins bulging in his neck. "You're lying to the police. Do you understand what that could lead to?" "Dad, we told the truth. We don't know where Jack is." "You don't know?" Mark walked up close; Arthur smelled sweat and coffee. "Then what were you doing in that abandoned house? The police found your tracks. Footprints on the porch." Arthur froze. His heart dropped into his stomach. "We… we went in to look. Jack went in there, and we followed. We didn't touch anything." "You could have been killed!" Mark shouted. "The floors are rotten, the ceilings are collapsing! Rats, disease, and you went in!" "We were looking for Jack," Lisa said quietly but firmly. "Jack is missing, it's a tragedy. But that's a matter for the police, not you." "The police won't find anything," Arthur said. "They don't even know where to look." Mark looked at him with a long stare. He wanted to say something — perhaps "you're taking too much on yourself," perhaps "shut up" — but he didn't. He walked out, slamming the door so hard the windows shook. Sophia sat in the kitchen, clutching a mug of cold tea. Her hands trembled; soggy tea leaves floated at the bottom. "You're not leaving the house. Not today, not tomorrow. Nowhere." "Mom, but we need to…" "I'll call the school, tell them you're sick." She raised her eyes. Tears stood in them, but she wasn't crying. "I don't want to lose you. Please." Arthur wanted to argue, but he looked at his mother and broke off. Not angry — frightened. Truly. The way only parents are afraid, having already imagined life without their children. "Okay, Mom." June 4, 1985. Tuesday. 6 p.m. The Walkers' house. Kitchen. Arthur sat staring at the telephone. Black, rotary, on a nightstand with a lace doily. He was waiting for a call from Max or Jack. Nobody called. Only silence and the ticking of the wall clock. Lisa was sorting through drawings spread out on the table like a fan. On each one, a clown. Not Crowley — just a clown, but the smile was the same. The same one from the mansion. The same one on Bryce. "I didn't draw these." "I know." She pushed the sheets aside and looked at her hand. The red thread on her finger pulsed in time with her heartbeat. They'd tried to cut it with scissors — it wouldn't cut. With soap — it wouldn't slip. With teeth — it was like steel. Ordinary to look at, but it wouldn't yield. "It won't come off until he wants it to," Lisa said. "Or until we find the name." Arthur dialed Max. Long beeps. No one answered. Again. Beeps, beeps, beeps. He dialed Jack. The receiver was lifted after the second ring — a woman's voice, tired, with a rasp: "Jack went out for a walk. He said he was going to your place." "He's not here," Arthur exchanged a look with his sister. "That's strange. He said he was going to yours. He wasn't planning to go anywhere else." Arthur hung up. "Jack's gone." "Where?" "He told his mom he was coming here. But he actually…" "Went to the mansion," Lisa finished. They stared at each other. In his sister's eyes, fear had frozen — not the kind that fades with the light, but the kind that seeps under the skin. "Alone?" "Alone." Arthur stood. "I'm going after him." "I'm coming with you." "No. You stay here. If I'm not back in an hour — call the police." "And what do I say? That my brother went to an abandoned mansion looking for a clown?" "You tell the truth. They won't believe you, but at least they'll come." He pulled on his old denim jacket with the torn pocket. Took the baseball bat with the "Best Player" sticker. He paused at the door. "If I don't come back…" "You will," Lisa cut him off. "You promised." Arthur nodded and walked out. Outside, it was dark. The streetlamps weren't lit — they'd burned out last month, no one had replaced them. Only the moon, pale as scattered flour. He walked fast, almost running, his sneakers thudding on the asphalt rhythmically, like a countdown. The mansion rose before him in ten minutes. Black, silent, on the hill. The windows — dark cavities. The gate was open, the leaf swinging on a single hinge. "Jack!" Arthur shouted. Silence. Wind in the treetops. "Jack!" From inside came a soft, creaking laugh. Like an un-oiled swing. Like a rusty door. Arthur gripped the bat — the wood creaked — and stepped past the fence. The grass was wet, cold; his sneakers soaked through. He walked without looking back. The door stood ajar — wide enough for one. Inside, darkness. The smell of damp, dust, and that sweetish rot he already hated. "Jack?" The laugh — closer, to the left. Arthur turned. At the end of the corridor, by the staircase to the second floor, stood a figure. Tall, thin, in a long coat. "Jack?" Cold crept down his spine. The figure stepped forward. Moonlight from a dusty window fell on the face. The clown. The smile red. "Hello, Arthur. I've been waiting for you." Arthur raised the bat. But it was trembling. He didn't know who would strike and who would be killed.