Genesis. Volume 1.

June 4, 1985. Tuesday. 7 p.m. Genesis Mansion. Entrance. Arthur stepped across the threshold. Inside it was dark, but not like before. Before, the light from the street at least hinted at itself — fell on the floor in pale rectangles. Now the windows stood black, as if someone had painted them over from inside with oily paint. He pulled out his flashlight — small, aluminum, bought at the pharmacy with pocket money. The yellow beam trembled, picking out familiar details: the staircase with its torn carpet runner, the door to the parlor, the corridor vanishing into darkness where the entrance to the cellar waited under the stairs. It smelled of damp, dry rot, and that sweetish odor that had already seeped into his nostrils forever. "Jack!" he shouted. His voice caught in the walls. Silence. The floorboards sang beneath his feet — some low and deep, some thin like a mouse squeak. "Jack, are you here?" No one answered. Arthur moved toward the stairs — he decided to start with the second floor. Maybe Jack, like last time, had gotten lost staring at the portraits. But from the very first step, a sound came from below — not a creak, not footsteps. A voice. Soft, barely audible, more like a vibration in the air. "Come down." Arthur froze. His heart missed a beat, then pounded against his ribs. "Come down, Arthur." That very boy. The one who'd spoken of the well. The one they'd struggled to remember and couldn't. Arthur turned and walked toward the cellar. The door was flung wide open. He shined his light down — stone steps vanished into a blackness that gave back no light. "Are you here?" "Here." He began his descent. Every third step gave a wet, squelching sound, as if someone were lying beneath it. It smelled of damp and rotted wood. The cellar was freezing — his breath misted. His arms broke out in goosebumps; the fingers gripping the bat went numb. "Come here." Arthur rounded a stone pillar and saw him. The boy sat in the corner, legs drawn up. His dirty T-shirt hung loose; his jeans had torn even further. His skin had grown almost transparent — black veins showed through it. His eyes were sunken, his lips cracked bloody. But he was smiling. "You came. I knew." "Where's Jack?" The bat in Arthur's hand trembled. "Jack?" The grin came out crooked, painful. "He's here. Always here. But don't look for him now. Talk to me first." "About what?" "About what you're doing wrong." Arthur gripped the bat. The wood creaked. "You said the name was in the well. We climbed down — nothing. You lied." "I didn't lie." The boy shook his head slowly, wearily, like an old man. "I was lied to. By him. He said if I led you there, he'd let me go." "And you believed him?" "Did I have a choice?" He raised his eyes. Inside them was an old, ingrained pain. "I've been here… I don't remember how long. Time flows differently. He takes you piece by piece." The boy held out his hand. Through the transparent skin, Arthur saw bones — thin, birdlike. "First I forgot my own name. Then my mother's face. Then how to laugh. I try to remember — I can't. He's taken everything." "How did you end up here?" "Like everyone. I was stupid. Thought I was stronger. Saw a ticket in the yard, then an inscription on the window, then him. He said he wanted to play. I came. And stayed." "For long?" "Forever." The boy looked at his hands. "I won't leave now. Even if he wanted to let me go — I couldn't. I've become part of this house. Like the walls. Like the floor. Like this smell." Arthur was silent. Heavy thoughts churned; none formed into words. "But you can leave," the boy said. "All of you can. If you learn the name. The real one." "We're searching. But the well…" "I know." His voice grew firmer. "I was wrong. He made me wrong. Showed me a false memory. He wanted you to waste time, grow tired, give up." "We won't give up." "I know." The boy smiled — faintly, almost imperceptibly. "That's why I'll tell the truth. The name isn't in the well. It's where he buried them." "Who?" "His family. His wife and son. He didn't kill them — he lost them. And when he found them, they weren't human anymore. He buried them outside town. In the old circus cemetery." "There's a cemetery?" "No one knows. No one but him. And me." Something stirred in the corner. Not a sound — a movement. An oily clot of darkness detached itself from the wall, flowed. Arthur spun around. The beam caught a figure — tall, thin, in a long coat frozen motionless. Crowley stood, arms crossed, watching. The boy leaped up as if jerked by a string. His face twisted. "You promised!" he shouted, breaking into a shriek. "You said if I led them here, you'd let me go!" Crowley didn't answer. He only smiled. The smile was red in the darkness. "You promised! I did everything! I brought them to the well! I distracted them! I…" "You did," Crowley's voice was quiet, almost tender. "But I didn't promise to let you go. I promised to think about it." The boy froze. His shoulders sagged, as if every bone had been pulled from him. "You… you're lying." "I never lie. I only frighten. Or have you forgotten?" He stepped forward — and the distance halved. The boy stumbled back, hit the wall with his back, knocked a pipe — it clanged dully, pitifully. "Don't come closer." "You came to me yourself. By yourself. No one forced you." "You called me! Left a ticket at my window! You…" "I left a ticket. But you could have not come. Could have stayed home. Could have shut your eyes. But you came. Because you were curious. Wanted to find out what kind of monster lives in the old mansion." He smirked — a sound like the creak of a rusty spring. "Now you know." The boy covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, small and fast. He wasn't crying — he'd forgotten how — but he shook as if something last inside him were breaking. Crowley turned to Arthur. Black, empty eyes stared through him. "Your friend is upstairs. In the room with the paintings. He's fine. For now." "If you touch him…" "I won't." He shook his head smoothly, unnaturally. "I need him alive. I need all of you alive. The dead don't feel fear. And I feed on fear." He turned — his coat billowed without wind — and stepped into the wall. Into grey concrete with crumbling plaster. And disappeared. Arthur stood staring at the empty corner. The bat was shaking — or his hands. "Are you okay?" he asked the boy. The boy lowered his hands. His face was wet; his skin was peeling like old paint. "I'm not okay anymore. I'll never be. But you — you can be." He stepped closer, looked into Arthur's eyes. "The name is carved on a stone. Not in the well. In the old circus cemetery. Where Margaret and James Crowley are buried. The real name of the father. The one who became a monster." "What is it?" "I can't say it. If I do, he'll hear. But I can show you." He held out his hand. In his palm lay an old photograph — black and white, with curled edges. A woman with a child in her arms. A man in a circus suit. Without makeup. An ordinary face, tired eyes. "Take it. It will help." Arthur took it. The paper was warm, as if alive. "Who is this?" "His family. The last one where he was still human." "And you? Do you have a photograph?" The boy gave a crooked, joyless smirk. "Mine stayed where I used to live. But it doesn't matter now. I'll be gone soon." "What do you mean, 'gone'?" "Just that." He looked at his hands — even more transparent now. "He's taking me completely. Soon I'll become like the walls. Like the floor. Like the smell." "Can we help you?" "No. But you can help those who are still alive. Those who can still leave." He stepped back. His body was growing more and more transparent. "Go. Your friend is upstairs. Take him and leave. And I'll stay." "What's your name?" The boy froze. Opened his mouth. Closed it. On his face, confusion, as if he ought to remember something important but couldn't. "I don't remember. Forget me too." He vanished — became transparent like air, and dissolved. Only dust swirled in the beam; only the scent reminded that he'd been there. From above came the music box — the same sad lullaby. Arthur wanted to run upstairs, but he felt cold behind him. He spun around, raising the bat. Crowley stood two steps away. Smiling. Arthur struck with all his strength, with a shout, with all his accumulated hatred. The bat passed through the body like through smoke. He lost his balance, crashed to his knees, hitting the stone floor hard. "A bat?" There was a mix of mockery and surprise in Crowley's voice. "Really? You were going to hit me with a baseball bat?" He laughed — creaky, like an un-oiled swing. "You can't hit me, boy. Can't touch me. I'm not here. I'm everywhere. But not here." He stepped into the wall and vanished. Arthur got up. His knee ached; his palms were scraped bloody. The bat felt like a toy, but he gripped it — for weight, for warmth. And ran upstairs. June 4, 1985. Tuesday. 8 p.m. Genesis Mansion. The room with the paintings. Jack sat on the floor, slumped against the wall, staring at the painting of the clown. His eyes were open; his eyelids didn't flutter. Blood had seeped through the bandage on his hand — the wrapping was soaked dark. "Jack!" Arthur dropped to his knees beside him. Jack turned his head — slowly, unnaturally smooth. In his mismatched eyes was weariness. Not from running or fear — deeper, when the soul itself was tired. "You came," his voice was quiet, as if he'd been silent for a long time. "You're an idiot. Why did you go alone?" "I wanted to look. Thought maybe I'd find something. While you were afraid." "We're not afraid." "You are." Jack smirked. "So am I. But I'm used to it. My eyes have always shown what others don't see. Maybe that's why he doesn't touch me. Maybe he needs me." "Nobody needs you except us. Get up. We're leaving." He helped Jack to his feet. Jack swayed but steadied himself, leaning on Arthur's shoulder. "I saw the boy. He came to me. Said you were in the cellar. That you were all right." "I'm all right. But he's gone." "Forever?" "Forever." Jack looked at the photograph in Arthur's hand. "What's that?" "His family. Crowley. Before he became a monster." They went down the stairs. The mansion's door stood open. Evening air struck their faces — damp, fresh, smelling of grass and gasoline. On the porch, Lisa, Max, Jenny, and Emma were waiting. Lisa threw herself at her brother, wrapped her arms around his neck. "You're alive!" "Alive." Arthur hugged her. "And Jack?" "Alive too. But we're leaving. Now." They walked out the gate. The mansion remained behind — black, silent. The moon hung low, yellow as an old ticket. "What did you find out?" Emma asked. The cigarette trembled in her whitened fingers. "The name isn't in the well. It's in the old circus cemetery. Where his family is buried." "How do you know?" Jenny asked. "The boy told me. Before he vanished forever." Arthur showed the photograph. Everyone stopped, peering at the black-and-white face. "Is that him?" Lisa raised her eyes. "Yes. Crowley. Before he became what he is." "He had a face," Jack said quietly. "An ordinary one. Human." "And a name," Arthur added. "Which we have to find." He slipped the photograph into the inside pocket of his jacket. The red thread lay there too — warm, alive. "Tomorrow we go to the cemetery. All of us." No one objected. Emma nodded silently and stubbed her cigarette out on her sole. They parted for home. Arthur and Lisa walked in silence. Only at the gate did Lisa ask: "What happened to that boy?" "He stayed there. Forever." "Did he die?" "I don't know. Maybe he just stopped being." He walked into the house. The kitchen light was on; his mother had left supper on the stove under a towel. Arthur didn't eat. He went up to his room, lay down without undressing — in his jacket and sneakers — and stared at the ceiling for a long time, clutching the old photograph in his fist. Outside the window, the wind rustled. In the old mansion, the music box played its sad melody. And someone — whose face was fading from memory, whose name no one could recall — was listening to it for the last time. Arthur closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come. Only the photograph — warm, alive — pulsed in his fist, like a second heart. Tomorrow. The cemetery. The name. He didn't know what they would find. But he knew they had to try.