Genesis. Volume 1.

June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 7:00 a.m. The Walker house. Arthur woke an hour before dawn. He lay in the dark, gripping the scrap of paper with the name in his fist. The paper had grown warm from his palm, soft, almost cloth-like. "Thomas Crowley." He repeated the two words to himself like a prayer. The monster's real name. The key they had scratched out of the ground. Downstairs, dishes clattered—his mother was putting the kettle on. Arthur sat up, swung his legs onto the cold floor. Pulled on socks, jeans, a sweatshirt. From his jacket pocket he took the photograph of the Crowley family: a woman, a child, a man with tired eyes. The same one the boy in the basement had given him. The one who had now become a wall. Arthur looked at it in the pale glow of the streetlamp and tucked it back. The kitchen smelled of bacon and coffee. Lisa was already at the table, drinking tea from her favorite mug with a kitten on it. Dark circles under her eyes—she hadn't slept. Max had come an hour early, sat in the living room on the couch, gripping a knife in his pocket. They ate breakfast in silence. Their father flipped through the newspaper, their mother turned pancakes. No one asked where they were going. Mark only sighed when Arthur asked to be dropped off "at the vacant lot outside town." "What do you need there?" He took his coat off the hook. "A history project," Arthur said. The lie came out firm, without a hitch. Mark gave his son a long look, then his wife. Sofia looked away. "Be back at the car in two hours. Late, and you walk." "Okay, Dad." June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 8:15 a.m. Road to the cemetery. The car smelled of gasoline and tobacco, the odor soaked permanently into the seats. Arthur sat by the window, watching the city turn into suburbs, the suburbs into fields. Lisa beside him rubbed the bridge of her nose—tired, but holding up. In the back seat, Max, Jack, Jenny, and Emma were silent, each staring out a window or at the floor. Jenny twisted the ring with the letter "B." Emma clutched a pack of cigarettes, not daring to light up in the car. "Do you even know exactly where you're going?" Mark turned onto a dirt road; the car jolted, something rattled on the dashboard. "Yes, Dad." "There's nothing there. A vacant lot and old ruins. I drove out there ten years ago—looking for a construction supply depot." "That's exactly what we need." Mark shook his head but didn't argue. He stopped the car by a lopsided wooden fence, beyond which rusted remains of circus cages and charred poles were visible. The smell from beyond the fence wasn't of smoke—something older, bitter, the odor of time itself. "I'll be back in two hours. Late, and you walk—and that's about eight miles." The car turned around and drove off. The engine's growl faded, the crunch of gravel under the tires faded too. Silence remained. Six kids stood by the fence, staring at what had once been the Crowley Circus. June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 8:30 a.m. The grounds of the former circus. The place looked dead. The earth was black, as if a fire had swept through and no one had ever tried to restore anything. Rusted cages stood in a row, their doors open like mouths. Inside—dry grass, bird bones, rusted bowls. Jack walked ahead without waiting. His sneakers trod on the black soil, leaving deep prints. Arthur caught up and grabbed his shoulder. "Don't run off. We stay together." "I'm not running. Just walking." They moved toward the center. The burnt tent had long since collapsed, leaving only metal poles jutting from the ground like the ribs of a giant beast. The wind howled through them, and the sound was like weeping. Suddenly Lisa stopped and seized Arthur's wrist. "Do you see that?" From the rusted cages, shadows began to emerge. Not animals—silhouettes. Lions with hollow eye sockets, tigers with torn-open jaws, elephants whose tusks stuck out of the earth like roots. They didn't move, didn't growl. They just stood and watched. "It's not real," Jack said. "It's him. He wants us to get scared and leave." "Don't look at them," Arthur ordered. "Look only at me." They walked through the shadows. The shadows didn't touch them—but suddenly it turned cold, like an open freezer, and a rotten, sweetish stench hit their nostrils. When the last of them passed the cages, the silhouettes dissolved. They left behind a smell of rotting flesh and smoke. "The boy said the family is buried here," Arthur tried to keep his voice steady. "Somewhere on the grounds." "Where exactly?" Max asked. "He didn't say." "So what now? Dig?" "Search. Stones, slabs—anything that looks like a grave." They split up. Max and Jack moved toward the residential trailers, huddled together like frightened animals. Jenny and Emma toward the cages, slowly, looking back. Arthur and Lisa stayed by the ruins of the tent. "Do you really believe the name is here?" Lisa asked. "Do we have a choice?" He looked at her. Pale, dark circles under her eyes, her skin with a grayish tinge. She hadn't slept for several nights. She'd grown quieter, staring into space more often. That scared him most of all. "Liz, how are you?" "Fine," too quickly. "Don't lie." She paused, sat on a charred post, rested her hands on her knees. "I'm scared we won't find the name. Scared that if we do, nothing will change. Scared that Max is right and we're all going to die." "We won't die." "How do you know?" "Because I won't let it happen. I promised Mom I'd look after you." "And who looks after you?" Arthur didn't answer. He stared at the black earth, at his sneakers stained with ash, at his hands that were still trembling. From behind the trailers came Max's shout: "HERE! I FOUND SOMETHING!" Birds from the nearest trees rose in a black cloud. June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 10:00 a.m. The trailer in the corner of the grounds. They all ran together—across the black earth, past the rusted cages, past the poles. Hearts pounded, breath came in gasps. The last trailer stood in the far corner, almost hidden by thickets of wild rose and blackberry. Thorns caught at their clothes. The trailer was smaller than the rest, battered, with a smashed window and a door hanging crookedly on one hinge. "What is it?" Emma tried to catch her breath. "Look inside," Max gestured. Inside it was dark and cramped. It smelled of mold and something sour, like a root cellar full of sauerkraut. Floral wallpaper hung in tatters. On the floor—broken picture frames, shards of glass, old newspapers. In the corner, leaning against the wall, stood a stone slab. Gray, cracked, with letters carved into it. Arthur approached, ran his fingers over the cold, rough stone. "Margaret Crowley, 1902–1924," he read aloud. "James Crowley, 1922–1924." Everyone froze. "Wife and son," Jack said. "There are two names here. Where's the third?" "The third is his. He didn't bury himself. He didn't die." "But the boy said the name was carved on a stone. Where?" They searched the trailer. Under the bed—earth. In the closet—cobwebs. Behind the stove—nothing. "He lied to us," Jenny said. "Again." "No," Jack shook his head. "He didn't lie. He said 'on a stone.' But he didn't say it was this one." He left the trailer and headed for the center of the circus. The others followed. June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 10:30 a.m. The center of the former circus. Jack walked quickly, not looking back. He circled the tent, passed the cages, stopped at a large stone in the very center of the grounds—where the ring had once been. The stone was gray, smooth, clearly worked by human hands, nothing like the rough boulders around it. "Help." Arthur, Max, and Lisa leaned on one side. Jenny and Emma took the sides. The stone moved with difficulty, as if unwilling to reveal what it hid. A wave of cold and damp rose from beneath. Under it—black, moist earth and another stone. Flat, rectangular, with letters cut deeper and older than on the first slab. "That's it," Jack whispered. They cleared the dirt with their hands, pushed away small stones. The slab was old, cracked, frost forming from the cold ground. Arthur read aloud in a trembling voice: "Here lies one who lost his name. May it be forgotten forever." "That's not a name. That's a curse," Max said. "Look further," Jack pointed to the lower part of the slab. There, almost at ground level, small, faint letters were carved. Arthur crouched, scraped off the mud. His nails turned black. The letters emerged. "Thomas." He exhaled. "Thomas Crowley." Silence. Even the wind died down. "His name was Thomas," Lisa repeated. "We found it," Max breathed. "We found his name." "Quiet." Jack raised his hand. "Don't say it out loud. He'll hear." "He already knows we're here," Arthur said. "He always knows." He looked at his friends—at their pale faces, trembling hands, red threads on their wrists. "Now we have the name. Now we can stop him." "But how?" Jenny asked. "What do we have to do?" "Tell it to him. In the mansion. Where his power is." "And if it doesn't work?" "It has to work." Arthur wiped his hands on his jeans, took a small red notebook and a clear pen from his pocket. He copied the name from the stone onto paper—neatly, in block letters: "THOMAS CROWLEY." He pressed so hard the graphite pierced through the page. "Thomas Crowley," he whispered. "Now you're ours." He tucked the paper into his jacket's inner pocket, where the photograph and the red thread already lay. "Let's go. We need to get back to the mansion." "Today?" Max asked. "Today. Before he realizes we know." They walked toward the exit. Their father's car was already waiting at the fence. Mark had come early, saw their hands stained with black earth, but asked nothing. He just looked and said: "Get in." They rode in silence. Mark glanced in the rearview at their pale faces, tangled hair, red threads—which he probably took for friendship bracelets. As they pulled up to the house, he stopped the car. "Did you find something?" "Yes, Dad. We found it." "What?" "What we were looking for." Mark gave his son a long look. A premonition was frozen in his eyes. "Be careful. Whatever you're planning." "We will." Arthur got out, the others followed. The doors slammed—four times, then two more. The car turned around and drove off, leaving them on the sidewalk. June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 12:00 p.m. Sidewalk outside the Walker house. They stood looking at each other. The sun was at its zenith, but it gave little warmth—the sky had gone gray and heavy, rain gathering. "Meet at the mansion at eight," Arthur said. "We don't wait for anyone. We go in together." "What if he's there?" Jenny asked. "He's always there." Jack shrugged. "The question is who's afraid of whom." He glanced at his reflection in a shop window. Green and blue. Alive. "I'm not afraid anymore." "You're lying," Emma said. "We're all afraid." "Maybe. But I won't let fear stop me." They went their separate ways home. Each had a few hours—to eat, pull themselves together, change clothes. Arthur and Lisa went inside. Their mother had already set out lunch: soup with dumplings, chicken, compote. "Are you hungry?" she asked, looking at their blackened hands. "Very," Arthur said, and that was the truth. They ate in silence. Only the clink of forks, only bread crumbling onto the tablecloth, only Lisa drinking her tea in small sips, warming her hands on the mug. Sofia watched them but didn't ask. Maybe she was afraid to hear the answer. After lunch Arthur went upstairs. He took out the paper with the name, read it ten times over until the letters began to blur. Put it in his pocket. On top of it—the photograph. On top of that—the red thread. He lay down on the bed, closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come—only viscous thoughts that held him until evening. June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 8:00 p.m. The Genesis mansion. Entrance. The sun was setting, but there was almost no sunset—only a narrow orange strip on the horizon, like a wound. The mansion stood dark, silent, its windows black. Six kids stood by the gate. No one spoke. Wind rustled in the crowns, somewhere in the distance a dog barked. "We have the name," Arthur said. "We know what to do." "And if he doesn't obey?" Max asked. "He will. The name is the key. Jenny's grandmother said so." "She said the name gives power," Lisa corrected. "But the power has to be claimed." "With what?" "I don't know. But we'll find out." Arthur pushed the gate. It groaned long and plaintively, like an old beast. He went in first. Behind him Lisa, Max, Jack, Jenny, Emma. The mansion's door was slightly ajar—a black crack, from which cold and rot seeped. "He knows we're here." "Of course he knows. He always knows." Arthur took the handle. The metal was cold, sticky. He pulled—the door opened wider, the dark maw yawned. "We go in. Stay together." Inside was dark. Flashlights picked out the familiar walls, staircase, doors. Everything as before—and yet different. The air was heavier, as if pumped full of lead. The silence thick as cotton. "He's waiting," Jack said. "Where?" "In the basement. By the well." "But the name isn't in the well," Lisa said. "He doesn't know we've found it. He thinks we're still searching." "Or he does know," Jack countered. "And he's waiting to see what we'll do." Arthur squeezed the paper with the name in his pocket. The paper was warm—from his fingers, from hope. "Let's go." They moved toward the stairs. The steps creaked underfoot like old bones. Floorboards sagged. Ahead was darkness and the monster that waited. But now they had a weapon.