Genesis. Volume 1.

June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 9:00 p.m. The Genesis mansion. Outside. They stood at the gate and stared at the closed door. No one spoke. The wind rustled in the treetops—quietly, wearily, like an old fan about to stop. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked—a lonely, desolate sound with no answer. Ordinary sounds. Normal. But everything around them felt unreal—like a stage set, like a dream they couldn't wake from. Arthur gripped the scrap of paper with the name in his pocket. Thomas Crowley. It was useless now. The key that had opened the wrong door. "He won't come out?" Jenny asked. Her voice was quiet, like a child afraid to hear the answer. "He won't come out. Jack said so. He sealed him in." "And Jack?" Arthur didn't answer. He stared at the second-floor window where the gray light had just been burning. Now it was dark. Only black glass and the reflection of the moon—pale, indifferent. Lisa stood apart, arms wrapped around herself. Dried blood was caked on her face—the blood that had flowed from her nose in the basement. Dark, cracked, it pulled at her skin like an old mask. Lisa didn't wipe it off. Maybe she'd forgotten. Maybe she didn't want to. Max crouched by the fence, his face buried in his knees. His shoulders shook. The grass beneath him was trampled, damp, muddied. Emma smoked. The cigarette trembled between her fingers, ash falling in gray flakes, and she didn't brush it off—she just watched it fall, watched it crumble to dust. Jenny stood beside her, shoulder to shoulder. Her hands were empty—no spray can, no ring. She'd left them at home. "We have to go," Emma finally said. Her voice was hoarse, smoke-roughened, though she hadn't smoked in the last half hour. "We can't stay here." "Why?" Jenny asked. "Because if we stay, I'll start screaming and I won't be able to stop." She tossed the cigarette away—short, sharp, like throwing away something useless—and ground it out with the toe of her sneaker. Her sneakers were dirty, covered in black stains. She turned and walked off without looking back. The others followed. Arthur glanced back at the mansion. The windows were dark. Only on the second floor, in the room that hadn't been there before, a gray light glowed. Weak, barely visible—like a candle in the distance, like a match the wind was about to blow out. It flickered, pulsing in time with something unseen. Maybe a heart. Maybe a breath. "Did you see it?" Max asked, rising from his crouch. "I saw it." "Is it him?" "It's Jack." They followed Emma. Quickly, almost at a run. Sneakers pounded on asphalt, on gravel, on wet leaves stuck to the sidewalk from yesterday's rain. No one looked back. Only Lisa twitched her shoulder once, as if she wanted to turn, but changed her mind—clenched her fists and kept walking. The wind died down. A silence settled over the city—heavy, like a blanket pulled over the head. June 5, 1985. Wednesday. 11:00 p.m. The Walker house. Their parents were already asleep. A nightlight glowed in the living room—dim yellow light picking out the corner of the couch, the edge of the rug, the photograph on the wall where they were all smiling last year at Lisa's birthday party. Smiling. They didn't know. Arthur and Lisa came in through the back door—it was quieter that way. The key turned with a soft click. The door creaked, but not loudly—the familiar song of an old house. Lisa went into the kitchen and sat at the table. Their mother had left dinner: plates with meat patties, bread, compote in a decanter. Everything had gone cold, filmed over. Arthur brought a wet towel—ran it under the tap, wrung it out until the cloth was heavy and cold. He handed it to his sister. "Wipe your face." Lisa took the towel, looked at it, then at her hands. The blood had dried, the skin tightened—when she moved her fingers, tiny cracks on the back of her palm turned white. She didn't hurry. She stared at her hands as if they belonged to someone else. "This isn't my blood," she said. "I know." Whose is it?" "I don't know." Lisa wiped her face. Slowly, in circles. First her forehead, then her cheeks, then her chin. The towel turned red—dark, almost black where the blood was thickest. She looked at it for a long time, then tossed it aside. The towel fell to the floor, spreading out in a wet stain. "He stayed there. Jack. He stayed with him." "He promised he'd wait." "What if he can't? What if Crowley breaks him? What if he becomes the same?" Arthur didn't answer. The words stuck in his throat in lumps, refusing to come out. They sat in the kitchen in the dark. Only the light from outside—pale, lunar—filtered through the curtains, falling on the floor in stripes. The clock on the wall ticked. Old, with a pendulum, inherited from their grandmother. Each tick was a blow to the head. "Go to bed," Arthur finally said. "I won't sleep." "Just lie down. Just lie down." He walked her to her room. They moved down the hallway slowly, trying not to creak the floorboards. Lisa held onto the wall, as if afraid she might fall. At the door she stopped and gave Arthur a long look. Her eyes were empty—not angry, not sad. The way you look at things that no longer mean anything. Arthur waited until she lay down—the bed creaked, the blanket rustled—and left. He closed the door. Leaned his forehead against it. The wood was cold, rough. Inside him was empty. Not scared. Not pained. Empty. As if someone had scooped out all his feelings—scraped them out with a spoon, wiped them with a rag, left only the shell. He went back downstairs and sat on the couch in the living room. The TV was off, the red indicator light not glowing—someone had unplugged it. The room smelled of his mother's perfume and his father's tobacco. An ordinary smell. Normal. Arthur closed his eyes. Jack stood before him. The red eye stared unblinking. A black tear ran down his cheek, leaving a dark trace like melted wax. Jack didn't speak. He just stood there. "You promised," Arthur said aloud. His voice sounded muffled, as if from underwater. "You promised you'd wait." No one answered. Only the clock ticking in the kitchen. Only the wind outside sighing and falling still. June 6, 1985. Thursday. 2:00 a.m. Max's house. Max wasn't asleep. He sat on his bed, gripping a kitchen knife in his right hand. The blade was cold, smooth. He ran his finger along it—the blade didn't cut. Too dull. He should have sharpened it a week ago, but he'd never found the time. The room was dark—he'd turned off the light at ten and hadn't turned it back on. The moon shone through the window, but the light was weak, diluted by clouds. Shadows on the walls trembled. He didn't hear voices anymore. The silence was worse. Someone knocked on the door. Three times. Soft, careful. "Max, open up," his mother said. "Coming." He put the knife under the pillow—carefully, blade toward the wall—and went to the door. The floor was icy, but he was used to it. He opened it. His mother stood in the hallway in an old robe with faded flowers and worn cuffs. Her hair was disheveled, a pillow crease on her cheek. In her hands was a mug—tea, probably chamomile. "Why aren't you sleeping?" "I can't." "Because of that boy? Because of Jack?" Max nodded—short, jerky. He couldn't talk about it. The words stuck in his throat like fish bones. His mother set the mug on the floor, on the mat, and hugged him. The embrace was warm, tight, smelling of laundry detergent and something sweet—vanilla shampoo bought on sale. He pressed his face into her shoulder and didn't cry. He couldn't. There were no tears. Only emptiness. "He'll turn up," his mother said, stroking his head. "People like him don't just disappear." "He didn't disappear. He left." "Where?" "Somewhere we can't follow." His mother pulled back and looked at him. There was fear in her eyes—not of the clown, not of the monster in the mansion. Of her son. Of what he'd seen, what she didn't understand. "Max, what happened?" "Nothing, Mom." He forced a crooked, humorless smile. "I'm just tired." He kissed her cheek—dry lips, warm skin—and closed the door. Slipped the bolt. Leaned his back against the wood. Went back to the bed, pulled the knife out from under the pillow. Looked at the blade. At his reflection. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, the whites yellow, cheeks hollow. He looked like someone who'd been sick for a long time. "I'll come back for you, Jack," he whispered, almost soundlessly. "I promise." The knife glinted in the darkness, caught a ray of moonlight, cast a trembling spot on the wall. Max gripped the handle. Lay down to sleep—in his clothes, in his socks, with the knife under the pillow. His eyes didn't close right away. He lay and listened to the house breathe. To the clock tick. To a car passing somewhere far away. Silence. Then—a whisper. "Max." He opened his eyes. There was no one in the room. Only shadows on the walls, only the moon in the window, only the knife under the pillow, warmed by his body. He closed his eyes again. The whisper didn't repeat. But he knew—it hadn't been a dream. Somewhere on the hill, in the old mansion, a gray light burned. Weak, barely visible—like a candle in the distance. Someone was watching the sleeping city from the window.