Genesis. Volume 1.

June 7, 1985. Friday. 3:00 p.m. Brookfield Police Station. They didn't go to the archive. They went to the station. Lisa said it was the only way to learn the truth—not from dusty newspapers, not from old photographs, but from the mouths of those who were supposed to protect. But she was wrong. Arthur knew it before they crossed the threshold. But he didn't stop her. Because there was no choice. The police station building stood in the center of town, opposite city hall—gray, square, with a faded flag above the entrance and a flower bed where nothing had grown for a long time. The steps were chipped, the railings loose. The place smelled of gasoline, urine, and cheap cigarettes—someone was smoking by the entrance despite the ban. "How do we get in?" Max asked. "We say we want to file a report about Jack's disappearance," Lisa said. She spoke evenly, calmly, as if she'd rehearsed the whole way. But her hands were trembling. Arthur noticed her fingers gripping the strap of her backpack—her knuckles white. They went inside. The reception area was stuffy. An old air conditioner hummed overhead but didn't cool—it only pushed warm, stale air around. The walls were painted pale green, meant to be calming, but only made them nauseous. On the bulletin board hung mugshots of wanted individuals—black-and-white faces with empty eyes, each with a case number beneath. Behind the counter sat an officer. About forty, with a mustache, in a short-sleeved shirt, the edge of a tattoo visible underneath—an anchor, probably from his youth in the Marines. He was flipping through some form, lazily running his finger down the lines. When he saw the teenagers, he looked up, frowned. "What do you kids want?" "We want to file a report. Our friend is missing. Jack Harris." "A case has already been opened. His parents filed yesterday. We're searching." "We want to add something," Lisa said. The officer sighed. Heavily, like a man doing work that didn't belong to him. He pulled a blank form from his desk drawer—yellow paper with the city seal—and set it before him. A pen—government-issue, blue, with a worn cap. "Go ahead." Arthur began to tell a half-truth. That they'd seen Jack at the Genesis mansion. That he'd gone there alone. That they tried to talk him out of it—shouted, called, but he wouldn't listen. That they ran after him, but the door was locked. The officer wrote it down. Nodded. Occasionally asked again—"what time?", "who else was there?", "are you sure he went in?" He didn't believe them. Arthur could see it in his eyes—bored, indifferent, like a man who'd heard hundreds of such "disappearances" that ended the next day when the kid came home hungover or after a fight with his parents. "You're saying he went into that abandoned house on the hill and didn't come out?" "Yes." "What were you doing there?" "We were waiting outside. Then we went looking for him. He wasn't there. The door was open—we went in, searched the rooms. No one." The officer put down the pen. Leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. "Listen, kids. I understand you're worried. Losing a friend is scary. But don't make things up. The police are looking for your friend. If he was in that house—we'll find him. We have dogs, equipment." "You won't find him," Max said. His voice was dull, lifeless. "How do you know?" "Because he went somewhere you can't follow." The officer gave him a long look. Something flickered in his eyes—not fear, not concern. Irritation. He pursed his lips, shook his head. "You need to go home. Get some rest. Everything will work out. He'll turn up tomorrow. They always turn up." "It won't work out," Emma said. She stood up abruptly—the chair scraped across the linoleum. Turned and walked out, shoving the door with her shoulder. The others followed. June 7, 1985. Friday. 3:30 p.m. Street in front of the station. Outside it was sunny but cold. The wind was pulling the first yellow leaves from the trees—too early for June, but no one was surprised. Emma took out a cigarette, lit it—deeply, with a wheeze. Her fingers trembled, the lighter flame danced, reluctant to catch. On the second try it worked. "Useless. No one will help us." "We have the name," Lisa said. "We have the map. We have a friend who's waiting for us." "A friend who became a monster," Jenny said. She stood a little apart, arms wrapped around herself. The red thread still hung on her wrist, but now it seemed thicker, embedded in her skin. "No," Arthur turned to her. "A friend who locked a monster inside himself." They fell silent. Stood on the sidewalk, staring at the gray station building, at the flag flapping limply in the wind, at a police car pulling out of the lot with its siren off. No one knew what to do next. Only the wind hummed in the wires. June 9, 1985. Sunday. 4:00 p.m. Abandoned garage on Third Street. They met again in the garage. Four days had passed. Four days since the mansion door had closed behind Jack. Four days since Arthur had truly slept—only falling into a heavy, sticky half-sleep from which he surfaced with a scream. The garage smelled of damp, concrete, and gasoline—smells that had become almost familiar. They sat on old crates, looking at each other. No one had slept. No one had eaten properly—only drank tea from a thermos Emma had brought and chewed dry biscuits that crumbled in their fingers. "I haven't slept," Max said. Dark circles had settled under his eyes, his face was gray as an old sheet. "Me neither," Jenny said. "I sleep, but I see him," Emma said. She wasn't smoking—an unopened pack lay on the crate—but her fingers still trembled. "He comes. Stands in the corner. Watches. Smiles." "It's not him," Arthur said. "It's Crowley using his image. To torment us. So we don't sleep, don't eat, can't think of anything but him." "What difference does it make?" Emma said. "They're one now." "No. Jack is holding him inside. As long as Jack is alive—Crowley can't get out." "What if Jack dies?" Max asked. "He won't," Lisa said. She sat on an upside-down crate, clutching a notebook in her hands. She wasn't drawing—just holding it. "He's bound to Crowley. Crowley can't die. So Jack can't either." "So he'll live forever?" Jenny's voice wavered. "In that house? With him?" "Until we find a way to free him." "And if we don't?" Arthur didn't answer. He stared at his hands—at his scraped knuckles, at the red thread pulsing in time with his heart. Lisa pulled the old map from her backpack—the same one with the red dots. She spread it on the crate, weighing down the edges with a mug of unfinished tea and Emma's lighter. The paper was worn, almost threadbare at the folds—they'd gone over it dozens of times. "These marks aren't just murders," Lisa said, running her finger over the map. "They mark places where there were others. Like Crowley." "Other entities?" Max asked. "Yes. And they aren't sleeping. They're waiting." She looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "They can feel the balance has been broken. They're waking up." "So what do we do?" Emma asked. "Travel to every point? We're kids. We have no money. No cars. No weapons." "We have us," Arthur said. "And we have the name—Thomas Crowley. We know how to stop them. Or at least seal them." "You're suggesting we hunt them?" Jenny asked. "I'm suggesting we find others. People like us. Who've faced this. Who know. Who can help." "That'll take years," Emma said. "We have years. Jack has eternity." He folded the map—carefully, along the old creases—and tucked it into his jacket's inner pocket. Next to it lay the Crowley family photograph and the scrap of paper with the name they no longer needed. "We won't give up. We promised." No one objected. Lisa opened her notebook—for the first time in the whole conversation—and began to draw. Not a clown, not the mansion. An eye. One eye. Green and blue in one. Jack's eye. "We'll come back," she said, not looking up. The pencil scratched across the paper—quickly, confidently. "Not now. But we'll come back." Outside the garage walls, the wind rustled. Somewhere on the hill, in the old mansion, a gray light glowed. Someone was watching the city from the window. And smiling. But now that smile held not only madness—but hope. Or only its shadow. But that was enough.