Genesis. Volume 1.

June 10, 1985. Tuesday. 1:00 a.m. The Walker house. Arthur wasn't asleep. He sat on the windowsill, his back pressed against the cold glass, staring out at the street. The streetlights weren't working—they'd burned out last month and no one had replaced them. In the darkness he could only make out the silhouettes of old maples that had known his grandfather, and the distant lights of the city on the horizon—yellow, blurred, like tears. Somewhere out there, on the hill, stood the Genesis mansion. Arthur couldn't see it from here—neighboring roofs and treetops blocked the view—but he knew it was there. And he knew Jack was there too. The glass fogged from his breath. He ran his finger across it, leaving a clean streak. Beneath his finger—moisture, cold as the slime on the basement walls. Five days. Five days since the mansion door had closed behind Jack. Five days since Arthur had truly slept—only falling into a heavy, sticky half-sleep from which he surfaced with a scream and the feeling that someone had been standing nearby, watching. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jack. The gray face. The red eye. The black tear running down his cheek—slowly, oily. And the smile. Not the smile Jack had worn when they played video games or drank tea in the kitchen. A different one. A stranger's. Someone knocked softly on the door. "Come in," Arthur said, not turning around. The door opened with a soft creak—the hinges had long needed oiling. Lisa stood on the threshold in her old floral pajamas, with a patch on the knee, barefoot. Her hair was disheveled, dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept in several nights—and she probably hadn't. "You're not sleeping either." "Neither are you." She walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The springs squeaked. Her legs were pale, her feet cold—she curled her toes. "I'm afraid to close my eyes," her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "He comes. Not Crowley. Jack. Stands in the corner and watches. I wake up—he's gone. But I know he was there. Footprints remain on the floor. Wet. Like someone stood barefoot on the cold floor." "It's not him. It's Crowley using his image. To torment us." "What if it is him?" Lisa gripped the edge of the blanket. "What if he's trying to tell us something? What if he wants us to come?" Arthur was silent. In the darkness her eyes looked black, bottomless, like the well in the basement. "We can't come. We don't know how to free him. If we go now—we'll only make things worse." "Or help. Or at least say goodbye properly." "We already said goodbye." "No." Lisa shook her head, her hair spilling over her shoulders. "We ran. We got scared and ran. That's not goodbye. That's betrayal." Arthur opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. She was right. They'd abandoned Jack. "Tomorrow," he said. "Tomorrow we'll talk to the others. Decide." "Tomorrow might be too late." "Why?" "Because every night he grows smaller. I can feel it. He's leaving. Melting. Like ice in the sun." Arthur looked at his hands. They were trembling—finely, unpleasantly, as if with fever. "Lie down. I'll sit with you." Lisa nodded, lay on her stomach, knees tucked up like when she was a child. Arthur sat beside her, leaning his back against the cold, rough wallpaper. They listened to the clock ticking. Somewhere in the pipes, water hummed. Behind the wall, their parents slept—their mother's breathing, steady, calm. After ten minutes, Lisa fell asleep. Her face relaxed; she looked ten years old. Arthur stayed sitting, watching the door. He didn't close his eyes until morning. June 10, 1985. Tuesday. 7:00 a.m. The Walker house. Kitchen. At breakfast, Arthur stared at his empty plate. The fried eggs had gone cold, the fat congealed in white spots. His mother said something about school, about not skipping, about how Jack would turn up because people like him don't just disappear. Arthur nodded without hearing a word. Jack still stood before his eyes. The red eye. The black tear. "Arthur. Are you listening to me?" "Yes, Mom." "I said you and Lisa are staying home today. I'll call the school, tell them you're sick. You need to rest." "Okay." She gave him a long look. She wanted to say something, but didn't. She stood up, cleared the plates, clattered dishes in the sink. Arthur went upstairs and sat on his bed. He pulled the old photograph from his pocket—a woman, a child, a man in a circus costume. Crowley before he became a monster. "Who were you?" he whispered, staring at the tired face. "You were a human. A father. A husband. What made you become this?" The photograph was silent. Only the face stared back through decades, through death, through madness. Arthur tucked it into his inner pocket, next to the map with the red dots and the scrap of paper with the name they no longer needed. He lay down on the bed, still dressed. Closed his eyes. In the darkness beneath his eyelids—the mansion. Not the one they'd seen by day—gray, peeling. Different. Walls black as pitch, windows glowing red, pulsing like a sick pulse. On the roof stood a clown, watching. His eyes burned yellow. "Come to me." Arthur opened his eyes. There was no one in the room. Only the sun outside—yellow, insistent, forcing its way through the half-drawn curtains. June 11, 1985. Wednesday. 3:00 a.m. Max's house. Max woke to someone breathing on the back of his neck. He lay on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, and felt foreign breath on his neck. Warm, damp, smelling of rot. He didn't move. He gripped the edge of the blanket in his fist. "I know you're here. Go away." The breathing grew louder—now a faint wheeze was audible, as if the breather had a sick throat. Cold fingers touched the back of his head. "I said go away!" he shouted, springing up. There was no one in the room. The door was closed. The window was locked—he'd slid the bolt himself. On the pillow—a wet spot. Dark, large, as if someone had stood over him and wept. Max turned on the light. The room was empty. Only his things, only his shadow on the wall—trembling, distorted. He walked to the mirror. In the reflection—himself, pale, red-eyed. On his neck—the red thread, now thicker than before. And behind him—another face. Gray. With a red eye. Jack. Max spun around. No one. He looked in the mirror again—only his own frightened face. "You're here. I know it. You don't want to show yourself, but you're here." Silence. The clock on the nightstand ticked. "Jack, if you can hear me—give me a sign." Nothing. "Please." The light bulb on the ceiling flickered. Once. Briefly. Went out—the room plunged into thick darkness. A second later it came back on. Max stood staring at the ceiling. The bulb burned steadily, yellow, dull. But he knew—it was a sign. "I'll come. I promise." He sat on the bed, took the knife from under the pillow—the blade cold, the handle warm from his body—and placed it on the nightstand so he wouldn't have to reach for it. He didn't close his eyes until morning. June 12, 1985. Thursday. 4:00 a.m. Jenny's house. Jenny had a dream. She stood in the middle of an empty field. The sky was black—no stars, no moon. The earth was gray as ash. Each step left a deep black print. In the distance a fire burned. The flame wasn't orange—gray, like the light in the well. It gave no warmth. Jenny moved closer—the cold intensified. By the fire sat a man in a long coat. He turned—Jack. But not the one she knew. His face was calm, almost serene. His eyes—green and red—looked without fear. Only weariness. "You came." "This is a dream." "It's not a dream. It's me. The real me. I can't speak to you in your world—the walls are too thick, he's too strong. But here—I can." "Why?" "Because here I'm not part of him. Here I'm human again." Jenny stepped closer. The fire cast gray shadows that danced across Jack's face, making him look like an old photograph. "How are you?" "I'm dying. Slowly. Piece by piece. First I lost taste. Food—cardboard, water—paper. Then pain. I cut my hand—didn't feel it. Then fear. I'm not afraid of anything anymore. That's the worst part." "We'll find a way to free you." "Don't look. If you free me—you free him too. He'll get out. And then others will die. Many others." "What if you die?" "I can't die. I'm bound to him. We'll be like this forever if you don't do something." "What should we do?" "I don't know. But you'll find it. You always find it." He stood up. His coat billowed, though there was no wind. "I have to go. He's waking up. If he finds out I was here—he'll lock me away. In the room, in the wall, in the well." "Jack. We won't abandon you." "I know. That's why I'm not afraid to die." He vanished—simply ceased to be, like a burst soap bubble. The fire went out, the gray flame sank into the earth. Jenny was left alone in the dark. She woke in tears. There was blood on the pillow—not from her nose. From her eye. A red tear, dried on her cheek like old paint. June 13, 1985. Friday. 5:00 a.m. Emma's house. Emma wasn't asleep. She sat in the kitchen, smoking one after another. The ashtray was full, the room thick with bluish smoke. She didn't open the window. Let it be smoky. Let no one see her face. On the table sat a mug of cold coffee—she'd poured it three hours ago and never took a sip. The coffee had formed an oily film. Someone knocked on the door. "Emma, open up," her mother's voice through the door. "You've been in there for three hours." "I don't want to." "What happened?" "Nothing." "Are you smoking?" "No." Her mother sighed—heavily, the way people sigh when they're tired of fighting. Footsteps retreated. Emma stubbed out her cigarette, pressing it hard into the ashtray until the filter flattened. She looked at her hands. Her fingers were yellow with nicotine. She tried to remember when she'd last not smoked. She couldn't. She stood up—her legs had gone numb, a twinge in her back—and walked to the sink. Turned on the tap. The water ran black. Oily, thick, reeking of rot. It flowed over her fingers, leaving dark streaks. Emma turned off the tap. Turned it on again. The water was clear. "I imagined it," she said aloud. Her voice was hoarse, foreign. "You didn't." Emma spun around. Jack stood in the kitchen doorway. Gray, with a red eye, in the same clothes he'd worn when he entered the mansion. Only his sneakers were clean—no dirt, no dust. "You're not real." "I'm real. I'm here. Always here. You just don't look." "What do you want?" "For you to stop being afraid. Not for yourself. For me." "I'm not afraid for you. I'm angry. For what you did. For leaving us." "I didn't leave. I stayed. Those are different things." "What difference does it make?" Emma gripped the edge of the sink so hard her knuckles went white. "You're not here. You're there. And we're here. And we can't do anything." "You can. You can live. Really live. Not like me. Not like him." "What if I don't want to?" "You do. You're just afraid to admit it." He vanished—as if he'd never been there. Emma was alone. The water in the sink had turned black again. She didn't turn off the tap. She watched the black water flow over her fingers, over the sink, down the drain, and felt no cold. June 14, 1985. Saturday. 6:00 a.m. The Walker house. Arthur woke to a tug on his shoulder. The sleep had been heavy, sticky—he'd been standing on the mansion roof again, with red balls floating in the black water below. He opened his eyes. Lisa stood over him, already dressed—jeans, sweater, hair in a ponytail, backpack on. Her face was pale, but her eyes burned. "Get up. We're going." "Where?" "To the mansion." Arthur sat up. "Why?" "To say goodbye properly." "We already—" "No. We ran. I don't want him to think we abandoned him." Arthur looked at her. Dark circles under her eyes, but in her pupils—that fire that appears when someone has made a decision and won't be swayed. "Who else is coming?" "Everyone. I called. Max, Jenny, Emma—they'll be at the mansion in an hour." "You called them at six in the morning?" "They weren't asleep. No one's asleep." Arthur stood up—his legs felt like cotton, his head pounding. He put on jeans, his jacket, sneakers. He grabbed the baseball bat—the training one with the "Best Player" sticker. "You think it'll help?" "No. But I want to hold something." They left the house. It was dark outside. The sun hadn't risen yet—only a narrow gray strip on the horizon where night met morning. The sky was heavy, as if pressing down over the city. It smelled like before a thunderstorm, but no storm was forecast. "He knows we're coming." "Of course he knows. He always knows." "I don't mean him. I mean Jack." They walked toward the hill. Toward the Genesis mansion.