Genesis. Volume 1.

July 18, 1985. Thursday. 10:00 a.m. Emma's house. Emma was woken by crows. They were screaming outside the window, flapping off the branches of the old maple, fighting over something. Three days had passed since they'd last stood at the mansion gate and watched the gray light in the room that hadn't been there before. Three days since Jack had waved at them—slowly, unnaturally—and the light went out. She lay on her back, studying a crack in the ceiling that looked like the map of a river that didn't exist. On the nightstand lay an almost full pack of cigarettes, but she hadn't smoked in two days. Her throat was raw, her lungs empty. Quitting had turned out to be easier than she'd thought. Easier than breathing. Her mother had left for work at seven—the door slammed and everything fell silent. A note was left in the fridge: "Money on the table. Don't forget to eat." Emma hadn't forgotten. She just didn't want to. She got up, pulled on jeans, a black tank top, sneakers. A stranger looked back from the mirror—thin, pale, red-eyed. She didn't recognize herself. Or recognized herself too well. She took the money from the table, rolled it into a tube, shoved it in her pocket. She left the note. She didn't drink any water. She stepped outside. The sun had already risen but gave little warmth—the sky was gray, heavy, like leaden water. No one on the porch. Only the old maple rustling its leaves. July 18, 1985. Thursday. 2:00 p.m. Abandoned garage on Third Street. Emma came last. The others were already sitting on the old crates—Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jenny. The garage smelled of gasoline and damp, as always. But the air felt heavier, thicker. As if someone had pumped it full of lead and forgotten to let it out. Arthur sat with his hands on his knees, staring at the wall. Lisa was sorting through drawings—spreading them like a fan, gathering them, spreading them again. Max clicked an empty lighter—no flame. Jenny clutched the ring with the letter "B" so hard her knuckles went white. "I'm leaving," Emma said, not sitting down. Everyone looked at her. "Where?" Arthur asked. "Cleveland." She pulled a map from her pocket, unfolded it, pointed to a red dot. "There, on the map, a dot. I looked in the newspapers—three children have gone missing in the last year. No one knows where. The police haven't found them." "Are you crazy?" Max set down the lighter. "You can't go alone." "I can. I have money, been saving all summer. I already bought the bus ticket yesterday." "Emma," Lisa stood up, "that's dangerous. We don't know what's there." "That's why I'm going. To find out." "What if you don't come back?" "I will. I promise." She looked at Jenny. Jenny sat silent, hands clasped together, staring at the cracks in the concrete, filled with dust and fine gravel. "Do you think so too?" Emma asked. Jenny lifted her head. Her eyes were red—not from tears, from lack of sleep. "I think you're an idiot." Her voice trembled, but the words came out firm. "But I know you can't be stopped." "Then don't try." Max stood up and walked over to her. His sneakers scuffed on the concrete. "Do you even understand what you're doing? Going to another city alone to hunt a monster. This isn't a horror movie. This is real life." "I know. That's why I'm going." "Why?" Arthur asked. Emma paused. She looked at her hands—at her nicotine-stained fingers, at the red thread pulsing in time with her heart. "Because I can't just sit here anymore. Jack is there. And we're here. And we're doing nothing. We're searching, yes. But we're not moving. And every day he grows smaller. I can feel it. He's leaving." "We don't know what's in Cleveland," Lisa said. "Maybe there's nothing there." "Maybe there is. I'll find out." "I'll go with you," Max said. "No. You're needed here." "By who?" "Everyone." She nodded toward Arthur and Lisa. "You hold them together. If you leave, they'll fall apart." "And you?" Arthur asked. "I hold myself together. I always have." She walked over to Jenny, crouched down to her level. It was cold in the garage; Jenny was wrapped in a light jacket that didn't keep her warm. "Look after them. Okay?" Jenny nodded. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying—she only pressed her lips together, swallowed. "And take care of yourself. If something happens to you—" "Nothing will. I'm too mean to die." Emma stood up and looked at all of them—Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jenny. Five of them. No one was smiling. "I leave in two days. I'll call when I get there." "And if you don't call?" "Then I found what I was looking for. Or it found me." She turned and walked out. Her sneakers pounded on concrete, then on gravel, then fell silent. No one followed her. July 20, 1985. Saturday. 5:00 a.m. Emma's house. Emma woke an hour before her alarm—on her own, without the ring. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Her heart beat steadily, without panic. There was no fear. There was something else. Emptiness. Like before a jump into water, when you don't know how deep the bottom is, but you can't stop anymore. She got up, put on jeans, a black tank top, sneakers. She pulled her hair into a ponytail with an old elastic that barely held. She checked her backpack: a change T-shirt, a flashlight—small, aluminum—a kitchen knife with a black handle, spare cigarettes even though she'd decided to quit. And the old map with the red dots, folded in four, worn at the creases. Her mother was still asleep—steady, calm breathing from behind the wall. Emma left a note on the kitchen table, weighed down with a mug: "Gone to a friend's. Back in a few days." She wasn't lying. Jenny was a friend. Jenny just happened to be staying in Brookfield. She stepped outside. The morning was gray, cold. The sun hadn't risen yet—only a narrow strip of orange on the horizon, like a wound. Dew glistened on the grass. Jenny was waiting on the porch. Emma stopped. "What are you doing here?" "Came to see you off." "Don't." "I came anyway." Emma sighed but didn't argue. They walked together to the bus station—through the park, past the old oaks, past the bench where they'd eaten ice cream as children. In silence. Their footsteps scuffed on the wet asphalt—shuff-shuff—somewhere in the distance a dog barked. "You don't have to do this." "Yes, I do. I'm the only one who's not afraid." "You are afraid. You just don't show it." "Maybe. But if I don't go—no one will. At least one of us is doing something." The station was empty. Rusty benches, a broken soda machine, a ticket booth with a barred window. The ticket agent, with curlers in her hair, punched a ticket to Cleveland without even looking up. Emma shoved the ticket into her jeans pocket. "No return needed." Jenny hugged her. Tightly, like when they were little and no one knew what monsters were. Jenny's dress smelled of laundry detergent and home. "Come back." "I will. Definitely." Emma let her go, picked up her backpack, and boarded the bus. She sat by the window—the second seat on the right, so she could see the platform. Jenny remained standing—a small figure in a light jacket, hands in her pockets. The bus pulled away. The diesel rumbled, the pneumatic doors hissed. Emma watched her friend shrink to a tiny dot, then disappear around the corner—first her face, then her hands, then all of her. She pulled out the map, unfolded it on her knees. Six red dots. Brookfield was one of them. Cleveland was the second. "I'm coming, Jack. Hold on." The bus pulled onto the highway. The city fell behind—residential areas, fields, forests. Emma stared out the window at the gray sky, the wet tree trunks, the rare cars. After an hour she dozed off, her head against the glass, the map clutched in her fist. July 20, 1985. Saturday. 3:00 p.m. Cleveland. Street in front of the Rivoli Theater. The bus was an hour late. Emma stepped out onto a deserted street where the ground floors were boarded up with plywood and rusted posters of concerts from ten years ago hung on the poles. The place smelled of smoke, rotten wood, and something sour, like spoiled milk. She pulled a scrap of paper with an address from her backpack—Jenny had found it in an old article about a missing boy. The paper was worn, the pencil letters smudged, but still legible. The Rivoli Theater stood at the end of the block. A huge red-brick building—peeling, with black streaks, with columns once white and now gray. The stucco above the entrance had crumbled, the windows were broken or boarded up. The doors were chained—thick, rusted chain, with a padlock at least thirty years old. But one leaf had gaped wide enough that you could squeeze through if you sucked in your stomach and held your breath. Emma took off her backpack, pushed it through the gap, then squeezed through herself. Her elbow scraped the chain—a brown stain remained on her jacket. July 20, 1985. Saturday. 3:15 p.m. Abandoned Rivoli Theater. Inside. Inside it smelled of damp, rotten wood, and—she recognized it at once—the same sweetish smell as in the Genesis mansion. Only here it was weaker, diluted, like an old perfume that had faded over decades. The darkness was oily, thick. Emma turned on her flashlight. A yellow beam picked out rows of velvet seats—sagging, with stuffing poking out—a stage with collapsed boards, and a curtain faded to the color of dried blood. Somewhere above, floorboards creaked. Someone was walking on the balcony—slowly, heavily. "Come out. I know you're here." Silence. Then a clap—as if someone had turned on a spotlight. The stage was illuminated by a dim, trembling light. In the center stood a man. Not a clown. A man of about forty in a worn three-piece gray suit with frayed elbows. His tie was knotted in a wide, careless loop. His shirt was white but yellowed at the collar. His face was pale, cheeks hollow, deep shadows under his eyes. But his eyes. Black. Without pupils, without white. Two abysses in which no light reflected. "Hello, Emma." His voice was low, gravelly, but not unkind. Tired. "How do you know my name?" "I know everything that happens in my city." He stepped forward. "Just like the one you locked away in Brookfield." "Are you like him?" "No." He shook his head. "I'm different. He's a Devourer. I'm a Keeper." "Keeper of what?" "The Threshold." He swept his hand around the floor, the walls, the ceiling. "The place where they cannot pass." Emma gripped the knife in her pocket. The blade was cold—or maybe her fingers had gone numb. "You're lying." "I never lie. I just say what you don't want to hear." "Why did you call me here?" "I didn't call you." The corner of his mouth twitched. "You came yourself. You're looking for answers. I can give them to you." "Talk." He stepped to the edge of the stage. The light moved with him, as if tethered. "The one you call Crowley shouldn't have been sealed. He was needed. He held back the others." "What others?" "You saw the map. The red dots. Those aren't just places. They're entities that sleep or wait. Crowley was one of those who kept them from waking. He fed on fear, yes. But he also maintained the balance." "And now?" "Now the balance is broken. They're waking up. Slowly. But surely." "You want us to free him?" "I want you to correct the mistake. But not now. He's too weak now. If you free him—he'll die. And if he dies—they'll all break loose at once." "Then what should we do?" "Wait. Grow. Learn. Find others like you. When there are more of you—you can take his place. Or find someone who will." "You're speaking in riddles." "Because you wouldn't understand a direct answer. You're still children." "I'm not a child. After what we've seen—I'm not a child." The man looked at her. Something like pity flickered in his black eyes—or respect. "I know. That's why I'm speaking to you." He held out his hand. On his palm lay an old circus ticket—yellow, frayed at the edges, exactly like the ones Crowley left. Only the number on it was not 1, not 2, not 3. It was 0. "Take it. It's an invitation. When the time comes—you'll know where to go." Emma took the ticket. The paper was cold, almost icy, and sticky—as if it had been held in mittens taken off in the frost. "What's your name?" "Elias." "You're not a monster?" "I was human. Like him. But I didn't make a deal. I just stayed here to watch." "How old are you?" "Too old to remember." He stepped back into the darkness. The light faded smoothly, as if someone had turned a dimmer. "Wait!" "Go back to Brookfield." His voice from the void. "Tell them they need to be ready. And take care of Jenny. She's more important than you think." Emma stood in the darkness, clutching the ticket. Her flashlight trembled, picking out empty seats and the torn curtain from the gloom. Then she turned and crawled back outside. The sun blinded her. She leaned against the cold brick wall, wiped her damp forehead. The bus to Brookfield left in an hour. She had time. July 21, 1985. Sunday. 9:00 a.m. The Walker house. Someone pounded on the door. Arthur went downstairs—barefoot, in pajama pants—and peered through the peephole. Emma stood on the porch, pale, backpack on her back, hair disheveled. He opened it. "You're alive." "Alive." She walked into the kitchen, sat at the table, pulled the old yellow ticket with the number 0 from her backpack. "What's that?" "An invitation. I saw another one. Elias. He said we were wrong. That Crowley was needed. That the others are waking up." "He's lying." "He said he never lies. Not like Crowley. He said we have to wait. Find others like us. When there are more of us—we can seal the rest. Or free Jack." "Do you believe him?" "I don't know. But we don't have other options." Emma pulled out a cigarette—Arthur didn't see where from—and lit it. No one ever smoked in the Walker house. Arthur didn't object. He just slid her an old glass ashtray his mother kept for guests. "What do we do?" "What he said. Wait. Search. Grow." "We're children." "We're not. Not after everything." She stubbed out the cigarette, though it was only half smoked. "And take care of Jenny. He said she's more important than we think." Arthur looked at her. "Why?" "He didn't say. He just said it." They sat in the kitchen, the clock ticking. Somewhere on the hill, in the old mansion, a gray light glowed. Someone with a red eye was watching the city and waiting. Arthur picked up the ticket with the number 0, turned it over in his fingers. The paper was cold, almost icy—like the hand of the dead. "I'll keep it. As a souvenir." "As a warning." "The same thing." He tucked the ticket into his jacket pocket, next to the map with the red dots and the scrap of paper with the name "Thomas Crowley." Outside the window, a new day was beginning. The sun rose pale, cold, like an old circus ticket. Somewhere on the hill, the Genesis mansion stood black and silent. No one burned in its windows. But they knew—Jack was there. Watching. Waiting. And smiling.