Genesis. Volume 2

October 1, 1986. Brookfield. Basement of Grandma Jenny's house. Evening. Arthur returned to the basement two hours later. Lisa had stayed home—helping their mother with the housework. He went in alone and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. The basement smelled of coal and damp. Arthur sat down at the table, pulled the ticket with the number 3 from his pocket, and laid it before him. There was no phone here. He'd had to walk to the payphone on the corner. He'd slipped in a coin and dialed the Chicago number—the one Claire had left them over the summer. Long rings. A click. "Hello." A tired voice, slightly hoarse. "Claire? It's Arthur. From Brookfield." A pause. He heard her exhale. "You're right on time. I was going to write to you, but…" "What happened?" "We found another one. A guy, seventeen. He saw the same thing I did. At the Palace Theater." Claire was speaking fast, as if afraid of being cut off. "He kept quiet at first, but I talked him into it. He says the walls down in the basement remember. Some name. Not the clown's. Another one." "What name?" "He wouldn't say. He got scared. He said if you say it out loud, then…" She broke off. "Then what?" "I don't know. He didn't finish." Arthur gripped the receiver so hard his knuckles went white. "Did you go there yourself?" "No. I'm scared. I already lost my brother. I don't want to lose myself." The price of experience, flashed through his mind. Out loud, he said something else: "What should we do?" "Come here. Together. Not just the two of you—all of you. I have a feeling there's more than one Feaster in there. Or he's not alone." "We can't right now. We've got Detroit." "Detroit can wait." Claire's voice took on a sharp edge. "The Palace Theater isn't just a building. I did some digging. In the fifties, kids went missing there. Three in one month. The police closed the case, and then the theater itself was shut down for good." "And you want to go poking around there?" "I want to understand what's inside. And you're the only ones who won't tell me I'm crazy." Arthur looked at the ticket with the number 3. "We'll think about it. I'll call you back in a couple of days." "Don't drag your feet." Claire dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "I saw him. Not the clown. A man in a gray coat. He walks the streets, peering in windows. I think he knows I'm onto him." "Be careful." "I'm trying." A click, then a dial tone. Arthur stood by the payphone, listening to it drone into nothing. Then he stepped outside. The evening was damp; the streetlights were already burning yellow. He went back to the basement, unlocked the door. Inside—no one. Just the envelopes on the table and the map with the pinned tickets. He sat down. Pulled out his notebook and wrote: "Claire. Chicago. Palace Theater. Man in gray coat. Not the clown. Three missing in the 1950s." He set the pen down. The stairs creaked. Grandma Jenny was coming down with a plate of pastries. "Eat," she said, setting the plate on the table. "You're thin as a rail." "Thanks." She didn't leave. She stood there, looking at the map. "Three tickets. I remember when the first one appeared. I'd just turned sixteen. A boy from the next street was killed. All they found were his sneakers and a yellow ticket with a one on it." "Did you know Eric?" "No. But I knew his mother. She's still waiting for him to come back." Arthur shifted his gaze to the ticket with the number 3. "And number three? Have you heard anything about it?" Grandma shook her head. "After you sealed the clown, I thought—that's it. The end. And now you're gathering again. That means it's not over." "It's not over." She nodded, turned toward the stairs. At the first step, she paused. "Take care of Lisa. She's still a child." "I do." "Not enough. You're all children. But she's the youngest. The youngest always suffer first." Footsteps going up, the creak of the door. Silence. Arthur was alone again. He looked at the map, at the three tickets, at the envelope from Detroit and the letter from Chicago. He picked up a pastry, took a bite. He couldn't taste it. Chewing felt like chewing paper. He reread his notes, added at the bottom: "Ask Elias about the man in the gray coat." He folded the notebook and tucked it into his pocket. Tomorrow, he'd meet with Max, Jenny, and Emma. They'd have to decide—Chicago or Detroit first. He got up, locked the basement, and returned the key to Grandma. "Come by tomorrow," she said. "I'll bake some more." "Definitely." He stepped outside. The wind had died down. The moon hung low—yellow, like an old ticket. Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets and headed home. In his pocket lay the red thread. It no longer felt cold. Now it was warm—like someone else's palm, unseen but unmistakably felt.