Genesis. Volume 2

October 1, 1986. Brookfield. Max's house. Night. Max couldn't sleep. He lay on his bed, clutching the edge of the blanket in his fist, listening to the silence. Outside the window—darkness. The streetlights had burned out last month, and no one had bothered to replace them. A floorboard creaked in the hallway. He froze. Footsteps. Slow, heavy. The floorboard creaked again—closer. Max sat up, yanked the knife from under his pillow. The blade caught the moonlight. "Who's there?" The footsteps stopped. He mentally cursed himself—idiot. If there was someone real out there, they now knew he was waiting for them. Max got up, walked to the door, pressed his ear to the wood. Nothing. Only his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped bird. He opened the door. The hallway was empty. Old photographs on the walls, the shadow of the coat rack—it was swaying, as if someone had just brushed past it and stepped back. Max walked to the top of the stairs, peered down. A nightlight burned in the living room—a weak yellow glow. "Mom?" Silence. He went back to his room, closed the door, slid the bolt. He put the knife on the nightstand and lay down. Sleep wouldn't come. Max stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. And suddenly he realized: someone was breathing on the other side of the wall. His room bordered the bathroom—no one should be in there. His parents were sleeping downstairs. The breathing was soft, steady. Not his. Not his mother's. Not his father's. He slowly turned his head toward the wall. Floral wallpaper. Nothing. He closed his eyes. The breathing drew closer. Now it sounded right next to his ear—warm, moist, with a smell of rot. Max bolted upright, grabbed the knife, thrust it out in front of him. There was no one in the room. Only a wet spot on the pillow. As if someone had stood over him and breathed while he lay with his eyes closed. He didn't lie down again until morning. October 2, 1986. Brookfield. Max's house. Morning. His mother came in without knocking. He'd forgotten to lock the door after going to the bathroom. "Why aren't you asleep?" She saw him sitting on the bed with the knife in his hand. Max lowered his arm and slid the knife under the blanket. "Forgot to put it away." His mother sat down on the edge of the bed. She smelled of laundry detergent and coffee. "Max, what's going on? You haven't been yourself for a year now." "Everything's fine, Mom." "Don't lie." She took his hand, turned it palm up. His fingers were chewed raw, scratched. He bit his fingers when he was nervous and didn't even notice. "You walk in your sleep? Your father says he heard footsteps at night." "That wasn't me." "Then who?" Max faltered. Too late. "No one. I just couldn't sleep. I was walking around the hallway, wanted some water." His mother looked him in the eyes. She didn't believe him—he could see that. But she didn't press further. "After school today, you're seeing the psychologist. I made an appointment." "I'm not crazy." "I know. But you need to talk to someone. You don't talk to us." She stood up, ran her hand over his hair, and left. Max was alone. The knife gleamed on the nightstand. He hid it under the pillow, got dressed, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, his father was drinking coffee and flipping through the newspaper. "Sleep well?"—without looking up. "Yeah." "You're lying." Max sat down at the table, picked up a sandwich. Dry bread, bland cheese. He chewed and stared out the window. On the lawn, right beneath his window, lay a red balloon. The string was tied to a bush. "Dad, did you see the balloon?" "What balloon?" "There, on the lawn. Red." His father raised his head, glanced out the window. "There's nothing there. You're imagining it." Max turned. The balloon was gone. He finished the sandwich without tasting it. Walked out onto the porch. The grass was wet with dew. No balloon, no string. Only a red thread tied to the railing—thin, rough, looped into a bow. Max pulled it off, stuffed it into his pocket, and headed to school without looking back. At the entrance, Arthur and Lisa were waiting. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching him. "You look pale," said Arthur. "Didn't sleep." "Us too." Lisa pulled a red thread from her pocket. Identical. "It came last night. I didn't tie it." Max took out his own and showed it. "I got one too." "He hasn't forgotten about us," Arthur said quietly. "About who?" "About Jack." Max wanted to say that he was already starting to forget Jack's face—but he stayed silent. They went inside. After classes, Max didn't go to the psychologist. He went to Grandma Jenny's basement. Everyone was already there: Arthur, Lisa, Jenny, Emma. "You're late," said Emma. She wasn't smoking, though her fingers trembled as they gripped a pen. "The psychologist." "And how was he?" asked Jenny. "I didn't go." "Good." Emma tapped the pen on the table. "They just push pills. Pills don't make monsters go away." Max sat down on a crate, pulled the red thread from his pocket, and laid it on the table. "Does everyone have one?" Arthur and Lisa nodded. Jenny pulled out hers—thin, looped into a bow. Emma silently laid out an identical one. "He hasn't let us go," Arthur said. "Crowley. Or whatever's left of him." "Or maybe it's not him." Lisa twirled the thread between her fingers. "Maybe it's someone else. The one Claire mentioned. The man in the gray coat." "Or the Void from Detroit," Emma added. "It leaves traces too. Marcus wrote about threads." Max looked at his hands. The scratches on his fingers. He didn't remember when he'd scraped the skin off. "What are we going to do?" "Go to Detroit." Arthur swept his gaze across everyone. "Talk to Marcus. Find out what he knows about the threads." "What about Chicago?" Jenny asked quietly. "Later. Detroit first. Claire can wait." Emma narrowed her eyes. "She said the man in the gray coat is walking the streets. Maybe we shouldn't make her wait." "We can't split up. There are five of us. Dozens of cities. We have to choose." "Then let's vote." They voted. Four for Detroit. Emma—the sole vote for Chicago. "Fine." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Detroit. But if Claire calls and says that guy crawled through her window—I'm going alone." "You won't." Arthur stared her down. "We'll all go." "Promise?" "I promise." Emma held his gaze, then nodded. Max pulled out his notebook and wrote: "Detroit. Marcus. Threads. Void. Decision—go." He put the pen down. "When?" "In three days. I'll call Marcus and set up a meeting." "What about money?" asked Jenny. "Emma saved up. Enough for the bus and food." "And for the return trip?" "Borrow from our parents. We'll say it's a field trip." "They won't believe us," said Lisa. "We're not asking them to believe us. Just to give us money." Everyone fell silent. The basement was cold and damp. The stove crackled; upstairs, Grandma Jenny walked heavily from room to room—the floorboards creaking in time with her steps. "I'm going home." Max stood up. "Want me to walk you?" Arthur half-rose. "No. I'll go alone." He stepped outside. Darkness. The streetlights were out. Max pulled the red thread from his pocket and held it closer to his eyes—in the moonlight it looked black. Cold. He shoved it back and walked on. The knife was in his pocket. He walked fast, not looking back, but he could hear footsteps behind him. They neither came closer nor fell behind. They just sounded—in the same rhythm as his own. Max pulled out the knife, gripped the handle, and quickened his pace. The footsteps faded as he stepped through the gate. He closed the door, locked it, leaned his back against the wall. The knife trembled in his hand. He hid it under the pillow, lay down without undressing, and closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids—a red balloon. It hung directly above the bed, swaying. Max opened his eyes. The balloon was gone. Only the red thread lay on the pillow. He didn't remember taking it out of his pocket.