Genesis. Volume 1.

May 25, 1985. Wednesday. 3 p.m. The Walkers’ house. The big two-story house on a quiet street in Brookfield looked deserted. The parents had left for work in the morning. Father slammed the door at seven — the hallway still smelled of coffee and tobacco. Mother lingered five minutes longer, straightened the curtains so the furniture wouldn’t fade, and left Arthur and Lisa alone. The sun was hammering at the windows, but the living room stayed cool — the rays pierced the fabric in pale, sickly strips and lay on the parquet like rulers. Arthur sat on the windowsill in his second-floor room, his back pressed against the cold glass. Staring at the street was unbearably dull — boredom ate at him from the inside, slowly, corrosively, without the hope of an antidote. Fourteen years old. Tall, around six feet, skinny, with broad shoulders that were only just beginning to show under his T-shirt. Black hair stuck out in every direction — he hadn’t touched a comb since morning. Green eyes, like the emeralds his father had brought back from a business trip and kept in a safe behind the painting of deer. Arthur sometimes peeked: in the darkness of the half-open safe, the stones pulsed with a cold fire. But today he couldn’t care less about the stones. He wanted to break something. Downstairs, in her own world, Lisa was fussing. Thirteen years old. Four foot eleven, slender, with long wavy hair — she wore it loose or pulled into a tight ponytail, depending on her mood. Eyes the color of the ocean, their mother said. Lisa loved that comparison, even though she’d never seen the ocean — only in pictures in magazines. Today she was in a mood, busy with makeup in front of the bathroom mirror. Thick, with a girl’s diligence, sparing no mascara or eyeshadow. Every so often she got distracted by a doll with a torn-off arm — mother still hadn’t sewn it back on. Lisa wasn’t playing. She just held it. For warmth. “Arthur!” she yelled from downstairs. “Have you seen my mascara?” “I’m not touching your mascara!” His voice cracked into a rooster’s falsetto. Breaking. Arthur hated that feeling, when words flew out nothing like he’d intended. He jumped off the windowsill. He had to do something. Sitting home with a sister whose only skills were putting on makeup and dragging around a mangy doll — not the most entertaining way to spend a Saturday. Arthur considered himself grown up. Grown up enough to decide how to kill a Saturday without parental supervision. In the hallway, floorboards creaked underfoot. An old house, with character. Arthur knew every one: the third from the stairs moaned like a wounded animal; the second-to-last by the far wall gave off a dry crack — like a bone snapping. Mother had asked Father a hundred times to fix them. Father had promised. Three years ago. The telephone — black, rotary, on a nightstand with a lace doily. Arthur lifted the receiver, spun the dial. Long beeps. Then a click. “Come over,” Arthur breathed. “Bored.” “Ten minutes,” Max replied, and hung up. Arthur went back to his room, sat on the bed. The springs squeaked, remembering how he used to jump on them as a child. The clock read ten past three. Time crawled like a snail on glass. Max showed up exactly ten minutes later. Punctuality — that was something about him that infuriated and impressed you at the same time. Shorter than Arthur — five foot three, skinny, with narrow shoulders and short, curly light-brown hair, perpetually tousled. Amber-brown eyes with a permanent spark of adventure. Usually he dressed like a little old man — button-up shirts, trousers — but today he had on a hoodie with a logo of a rock band he didn’t listen to and jeans with worn-out knees. “Who else is coming?” Max pulled off his sneakers in the entryway, set them toe to toe. “Jack,” Arthur was already at the door. “He’ll be here soon.” “And Lisa?” “Putting on makeup. Don’t bug her.” Max shrugged, walked to the kitchen. He poured himself water from the tap — Mrs. Walker didn’t allow unboiled water, but she wasn’t home. He took a gulp, grimaced. The water smelled of chlorine and rust. Jack tumbled in five minutes later — out of breath, with a backpack from which the corner of a skateboard poked. Five foot seven, skinny, broad shoulders, short blond hair slicked into a straight part. But the most startling thing — his eyes. Right one green, like a summer forest. Left one blue, like a chip of ice. Kids at school made fun of him. “Cyclops,” “mutant,” “Photoshop.” Jack got used to it. He didn’t answer back. He just clenched his teeth and stayed silent. “Anything new?” Jack kicked off his sneakers and tossed them into the common pile. Max glanced sidelong at the mess but said nothing. “Console,” Arthur was already walking to the stairs. “Dad brought it from the city.” In Arthur’s room, the console turned out to be an old Japanese one, with a scuffed casing. The joysticks jammed if you pressed too hard, but they worked fine as long as you blew into the slots. Arthur inserted the cartridge — a plastic little box with a worn sticker. On the screen, pixelated little men flickered to primitive, monotonous music. To them, the best music in the world. Max and Jack grabbed the joysticks. Arthur perched on the edge of the bed and yelled, cheering on Max, who was losing his third game in a row. “Left! Left!” “I see it!” Max mashed the button so hard the plastic creaked. His character slammed into a wall. “You don’t see anything!” Jack stayed silent. He pressed the buttons, dodged obstacles, collected bonuses, leapt over chasms. He always won. Maybe because of his eyes — people said heterochromia gave you a special sense of motion. Or maybe he just didn’t get distracted. He paid no attention to Max’s shouts, to Arthur’s hints. He played as if his life depended on it. Downstairs, in her room, Lisa was putting mascara on her lashes and listening to the radio. An old Panasonic on the nightstand hissed, breaking through static. The announcer was talking about the weather: sunny, up to twenty degrees, southwest wind. Lisa wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Eric Prescott from eighth grade, the boy all the girls liked. She had no chance — she knew it. Too young, too plain. Not in his league. But nobody could forbid her from dreaming. Dreams don’t smell, don’t need makeup, can’t be taken away. She lined her eyes, glanced in the mirror. Pretty. Maybe tomorrow at school he’d notice. Wave. Say “hi.” She smiled at her reflection, and at that moment someone knocked at the door. Three knocks. Loud, confident. Boom-boom-boom — a fist on wood. Lisa froze. The radio was playing a cheerful tune. From upstairs came Arthur’s and Max’s shouts. They didn’t hear. Or didn’t want to hear. She stood, went to the stairs, held her breath. Silence. Maybe she’d imagined it? Her heart was hammering somewhere in her throat. The knocking repeated. Louder. With force. Her mother’s words surfaced on their own: “Don’t open the door to anyone if we’re not home.” On tiptoe, avoiding the traitorous floorboard — the second one from the stairs — Lisa slipped back to her room, locked the door, and crawled under the blanket. She pulled it up to her eyes. The room smelled of her cheap fruity perfume, and right now that scent felt like the only normal thing in the world. She lay there and listened. The knocking did not come again. Only the radio and the shouts from upstairs: it sounded like Arthur was calling Max a donkey again. Ten minutes later, someone knocked on her bedroom door. Soft, careful. Not like the knock at the house door. Lisa flinched. “Lisa, open up, please,” Arthur’s voice came muffled. She unlocked the door. Arthur stood in the doorway, frowning, joystick in hand. Behind him loomed Max and Jack, both with equally worried faces — even Jack, who wasn’t usually afraid of anything. “What happened? Why are you so scared?” “Someone was knocking at the door,” Lisa’s voice trembled slightly. “You didn’t come down, and I wanted to check, but I remembered what Mom said and locked myself in.” Arthur’s frown deepened. “Listen, if anything like that happens again — you call me right away. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing. This is our safety, especially when the parents aren’t home. Got it?” “Yes, Arthur, I got it.” He hugged her — brief, impulsive, the way he did when he didn’t know what else to say. His T-shirt smelled of sweat and laundry detergent. The smell of an older brother she’d known since the crib. A lifeline. “Wanna go have tea?” he asked, and smiled a little. “Of course, let’s go!” The kitchen was bright and safe. Max and Jack were already at the table, drinking tea and crunching on “Yubileynoye” cookies, the kind Mrs. Walker hid in the top drawer so the kids wouldn’t eat them all at once. Didn’t help. The drawer was wide open. “Hi, Lisa!” Max held out his palm. “Hi, guys.” Lisa slapped his palm — loud, almost a clap. A bodily conversation that replaced words. Everyone sat down. The boys drank green tea — Arthur insisted it was healthier, though it tasted like mowed grass. Lisa took black, with two spoonfuls of sugar, the way her mother liked it. On the table were plates of cookies, “Little Red Riding Hood” candies hard as pebbles, and stale gummy bears that were still edible anyway. Lisa bit a cookie. Crunched. Delicious. Almost like childhood. “Hey, did you guys hear about what happened with Eric Prescott?” Jack’s voice wavered. Everyone froze. Arthur set his cup on the table. Max stopped chewing. “What about him?” Lisa felt something cold and sticky tighten inside her, like that fear at the door. “Last Friday, after school, everyone left, but he stayed to finish a report. They say he heard a rustling in the hallway, went out — and someone lunged at him from the dark. He ran to the boys’ restroom, but the guy found him. All that was left of Eric were his sneakers. And on the floor, in blood, was the number one.” Lisa pressed her palms to her mouth, stifling a scream. Her eyes stung. She blinked, but she didn’t cry in front of them. “What the hell…” Arthur and Max exhaled at the same time. “I was shocked too when they told me.” Jack rubbed his face. His palms were damp, whether from sweat or fear. Suddenly the home phone rang. Shrill, insistent. Everyone jumped. Arthur walked over and picked up the receiver. “Hello, Arthur Walker speaking.” “Arthur, be a dear and tell Jack to come home.” “Who is this?” “Jack’s mom. Please tell him, it’s getting late.” “All right, Mrs. Harris.” Arthur hung up. “Jack, your mom called. Time to go home.” “Already? Crap.” Jack glanced at the clock. Quarter to five. He downed the rest of his tea in one gulp, tasting nothing, and stood. He ran upstairs for his bag, came down, put on his shoes — this time he tied the laces instead of just shoving his feet into the sneakers — and put on an old jacket of his father’s with a torn pocket. His mother had promised to sew it. She hadn’t. “Bye, Lisa!” “Bye, Jack!” She waved to him from the porch. The evening air smelled of grass and gasoline from the nearest gas station. Arthur and Max went out to see their friend to the gate. The grass was wet — one of the neighbors had overdone the watering. “Good hang, guys!” Jack shook hands with Arthur and Max. Firm, almost painful. “Take it easy.” He headed off toward home. The road led past the old mansion on the hill — “Genesis,” as people in town called it. They said no one lived there. They said it was best not to go near. They said at night you could see light in the windows, though the electricity had been off for half a century. Jack walked along the sidewalk, trying not to look toward the mansion. As he drew level with the wrought-iron fence, he heard a rustle. Behind him. Distinct, like footsteps on gravel. He turned around. On the path leading to the mansion stood a clown. A gaudy costume, old brownish stains soaked into the sleeves. In his hand he held a circus ticket — yellow, crumbling at the edges, almost falling apart. His face was caked in white, and the smile seemed too wide, too bright. The eyes — two black holes that reflected no light. “Hello, Jack!” The voice was soft, insinuating, the kind you’d use to whisper in someone’s ear. “I’m a clown by the name of Crowley. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed — slowly, unnaturally, with a crunch in his spine — and straightened abruptly. The ticket in his fingers flared blue for a second and went out, leaving smudges of soot on his skin. “Come with me? I’ll show you a show you’ll never forget!” The clown laughed. The laugh was creaky, demonic — like an un-oiled swing or a rusty door that opens once a century. Jack screamed. He spun and ran faster than he had ever run in his life. His feet slipped on the wet asphalt, his heart pounded in his throat, he ran out of air after thirty feet. He didn’t look back. He was afraid he’d see that smile again. He flew through the gate of his own house, slammed it shut, and sagged against it. The iron clanged, accepting his weight. He breathed heavily, wheezing, like a cornered horse. Inside the house, a cozy yellow light was on, and the smell of fried potatoes drifted from the windows. His mother came out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s with you?” She hugged him. The embrace smelled of onion and laundry detergent. “Nothing, Mom. Just tired.” He scrubbed his hands for a long time in the bathroom, staring into the fogged-up mirror. His own face — pale, with mismatched eyes — seemed foreign. He changed and lay down in bed. He refused supper. His mother was surprised but didn’t insist, only left a plate of potatoes on the stove, covered with a towel. Jack lay in the darkness and stared at the ceiling. It felt as if someone was standing outside the window. He didn’t check. He was afraid. The curtains were drawn, but he still sensed the gaze — heavy, sticky, like the sweetish rot that had clung to the clown. He only fell asleep toward morning, when it began to grow light outside and the birds started to sing. Meanwhile, back at the Walkers’ house, Arthur, Max, and Lisa were watching a horror film. The television hummed, the picture flickered — the antenna reception was lousy. The living room was dark; only the screen lit up their faces, turning them into wax masks. The kids flinched at every sudden sound, screamed when the monster jumped out of the dark. Even Max, who swore he couldn’t be scared, grabbed the armrest a couple of times. At the most intense moment — the hero was heading into the basement, and the creak of the door drowned out the ominous music — someone knocked loudly at the door. All three froze. The doorknob began to turn. Slowly, smoothly, just like in the movie. The lock clicked. The door opened. In the doorway stood two silhouettes — one tall and one shorter, blurred by the light of the streetlamp. The kids screamed. “Quiet, you!” barked a familiar voice. The light switch clicked. Light flooded the hallway, hit their eyes. In the doorway stood Mark and Sophia Walker. Mark in a coat, with a briefcase, flushed from the wind. Sophia in a raincoat, with a string bag from which a loaf of bread poked out. “Mr. and Mrs. Walker?” Max’s voice dropped in surprise. “It’s you?!” “Who else?” Mark grumbled, taking off his coat. “We’re not allowed to come home anymore?” His spine cracked as he stretched. “Max?” Sophia smiled. “Hello. How are you?” “Great. And you?” “Not bad either. Are you staying the night or what?” “If you don’t mind, then yes.” “Of course we don’t mind! Stay.” Max hugged her — impulsively, childishly. Sophia laughed, ruffled his curls. Lisa was already at the stairs. She wanted to sleep, but her eyes still burned after the film. “Good night, everyone!” she called and ran upstairs, flicking the light switch on her way — her mother didn’t like people stomping around in the dark. Sophia went to the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, heaved a deep sigh. Mark lingered in the living room, glanced at the screen, where the horror movie credits were now rolling. He shook his head but said nothing. He just turned off the television and followed her. Max looked in on Arthur, who was in the kitchen eating grapes straight off the bunch — plucking off one berry at a time and spitting the seeds into an empty mug. “Your mom said I could stay.” “Awesome!” Arthur chewed the sour but refreshing berry. “You’ll sleep over in my room. I’ll make a bed on the floor.” He got out a clean sheet that smelled of lavender — his mother always tucked sachets between the linens — a blanket, and a pillow. On the floor he spread an old army sleeping bag his father had brought back from a trip and never used. The sleeping bag smelled of leather interior and gasoline. Max took a long splash in the shower — they didn’t skimp on water here, unlike his house, where his mother yelled about the meter. He dried off with a towel embroidered with the letter “W” and put on pajama bottoms that Sophia gave him. They were two sizes too big, but soft as a cloud. When he came back, he saw that a sheet and blanket were waiting for him on the bed, while Arthur was already lying on the floor in the sleeping bag, his head propped on a rolled-up jacket. “Good night,” Max yawned, falling onto the pillow. The pillow smelled of mint — Sophia sprayed it with some kind of insomnia mist. “Night,” Arthur replied. Silence settled over the house. Only the kitchen clock ticked — old, with a pendulum, inherited from their grandmother. A steady, soothing ticking, like the pulse of a large sleeping beast. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked — Lisa was turning in her sleep. Then all was quiet. And somewhere in the center of town, in the old mansion, a lone little light was burning. Crowley sat in a deep velvet armchair, sagged from other bodies. On the table before him lay a photograph of Jack, cut out from the school newspaper. He picked it up, traced a finger over the face, wiping away dust. The boy’s mismatched eyes stared up from the paper without any expression. “The game has begun,” Crowley whispered. In his fingers he still clutched the old circus ticket. Yellow, crumbling, with illegible text. The clown raised it to his lips, kissed it — and the ticket flared with a blue flame, leaving bloody smears on his skin that pulsed in time with the heartbeat of the old house. He smiled. The smile was red in the darkness. Outside the window, Brookfield slept. No one knew that hunger had awoken on the hill.