Genesis. Volume 1.

May 27, 1985. Friday. 6 a.m. The Chases’ house. Amber lay on her bed flipping through fashion magazines. The room smelled of Anaïs Anaïs perfume — her mother had bought it on sale — and old paper. The magazines were worn, with dog-eared corners; some pages were falling out. Amber turned them slowly, lingering on ads for perfume and lipstick. She had two hours before school. No need to rush. She could try on other people’s smiles, other people’s dresses, other people’s lives — the kind where her white hair wouldn’t draw whispers behind her back. Beside her, on an old pillow in a floral cotton case, Snowball slept — a small white poodle. Amber had taken him as a puppy: a ball of fur with a wet nose that fit in the palm of her hand. They hadn’t been apart since. Snowball slept with her every night, warming her feet with his warm flank, sometimes snuffling. Today he was curled up tight, his fur rising and falling with his breath. “Off to school today,” Amber whispered, scratching the poodle behind the ear. “Watch the house.” The dog licked her cheek. A warm, rough tongue. There was a knock at the window. Amber lifted her head. The glass vibrated — three taps, soft but insistent. She set the magazine aside, stood, went to the window, looked out into the yard. Grass wet with dew, the swing motionless. Down by the porch stood a clown. He waved at her — slowly, broadly, like a wind-up toy. On his face was fixed a wide painted smile: red, bright, too big for a human face. In his other hand he held an old circus ticket — yellow, crumbling at the edges, nearly falling apart. Amber froze. Her heart lurched, skipped a beat. She didn’t recognize him — there had never been clowns in town. She stepped back from the window. Her chest pounded so hard her ribs ached. There was a rushing in her ears — blood or wind outside the wall. “Must be seeing things,” she breathed. Her voice sounded thin, alien. “Just seeing things. He just appeared.” She caught her breath, took a few steps. Looked at her hands — they were trembling. She clenched them into fists, nails digging into her palms. The pain sobered her; the fear retreated a step. “Seeing things,” she repeated, steadier. “Don’t be afraid of a little blood, Amber. Girls don’t get scared.” She went down to the first floor. She decided to check the backyard through the kitchen window — if someone was there, she would call the police. No, first she’d look, then call. Her mother had taught her: first make sure, then act. The Brookfield police didn’t like being bothered over trifles, and she didn’t want to apologize for a false alarm. She walked to the window, looked out. No one. Grass wet with dew, the swing motionless, the old maple rustling its branches. Leaves whispered like hushed voices. No clown, no ticket. Only the grey morning, the smell of yesterday’s rain, and the distant bark of the neighbor’s German shepherd. Amber exhaled — the breath came out shaky, uneven. She turned, headed to the bathroom. She needed to wash up, get ready, put her face in order. The shadows under her eyes were probably visible — the night had been sleepless, though she didn’t want to admit it to herself. She had taken a few steps down the hallway when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something red on the kitchen floor. She stopped. Her heart missed another beat. She thought: seeing things. Morning, sleep-deprived eyes, sun shadows. She took another step. Then she turned around anyway. On the kitchen floor were footprints. Bloody, smeared, with long, drag-like streaks. They led from the front door to the table, from the table to the corner, from the corner to… Amber froze. She couldn’t have missed this a minute ago. She couldn’t have. There had been no footprints. She would have noticed. She always noticed everything. But the footprints were there. They had always been there. The smell hit her nose — metallic, thick, familiar from last year when she’d scraped her knee on her bike. The rushing in her ears returned. Amber walked into the kitchen, stepping around the pools of blood. Her legs wouldn’t obey — they felt like cotton, foreign — but she walked. Because she had to see. You can’t not look when you know something is there. In the corner, by the stove, lay the body of Snowball. His throat was cut. Eyes open — glassy, empty, like a toy’s. White fur turned red. Red everywhere: on the floor, on the wall, on the front of the stove where her mother fried eggs every morning. The red stain spread across the tile like butter across a skillet. The dog was not breathing. Not twitching. Not snuffling in his sleep. Beside him, crouching, sat the clown. He raised his head. The smile was not painted on — it was alive. It grew, stretched, turning into a bottomless, monstrous abyss. Rows of teeth — sharp as razors, as shards of glass, as porcupine quills — glimmered in the morning light breaking through the curtains. From the maw came a stench of rot and something sweetish that made Amber’s eyes water and nausea rise to her throat. “Hello,” the clown said. Amber screamed. She ran for the stairs. The steps creaked under her bare feet — she hadn’t had time to put on slippers. Each step seemed higher than it actually was. The clown lunged after her. The steps creaked under his weight, though he was light — like down, like a shadow, like smoke. He caught her on the third step, seized her by the neck with both hands, and lifted her into the air. Amber thrashed, clawed at his arms, but her fingers slipped over smooth, cold skin — like glass, like ice. The clown opened his mouth wider than possible. Wider than a human face allowed. Wider than anatomy, physics, common sense permitted. The jaws closed. Amber’s world went out. A squelching sound filled the room. Blood sprayed onto the walls, the ceiling, the white curtains — her mother had put them up just last week, from the IKEA catalog, with a tiny floral pattern. The pattern turned red. The flowers drowned. The clown lowered what was left of Amber to the floor. Her legs — just the legs — lay on the steps, shod in the white sneakers she had gotten for her birthday. The sneakers were new, clean, not a scratch. The clown picked them up, clutched them to his chest like a treasure. The white sneakers dangled in his hand like two little boats. Then he bent down, picked up the ticket that had fallen from his hand — yellow, crumbling, with the number “1” on the back, which he had just completed in blood. He dipped the ticket into the pool of blood and left it on the floor, right next to the legs. A number appeared on the ticket: 2. The second victim. He smiled his real smile — the one hidden beneath the makeup, the one that remembered the taste of human flesh from ancient times — and vanished. Not out the door, not out the window. He simply ceased to be. Dissolved into the morning light, like sugar in tea. All that remained in the house were the footprints, the smell of rot, the legs in white sneakers, and the old circus ticket with the number two. Silence. Then the alarm clock in Amber’s bedroom went off. It rang five times, then stopped. May 27, 1985. Friday. 8 a.m. Brookfield School. Cafeteria. Jack, Arthur, Lisa, and Max sat in the cafeteria, completely alone. Everyone else crowded at the serving line, making noise, clattering trays. This table in the far corner, by the window with the old maple outside, was their refuge — a place where they could talk quietly without fearing other ears. Max was poking at his porridge with a fork. Grey, runny, with lumps. He wasn’t eating — he was staring into his bowl, remembering the day before. The clown at the window. The bloody inscription. The red thread he still couldn’t get off his wrist, no matter how hard he tried. “Hey, guys, I wanted to tell you something,” Max’s voice came out muffled, a little hoarse. He didn’t raise his head. The others tensed. Lisa put down her fork. Arthur pushed his glass of fruit drink aside. “So, yesterday, when I got home, some weird clown came to me.” Max started talking fast, stumbling, as if afraid he wouldn’t get it out in time. “I thought I was seeing things. But then he popped up at the window. I dropped to the floor. And he looked at me and started writing a name on the glass. Amber. He wrote ‘Amber.’ I ran to my room and buried myself under the blanket.” “What kind of crap is that, Max?” Arthur smirked, but the smirk came out strained. He wanted it to be crap. “It’s not crap, Arthur! I saw him with my own eyes!” Max slammed his palm on the table. His spoon jumped and clattered to the floor. “Clowns, my ass,” Arthur said. “What clowns?” “You don’t believe me?” “No, I don’t!” Arthur shouted. “Then go to hell.” Max turned sharply away. Jack remembered the clown by the mansion — the creaking laugh, the ticket, the white gloves smeared with something dark. He began to shake. Tears burst from his eyes. “He’s not real!” he shouted, breaking down. “It’s all made up! He doesn’t exist!” He pressed his palms over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, but tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto his school uniform. Jack started hitting himself on the head — not hard, mechanically, as if shaking sand out of sneakers. His fists thudded against his temples, the top of his head. Lisa walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Jack, what’s wrong with you?” “He’s not real! Made up! Doesn’t exist!” he repeated over and over. His eyes were red, his nose swollen, his breath ragged. Arthur wrapped his arms around Jack’s shoulders, pulled him close. Max awkwardly patted his back. Lisa took his hand and squeezed it. “He’s here,” Jack forced out through tears. “I saw him. He called me into the mansion.” “Jack, calm down, there’s no one here,” Lisa’s voice came out firm, like their mother’s when she broke up a fight. “We’re with you, buddy!” Arthur squeezed his shoulders. “We’ll protect you from any monsters,” Max didn’t believe his own words, but they flowed out on their own. Jack began to quiet. The sobs became less frequent, his shoulders stopped shaking. They all encouraged him — some with a joke, some with silent presence. “Thanks, guys.” Jack wiped his face with his sleeve. The sleeve was soaked through. “I saw that clown too, just like Max. By the Genesis mansion. He tried to lure me inside, but I ran away.” Arthur looked at Max in surprise. “Sorry I didn’t believe you,” he said guiltily. “I mean, I still don’t really believe it, but if two of you saw him — I’ll have to.” “It’s fine,” Max shrugged. “I wouldn’t have believed that kind of crap either.” The bell rang. Shrill, demanding. Everyone jumped up. “I’ve got art,” Lisa grabbed her backpack. “And we’ve got gym,” Arthur glanced at his kit. “Let’s go.” They scattered. May 27, 1985. Friday. 9 a.m. School sports field. Summer was just beginning, but the sun was already beating down. The asphalt of the court was hot, cracked, with faded markings here and there. Arthur, Max, Jack, and two quiet classmates — Jared and Chris, twins no one could tell apart — took one side. On the other gathered Derek, Bryce, and three of their buddies: stocky, mean, with faces you wanted to punch. The friends had agreed to play to blow off the fear. Max hoped the running and the ball would erase the red thread from his memory. Jack hoped he’d get hit — then the pain would override the fear. Arthur just wanted to win. The first half turned into a beating. Derek’s team played dirty, without rules — using elbows, bodies, trips. Derek easily got past Max, shoved him with his shoulder; Max stumbled, barely kept his feet. Derek made the basket with a mocking bow. Bryce intercepted a pass from Arthur and yelled, “Hey, Walker, this ain’t protecting your sister!” Jack was lost — afraid to get the ball, he made clumsy passes, and once even handed it straight to Bryce because Bryce screamed “pass it” and he got scared. The score became 12–2. “Hey, you hear Amber’s missing?” Bryce went on, dribbling. He didn’t rush to shoot, taunting them, playing on their nerves. “Probably bailed to get away from losers like you.” The name Amber cut through everyone. Arthur looked at his friends. Max, red with anger, was wiping sweat with his sleeve — his face shone, his hair matted. Jack stared at the ground as if he wanted to fall through the asphalt. “All right, enough,” Arthur said quietly. “Now we play for real. Jack, you’re on the pass. Max, shut down Bryce.” “And you guys?” asked Jared. “And I’ll do what I do best.” The second half went differently. Arthur sent a sharp pass to Jack. Without aiming — just closing his eyes and thrusting his hand forward — Jack shot. The ball went clean through the net, not even touching the rim. Whistle. Max burst out from behind Bryce’s back, intercepted the pass, and fed Arthur. Jack made two long-distance passes — catching Derek’s team off guard. The score crept up: 12–9. Derek went wild. His game turned into brute force. He shoved, swung his elbows, nearly knocked down Lisa, who was standing on the sideline. Lisa stuck her tongue out at him. Ten seconds before the end, the score was 14–14. The ball was in Jack’s hands. Derek was charging at him with a growl — face red, eyes bulging. Jack faked a shot, forcing Derek to jump, arms flailing, then whipped a pass to Arthur, who had broken free. Arthur leapt and, without aiming, sent the ball into the hoop. Whistle. Clean. The friends collided in a jubilant pile — slapping each other’s backs, shouting, hugging. Jared was nearly crying with happiness. Chris just smiled and kept repeating, “We won, we won.” The joy deflated instantly when Arthur, breathing hard, lifted his eyes to the school windows. His heart was pounding, he couldn’t catch his breath, but he raised his head. On the second floor, in an empty classroom, a figure in a gaudy costume stood at the glass. It was slowly clapping — one, two, three — without a smile, without emotion. The smile was red, painted far beyond the lips. No eyes visible — only black voids. Arthur blinked — nothing there. Derek, purple with rage, hurled the ball against the asphalt. It bounced, hit the wall, and rolled into the bushes. “Lucky morons! Let’s go, guys.” The bullies left. The court emptied. The euphoria faded, replaced by a heaviness — leaden, viscous, like mud after rain. “Wow, you really showed them…” one of the twins said with respect. “We just played together,” Jack rasped out. His voice cracked, as if he’d been shouting for a long time. Max put an arm around his shoulders. “Same as before. Against him.” They all knew who he meant. May 27, 1985. Friday. 10 a.m. School. Showers after gym. The guys went off to class. Derek headed to the showers, leaving his buddies — Bryce went to the cafeteria, the others scattered. He wanted to wash off the sweat, the anger of losing, the humiliation of those losers beating him. He changed — tossed his wet gym clothes into a pile without looking — and got under the shower. The water was warm, with strong pressure. Derek closed his eyes, tried to calm down. Couldn’t. That shot still hung before his eyes — Arthur in mid-air, his green eyes, the ball dropping through the hoop. Through the noise of the water he thought he heard a scrape — sharp, like a nail on sheet metal. Derek froze, listened. The locker room was silent; only water dripped. He turned off the shower, peered out from behind the plastic curtain. No one. Rows of wet benches, someone’s forgotten socks, steam in the air. “Hey!” he shouted for assurance. The echo bounced between the tiled walls. No answer. Derek, still frowning, wrapped a towel around himself and stepped into the locker room. He walked to his locker, began to dress. Then he noticed: on the inside of the metal door, where five minutes ago it had been clean, there were now deep, jagged gouges. Someone had scratched out his name. “DEREK.” The letters were uneven, as if pressed in with a dull nail, with flecks of blue paint around the edges. He ran his finger over the scratch. Cold metal. Fresh. Very fresh. A thought flickered: “Those morons after the game. Walker and his friends. Getting revenge.” But a chill still settled in his chest anyway. He quickly pulled on his T-shirt, laced his sneakers, trying not to look at the locker. Tomorrow was Saturday. Jenny’s party. He could relax. The loss would be forgotten. He walked out into the hallway, where it smelled of bleach, and pushed open the door to the outside. Fresh air hit his face, smelling of grass and gasoline. A good day. He didn’t know it was his last Friday in this world. He didn’t know. And that was for the best.