Genesis. Volume 1.

May 28, 1985. Saturday. 2 p.m. Brookfield Library. The library building stood at the end of Maple Street, squeezed between a pharmacy and a hair salon. It was old, brick, with chipped steps and a heavy oak door you had to push open with your shoulder. Above the entrance hung a sign with faded lettering: “Brookfield Public Library, Est. 1923.” The old-timers said the basement still held books that hadn’t been checked out since the forties — too frightening. But those were just stories. The friends gathered in this world of books to find out more about the town’s history and, perhaps, stumble upon something about the clown. Inside, it smelled of dust, old pages, and wax — Mrs. Grove, the librarian, an elderly woman with a bun of grey hair and glasses on a chain, wiped down the shelves every morning with a special polish. Today she was in a bad mood — someone had spilled ink on a patron’s card. Lips pursed, eyes peering from under her brows. When the kids walked in, she didn’t even raise her head. Jack was scanning books that mentioned Brookfield at all. A stack of ten volumes had grown in front of him — local chronicles, regional collections, yellowed yearbooks. He turned the pages carefully, afraid of tearing the thin paper. Lisa and Arthur were digging through old newspapers stored in boxes on the lower shelves. The wooden crates smelled of mothballs and time. Max, meanwhile, was questioning the librarian. “Mrs. Grove, do you happen to remember if there was ever a circus in town? Or anything to do with clowns?” Mrs. Grove lifted her head, adjusted her glasses. “Circus?” she repeated. There was something indefinite in her voice — surprise or a warning. “And what do you need that for, boy?” “A town history project,” Max lied quickly. She was silent for a moment, shook her head. “We never had a permanent circus. But… the old folks used to say, back in the twenties, some troupe came through. They gave a show in a tent on the empty lot behind the station. But that was long ago. I wasn’t even born yet.” Max wanted to ask about murders, but changed his mind. He pulled a random book off the shelf and went back to the others. “Hey, guys, look at this!” Jack called. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet of the reading room. Mrs. Grove shushed him, but he paid no attention. Everyone ran over. Lisa nearly tripped over a chair; Arthur caught her elbow. “I found something.” Jack unfolded a yellowed newspaper from the very bottom of a box. The edges crumbled, letters worn away in places. “In 1958, on the night of October 31st to November 1st, Halloween, the biggest murder happened. A whole family of seven was killed — four adults and three children. Neighbors say they saw three red balloons on the roof of the house and a strange silhouette walking through the yard.” The friends exchanged glances. The lamp above the table flickered — or maybe it just seemed that way. “Most likely, it was him,” Lisa suggested, settling on the edge of a chair and tucking her legs under her. “A lot of the details line up. Balloons, silhouette, Halloween — a perfect time for killings, especially of kids,” Max nodded. His wrist still itched, bound by the red thread. “Is that it?” Arthur asked. Jack nodded. There was nothing more in the paper — a short article, laid out in a corner, next to an advertisement for a bicycle sale. They split up to search further. Max, having learned nothing from the librarian, went to help Jack. Jack was already rummaging through new boxes — he pulled another dusty one from under the floor, a magazine corner poking out. “How are you doing, Jack?” Max asked, sifting through books. “Fine. You?” Jack replied politely. He was still pale, shadows under his eyes, but his voice was steady. “Fine too. Just thinking about Amber and that writing on my window.” “Yeah… that didn’t turn out so well,” Jack said with chagrin. “Ah, I hope we find something about this clown and figure out how to stop him,” Max said, hoping for a miracle. “That would be good,” Jack agreed. The library was silent. Only Mrs. Grove was flipping through the card catalog at the counter, and a rare car passed outside the window. The friends searched for two hours. The sun crept slowly, shadows on the floor flowing from one shelf to the next. Arthur was sweating — the library was stuffy, the old radiators still heating even in spring. “We’re not going to find anything here!” Max exclaimed in despair, pushing aside another crate of electricity bills from 1956. “We will, we just have to search hard,” Jack said firmly. Lisa was leafing through newspapers, reading the fine print until her eyes ached. Arthur was looking at illustrations — old mayors, the town park in snow, the fire brigade on parade. Nothing. He tiredly pushed the papers away. “I’ll be right back,” he tossed to Lisa and headed for the restroom. The library corridor was long, dimly lit, with tall windows where the afternoon sun was beating. The parquet creaked underfoot. Arthur pushed open the door marked “M” and walked in. The restroom smelled of bleach and dampness. The faucets were old, brass, with streaks of rust. Arthur went to the sink, turned on the tap. The water ran cloudy, then clear. He began to wash his hands, mechanically lathering with liquid soap that smelled of lemon and hardware store. A strange smell rose from the sink. At first he didn’t get it — he thought he was imagining it. But the smell grew stronger. Rotten, sweetish, like old flowers in a cemetery vase — the same one that had haunted them near the mansion. Arthur raised his head. In the mirror, dim and smudged, there was an inscription. Blood — or something very much like it — was slowly trickling down the glass, forming letters: “DEREK.” Arthur stared at his reflection, and the reflection stared back at him. Face pale, eyes wide. He blinked. The inscription did not disappear. “GUYS! GET IN HERE, NOW!” he yelled, flying out of the restroom. Everyone jumped up. Mrs. Grove leaped to her feet, dropping the card catalog. Lisa dropped her notebook. Max tangled with his chair. Jack vaulted over a stack of books. Arthur led them into the restroom and showed them the writing on the mirror. “Oh my God!” Max clutched the doorframe, his fingers white. “Was that there when you first came in?” Jack asked. “I think so. I don’t know, I wasn’t looking,” Arthur replied, bewildered. “I was just washing my hands.” “What’s today’s date?” Lisa asked. “May twenty-eighth. Saturday,” Max answered. “Why?” “It’s Jenny’s birthday today, and she’s throwing a party.” Lisa turned pale. “Derek will be there.” Her voice trembled. She remembered how Derek shoved Jack, laughed at Arthur, called Max a runt. A bad person. But he didn’t deserve this. “And what time does it start?” Arthur asked, uneasy. “At five,” Lisa said precisely. Everyone fell silent, exchanging glances. The restroom was quiet, only water dripping from the tap and a janitor’s broom rustling somewhere behind the wall. “What are we going to do?” Arthur asked. The friends shrugged. “Let’s go,” Jack suggested. “So he can eat us too?” Lisa objected. “No. If the clown kills one at a time and when they’re alone, then Derek needs to have company around him.” “What do we have to do with it? His friends will be there, he won’t be alone. And if we show up, it’s just mockery. Why would we do that?” Arthur asked. Jack raised his voice — for the first time in a long while: “You know, I’m tired of being afraid of this stupid clown. We’ve been sitting here for two hours and haven’t found anything solid. Summer’s almost here, and here’s a party. Why not go not as the school outcasts, but as normal teenagers enjoying life?” Everyone thought. Arthur looked at Lisa, Lisa at Max, Max at Jack. “Why not?” Max asked seriously. The friends agreed. “Then let’s go get ready and finally tear up the dance floor!” Lisa exclaimed. A spark of excitement lit in her eyes — the first in a long time. They all left the library. Mrs. Grove watched them go, asked nothing. She only shook her head and started picking up the scattered cards. The friends split for home. Max, Arthur, and Lisa — to the Walkers’. Jack — to his own. At the intersection, he walked quickly, glancing back at the Genesis mansion, black on the hill. But the clown didn’t come out today. Only the wind played in the branches of the old maple. May 28, 1985. Saturday. 4 p.m. The Walkers’ house. The house was quiet — the parents had gone grocery shopping for the whole day. Lisa immediately fled to the bathroom — to do her makeup, her hair, to dress up. The sound of the hairdryer and the smell of hairspray came from behind the door. Arthur stayed in his room. He opened the closet, stared at his clothes for a long time — everything seemed the same. He chose a black T-shirt, it made him look older, tight jeans, black sneakers. “Hey, Arthur, can you lend me something to wear?” Max asked shyly, worrying the edge of his hoodie. “Of course! Take whatever you want,” Arthur replied, not grudging. “Thank you so much!” Max brightened. Arthur took what he needed and went to change in the next room. Max stayed, sifted through the hangers. He chose an orange polo shirt, tight jeans, white sneakers. Everything was a bit big, but he cinched it with a belt — it passed. Lisa, meanwhile, applied her makeup: bright pink eyeshadow, eyeliner, three coats of mascara, red lipstick — her mother’s, “Ruby Sunset,” swiped from the vanity. She curled her hair with rollers, brushed it out — big curls resulted. Twenty minutes later, the dressed-up friends came down to the first floor. Max — in the orange polo and white sneakers. Arthur — in the black T-shirt and black sneakers. Lisa — in a bright mini dress with a full skirt, blue with white polka dots, and low-heeled shoes that pinched her left foot but were bearable. “Let’s go!” Lisa said confidently. She glanced at herself in the hallway mirror — pretty. Grown-up. May 28, 1985. Saturday. 5 p.m. Jenny Brooks’ house. Jenny’s house stood in the upscale part of town — a lawn, a fountain with a cupid, two garages, a wrought-iron fence. Music was coming from inside — loud, bass-heavy, with synthesizer squeals. Guests were already milling on the porch: some smoking, some drinking from plastic cups, some just watching the arriving cars. The friends met up in front of Jenny’s house and confidently walked inside. Without looking back. Everyone was already having a great time. The music was pounding, the lights dimmed, colored bulbs flashing to the beat. People were dancing in the living room, drinking in the kitchen, kissing in the hallway. They were not welcomed warmly. “Ooooh, who’s come to see us?” Emma Swan drawled, approaching. Black top, leather skirt, a cigarette between her teeth. Her eyes were so heavily lined they looked like charcoal pits. “Go to hell, losers!” someone yelled from the crowd. “We came for Jenny’s birthday,” Jack said calmly. The music quieted — the DJ, an upperclassman in giant headphones, turned down the volume. Everyone stared at them. “People don’t come to birthdays empty-handed,” Emma smirked. “We’re not empty-handed!” Lisa exclaimed. The crowd froze in anticipation. “Where’s the birthday girl?” Arthur asked Emma. “She’ll be here in a minute,” Emma grinned and took a drag, blowing smoke at the ceiling. Ten minutes later, Jenny appeared. An expensive champagne-colored dress, a pearl choker around her neck — her mother’s — and stiletto pumps on her feet. She looked like a magazine model, only her eyes as prickly as ever. “What’s going on? Why aren’t we partying?” she demanded. “A group of losers showed up,” squeaked some girl, pointing at the friends. Jenny pushed through the crowd, elbowing guests aside. “Move!” she snapped. People parted. “And what are they doing here?” she asked Emma haughtily. “They came for your birthday. And with presents, too!” Jenny walked up to Lisa. “And what did you bring me?” she asked hypocritically, almost in a whisper. Lisa held out a pretty silver gift bag with a bow. Jenny opened it and pulled out an expensive French leather handbag — the very one she’d cut out of a catalog — and a small box with pearl earrings. Jenny looked at Lisa, shocked. “Knockoffs?” she sneered. “No. The receipts for everything are in the bag,” Lisa said firmly. Jenny checked the receipts — they were from a boutique in the city, with the price. Satisfied, she placed the gifts on the dresser and turned to the boys with a slight smile — the first genuine one of the evening. Jack held out a dozen white roses. The petals were fresh, with drops of water. “These are from me and Max,” he smiled, pulling his friend into a hug. “They smell lovely. Thank you, boys,” Jenny sniffed the roses and put them in a vase. Then she walked up to Arthur. Arthur held out a box of expensive French perfume — Anaïs Anaïs, that very one. Jenny opened it, sprayed a little on her wrist. “Delicious,” she said, looking at Arthur, and set the perfume on the dresser. She turned to everyone, raised her hands, and shouted: “LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!” The music blasted again — the same bass, the same synthesizer, but louder. Everyone rushed to dance. “Have fun, you guys,” Jenny tossed at the friends with a smile. Max looked at Arthur and ran into the crowd. Arthur followed. They melted into the dancers — clumsy, but with gusto. Jack and Lisa sat in the kitchen drinking lemonade. The kitchen was huge, with a marble countertop and a breakfast bar. On the table — canapés, olives, a cheese plate. The lemonade was cold, fizzy, pleasantly prickling the tongue. Nearby sat Emma — already having had something stronger. “So how do you like the party?” she asked reluctantly, for the sake of politeness. “We like everything,” Jack spun his glass but didn’t drink. “It’s awesome!” Lisa exclaimed. Emma pulled out a cigarette and lit up right in the kitchen, even though Jenny forbade it. “Enjoy yourselves,” she muttered, dissatisfied, and went outside, slamming the door. Jack and Lisa joined Arthur and Max. The living room was stuffy, smelling of perfume, sweat, and cheap alcohol. The friends were having fun, drinking different things — Arthur Coke, Max Sprite, Lisa juice, Jack water — and having a good time. At one point, Lisa got distracted and spotted Derek in the crowd. He stood by the garden door, a full cup in his hand, talking to someone. Lisa hit the boys on the shoulders and pointed at him. They all exchanged looks. Suddenly Derek vanished. Just disappeared — as if the earth had swallowed him. The friends moved to where he’d last been seen. Searched the corner by the exit. No one. “Damn,” Jack whispered. “All right, here’s the plan. We split up around the house and try to find him,” Arthur commanded. They scattered. Arthur — to the second floor, Lisa — to the living room, Max — to the garden, Jack — to the basement, which was locked, but he checked the door anyway. They searched the whole house — every room, the pantry, even Jenny’s walk-in closet. Derek was nowhere. They regrouped. “He’s nowhere!” Max shouted, outraged. “And where the hell did that jerk go?!” Lisa asked, hysterical. Her voice was hoarse from yelling. “This is bad. If we don’t find him, we can just wait for the missing notice on the honor board,” Jack said calmly. “Let’s go look again,” Max suggested hopefully. Reluctantly, they agreed and split up once more. May 28, 1985. Saturday. 7 p.m. Jenny’s house. Bathroom. After fifteen minutes of searching, Arthur walked into the first-floor bathroom. Small, with pink wallpaper and a heart-shaped mirror. It smelled of roses and cheap air freshener. He turned on the cold water, leaned on the sink, and looked at his reflection. Pale face, tired. “Derek, I hope you’re alive,” he whispered without hope. He bent down, splashed his face. The water was ice-cold, stung his cheeks. He straightened, drying his face with the back of his hand. “Arthur!” a voice came from somewhere. He panicked, turned off the water, and ran out to the others. No one had found Derek. “Let’s just go home then,” Jack breathed hopelessly. They headed for the exit. Jenny caught up with them at the door. She’d changed her outfit, but the stiletto heels were still on. “Hey, why the long faces?” she asked with a smile. “Nothing, really. We’re just tired. We’ll probably head home,” Lisa answered with a weak smile. “Thank you so much for the wonderful party.” “Yeah, I understand. I wanted to say something to you,” Jenny’s voice faltered. “Please forgive me for my stupid antics and teasing.” The friends exchanged glances. Arthur stayed silent. Max looked at the floor, Jack at the wall where a painting of horses hung. “Do you forgive me?” Jenny asked. Lisa nodded first. “Of course,” she said, but there was no earlier warmth in her voice. Just weariness. Arthur looked at Jenny with a long gaze. Something heavy had frozen in his green eyes. “We’ll see. Time will tell.” Jenny nodded, lowering her eyes. “Thanks for that much,” she said, and went back to the crowd. The friends stepped outside and saw Emma on the porch. She was finishing her cigarette, blowing smoke into the crimson sunset sky. “I accidentally overheard your talk with Jenny,” she said without looking. “And I wanted to apologize too. Forgive me, guys. I’m an idiot, I can be rude without meaning to.” She held out her hand — slender, with bitten nails. Max didn’t take it. “Fine,” he said coldly. “But that doesn’t mean we’re friends.” “I know.” Emma pulled her hand back. “Maybe someday.” She turned and went inside. The friends headed toward Jack’s house. On the way, they kept looking toward the Genesis mansion. The mansion stood on the hill, black, silent. The windows were dark, but Arthur thought he saw a match flare in one of them — and go out. “Bye, guys,” Jack hugged everyone and went through the gate onto his property. The gate creaked, shut. The others decided not to pass by the mansion and took a detour — through the park, past the old oaks. They walked Max to his house. “Good luck, Max,” Arthur said. Max nodded — silently, with just his eyes — and went inside. A light went on in the window: his mother was waiting with supper. Arthur and Lisa walked home. It had grown dark outside, the streetlamps had come on — old, dim, with yellow light. Their parents had already set the table: meatball soup, fried chicken, compote. “Where were you two?” Sophia asked, setting plates. “At Jenny’s birthday party,” Lisa answered. “Ah… that Jenny?” Mark put down his newspaper. “Yes, Dad, that one.” “And how was it?” “Fine,” Arthur said. “They apologized.” Father grunted but said nothing. He just pushed a plate toward his son. Arthur and Lisa sat at the table. A tasty supper, hot, homemade. Arthur couldn’t taste it. But he ate — because he had to. Because it was normal. Because he wanted at least something to be normal.