Genesis. Volume 1.

May 28, 1985. Saturday. 9 a.m. The Swans’ house. Emma was woken by the sun — it hammered through the unwashed window, yellow and insistent. She squeezed her eyes shut, rolled onto her back, and tried to remember if she’d closed the curtains at all. Probably not. Last night came back in fragments: the party, the weird Walker kids, Derek melting into the crowd. She’d seen them racing around the house, searching for something. Then the apologies — her and Jenny. And walking home alone because Jenny had stayed to deal with the guests. The room was stuffy, smelled of dust and cold tea. On the nightstand, a mug with soggy leaves at the bottom. In the corner — yesterday’s clothes, dumped in a heap. Emma sat up, rubbed her face. Then her memory threw up a strange image: as she was coming into the house, she thought someone was watching from the street. She turned around — nobody. Just a red balloon tied to the mailbox. She’d thought — stupid joke, untied it, meant to throw it away, but for some reason left it on the porch. Why? She got up. The floor was cold under her bare feet — her mother skimped on heating. She went to the window, pulled back the curtain. No balloon, no string. Only wet grass and the neighbor’s cat, staring at her from the fence with yellow eyes. “I saw it yesterday,” she whispered, as if the cat could confirm. The cat blinked and jumped down. Emma went downstairs. The steps creaked — the third from the bottom made a sound like a mouse squeak. The house was empty. Her mother had left for the second shift yesterday and wouldn’t be back until evening. On the kitchen table — a cold mug of coffee and a note held down by the salt shaker: “Money on the table. Be good. Dinner in the fridge.” She poured the coffee into the sink, drew water from the tap. It smelled of chlorine and rust. She took a sip and froze. Outside the window, in the middle of the backyard, hung a red balloon. Right in the center, at head height. It swayed slightly, though there was no wind. The grass beneath it was flattened in a round depression. Emma set the glass down and slowly walked to the door. The handle was cold, damp. She stepped onto the porch. The air smelled of wet earth. Her soles prickled with goosebumps at once. “Anybody there?” Silence. Only drips from the roof. She took a step, another, reached for the balloon — and just as her fingers almost touched the latex, it jerked sharply to the side, as if alive. Emma snatched her hand back. “This isn’t funny. Come out.” No one. She hurried back inside, slammed the door, locked it. Looked out the window. The balloon was still there. Now it swayed in time with her breathing — or maybe she only imagined it. She convinced herself it was the lack of sleep and those idiotic conversations about a clown, overheard at school. Nonsense. In real life, kids go missing because they run away or get hit by cars, not because clowns from abandoned mansions take them. Emma changed into yesterday’s jeans, shaking the gum out of the pockets, and a black top. She brushed her hair hastily. Took the money from the table — two tens and some change — and left through the front door, without even glancing at the backyard. On the way to Jenny’s, she kept looking back. No one. Only a few cars, an old woman with a wheeled bag that squeaked down the whole street, and a ginger cat on the fence. The same one? She couldn’t remember. May 28, 1985. Saturday. 10 a.m. Jenny Brooks’ house. Jenny’s house hid at the end of a quiet street, behind tidy shrubs and two old oaks. The lawn was still littered with traces of yesterday — crumpled napkins, plastic cups, someone’s baseball cap hanging from a rose bush. Emma pressed the bell. Inside, a melodic chime played — Grandma’s gift from Switzerland. Jenny opened the door. No makeup, in a simple T-shirt and jeans. Her hair was twisted into a messy bun, shadows under her eyes, eyes red — either she hadn’t slept or she’d been crying. “What’s wrong with you?” Emma stepped inside, into the smell of coffee and vanilla candles. “Come in,” Jenny said quietly. “I need to show you something.” They walked to the kitchen. The house, with its high ceilings and expensive furniture, felt empty today, as if all the things had pressed themselves against the walls. On the table lay the school newspaper. Jenny unfolded it and jabbed at a small article on the second page: “Missing person: Derek Martin, 14, did not return home after a school party. Parents have contacted the police. If you have any information, please call the number below.” “Is that him? The same Derek? From my party?” Jenny’s voice trembled. “Yes. But he just left. We all saw him.” “Did you see him?” Jenny stared hard. “I didn’t. I remember him being there, and then he disappeared. Those losers were running around, searching, and then they left, and Derek still wasn’t there.” “Jenny, do you think that clown they talked about… is real?” “I don’t know what to think.” Jenny sat on a chair, wrapping her arms around herself. Her nails were bitten — rare for her. “But Amber’s gone. Derek’s gone. And they knew. They weren’t pretending yesterday.” Emma wanted to argue, but before her eyes stood the red balloon in the middle of the yard. She said nothing. Jenny suddenly raised her head: “Will you stay tonight? Mom and Dad went to Grandma’s. I’m alone. The house is so quiet you can hear the mice.” “Of course I’ll stay.” May 28, 1985. Saturday. 12 p.m. Jenny’s house. Living room. The day stretched slowly. The TV was no help: soap opera, news, a show about dogs, more news. Not a word about Derek — just taxes and a new shopping mall. Emma caught herself constantly looking out the window. Jenny sat on the floor, sorting through her jewelry. Rings, bracelets, earrings — she moved them mechanically, without her usual pleasure. “Emma,” she called softly. “Mm?” “Are you scared?” “Of what?” “What they said. About the clown.” Emma turned off the TV. The silence struck her ears. “I don’t know what to believe. But I saw a balloon. Red. It was hanging in my yard this morning.” Jenny looked up. “What balloon?” “Tied to the mailbox. I took it down, left it on the porch. And this morning it was hanging in the middle of the yard. No string.” They fell silent. A car drove by outside — a hum, then silence. “Let’s eat something,” Emma suggested. “Hunger is no aunt.” In the kitchen, Jenny got out cheese, bread, sausage. She sliced neatly, the way her mother had taught her. Emma brewed tea in two mugs — Lipton, pale, almost transparent. They ate in silence. The cheese was good, Swiss, but Emma couldn’t taste it. Around four, the doorbell rang. Jenny flinched; her fork clinked against the plate. “Are you expecting someone?” “No.” They went to the door. Jenny looked through the peephole. “It’s that guy. Walker’s friend.” Emma nudged her aside, looked herself. On the porch stood Max — curly-haired, in an orange polo shirt. He was shifting nervously from foot to foot, glancing over his shoulder. Emma opened the door. “What’s wrong with you guys?” he asked, looking from one to the other. “We knocked half an hour ago. Thought nobody was home.” “Didn’t hear,” Jenny answered from behind Emma’s shoulder. “What do you want?” “We need to talk. It’s important. About the clown.” Emma’s insides clenched. She wanted to slam the door, shrug him off. But instead she asked: “What clown?” Max looked at her. In his eyes was real fear — not faked, but deep, lodged somewhere in his chest. “The one who killed Amber. And who’s hunting you now.” May 28, 1985. Saturday. 4 p.m. Jenny’s house. Living room. They sat in the living room. Jenny on the sofa, legs tucked under her. Emma in the armchair, leaning forward. Max on the ottoman opposite — fidgeting, unable to find a comfortable spot. Outside, the early May dusk was thickening. Max told them everything. “Jack saw the clown by the mansion. I saw an inscription on my window. Crowley — that’s what he called himself — wrote Amber’s name in blood. The next day she disappeared. Then, in the library, Derek’s name appeared on the mirror, and he vanished too.” He paused, swallowed. “And yesterday, after the party, I got home and saw new names on the glass.” “What names?” Emma asked. Max looked from her to Jenny. “Yours. Jenny and Emma. He wrote them in blood. You’re next.” A ringing silence hung in the room. Jenny went white as chalk. A chill ran down Emma’s spine from her lower back to the nape of her neck, like a stranger’s icy palm. “This is a prank,” she breathed, but her voice sounded weak. “You and Walker decided to get back at us for all the teasing, right?” “I don’t care about the teasing,” Max cut in. His voice had hardened. “I saw this clown. He stood at my window, looked at me, and wrote your names. This isn’t a joke.” “Where’s the proof?” Emma stood. “Where are the bodies, where are the police? If someone had been killed, they’d be screaming about it everywhere, not just in the school paper!” “Because they’re not found. He takes them. Completely. All that was left of Amber were her legs. Derek wasn’t found at all. The police think teenagers run away from home.” “How do you know about the legs?” Jenny whispered. Max dropped his eyes, traced a finger over the expensive Persian carpet. “We went to her house. After she disappeared. The door was open. In the kitchen… blood. And the number two. He leaves numbers. Amber was the second.” “Who was the first?” Emma asked. “Eric Prescott. From eighth grade. Last week.” Emma remembered the talk — Eric supposedly went to stay with relatives. Nobody asked for details. Nobody wanted to know. “Why didn’t you go to the police?” Jenny’s voice cracked. Max smiled bitterly. “And what would we say? ‘Hello, we’re being stalked by a killer clown who lives in an abandoned mansion and writes names in blood’? They’d send us to a psychologist, and he’d come. Like he did for Amber. Like he did for Derek.” Emma sank back onto the sofa. Her head was buzzing. She desperately wanted not to believe. But the red balloon in the yard stood before her eyes as if painted there. And the feeling of being watched on her way here. That cat. The old woman with the bag — too slow, too watchful. “What do we do?” Jenny asked quietly. “We’re meeting tonight. All of us. Arthur, Lisa, Jack, me, and you. We need to stick together. He hunts the ones who are alone. If we split up — we die.” “Where?” “Arthur found a place. He told me to give you the address.” Max pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He handed it to Emma. “Come. Please.” He stood up. At the door, he turned, leaving a black scuff mark from his sneaker on the frame. “I know we’re not friends. I know you think we’re losers. Maybe we are. But he doesn’t care who’s cool. He just kills. If you don’t come — tomorrow your names will show up somewhere else. And the day after — they won’t show up at all, because you’ll be gone.” The door closed softly. Jenny and Emma were left alone. “This is insane,” Jenny breathed. “I know.” Emma unfolded the paper: “Abandoned garage on Third Street. 8 p.m.” “Are you going?” Jenny asked. Emma lifted her eyes. In the window reflection, something red flickered. She spun around — nothing outside. Just the street and the neighbor’s house. But she knew: she had seen it. “I’m going. And you’re going too.” May 28, 1985. Saturday. 8 p.m. Abandoned garage on Third Street. They stepped out into the dusk. Jenny wanted to take a knife from the kitchen, but Emma said — it won’t help. She didn’t know where that certainty came from. She just felt it. The garage stood overgrown with ivy, with rusty doors and broken windows. The sign “TIRE REPAIR” hung by a single rivet. A dim light burned inside — someone had brought lanterns. It smelled of damp, gasoline, and old rags. Everyone was already there. Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jack. At the sight of the girls, nobody smirked or made a cutting remark. Arthur gave a short nod. “You came. Sit down.” Emma and Jenny sat on a tool crate. The wood was rough, cold. Lisa stood in the center with a notebook — serious, without a trace of yesterday’s pink dress. “We need to discuss something,” she began. “Time is short.” Jenny was shivering. Emma quietly squeezed her wrist. “Tell us everything,” Arthur said. “Every detail. Even if it seems unimportant.” Emma took a deep breath of the stale garage air and told them about the balloon, about being followed, about how it swayed without wind. Jenny, stumbling, told them about the laughter under her window that she’d heard at night but had been too afraid to look out. When they finished, the garage was quiet. Only the wind whistled through the broken window. “He’s getting closer,” Jack said. “He’s chosen them. Like Amber. Like Derek.” “But we won’t let him,” Lisa said firmly. “We’ll stick together. All of us.” Emma ran her eyes over these people, worthless in her eyes only yesterday. Arthur sat with a face of stone, but his fists were clenched. Max, who had come to them even though he could have stayed away. Jack, more frightened than anyone, yet still here. Lisa, speaking as if she were not thirteen but thirty. “All right,” Emma said. “We’re with you. What’s next?” Arthur looked at her. Something like respect flickered in his eyes. “Next — we find out how to kill him.” Emma nodded. She still didn’t fully believe in the clown. Still hoped it was a terrible dream. But if it was real — she wasn’t going to sit and wait for her name to be next. She was no victim. Never had been. May 28, 1985. Saturday. 10 p.m. The road home. They left the garage in darkness. The streetlamps on Third Street were out — they’d burned out the year before. Emma and Jenny walked shoulder to shoulder. Arthur, Lisa, and Max turned the other way. “You okay?” Max asked half a block later. “Fine. You?” “My hands are shaking.” “Everyone’s are.” They fell silent. Only the scuff-scuff on the asphalt. “Arthur,” Lisa called. “Mm?” “Do you believe we can do this?” “We have to.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only one.” They rounded the corner. On the hill, in the distance, the Genesis mansion loomed black. Tonight there was no light in its windows. But that meant nothing. And in the garage, after everyone had left, the bare bulb under the ceiling flickered — once, and then a steady glow returned. An old circus ticket, forgotten on the crate, twitched and flipped over by itself. A number surfaced on it that hadn’t been there before. 3. Crowley had always known. And waited.