Genesis. Volume 1.

May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 4 a.m. The Walkers’ house. Arthur was yanked out of sleep by a tug at his shoulder. He’d been drifting in a thick darkness, someone pulling him down by the leg, and when he peeled his eyes open — Max was standing over him. His friend’s face was white as paper, pupils wide; the streetlamp cut through the gap in the curtains, and in that light Max looked like a ghost. “What’s wrong?” Arthur croaked, sitting up. His head was buzzing, his mouth dry. “I couldn’t sleep,” Max’s voice shook as if he’d been shouting for a long time. “I lay all night staring at the ceiling. And then… I thought I heard someone walking in the hallway.” Arthur froze. Listened. The house was quiet — only the kitchen clock ticking, and Lisa snuffling behind the wall. “You imagined it,” he said, but he didn’t believe it himself. “No.” Max shook his head, curls falling across his face. “I heard footsteps. Slow, heavy. They came from the stairs to your door and stopped.” Arthur looked at the door. Closed. He had locked it himself after Lisa went to her room. He got up, went over, pressed his ear to the cold paint. Nothing. Only the thud of his own heart. “There’s nobody there,” he said. “Open it.” Arthur turned the handle, pulled the door toward him. The hallway was empty. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet. The beam of the flashlight from the nightstand picked out old photographs on the walls — Grandpa in uniform, Grandma with a pram — the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, the stairs going down. Arthur glanced back at Max, who stood in the doorway clutching the frame, looking not at him but further down, to the end of the hallway. “What about back there? Did you look?” Arthur turned again. At the end of the hallway hung a large mirror in a wooden frame — old, with spots of silvering gone. It reflected the darkness, his own face with the flashlight, pale, hair sticking up. And something white flickered behind the reflection’s back. Or maybe it only seemed so. “Nothing,” Arthur breathed. A chill ran down his spine. “Go to sleep.” “I won’t sleep.” “Then sit quietly. Lisa’s got school.” He lay down, stared at the ceiling. Max tossed on the cot. The door didn’t open. But when it began to grey outside the window, Arthur was still awake. As soon as he shut his eyes, the image rose: the hallway, the mirror, and the white smudge. May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 7 a.m. The Walkers’ house. Kitchen. Lisa looked as if she’d been writing an essay all night. Shadows under her eyes; her fingers trembled as she lifted the cup to her lips. Black tea, two spoonfuls of sugar, but she wasn’t drinking — just warming her palms. “What’s wrong with you?” Sophia was dishing out fried eggs. “I slept,” Lisa replied, and her voice cracked. “Someone was walking around the house all night,” Max suddenly said. Arthur kicked him under the table — got his knee. Max winced but didn’t gasp. “What do you mean, ‘someone was walking’?” Mark set down his newspaper. His look was heavy, appraising, like he gave defective parts. “Nothing, Dad,” Arthur cut in quickly. “Max imagined it. We played too late; that’s why he was seeing things.” Mark pressed his lips together. “You’ve played enough. No sleepovers tonight. Both of you get some rest.” “All right.” Max poked at his eggs without raising his eyes. Lisa tried not to look at the window. Arthur wasn’t looking either. Because he knew: if he looked, he’d see a red balloon on the branch. Yesterday he’d torn it off, wrapped it in newspaper, and shoved it under the peelings in the trash bin. This morning the balloon was hanging in the same place. A new one. Or the same one. He didn’t say anything. Not in front of Lisa, nor in front of his parents. After breakfast, Arthur lingered in the hallway, waited until his mother went to wash the dishes. “Dad, do you believe in strange things?” Mark raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What kind of things?” “You know… ghosts, monsters. That there might be something unexplainable in town.” Mark smirked, but the smirk came out uneasy. “I believe what I see. The rest is fairy tales.” “And what if someone sees something? Not a little kid, but someone my age?” Mark narrowed his eyes. A crease formed on the bridge of his nose. “Did you see something?” “No. Just asking.” Mark was silent for a moment, picked up his keys with the crocodile keychain. “If something’s bothering you — tell your mother or me. Just no foolishness. Kids are already disappearing. The last thing we need is you imagining things and starting to play hero.” The door slammed. The car started and drove off. Arthur stayed in the hallway, gripping in his pocket a red thread taken off the balloon. It was rough, with a knot in the middle, and smelled of sweetish rot. May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 8 a.m. Brookfield School. Entrance. Jack was waiting by the doors, leaning against the wall. Face grey, lips chapped, dried spit in the corners. “Didn’t you sleep?” Arthur asked. “Two hours. Maybe three.” “What happened?” Jack raised his eyes, and in them was something that made Max want to look away. “He came. At night. I woke up — he was sitting in the corner, on my chair. Watching.” “How did he get in?” Lisa breathed. “I don’t know. The door was locked, the window too. But he was just sitting there. Smiling.” “What did he say?” “Nothing. For about five minutes he just watched. I lay there, afraid to breathe. Then he got up and left. Through the door.” “Through the door?” Max repeated. “He walked through it like air. And turned around: ‘Today.’” Lisa went white. Max’s fingers dug into the plaster. Arthur’s heart dropped. “Why didn’t you call? Wake your parents?” Jack gave a crooked smile. “What good would it have done? They’d have seen an empty room and decided I had a nightmare. And he’d have come back. To them.” Arthur wanted to say “we’ll manage,” but the words stuck in his throat like fishbones. He simply laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed until it hurt. Jack nodded — in that nod were fear, gratitude, and the fact that he hadn’t broken yet. Emma and Jenny came up. The cigarette in Emma’s fingers was trembling. Jenny stayed close, as if afraid to step away. “You too?” Arthur asked. “He wrote on my window,” Jenny said. “I woke up to a scraping sound. On the glass, in blood: ‘Today.’” “I got a balloon,” Emma exhaled smoke. “It was hanging under my window. I went out to take it down — it rose higher. I went after it — even higher. Until it was on the roof. And on the roof, he was standing. Looking down. Smiling.” “He told everyone ‘today,’” Lisa summed up. “Arthur and me too. A balloon on the tree.” “So it’s today,” Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He’s waiting for us.” “And what do we do? Not go?” Max asked. “We go. We were going to anyway. But now we know: he’s ready. So we have to be ready too.” “How can you be ready for something like that?” Jenny’s voice wavered. “I don’t know. But we’ll try.” May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 12 p.m. School cafeteria. Recess. In algebra, Arthur stared at a single spot. Lisa was drawing a clown in her notebook — not Crowley, just a clown, but the smile kept turning into the same one. Max chewed his pen cap; Jack couldn’t tear his eyes from the window. In the cafeteria, they took trays, but no one ate. They sat in silence. “I’m scared,” Jenny said suddenly. Her voice rang in the quiet like a bell. “So scared. I don’t want to go there.” “Everyone’s scared,” Arthur answered. “You don’t show it. You’re all so strong. And I…” “I’m the most scared of all,” Jack said without raising his head. “You don’t know what it’s like — when he’s watching. You lie there and can’t move, because you know: if you move, he’ll do something. Something terrible.” “And what did you feel?” Max asked. “Nothing. Emptiness. As if everything inside was switched off. As if I wasn’t a person anymore, just meat.” Lisa covered his hand with hers — thin, cold. “You are a person. And you’re stronger than you think.” “How do you know?” “Because you’re here. You didn’t run. You’re with us.” Jack lifted his eyes; a faint spark flickered in them. “Aren’t you scared?” he asked. “I am. But I think like this: if I’m going to die, then not alone. And if I survive — I’ll know we went through it together.” “Optimist,” Emma smirked, but there was tenderness in her voice. “Realist. I just decided: better to die trying to do something than sit and wait.” “Wise for thirteen,” Arthur said. “Had to grow up fast,” steel entered Lisa’s voice. Max pulled a slingshot out of his backpack — old, with a tight rubber band. “You really used to shoot that thing?” Jenny asked. “When I was little. At cans. If need be, I’ll hit him in the eye.” “What if he doesn’t have eyes?” Emma raised an eyebrow. “Then I’ll hit the place where they should be.” Jenny spun a pink canister between her fingers. “Pepper spray. Even bears run from it.” “He’s not a bear,” Jack said. “Then what is he?” “What we’re afraid of. If we stop being afraid — he’ll get weaker.” “Easy to say,” Emma sighed. “I know. But we can try.” May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 2 p.m. School. Corridor. Arthur was gathering textbooks at his locker. Max was wrestling with the lock. “Today,” he muttered, yanking the door. “He said ‘today.’” “And we’ll go. Right after school, while it’s light.” “What if he’s there?” “He’s always there.” Mr. Harris, the history teacher, slowed down as he passed. Hands behind his back, a tired look. “Off somewhere again?” “Home, Mr. Harris.” “Home… Go on. Just be careful.” He gave them a strange look, as if he knew something, and walked on. “What’s with him?” Max asked. “I don’t know. Let’s go.” Outside, the sun was dipping toward evening, but it was still light. The town had stilled in the pre-dusk quiet. “Meet at the mansion in an hour,” Arthur said. “Everyone. We’re not waiting.” Max and Lisa nodded. Jack nodded without lifting his eyes. Emma stubbed her cigarette out on her sneaker. Jenny squeezed the canister in her pocket. May 31, 1985. Tuesday. 3 p.m. The Walkers’ house. Arthur’s room. Arthur stood in front of his closet. He dressed in jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, thick-soled sneakers — it was always damp inside the mansion. Lisa came in ten minutes later — no makeup, hair in a ponytail. “Ready?” “No. But I’m going.” She sat on the edge of the bed. Arthur slipped a baseball bat into his backpack. “Think it’ll help?” Lisa asked. “No. I just want to hold something in my hands.” On the porch, Max was waiting with the slingshot in his pocket and a knife up his sleeve. “Jack’s already by the mansion. Waiting around the corner.” “Jenny and Emma?” “They’ll be there soon.” They walked down Maple Street, past the pharmacy and the hair salon. The mansion loomed black on the hill. As they reached the fence, Lisa touched Arthur’s elbow: “If we don’t come out…” “We’ll come out. All of us.” At the gate stood Jack with a hammer, Emma with a knife, Jenny with the pepper spray. “Everyone here?” Arthur asked. “Everyone.” He pushed the gate — it creaked. The grass was wet, though there’d been no rain. The air smelled of rot and sweetish powder. Arthur took hold of the door handle — the metal cold, sticky. “We go in.” The door gave with a long groan. Inside, darkness. Their flashlights picked out old walls, a staircase, dusty chandeliers. Silence pressed on their ears. “Look,” Lisa pointed at the floor. By the threshold lay an old circus ticket — yellow, crumbling, with the number “3.” Arthur stepped over it. The others followed. Behind their backs, the door slowly, without a creak, shut itself.