Genesis. Volume 1.

June 2, 1985. Sunday. 1 a.m. Max's house. Max hadn't slept for the third night in a row. He lay on his bed, clutching a kitchen knife — the very one his mother used to slice bread, until he'd stolen it and hidden it under his pillow. The blade was cold, smooth; his thumb mechanically slid along the spine. The rain had long since stopped outside, but the room still felt damp. Max hadn't closed the window — if you closed it, you wouldn't hear someone coming. And if you didn't hear, you wouldn't have time to freeze, to pretend to be asleep, to grip the knife tighter. He no longer remembered the last time he'd eaten properly. His mother would set plates before him — yesterday lasagna, the day before meatball soup — but the food would sit untouched, a skin forming on top. She'd ask what was wrong. He'd say everything was fine. She didn't believe him, but she didn't press. Thought it was just adolescence. Downstairs, his parents were asleep. His father snored steadily and monotonously, like an old engine. Sometimes he'd fall silent, mumble something in his sleep, then start up again. Those sounds were the only reminder that Max wasn't alone in the house. At one in the morning he heard footsteps in the hallway. Not heavy, not adult — light, quick, creeping. Someone was walking on tiptoe, trying not to make the floorboards creak. But Max knew every plank, every squeaky gap. The footsteps were drawing nearer. He sat up. He held the knife in front of him, blade toward the door. His palms were sweating; the handle slipped. The footsteps stopped outside his door. Silence. Then — a scraping sound. Someone was dragging a fingernail down the wood from top to bottom. Slowly. Revolting, like sandpaper on glass. "Who's there?" Max shouted in a cracking falsetto. No one answered. The scraping stopped. For a second it seemed — that's it, it's over, just the old house settling. But then the door handle began to turn. Slowly. First it dipped half a centimeter, paused. Then more. Max tore off the bed, threw himself against the door, braced it with his shoulder. The handle jerked from the other side. "Get away!" he yelled in a strange, hoarse voice. His feet slipped on the floor, his shoulder ached. The handle stilled. And then — his mother's voice: "Max, open up. It's me. What's wrong with you?" He recognized the intonation, the timbre, the way she said his name — with a soft stress on the 'a'. But he didn't know if it was real. "Mom?" "Who else?" The voice was tired, sleepy. "Open the door, son. I'm worried. You were shouting loud enough for the whole house." Max pulled his shoulder away. The door opened. In the doorway stood his mother in an old bathrobe with faded flowers and worn cuffs. Her hair was disheveled, a pillow crease on her cheek. "What happened?" She shifted her gaze from his face to the knife. "I heard shouting." "Were you walking in the hallway?" "No, I was asleep. You woke me. I came running." Max looked at the door. Clean. No scratches, no nail marks. Only peeling paint around the handle. "It's all right, Mom. Just a nightmare." "You're sleeping with a knife?" Max lowered his hand. The blade glinted in the dim light. "Forgot to put it away. Sorry." His mother gave him a long look. Her lips trembled — she wanted to say something but couldn't bring herself to. She just leaned in, kissed his forehead with dry, warm lips, and left. Her footsteps faded downstairs; the bedroom door creaked. Max closed the door, bolted it — an old lock with a rusty pin. He sank to the floor, leaned his back against the cold wood. He placed the knife beside him, within arm's reach. He knew the voice in the hallway hadn't been his mother's. He knew, but he couldn't prove it even to himself. He sat like that until morning. Listening to the house breathe. To the kitchen clock ticking. To a car passing somewhere far away and fading. Toward dawn he dozed off. He dreamed of his mother standing in the doorway with a knife in her chest. She was smiling. The smile was red. He woke in a cold sweat. Outside the window it was growing grey. June 2, 1985. Sunday. 7 a.m. The Walkers' house. Lisa was shaking Arthur by the shoulder. He surfaced from a thick dream — he'd been standing before the mirror in the hallway, and his reflection wasn't copying his movements, just watching and smiling. "Get up. School. Algebra test." "Forget it." "I can't. I get an F, Mom finds out we've been skipping. She calls the homeroom teacher, the teacher calls Dad. And we get locked in the house." Arthur sat up. His head was buzzing, his mouth dry. He glanced at the desk — the drawing he'd done that night lay under the lamp. But now it had a face. Not his. The clown's. The same smile, the same empty eyes. "Did you touch the drawing?" he asked. Lisa came over, looked over his shoulder. Went even paler. "No. I didn't come into your room." Arthur picked up the sheet. The paper was warm from the lamp. He wanted to tear it — changed his mind, shoved it into the desk drawer, slammed it shut. "Let's go." June 2, 1985. Sunday. 8 a.m. Brookfield School. Corridor. The school was noisy — students chattering by their lockers, the radio on the first floor promising sunny weekends. But when Arthur and Lisa walked in, the noise faltered. People were staring at them. Some looked away; others, on the contrary, made no secret of their interest. Behind their backs they hissed: "those ones," "did you hear?", "they say they..." "What's going on?" Lisa looked around. A girl from a parallel class, short, with pigtails, darted up to them. "Haven't you heard? The police were at school last night. They're looking for someone." "Who?" "They say another student's gone missing. From eighth grade." The girl shrugged and walked away. Arthur and Lisa exchanged looks. "Derek already went missing," Lisa said. "Amber too. Who else?" By the lockers stood Max, clutching his door so tightly his knuckles were white. "Bryce," he said without turning around. "Derek's friend. He's not here today either." "Maybe he's sick." "I called him last night. Three times. Half an hour apart. Nobody picked up." "He could have gone away," Arthur said, and didn't believe it himself. "You don't get it," Max turned around, his eyes red, the whites yellow. "Bryce was a jerk. He laughed at us. At Jack. At you. But he didn't deserve..." He broke off, clenched his jaw. "We don't know what happened to him," Lisa said quietly. "I do. Just like I knew about Amber. And about Derek. And about the next one." Max slammed his locker shut — the metal clanged, first‑graders flinched — and walked off to class without looking back. June 2, 1985. Sunday. 12 p.m. School. Cafeteria. They were sitting at the far table again. Jack arrived pale but calm — too calm, as if something inside had been switched off. He didn't take any food, just a glass of water he didn't touch. Jenny stayed close to Emma, as if tethered. "Bryce has disappeared," Arthur said. "I know," Jack replied. "I saw him this morning." Everyone looked at him. Jenny stopped twisting her napkin. "What time?" "At six. I wasn't sleeping; I was looking out the window. He was walking down our street. Alone. No jacket. Barefoot." "Are you sure?" Jenny asked. "Yes. I went out onto the porch, wanted to call out. But when I opened the door, he'd already reached the corner. I ran after him — the grass was wet, my feet were slipping. Turned the corner — he was gone. Just an old circus ticket lying on the asphalt. Yellow, crumbling." "Did you take it?" "No. I'm not stupid. I know you don't touch his things." Lisa clinked her fork against her plate. "He's taking them one by one. Amber. Derek. Now Bryce." "And we don't know who's next," Max squeezed his spoon until the metal creaked. "Maybe we are," Jenny said. "Maybe each one of us." "Not us," Arthur shook his head. "He doesn't take the ones who fight back. He takes the ones who don't believe. Who think they're just missing kids." "Bryce knew," Jack said. "He heard us talking. He laughed, but he knew. I saw it in his eyes." "Then why didn't he come to us?" Emma asked. "Because he thought we were losers," Max answered. "He was sure it wouldn't happen to him." "So what now?" Jenny asked. "We have to find his name. Faster. Before he takes someone else." "And if he already has?" Lisa whispered. No one answered. In the cafeteria, other students were laughing, clattering trays. Their world was different — simple, safe. For them, it ended at the cafeteria door. June 2, 1985. Sunday. 3 p.m. Brookfield Police Station. They hadn't planned to go there. But after school, walking past the grey building with its faded flag, Arthur and Max saw a familiar figure. Bryce was sitting on a bench by the entrance, wrapped in a police blanket. His eyes were open, his gaze empty. He wasn't blinking. He wasn't moving. "Bryce!" Max ran up. No reaction. Beside him stood a young mustached police officer, filling out a notepad. "You know him?" "Classmate," Arthur answered. "What's wrong with him?" "Found on the outskirts this morning. Barefoot, no jacket. He was sitting at a bus stop, staring at the schedule. Won't talk, won't eat. Doctors say physically he's healthy." "Is he okay?" Max's voice shook. "Physically — yes." The officer shook his head. "Otherwise... Do you know what happened?" "No. We don't." Arthur looked at Bryce. His eyelids didn't flutter; the corners of his lips were frozen in a strange half‑smile — foreign, not the smirk he used to give when teasing Jack. "We have to go," Arthur tugged Max by the sleeve. They stepped away. Max looked back — and froze. Bryce sat there smiling. That very smile — wide, painted. "Did you see that?" Max breathed. "What?" Arthur turned around. On the bench, Bryce sat with a stony face. The smile was gone. "You imagined it." "No. I didn't." Max didn't look back again. He walked fast, almost ran, his fists clenched in his pockets. June 2, 1985. Sunday. 5 p.m. Jenny's house. Jenny sat in her room, sorting through old photographs. Emma had gone home to change, promised to be back in an hour. Jenny was alone. And she knew he would come. She didn't hear footsteps, didn't see him — she just felt it. A prickling at the back of her neck, like before a storm. The smell of sweetish rot. She closed the album, went to the window. No one outside. Only the old oak and the swing swaying in the wind. She turned toward the door. He stood in the doorway. Without the clown suit, without makeup. An ordinary man in his thirties, a light shirt, dark trousers, light brown hair combed back. Only his eyes — two black chasms without pupils or whites. "Jenny," his voice was quiet, almost tender. "You're not afraid." "I am." "No. You're not afraid of me. You're afraid of yourself. Of what you did." "I didn't do anything." "You laughed at those weaker than you. At Jack, Max, Arthur, Lisa. You thought it made you stronger." "I've changed." "Changed?" He smirked. "Or just got scared that he would come for you?" "What difference does it make?" "A big one. Someone who changes out of fear stays the same once the fear is gone. You'll laugh again. Shove those beneath you again." "I won't," Jenny gripped the edge of the desk, her nails digging into the wood. "We'll see." He vanished. Didn't melt, didn't crumble — simply ceased to be. Jenny stood staring at the empty doorway. In her hands was a photograph — the one it all started with. She didn't remember picking it up. Black‑and‑white, faded: the circus, a crowd in old‑fashioned hats. The doorbell rang. "I've got it," Jenny called into the empty house. On the porch stood Emma with a bag of chips and a pack of cigarettes. "What's with you?" "He was here. Just now. Without the costume. In ordinary clothes. Like a person." "What did he say?" "That I'm afraid of myself. That I changed out of fear. And when the fear goes — I'll go back to what I was." Emma sank down onto the steps beside her. "That's not true." "How do you know?" "Because I know you. You're not who you were. And even if the fear goes — you won't want to go back." Jenny raised her eyes. "How do you know?" "Because I've changed too. And I don't want to go back. I'd rather be the one sitting on the stairs listening to nonsense about clowns than who I used to be." They sat on the steps, watching the sun set behind the old oak. Shadows grew longer; the sunset painted the street orange. The neighbor's spaniel barked at the twilight — as always. "Emma... what if he's right? What if we can't win?" "Then we lose. But at least we try. Not like Bryce, not like Derek. Our own way." Emma struck a match, lit up. The flame lit their faces for a second. Smoke rose and melted into the evening sky, mingling with the smell of wet grass and gasoline from a passing car.