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CHAPTER ONE OF TWENTY

❝ GENESIS ❞

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THE FIGURE OF A VINTAGE-LOOKING DOLL drifted through the window, into a pair of long-fingered, horrifically-burnt hands. The doll resembled that of a woman from the 1950s, a housewife. The figure placed the doll onto a table, prepping it for a transformation. A haunting lullaby played in the background. An elaborate sewing kit was opened and the transformation begun under a flickering green light.

Thick strands of black-coloured yarn were gently pulled from the doll's head with ease, leaving the doll completely bald. The doll's mouth was cut open, the stitches coming undone with ease. The figure's hand pulled the old, clumped-together pieces of cotton from inside the doll, discarding the old stuffing onto the floor.

He'd clear it up later. The doll's eyes were a pair of small black buttons. They were removed too. He had a myriad of buttons to go around. The doll's cloth body was pulled inside out and then carefully refilled with sawdust. The mouth was resewn. It had to be perfect. A pair of fresh, shiny black buttons are sewn into place.

Pieces of (hair colour) yarn were easily sewn into place. Everything was created in abstract detail. Down to the facial features. A new pair of black buttons were selected from the drawer and sewn where the doll's former eyes were. An outfit was easily fashioned.

The white, sleeveless blouse. The houndstooth-patterned, black and white trousers. The thin black belt. The Doc Marten boots. The fluffy socks. The thin grey cardigan with a few buttons scattered on it. The gold coin necklace. And the main piece. The knitted, powder-blue baby blanket wrapped around the shoulders of the doll.

It looked just like her. It was perfect. His web was winding. His plan was going just as it should. Oh so smoothly. Everything was going according to plan. She would find the door eventually. All he had to do was patiently wait for someone to give her the doll.

He released his hand-crafted doll, made with love, out of the window and into the night. Now to claim his next victim...

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THE SOUNDS OF COUNTING IN RUSSIAN echoed in the distance. A slender, blue-skinned figure stood on the roof of the Pink Palace Apartments, muttering numbers in his native tongue when a green-painted mover's truck zoomed by, startling the man, followed by a mauve-coloured car. The man shook his fist at the car, cursing in his mother tongue.

A (hair colour) woman stepped out of the passenger seat of the car, glancing up at the house. She wore a sleeveless, white blouse with black-and-white, houndstooth-patterned trousers with her favourite fluffy socks, hidden by a pair of Doc Marten boots. Around her neck was a gold coin necklace and a wedding band sat contently on her left hand, adjusting the thick, powder-blue blanket around her shoulders.

She gave the house a mild smile, boredly looking up at the faded pink paint on the wooden exterior of the large house. It'd been divided into three apartments, the realtor had said; one in the basement belonged to a pair of former actresses (who were married), the one in the main part of the house was their's and the attic apartment belonged to an eccentric Russian man who'd assisted in the Chernobyl clean up in '86.

The woman's name was (Name). (Name) Melrose. (Name) wasn't too keen to move all the way from England to an apartment in the middle of basically nowhere. In a rural part of Oregon. Ashland. The house was encased in a circling series of steep hills.

The land around it was sparse and the sky was an uninviting shade of grey. There were no trees or green grass that looked somewhat inviting. The public walkway near the house leads to the skeleton of a former apple orchard. Her husband, the noted author Eric Melrose, stood beside her.

Eric had a kempt-looking set of onyx-coloured locks with a pair of vacant, chocolate-coloured eyes. His nose was slightly upturned and his lips had a curved smile to them. Attractive. He'd been called handsome. Eric looked like he'd been sculpted by the Gods. His slightly toned body gave that away.

"So," Eric began, using his usual upbeat tone of voice (the one he used around strangers), "What'd you think, (Nickname)? I, for one, think it's fantastic,".

(Name) shrugged. "I mean..." she began, exhaling softly, "It's certainly something, Eric...".

Eric kept a smile on his face, guiding his wife of three years up the stairs of the porch and into the house. He tipped the movers before they left quickly. The house was, frankly, old. It probably dated back to the late 17th Century at the oldest. Colonial Era.

It smelt musty. Before she could even speak, (Name) noticed Eric was gone. He'd swanned off to his study. Like always. Eric John Melrose loved two things: his writing and (Name). In that particular order. He'd always snapped at her whenever she'd disturbed him writing. He often ate his meals in the study and, sometimes, sleeping in the study.

He never used to be like this. She missed the upbeat, old Eric. Who was spontaneous and keen to adventure. The one she used to garden with. The one she cuddled up to during scary movies. The one who was so keen to start a family with her. (Name) laughed bitterly. They both knew how well that'd gone.

She brought a sector of the powder-blue blanket to her nose. It'd smelt like lavender. Same as it had when her mother had surprised her and Eric with the blanket when they'd announced the baby's gender. Her little boy. Tears pricked her eyes. Gone too soon.

She sought to comfort the fact her grandmother was protecting her baby boy in Heaven. Also Leela. The small, red-furred Pomeranian puppy she'd brought six months ago. Leela's paws tapped against the old wooden floors, walking in a circle around her owner's ankles and sniffing her trousers.

Leela was a fascinating creature. She barked and yapped to her heart's content and liked to dig. She also liked cat food. Oddly. Leela had been raised with cats at her original home. So she identified herself as a cat. (Name) gently picked up the small puppy and held her in her arms, softly petting the dog's fur.

"Hey, Leels," (Name) softly whispered, "Honey, let's go into the kitchen. Maybe we can check out the garden, huh?".

Leela let out a shrill yap as (Name) chuckled softly. She exited the kitchen through the back door, standing on the small, wooden back porch. (Name) sighed. The back garden was sparse and in dire need of some TLC. She noticed a poison oak plant near the rusted gates that lead into the garden. That definitely needed to go.

Leela began to bark loudly at something in the distance. (Name) looked in the direction of Leela's shrill yapping. There was a slender cat, with matted black fur and big, cerulean eyes. It meowed her. (Name) placed Leela on the floor and the small dog immediately scampered towards the cat.

Leela sniffed the cat, before deciding the cat wasn't the enemy. The cat liked Leela. "I suppose this move to America wasn't too bad, eh, Leela?" (Name) suggested to the small, ginger dog, "You did make a new friend, huh?".

"Are you talking to your dog?" the voice of a young man asked.

(Name) whirled around, finding the figure of a tall man with messy brown curls and brown eyes. He had an eyebrow raised at her and his arms folded. "OH MY GOD, THIS ISN'T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE! I WASN'T TALKING TO MY DOG LIKE A WEIRDO! PLEASE THINK I'M NORMAL!" (Name) shrieked.

The man let out a deep laugh, running a hand through his curly locks, "It's fine," the man said, "I talk to my cat all the time. The name's Wybie. Wybie Lovat. It's short for Wyborne...I didn't choose it,".

Wybie gave (Name) a lopsided smile, which she returned. "So, Lovat? Like Mr Lovat? The landlord?" (Name) queried. Wybie gave her a curt nod, "Your father?".

"Grandfather," Wybie clarified, "Sorry to disturb you, Miss. I was fetchin' my cat here,".

(Name) smiled. "Oh, so he's your cat?" (Name) asked, "He's a sweetheart,".

Wybie scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well...he's not actually my cat, per se, he's a stray," Wybie corrected, "Y'know wild? Of course...I do feed him every night and sometimes he leaves me little dead things on my windowsill...sorry...I'm being weird, aren't I?".

(Name) let out a hearty chuckle, swatting her hand playfully. "Of course not!" (Name) smiled, "My husband's a writer...he's the kooky sort I guess...plus, I think weird people are better than normal people,".

Wybie smiled in gratitude. "I'm surprised he let you move in, y'know..." Wybie thought aloud. (Name) furrowed her eyebrows, wanting clarification, "Grandad never usually rents the Pink Palace to husband-wife tenants...".

"That's so weird...no offence," (Name) admitted, leaning against the wood of the railing around the porch, drumming her fingers against it, "This is only a temporary situation, us living here. Eric thought the atmosphere and environment would help him finish his latest novel. Also, he claims to want "a fresh start", yet I'm the only one putting in any effort...sorry, I ramble,".

"Nah, it's cool," Wybie shrugged, "My boyfriend does the same,".

There was a loud yell of Wyborne! in the distance. Wybie noticeably tensed. "I gotta get going...hey, are you okay?" Wybie asked. (Name) frowned. "Your palm is bleeding...".

(Name) yelped, seeing the crimson blood oozing from her palm. Wybie tipped an invisible hat at the young woman before racing in the direction of his grandfather's booming yell. The cat meowed at her, before chasing after his owner. Leela hopped up the two stairs separating the ground and the porch.

"That's one way to meet a friend," (Name) shrugged, "On we go, Leela. Let's get you something to eat...it's about lunch...".