Disclaimer: I do NOT own IT or any of the characters. Stephen King does. I only take credit for my OC.

A/N: My first fanfic, so please feel welcome to review and help improve my burgeoning writing style.

Cheers!

At the vulnerable age of 10, Mathilda felt safest when she wore her green footed pajamas. She imagined the zipped-up onesie made her the mightiest of all the Mesozoic beasts in her new encyclopedia set. And after stepping out of the claw footed tub and toweling off, her lanky 4' 5" frame was reborn as a 40-foot-long flesh-eating lizard that lacks the most basic human instinct – fear.

"Who says I'm too big for fleece footies and a larger-than-life imagination?" she struck a defiant pose, placing her hands on her hips. "Those fuddy-duddy adults." Mathilda answered before she bore her braced teeth and practiced a serpentine growl in the fogged-up floor length mirror.

Padding softly in a circle, she playfully hunched her back, curled her fingers and tested her new gait on the slippery linoleum tiles. A bit unbalanced with the weight of her invisible tail. "Tilly, you have five minutes!"

And just like that, Mathilda was yanked from her fantasy and transported back to her irritable aunt's run-down brownstone bungalow. "I'm already done bathing, mom!" She called from behind the closed bathroom door. "And I'm ready for this." She said quietly, to the mirror.

Her late uncle's funeral was at 8 am sharp tomorrow morning. She'd never met him, nor her aunt Valarie before his untimely death. They were estranged, but tragedy always seemed to bring the family together again. Her parents scheduled the return flight to Seattle at noon. Only have one night away from home, thank goodness. Portland, Maine has its share of creepy stories.

The old Mathilda couldn't handle sleeping in a new bedroom without snuggling up to her mom's safety and warmth, but luckily dinosaurs are cold-blooded solitary creatures unfazed by long and lonely nights. Dinosaurs, unlike children, aren't afraid of the dark.

The steam curled around her and clung to her skin as she opened the heavy bathroom door and ventured into the cold and dimly lit hallway. Her eyes scanned the walls for something reassuring, but the smiling people in the framed pictures were all ugly and unfamiliar.

Their pallid faces and crooked smiles seem to follow her movements as she swiftly tip-toe T. Rex style to the third door on the right. She found her parents peeling back the dusty comforter of their full-sized bed. Hardly enough space for a third, smaller person.

"Can I sleep in the bed with you guys?" Mathilda's resolve waivered. "Not tonight, I'm afraid," Her mom answered without looking up from smoothing out the musty duvet. She wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant smell. "Valarie didn't make a fuss over our visit, did she, Mike?" Mike briefly glanced up at his wife, matching her annoyed expression. "She doesn't pay the same attention to detail as you, dear. Especially after Emmett passed."

"Uh huh." Her mom refocused her attention to her daughter leaning dejectedly on the doorframe. "Let's go have a look at your room, Tilly. Valarie insists that she has the perfect space just for kids." Her smile waned, growing thinner like her patience.

Mathilda fell in step behind her mom, arriving at another room down the hall. As they peered inside, the smell of black licorice and stale cigarettes assaulted Mathilda's senses. "Ummm, the bedroom looks great mom." She didn't attempt to conceal her disappointment, glancing around at the yellowed, peeling wallpaper.

"It really is … perfect."

The windowless room was claustrophobically small and spartanly furnished with a bed, a neatly clothed coat rack, and a nightstand topped with a standing brass picture frame and a reclining porcelain clown doll.

"This house," Valarie's crisp agitated voice unexpectedly booms behind them, "was built in 1866, nearly eight months after the Great fire. Much of the lumber and furnishings were imported from nearby Derry. Thousands lost their homes and countless drifters made their way through these rooms looking for a temporary respite." she finished.

Mathilda's attention was focused squarely on the solid pine coat rack in the corner; it held a weather-worn bowler on the top rung and a matching men's waistcoat. Her aunt and mother's presence fades away as she walked further into the room, dazed and drawn in by an unseen presence.

Extending her fingers out to touch the jacket's left pocket, she gently touched the rough fabric. It felt stiff from old age and neglect, but she tentatively reached inside. Empty. How disappointing.

Wait a minute, a name 'R. Gray' was stitched on the interior. Mathilda glanced over to the sepia toned photograph on the nightstand and immediately focused on the guarded expression of a stunning young man in the foreground.

"Some antiques were left behind when Emmett and I purchased this house 30 years ago," Valarie recited on cue, "we tried to preserve the historical integrity by keeping things as they were."

Picking up the portrait, Mathilda noted that this man's dark hair was slicked back and even though he wasn't smiling, his far-set eyes did not look unkind. He held a rounded bowler at his side and wore the very same jacket she lightly fingered just seconds ago.

"You must be Mr. Gray." She grinned.

As her curious eyes scanned the background for clues about this stranger, she noticed a row of busy concession booths and a costumed juggler. "Must've been a carny." She shrugged. And for just a moment as she held the delicate frame, Mathilda could smell the popcorn and cotton candy and she could hear the fanfare. The picture itself looked animated for a single second.

The clown doll stared blankly ahead. Its once brilliant silver outfit dull and stained. "Do you belong to Mr. Gray?" She picked up the doll, examining the frayed lace, lose elastic, and faded red pom-poms.

"Alright. Lights Out." Mathilda's mom announced, interrupting her careful ministrations.

"Time to let go of your fears." She whispered while placing the doll back down.

She lifted her slight frame on her scaly talons and slowly closed the gap between the nightstand and the bed. 'Dinosaurs are unafraid. Dinosaurs are unafraid. Dinosaurs…" She repeated in her mind with each step. Right before she heard the click of the light switch, Mathilda locked eyes with Mr. Gray once more.

"Goodnight, Tilly." Her mom and aunt quietly exited the room together and gently closed the door behind them, leaving her in what felt like a sensory deprivation chamber. There was so sound, no light. The old floorboards and walls made nary a creak or complaint as she closed her eyes.

Sometime during the night, Mathilda was awoken by her restless mind. She turned to look where the aged photograph – where Mr. Gray still stood on the nightstand, somewhere in the darkness – but a movement she couldn't exactly see, but could hear and feel caught her attention.

She sat up suddenly at the quick pitter patter of tiny feet running past the bed. A cool wisp of air stroked her cheek, drawing her attention to the coat rack.

Someone giggled at a helium-high pitch. 'Please let it be my imagination.' She screamed internally as she desperately tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness. "Whose there?"

The jacket stirred, slightly at first. Mathilda eyes must be playing tricks on her.

The once flaccid arms suddenly jerked forward, filling out and taking shape. The buttoned-down chest took an exaggerated breath in and out. In and out again.

She gasped as a cartoonishly large ginger topped head emerged from the collar, as if blown up like a balloon underneath the hanging hat. Long, spindly legs unfurled and lowered themselves from beneath the jacket's torso and two large feet hit the floor with an unceremonious 'thud.'

Slender goved hands lifted the hat, and a white painted visage just like the doll's face grinned back, revealing two childlike bucked teeth.

Its mouth opened widely and out came a shrill cackle. Mathilda was frozen; her hands and feet frost-bitten with fear. At this moment she was not a carnivorous predator. She was a scared little girl once again.

Mathilda's breath hitched and she squeaked, unable to find her voice. "Mmmommy" she choked, "Come help me." Tears run silently down the sides of her face and collected under her chin.

It unhooked its back from the second highest rung and stood at its full height, towering over her at nearly seven feet tall. "Would you like to visit the circus, little Tilly?" It knelt and whispered in her ear. She could smell its sickly-sweet breath as it spoke softly at her side, tickling the hairs on the nape of her neck. "Your fear can summon me, and I will help you float." Her face contorted grotesquely and she screamed.

The door slammed open, making a doorknob sized dent in the wall. Mike flipped the lightswitch and It was gone. Mathilda sat upright in the bed, wearing the brown bowler and wildly pointing at the coat rack.

Twenty years and 45 talk-therapy sessions later and still nobody believes Mathilda's account – even she is beginning to doubt the incredulous memory she's retold countless times.

"Yes, I'm asking for those three specific antiques from auntie's estate sale," her official business voice reverberates through the small Belltown-based apartment. "Have them shipped overnight if possible. Mmmhmm. Thanks."

Mathilda hangs up and her shoulders slump forward as she releases the breath she didn't know she was holding. "I know It's real."

She goes over the list again: Flashlights? Check, Taser? Check, Novelty adult-sized footed pajamas? Double-check.

"We'll meet again soon Mr. Gray."