Title: Coulrophobia by Lexikal (Chapter Three)

Fandom: IT (the Stephen King story) crossed with Criminal Minds

Rating: M for violence, language, the death of children, etc...

Warning: Very dark themes, read the warnings from chapter one for more info. Don't read if underage.

Author's Note/Goof: I wrote that Thomas Doogle was killed on May 15th, 2010 at 3:16 p.m.; however that would've been a Saturday so he wouldn't have been at school that day like I said. Instead of deleting, changing the date, and re-uploading the first chapter, I'll have Reid bring up that the kid's father was working two jobs, which meant the kid was alone all day on the weekends. Sorry, I know it's a bit of a plot hole, but the few times I have deleted published stories to fix typos I didn't see the first two times through, all my reviews, etc were/are erased. Also, I recently erased, fixed and re-uploaded "We Don't Like Zombies" and my page now has the wrong number of stories listed (I am not sure if this will fix itself or not). Not perfect or ideal, but better than deleting chapter 1, fixing and re-uploading. Also, if anyone knows how to fix typos after a story has been published (or if that's even possible) please pm me. Oh, and please review! Thanks! Oh, and the team got the info about Tommy Doogle's death early Sunday morning (March 16th) and flew over. Hope that makes sense now.

Sunday, March 16th, 2:15 p.m.

She was wearing a pale pink dress with buttons down the front and a ribbon waist. She had little white ribbons in her golden hair and was climbing the tree again, knees scraped and slapped over with band-aids. She was laughing. The little loner. Bob watched her from behind the tree-line, concealed from the road. It was a Sunday, and the rest of the kids had scattered, but this little loner- Margaret Steadman- was here again. Climbing the same tree behind the Baptist church. Peering into the upper branches to see the baby robins. He heard her coo with delight. He smiled hungrily.

He'd heard earlier at the local diner that the FBI were in town. Looking for a child killer. He'd asked Mac, the Diner-Owner, what the word on the grapevine was, but Mac didn't really know. Just that the dead kids had to have been killed by something other than wolves if the FBI were here for Christ's sake. Right? Robert Gray had shrugged. Then Mac had chuckled.

"My cop friend, Pete, says that that poor McKinney boy- the one who found his brother- he claims he saw a clown." Mac laughed again. "Been hearing the same damn talk of clowns around here my entire freakin' life."

"A clown?" Bob Gray said, and chuckled. "Kids, huh?" Mac laughed again too. Nodded.

So the FBI were here. He'd have to be a little more careful. They didn't think the deaths were attacks from wild animals then, not if the FBI were here. He'd made a fairly sophisticated device to snatch the flesh off with, and still planned to use it. If for no other reason than the tool had taken quite some time to build and was... well... fun.

It was like a pair of large scissors, made of steel, except the scissors had a front and side like a real mouth and worked with a spring motion. Extremely strong, that tool. He'd even built steel "teeth" into the tool's "mouth", closely studying the mouths of wolves from research he'd done at the local library in the reference section. He'd even tested the damn thing on frozen meat before using it on his first kill, and regularly checked it over for damage. Cleaned it. The tool- which he simply called "the maw"- could break apart bones in seconds with a few quick snaps. He'd even managed to fine-tune the thing so that, like a wolf's jaws, it could deliver 1500 pounds of pressure per square inch of flesh... or very nearly so. He'd thought all that would be enough.

"Yeah but didn't Doc Bates say these were definitely wolf attacks? The teeth were definitely canine I heard," Bob Gray had insisted. "Didn't these poor kids... weren't there 42 teeth marks on them? From the bites?"

Mac shrugged. "I dunno. Why?"

"Well, adult humans have 32 teeth, not 42. So I wonder what the FBI plans to do... arrest the wolves?"

Mac laughed again. "What are you, a dentist?"

"Nah, but my Uncle is, and my Daddy used to take me hunting," Bob Gray said smoothly, not missing a beat.

And then he'd ordered French fries and gravy and a cheeseburger with extra bacon. Not as good as the meat he truly craved, bit it would fill the gnawing hanger pangs until... until...

Bob Gray glanced back at the little girl. She was crawling back down out of the tree now, deftly, and then finally jumped the last three feet to the soft, grassy ground.

"Hey, Margie," Bob Gray crooned teasingly, and peeked his head out from behind the tree he'd been using as a blind. Margaret Steadman was eight and a little tomboy, despite the dresses her parents probably insisted she wear.

"Huh?" She looked over, and then laughed. "You're a clown! What are you doing in the woods?"

"I got left here last summer by the Circus... accidentally, of course," Bob Gray rasped out in a gravelly voice, stepping a bit closer.

"So now I entertain the elves in the woods..."

Ordinarily he'd just rush and grab her now. They were fairly secluded and he knew if she bolted he could probably chase her down. But he had left the maw-tool behind a tree quite a bit further in, and wanted to lure her there. Also, if anyone else- even a child- saw a clown in the woods while the FBI was in town, well... that wouldn't be good, now, would it?

"How do you know my name?" Margaret Steadman said, grinning, staring at the brightly coloured costume.

"I'm a clown. A special clown... sort of like Santa Claus..."

"I don't believe in Santa Claus." The little girl said, grinning wider.

"Oh, of course you don't. Not a big, grown-up eight-year-old like you."

"That's right. But Eric still does." Margaret said happily.

"Ahhh, of course, Eric. Your little brother. Well, most three-year-olds do, now, don't they?"

Margaret Steadman nodded effusively.

"What's your name?" The child asked then, tilting her head.

"Me...well. The other clowns... they call me Pennywise."

"Pennywise!" the girl laughed, and scratched the side of her neck, a bug bite maybe. "Why Pennywise?"

"Because I am really good at saving... my pennies. Saving for a rainy day. But... but I need your help..." Bob Gray pouted dramatically.

"My help? I'm just a kid."

"I'm really hungry. I had a lunch pail, but I went for a walk this morning and now I can't find it... do you think you could help an old clown out?"

"Well..." the girl trailed. Robert Gray still hadn't stepped out of the woods. If anyone looked out at the field they would only see a little girl near the entrance to the copse of trees, facing the trees, apparently talking to herself. They'd probably think she was playing pretend. Or talking to another child, maybe.

"I'm not really supposed to go anywhere with strangers..." Margaret said seriously, and crossed her arms. "Even though you seem like a really nice clown..."

"Ya don't want to meet the elves?" Bob Gray gurgled. "You'll be missing out, kiddo!"

"I don't believe in elves, either..." the little girl said seriously.

"Oh, I can assure you, they are very, very real. They probably took my lunch pail, in fact. Or at least moved it. They like to play pranks like that..."

"You're just trying to make me laugh! That's what clowns do! You're just a guy with make-up on!"

Somewhere deep in his stomach, Bob Gray felt an anger burning. He'd take his time with this one. Oh yes...

"Anyway, I'm not a stranger. I know your name. You know my name. So that means we're not strangers."

The girl shrugged. "If you say so..." And she stepped into the woods.

"Where...where was it... when you last saw your lunch pail?" the child asked as she walked deeper into the woods.

"Just...I was up near a stream up here. Put my lunch pail down, then I went to tinkle... and when I came back... I couldn't find..." Bob Gray laughed. "I think it was behind this tree right here..."

He grabbed her suddenly then, biting with his real teeth. Biting her neck hard and ripping up and out, pleased at the jet of hot blood that shot into the air like a liquid firework, and the fine spray that fell on his face like a salty, intoxicating mist. Her scream- if you could even call it a scream- was quick and shrill and startled, like a rabbit that has just had its neck ripped out by a predator. He'd use the maw later to rip out his teeth marks.

When he was done with his meal, he wrapped the remaining meat with butcher paper and bundled it like a hunter might wrap venison. A little taste for later.

He sat for a long time, licking the crimson liquid from his lips and white gloves. Then he slowly walked to the stream and began to pull off his bald cap and hair, and washed his face in the murky, brown water, scrubbing with the soap he'd brought in his backpack, along with a change of clothes.

It had been much too easy. Like always.

I am going to start writing shorter chapters for all my stories. This allows me to update more frequently (so the reader doesn't get bored or forget the plot of the story) and also, makes it easier for me to know what parts of the story are most appealing to the most readers. Please review! Thanks! Lexikal