Wow. You'd think I would have written more chapters, considering I don't have much else to do. I hope all of you are staying healthy and safe right now. Make sure to listen to what your body and mind needs. Drink plenty of water, take a walk, and call someone you love. I don't want to make this a "don't do this" and "scary news" A/N, so let's move on.
Here's some happy news: Home Depot is selling cherry blossom trees, Onward is on Disney+, and a couple of pandas who live at a Chinese theme park mated recently! Just a few things that made me smile as of late :)
Now, on to the new chapter.
Trigger Warnings: Depression, suicide, gore, implied homophobia, as well as implied physical and emotional abuse.
Disclaimer: I don't own IT. Stephen King does.
Technically, Eddie wasn't allowed to have a bike. And yet, he did. It was something he made sure his mother never found out about. He knew that the world was a dirty, dangerous place. That the only thing standing between him and his demise could very well be an unassuming germ. But he loved the freedom his bike gave him, how it felt like he was flying whenever he allowed gravity to pull him down a hill. It was one of the very few things that he was willing to take the chance on, scrapes and all.
"You're lucky you're my friend," Richie joked as they put their bikes away in his family's garage, both carefully leaning them against the stained, wooden wall.
"Meaning?" Eddie asked, narrowing his eyes as he awaited whatever horrible punchline he had in-store.
"I would run it over with a lawnmower if you weren't."
"That's not how lawnmowers work!" Eddie said, quick to call out Richie's stupidity. "My bike would totally ruin your lawnmower. Not to mention how hard your dad would ground your ass, which is the last thing you want, considering that I wouldn't be able to see you for the rest of the summer, and - Why are you looking at me like that?"
Richie wore a dopey grin, laughter sparkling in his enlarged gaze. It was as if this was the most entertaining conversation he'd had all year.
When Richie registered that the smaller boy had stopped mid-conversation, brakes having come to a screeching halt, his thick brows raised towards his hairline. "Like what?"
"Like I'm rambling about something that doesn't matter."
"That's because it doesn't, dude."
"We're talking about something serious here!" Eddie burst out, rapidly slapping the back of one hand in the palm of the other. "Like, life and death serious, and you have the nerve to -"
With a loud crash, the sound of metal ringing in the late afternoon air, Eddie shrieked in shock, jumping back into the wall. The bikes fell at the abrupt contact, falling into the jittery boy's legs, drawing out another shriek as he tripped over his flailing limbs - straight into Richie.
The boys gasped as they roughly made contact, tumbling clumsily to the ground as they struggled in vain to remain upright. Richie hit the dusty concrete with a heavy "umph!," his ass roughly breaking his fall. Eddie, on the other hand, had instinctively balled his fists around the taller boy's shirt, the fabric clasped tightly in his hold.
In his moment of confusion and making sure he didn't break anything important; he did not realize how close his face was to Richie's chest, that his nose was scrunched against it. Nor did he notice that his knees were near his hips. It was then that the scent of dried sweat and the exhilarating sweetness of sunshine embraced his senses.
His heart skipped a beat, one he would later claim to be rooted in embarrassment, lungs taking in a large gulping of air as the two jolted away from each other. To Eddie, it had felt as if he'd stuck the tips of his fingers into a socket of electricity.
They scrambled back to their feet, brushing invisible dirt from their shirts. Eddie attempted to think of something to say, anything, to direct their attention away from what had happened.
It was just a moment of clumsiness, one that could happen if there was too much in too little of a space.
Yeah.
That had to be it.
"Jesus, what the fuck -" Richie breathed out, cheeks tinged with a hint of red, as his gaze began to scan the area. A laugh of relief left him, a shaky smile spreading across his face. "It's just a trash can."
Sure enough, Eddie noticed silver shining in the setting sun. It rolled gently back and forth; bits of trash having spilt from it.
The wind had to have knocked it over. What other explanation was there? It was still too early for rodents to make an appearance, and they hadn't heard a yip from a dog or a yowl from a cat.
"That's one hullava wind," added Richie, readjusting his crooked glasses.
Eddie coughed, his throat dry, before swallowing what little spit he had in his mouth. "Yeah. . . , the wind."
Silence lingered around them, hotter than the day's weather. It was thick with something that made Eddie feel like he was standing at the edge of the universe - peering down at a swirling, endless darkness that pulled at the center of his core.
There was one thing Eddie knew that him and Richie had in common: they both wouldn't shut up. Richie: because he would burst at the seams if he didn't spill what was on his mind. Eddie: because once he got lost in a rant he wouldn't stop until his rapid spitfire of words trailed off into the abyss.
Silence was never their thing, though Eddie refused to acknowledge this - lest he get a giant smirk from the trashmouth in question.
"It's crazy, isn't it?" Richie asked, sucking in the world around him. "All of that stuff Ben and Kimmy talked about?"
Eddie blinked once, twice. It felt as if a speck of dust was caught in the corner of his eye. "I can't believe that none of you knew about the Black Spot. Anyone who pays attention in history class or social studies would know about that, but you always fall asleep because you think it's boring, and -"
"That's all you knew about, Eds."
"I told you: don't call me -"
The irritation Eddie felt towards this particularly annoying nickname greatly deflated, leaving him light-headed. Another reminder about all the stuff he should have known about coming back to the forefront of his mind. A shudder brushed itself coldly across his spine, goosebumps rising on his skin.
Releasing a puff of air, as if he hadn't had a moment, Eddie started marching away from the Tozier residence. "See you later."
Picking up his pace, Eddie nearly jogged down the driveway, leaving behind a disgruntled Richie who called out, "Yeah, no problem! I'll pick these bikes up by myself!"
He kept going, the pooling heat caused by the past few minutes churning in the middle of his stomach, leaving his friend to clean up the mess they had unintentionally made.
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen,
Nobody knows my sorrow.
It was a habit of Eddie's to play with the flute of his hands the "Star Spangled Banner" whenever he took the shortcut from Richie's to his house. And who could blame him?
Neibolt street never felt quite right. It was unsettling, the fears of your early childhood creeping up on you like an ominous fog. There was something rotten on this street, one that only the bravest of Derry inhabited. In fact, there were more houses than people there. Only a handful of known individuals lived in one of the poorly taken care of homes. No matter what was done to repair all that was falling, the homes would continue to rot to the point where money was wasted.
Because of this, he avoided it as often as he could.
But he knew that if he took the long way today, he'd be late. His mom would fuss over him to the point where he might not even be allowed to leave the house the following day.
"Eddie! I told you to be careful! You know how badly you bruise."
"You shouldn't play in the Quarry. Who knows what disgustingly vile things lurk in that water."
"Oh, Eddie Bear. Promise you won't ever leave me. Never ever."
A shiver rippled its way across his body.
He loved her, he supposed. She was his mom, and sons were supposed to love the women who raised them. That was how things were supposed to work. Besides, she was only acting out on her motherly instincts, holding him a little too tight and a little too close.
If there was anyone who cared about Eddie's health as much as he did, it was her. Based on that alone, she had to be a good mom. Moms looked out for their children, made sure they didn't get hurt or sick. And she most certainly checked off all those boxes - repeatedly, boisterously.
It was then, as he walked beside a withering chain link fence that held in a field of weeds and long-forgotten cars, that the very thing that made Eddie avoid Neibolt Street loomed over him. The notes of his song trailed off, slowly dying off, as he worriedly eyed the decaying two-story home that radiated ill-intention. Taking up space, attempting to reach out a knobby hand to clutch all who passed it by.
The house was a thing of nightmares, plucked wickedly from a decaying wasteland. A Scooby Doo episode gone horrendously wrong.
Even the town council knew it was best to avoid it, putting up signs that forbade anyone who wasn't authorized from trespassing. It had collected rust over the years, the words no longer vibrant. Not that it worked well to begin with.
Some of the older high schoolers would occasionally go there to party - to drink, smoke, and do drugs. The only ones who were brave enough to sleep in it were members of the homeless community.
Regardless, everyone who had common sense knew that someone had to be desperate enough to even think of setting foot inside of that decrepit, god-forsaken place.
Peering worriedly at the source of his nerves, Eddie thought for a fleeting moment: "It's just a house. An ugly, old house."
Alarming beeps followed his thoughts, drawing his attention towards his fanny pack.
Time for his pills.
The tens of thousands of pills he needed to take to stay healthy.
To remain strong and go on in life without so much as a sniffle.
There were a lot of things wrong with Eddie's health.
For starters, he had asthma.
And a long list of many other things that his mom and doctors told him he had.
"You're weak without them, Eddie. That's why you must take them every time your alarm goes off. You'll only make yourself even sicker if you don't. You know I love you, don't you? That's why I tell you these things, to make sure you get better."
But the tug of what lurked deep within the house on Neibolt Street was far stronger than any man or beast. Eddie could feel his breath begin to hitch, the back of his neck beginning to prickle with warning. What little courage he might have possessed seconds ago was long gone.
Digging through his fanny pack, he wrapped his hand around the pill holder he kept on his person at all waking hours of the day.
A creak, anguishly ancient, weaved its way towards the small teen's ears. He might have been able to pretend he hadn't heard this, but raspy, heavy breaths drew him away from the white and green pill he had pinched between his fingers.
"Edddiiee," a voice hoarsely purred. "What are you looking for?"
Forgetting his pills, he began swiftly moving forwards, his mind set on getting away from that house as quickly as possible. His hands trembled badly enough for him to fumble his pill container, his initial intent to put his medicine back where it belonged flying out the window when it fell to the ground. Its contents spilled and twirled in a million directions upon hitting the leaf covered street.
"Oh!" he breathed.
Bending down, Eddie began to hurriedly gather what he'd dropped, shaking to the point where it took more than a few tries to gather the colorful pills.
Two.
Four.
Six.
"My mom's gonna fucking flip."
An image of an army of bacteria latching themselves to his medicine flashed before him. Of his mother wailing in grief as he died in a hospital bed. All because he hadn't taken his contaminated pills. That was far worse than the possibility of his system digesting the debris left by tires and the cells of countless roadkill.
Eight.
Ten -
Blue-black fingertips pinched the red pill he had almost picked up. Too afraid to look away, too afraid to breath, Eddie's gaze followed the hand they were attached to as it was lifted weakly into the air.
Boils.
Disease.
Decay.
"Do you think this will me, Eddie?" gurgled the man who he'd locked eyes with.
Oh, god. His eyes.
Staring back at the hypochondriac, oozing puss and a sour stench, was a leaper. Every bit of him how he imagined one would look: sunken face, sagging skin, hollowed eyes, an 'X' where his nose should have been. Bandages were wrapped desperately around him, as if they were what kept what remained of his body from falling off. Drool sloppily spilled from his swollen lips, his torso falling inwards, the action pushing out a low growl.
Nonononono.
Whimpering, the terrified boy crawled back, sight never leaving the man as he got back on his feet. The leaper took one heavy step after the other, steering Eddie in the direction of the house.
He had to get away. He needed to run. He couldn't let him infect him. His mom would send him away. His friends wouldn't let him be near them. He'd be alone, watching as his body fell piece by agonizing piece until there was nothing left. Empty, separate, shunned by a society that would fear his very existence. Left to live out the rest of his existence in a dark, unfeeling world.
With the icy feeling of claws swiping at his backpack, Eddie dashed onto a strip of land he thought he'd never have the guts to set foot out. Hoarse screams followed him, striking fear into his veins. Pulsing, shrieking, thumping, drumming: flee, flee, flee.
"Help!" he cried out, never slowing. "Help!"
A third plea died the moment he tripped over his feet, tumbling to the ground. A sting shot through his back as he rolled, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The momentum, and the nearness of the leaper, hurriedly helped him regain his footing.
There was a gap in the fence, big enough to allow him escape. If he could make it, he could crawl away. He could leave the leaper behind. He would be safe.
A roar of furry ragged from somewhere deep within the leaper as Eddie frantically parted the sharp, unruly bushes that blocked his means of escape.
"Help! Help!"
That's when he heard the playful giggle of a grown man, a sound so menacing and child-like that it cemented Eddie where he stood. Near the back of the house was an upside-down pyramid of glossy, red balloons - their stings gripped within a gloved fist. They floated up, shifting sluggishly in the air, until it revealed not the face of a leaper but that of a clown.
The clown looked like the gatekeeper of the house, with cracked white paint, messy orange hair, and unnaturally big lips. A smile, with buckteeth that slanted slightly off to the side, sprung to life. It would have looked innocent enough had it not been for the searing hunger blazing in the man's hawkish, yellow gaze. One that was set fast on a bemused Eddie.
"Where you going, girly boy?" the clown asked, using a name the bullies at his school liked to use far too often.
"Look at girly boy, with his pretty face!"
"What's wrong? Did that mean Henry ruin your pink shirt, girly boy?"
"You gonna cry, huh? You dumb girly boy."
He hated that name. More than anything he'd ever been called, be it in good fun or in ill will.
Yes, he was fragile, being one of the smallest and thinnest boys in his class. And, yes, he was a worrywart, fretting over the possibility of the harm that the tiniest of cuts could do. These were the things he tried not to give too much thought to. But when that name came up, the one that made him feel ashamed of who he was, Eddie wanted to scream or throw up or lash out or all the above.
"If you lived here, you'd be home by now. Come join the clown, girly boy," he beckoned. "You'll float down here. We all float down here. Yes, we do!"
That laugh, that unnerving laugh, bellowed out of the clown. Eddie could hear an endless number of frantic sirens ringing in his mind.
Out, they warned. Out, out, out!
Screaming, Eddie scurried further into the brush, twigs roughly scraping his exposed skin as he shoved his way past them. Pops boomed behind Eddie, another shriek leaving him as he jolted his head back towards where the clown stood. Remnants of the red balloons heavily fell to the ground, the clown no longer in sight.
Where the fuck did he go?!
Confused, and with a wave of relief washing over him, Eddie managed to crawl through the hole he'd been searching for. He didn't stop running until he made it to his street, his chest puffing in and out as if he were an overworked steam engine.
As he shivered from the very thought of what could have come to pass, Eddie vowed to never return to Neibolt Street. No matter what. Not even if his friends begged him to until their faces turned blue.
Unluckily for him, Neibolt Street was far from done with Eddie Kaspbrak.
The ghost that would haunt the Losers Club for nearly thirty years had only just begun to sink its teeth in, and it did not plan on ever letting go.
Beverly vaguely remembered her mother. She remembered that she had the same fiery red hair as her, that they shared the same blue-green eyes that looked like the ocean on a clear day. She remembered that she almost-always had scratches on her arms and blood caked beneath her fingernails. She remembered that her smiles felt empty, that she frantically hummed "Good Vibrations" under her breath whenever she looked troubled.
Elfirda Marsh was never fully there, stuck in the middle of something intense and inescapable. Her doctors said that she had depression, starting the moment Beverly had been born.
Once upon a time, her mother had been a goof ball - playing friendly pranks on loved ones, blasting the Beach Boys at full volume on her well-loved record player, purposely dancing off-beat in public.
Her mother had been a spitfire, Beverly had once heard, never letting people get away with their attempts to pull the wool over her eyes. Fierce as a raging storm, as loving as any doting wife could be, and unimaginably beautiful in every way possible. That was the kind woman she was, one who you wouldn't think would wind up in an unreachable place.
Whispers, soft as Sunday morning gossip, followed Beverly practically her entire life. About her mother's tragic life, about the 'something isn't quite right' aura her father radiated, about things she didn't have any control over. These various things grew alongside her - an annoying sibling she couldn't be rid of, no matter how hard she'd try to shake them off.
Beverly didn't have very many memories of her mother feeling something other than nothing, but there were times where she felt a little lighter, a little happier. Where she would make the most sinfully fluffy pancakes. Where she walked around barefoot, nails pearl pink, while cheerfully humming "Here Comes the Sun." Where while her father was at work, her mom would put on their record. Sonny and Cher would adoringly sing about having each other, about never letting go of each other. It was the best song, the greatest song, the song that would always belong to them.
Her mother would place her on her feet, chilled from the time she spent zipping around the apartment. She would then grab Beverly's hands and gently sway them back and forth, playfully dipping them downwards to get her to laugh until her cheeks and tummy hurt.
"But at least I'm sure of all the things we got," her mother's smooth as velvet voice would sing as Beverly's fit of giggles began to die down, a promising smile on her porcelain face, a rosy tint shining on the apples of her cheeks.
And together, they'd belt as loud as they could: "I got you, babe!" - breathless, lost in a moment full of warmth and unconditional love that always made Beverly's heart swell.
Then there were her stronger memories, ones with loss that weighed down in the bottom-most pit of her stomach. Like the days she'd be late for school because her mother wouldn't leave her bed, wouldn't respond to her insistent nudges. Or the days where she wanted to play with her or show her what she'd made for her in art class, only to be met with a glossed over stare that was miles away and a meek: "Sorry, sweetheart. Not today."
Being naively unaware of the sadness that the world held, Beverly didn't understand that her mother's mental health was suffering, that her head felt as if a rain cloud clung stubbornly to its folds - disorienting her, making her feel as if there was no point in trying to do anything if that was all that she would feel. Empty. Hollow. Filled with a hefty amount of lead.
Beverly wished she had known that her mother needed help, that she needed someone to see her, to be there for her, to let her know that she was loved and that she would do anything she needed.
Strangely enough, Beverly only saw her mother afraid once. She had been seven when she saw true fear, sharp and jarring, in her mother's eyes. When her pants had a spot of blood on her inner thigh. She didn't even know that they were stained with a splattering of blood, due to a cut she had gained from trying to retrieve her favorite toy ball from an untrimmed bush.
When her mother saw her come in to wash up for dinner, she had noticed nothing but the stain on her leg. It didn't matter that her arms and hands had a few minor scraps, ones that had stopped bleeding almost the moment they had begun to.
"Bevie. Bevie, come here," she had demanded, forcefully dragging her towards the bathroom.
It had been too fast for Beverly to keep up, her small feet, still in sneakers covered in yet-to-dry mud, skidding across the hallway floor.
It was really all a blur, her mother's frantic actions. Sitting her a bit too rough on the toilet seat, taking her pants off until her legs were exposed, wide gaze scanning every inch of her skin. Beverly didn't understand then, but the older she became, the more she began to realize that this was the moment her oblivion to the kind of man her father was began to evaporate.
"Mommy?" she had asked her slowly, worry eating away at her stomach.
The sound of her voice, filled with quivering uncertainty, drew her mother out of her panic.
A protective hug enveloped Beverly then, the words that would change Beverly's life forever twirling its way into her ears: "You do your best not to become a woman anytime soon, Beverly Marsh. You hear me? You stay a little girl for as long as you can."
Her mother left them, left her, a year later.
Her father had a habit of blaming her for her mother's death, that she was the one who killed her. But she didn't. Her mother had been sick, suffering from something that her husband never got her help for, something that her mother was either too proud or didn't care to ever mention. That's what got her, in the end, what led her overdose, swallowing an excessive amount pills she had no business taking followed by an entire bottle of vodka while listening to her favorite record.
Beverly was thankful that she wasn't the one who found her mom lying in the bathtub, that her dad had gone home early that day, that the authorities had finished taking care of things shortly before school had been let out for the day.
So, when Beverly's first period came in the summer of 1989, the day she saw her mother fear for her came rushing back.
She knew what Daddy would do to me.
It made her unbelievably angry. Angry that her mother married such a brute. Angry that she wasn't here to help her through this. Angry that she had to dread going back to her apartment for the remainder of her teenage years - that her father would be lurking, waiting to step forward and scare the living shit out of her. Angry that he'd say things a father shouldn't say to his daughter, that she couldn't stop herself from trembling whenever he so much as loomed before her.
And now. . . . Now she was a woman. Now she had become what her mother had feared she would.
She hated her body for not holding on just a bit longer, for not waiting until she was able to get as far away from Derry as she could
"Being a woman is a dangerous thing, Bevie. It'll bring you pain and misery; you'll wish to god that you'd been born a man."
Perhaps it would have saved her from the rumors if she had a dick, that she wouldn't be called a 'slut' or have grown men look at her a bit too long as she walked down the street. Perhaps her father wouldn't make her scared to close her eyes at night, that she wouldn't have to fold into herself as she listened to his footsteps - still as a rabbit suspicious of nearing danger.
Coming home after the Quarry, happier than she'd been in months, Beverly made her way to her room, making sure not to alert her father of her presence. She didn't want the good feeling to end, one that was made of light-hearted laughter and the sweet taste of chocolate chip cookies.
She needed to write it down, to have something to look back on. She wanted to hold that day when a bad one came along, letting her know that there were days where she felt like nothing could take away the joy she had felt. And she had been planning to do that, until something fluttered to the ground when she began to pull some of her things out of her backpack.
Knowing that it hadn't come from her or anything that normally could be heard in her room, the redhead looked down. There, leaning against her bed, was a postcard. Picking it up so she could further inspect it, Beverly felt even more confusion settle in.
It had a pretty water-color painting of the Standpipe on its front, the words Historic Derry, Maine written in the top left corner. A dainty, golden sunset was in the background, making the Standpipe stand out even more, its white shading as noticeable as a coffee stain on a once perfectly pristine dress shirt.
Where on Earth did you come from?
The Quarry. One of her newly made friends must have put it in there.
But who?
Flipping it over, she noticed a few lines of messy yet still legible words. Carefully applied by the hands of a kid. Beverly stopped herself from reading it. Her luck, her father would walk in on her. He'd see it and immediately think that she was doing something she shouldn't, that a boy was noticing her and couldn't wait to get his hands on her.
Quietly, taking care to avoid the floorboards she knew tended to creak if you so much as looked their way, she made her way towards her bathroom, gingerly closing its door behind her. She couldn't contain her curious excitement the moment she felt safe, where her father dared not disturb her. The scrawl stared eagerly back at her - equally enthusiastic, practically bouncing off the postcard with pure giddiness.
Situating herself within the green tub that was her escape from her crummy life, Beverly finally allowed her brain to register what had been written for her. For all she knew, it meant nothing. Just a silly note to get her to laugh, or maybe some phone numbers that had been written down.
It was as her gaze shifted across the object she held above her, as if she were Indiana Jones and it an iridescent jewel, Beverly allowed the words before her to tenderly leave her lips: "You're hair is winter fire. January embers. My heart burns there, too."
It wasn't a particularly amazing poem, not likely to win any awards, but Beverly didn't care. To her, it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her. And when she saw that it was signed by a secret admirer, she felt as if her chest would explode.
This poem, and whoever had written it for her, made her feel like the opposite of what most of Derry's residents believed her to be. She didn't feel dirty or unwanted, like a woman who drew in unwanted attention. She felt seen. She felt wanted. She felt loved. It made her feel like she could touch the stars, that she was covered in sunbeams. Most importantly, she felt like a girl. A girl who felt drawn to whoever had written this for her.
Is it Bill? Could it really be him? she thought hopefully, remembering the looks of longing they'd shared over the past couple of days.
Had he finally made a move to let her know that he wanted to be with her as much as she wanted to be with him?
As she fondly pressed the postcard against her chest, a smile stretched across her freckled face, she wished the day would never end. It was the most perfect day, a day where she was able to hang out with people who didn't think she was gross. A day where she felt like her very being was flying high above the clouds, like the yank she'd felt when she'd jumped off the cliff. A day where she felt so much love and adoration.
If only every day could be like this.
She had been so lost in her euphoria that she almost missed a hushed voice call out her name.
"Beverly," it repeated, drawing her attention towards the dripping sink. "Help me. Help me, please," it begged, drawing her in - albeit rather hesitantly.
The voice was coming from the pipes, somewhere deep down in the ground. How could she hear them, though? Wouldn't that be impossible?
"We all want to meet you," the voice hummed.
"Beverly," hoarsely said another voice, deeper than the first.
Followed by a chorus of childish voices, far more than two: "We all float down here."
It was far too eerie, far too fishy. One would say that it was all in her head, that she had imagined it. That, if she was convinced a small crowd of people were trying to talk to her, she should be admitted to Juniper Hill Asylum.
Against her better judgment, and the nagging feeling in her stomach that she needed to leave the bathroom and not return until morning, Beverly slowly leaned towards the sink. She eyed it as if it would prevent whatever she couldn't see from springing up at her. "Hello?" she warily called out. "Who are you?"
"I'm Veronica," answered the first voice.
"Betty Ripsom," said another.
"Patrick Hockstetter," replied a third.
Two of the names given sparked something in the redhead's mind. They were some of the missing kids, the ones who had disappeared without a trace.
A face, angled and mousy, came back to Beverly first. A girl with dark curls who would timidly smile at her whenever they shared the same class at school.
Betty.
And then, a bit more faintly, a tiny girl with an unruly braid nearly running into Beverly as she skipped down the sidewalk, innocently singing "The Itsy-Bitsy Spider."
Veronica.
Most unpleasantly, a lanky boy who sent her creepy grins and called her a 'whore' if they ran into each other before crudely gesturing with his hands exactly what he thought of her.
Patrick.
Why were they talking to her? Shouldn't they be trying to find a way out of the sewers? Against all reason, Beverly assumed that they had come across her family's pipes, had hoped to reach out to someone who could tell the police where they were.
But that still didn't get rid of the unsettling feeling that was slowly stretching itself across her nervous system, nor the puzzlement she felt during the exchange.
"Come closer," Veronica invited.
"Wanna see?" excitedly asked Betty.
"We float."
"We chaannnggeee," added Patrick, his voice gurgling like water from a bathtub once the plug had been pulled, a round of spine-chilling giggles responding to this.
She knew what she was about to do could be considered reckless, but she couldn't ignore her need to know if non-stop medication and padded rooms were in her future.
I'm not my mom. She was sick. She needed help. I'm not like her.
She repeated this to herself as she silently made her way towards the living room, towards the blue glow of the television and her father who was passed out on the couch while a creaky, brass fan attempted to keep him cool in the summer heat.
After grabbing a metal tape measure from his tool bag, Beverly returned to the room she'd just left, determined to figure out what was going on.
Slowly, with delicate precision, Beverly gradually fed the yellow tape down the drain.
Two feet.
Like a hungry, bottomless pit, it continued to greedily swallow the object it had been given.
Twenty feet.
Faster and faster it went, causing Beverly to stare in disbelief as it kept going and going and going.
Forty feet.
One-hundred feet.
Three-hundred feet.
Not possible. Not possible. Not possible.
When she reached the end of the measuring tape, she could feel the bottom of it catch something, like a fish calmly latching on to a hook.
There were more giggles, sinister and challenging.
Go on, they seemed to say. Pull it back up.
Taking in a bit of air, the scent of poorly imitated lavender and cheap bars of soap filling her nasal cavity, Beverly began to pull the slightly heavier tape back up - whatever she'd caught dragging. A flash of what looked to be a rich brown was the first thing she saw, but that soon became a sickening scarlet.
Blood.
It was blood. Had she killed a bug? If so, would she be greeted with a gutted body, convulsing as its life came to an end?
But it wasn't a body that thickly hung from the metal bit. It was hair. Her hair, the locks having been furiously cut from her head the previous evening when she couldn't think of any other way to express how much she despised her father.
Where was the blood from, then?
It. . . couldn't be from her hair. There was no way. Hair didn't bleed, and its color didn't seep out of it unless it had been dyed.
A thin thing screeched its way around her wrist, yanking her. It continued to wrap itself around her palm, her fingers – slithering its way across her skin.
She squealed as she felt its thickness press into her hand, inching its way up her arm before another shot out and took her other hand.
Whatever it was, some unseen creature, shoved her arms apart before even more grabbed hold of her neck, her head, her waist, her legs; and pulled her towards the sink, the pressure digging into her flesh. It felt as if it wanted to carve into her, to suck her dry, to keep growing inside of her until she was entirely made up of bloody, filthy hair.
This couldn't be the missing kids doing this. No. It was something far darker, far craftier. And it was trying to pull her down the pipes.
Beverly couldn't stop the frantic screams from erupting from her lips, a wave of pure terror consuming her. It was going to squeeze her in there. It was going to kill her. She didn't want to die, and she especially didn't want to find out what was waiting for her at the very bottom.
"Daddy!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs, voice grating into rawness. "Daddy! Help!"
I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die.
Just as soon as she had managed to say something, to not let it be the only noise she could find in herself to make, the dark tendrils stopped. Beverly watched as a thick, ruby liquid began to bubble inches away from her nose.
No! Not more blood!
As she released another bone-chilling shriek, an eruption of hot stickiness hit Beverly full-force. She could feel it pooling around her, could taste its salty iron as it entered her gaping mouth, could hear it splashing in every direction.
Her entire world was covered in red, trapped in a sea beneath a sky that was all one horrid hue, dizzying and directionless. Unforgiving, never stopping.
Stay a little girl for as long as you can. As long as you can. Long as you can. As. You. Can.
Beverly felt her body become weightless, the tightness that had managed to grab her fleeing, arms waving wildly as she fell hard onto the ground.
It was raining blood, drizzling in goops as it covered the walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the towels. A whimpering sob rattled its way up her throat as she watched this all unfold, its wetness pittering and pattering all that it could reach. Afraid to look away from the gushing blood, she desperately crawled backwards, her feet slipping against the now saturated tile until she felt her back thump against something solid.
It kept coming, and coming, and coming, and coming. To the point where Beverly was certain she'd drown, that she would be suspended for eternity in a never-ending immensity.
Among the fear and the panic and the hopelessness, she could have sworn for a fleeting moment that she heard her mother's voice soothingly sing beside her: "I got you, I won't let go."
She closed her eyes tight until they stung, plowing through her fright for their song.
"I got you to love me so," she heard her seven-year-old self sing in return, completely off pitch.
I got you, babe, her heart sang. I got you, babe.
Over and over again until she could no longer hear swelling wetness or feel droplets that had flung in her direction. She felt unbearably small as her body began to tremble relentlessly, letting loose a strangled moan as she nervously took in her surroundings.
"The hell's going on?"
Standing in the doorway, peering down at her cowered form, was her father. Looking at her as if she had lost her mind. As if he couldn't bring himself to care that she was drenched in gore.
"The. . . the sink," she erratically told him. "And the blood. . . . It's -"
"What blood?"
Her breath caught in her throat. He. . . he had to be joking. There was no way he couldn't see it, bubbling on the bristles of their toothbrushes and how it had saturated the shower curtain.
"The sink?" When that still failed to draw a response from him other than bewilderment, it was then that it hit her: "You don't see it?"
His hawkish gaze never left her as he slowly made his way towards her as if she were a wounded animal that could flee at any given moment.
"There was blood," she continued to babble out, desperate to get him to see the living nightmare they were in the middle of. "And. . . and. . . and -"
She watched, pressing herself even deeper into the wall, as her father crouched before her - looking at her as if she didn't know what was real and what was fiction. It looked as if he pitied her. Beverly didn't want his pity. She wanted him to believe her.
"You worry me, Bevie," he said. "You worry me a lot."
"But don't you see?" she asked, sounding very much like a toddler who was convinced that the Bogeyman was hiding under their closet.
Reaching out a hand, almost as if to brush her cheek and tell her that she should get some rest, her father gripped a lock of her recently cut hair between his fingers. "Why'd you do this to your hair?" There was disappointment now in his stone-hard eyes, whatever concern he had about her safety gone. With a tone so even that she wished he'd go back to pitying her, he said, "Makes you look like a boy."
With hurt and a feeling of despair clawing within her, Beverly watched as he let her be, his boots sloshing on the way out. It was only when his presence was long gone that the rest of her negative emotions began to spill out.
Her lips trembled, tears trickling down her damp cheeks, while a round of silent cries filled the buzzing silence. The thought of what had taken place having only been her imagination scared her more than what she believed she'd experienced.
I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy.
But even that wasn't enough to ease her troubled mind. Not even songs from her childhood could chase away all the bad that had occurred.
As she sat among puddles of blood, Beverly's reality froze her in a time she wished would end. A place where she had no chance in hell of escaping. Forever and always. . . alone.
To be honest, I didn't realize that Beverly's mom had died giving birth to her in Chapter Two. However, I know that she's alive in the book, so that was the main deciding point on which direction to take. I also thought it would be interesting to explore Beverly's relationship with her mom, which I know I'll be doing again in future chapters.
I'm in the process of writing the next chapter, so hopefully I'll have that out soon. I also came up with a possible idea for the "interlude," though I'm not 100% certain if I'll use it.
Until next time, see you later :)
