A/N: Still not dead. I'm sure y'all are tired of my excuses so I'll just say that with work/school/other writing works/other irl responsibilities, I'll just be updating this with I can, with no predictions on frequency. I know that sucks and I apologize, but rest assured that if I abandon this or any of my other works, I will update the fic accordingly.
Kouyou - Japanese, leaves changing color
February 14, 1989
"Just keep your head down, Jenna."
Mouth twisting, Jenna did her best to take Mary's advice, glaring down at the mess of French fries and ketchup on her plate. Mary sipped at her milkshake with practiced calm. Jenna didn't know how Mary did it, how she kept her freckled brow smooth with barely whispered jabs and insults floating their way from the group of boys two tables over.
"You're gonna have to get used to it," Mary said. Her eyes, a clear sky blue that made Jenna's stomach flutter, darted to the diner's greasy, cracked tile floor. "But if it's too much, I understand…"
"No." Jenna's hand darted out and closed over Mary's fingers. Her French tips bit into Mary's skin, just a little. "No, it's not."
Somewhere in the boys' chatter, Jenna picked up "dyke." She felt her upper lip twitch and she sucked it between her teeth, chewing on it.
Mary sighed. "You get used to it."
"You shouldn't have to," Jenna said.
Mary's eyes flicked down to Jenna's plate, the remnants of her burger and fries she'd barely touched. Mary's own milkshake was down to the soupy dregs. "Let's just go. They're bothering you and—"
"I won't let them ruin our night."
"Are you going to eat any more? We're done anyway, come on."
Jenna swept her curtain of dark hair over one shoulder, and Mary was afraid for a moment that she might argue, escalating this into a scene. But instead she fished cash out of her black leather purse and muttered, "Fine. Let's go."
As the two girls rose from the cracked vinyl booth, the tallest and lankiest of the boys leaned back in his chair so he could leer at the girls. Jenna knew Patrick Hockstetter, he was in Mary's grade, but she had only passing recognition for the other, older boys he was with. "I'd watch out, Jenna. Mary's a carpet muncher. Wouldn't want any rumors to start floating around, with it being Valentine's Day and all." He punctuated this with a chuckle that was echoed by his fellows.
Jenna's face wrinkled in a snarl. "Mind your own fucking business, Pat!"
Patrick's laugh grew into a howl and one of the other boys sneezed soda through his nose. An older couple in a nearby booth glanced sideways at the young men; a strained looking waiter set an impressive banana split on the boys' table and whisked away a dirty plate without making eye contact with anyone.
"Come on. Don't let them bait you." Mary took Jenna's hand and tugged her out of the diner.
"Fucking pricks," Jenna spat, once they were on the sidewalk outside. She knotted her scarf around her neck and tucked her hands into her armpits. Her boots scraped a bit along the icy sidewalk. Only kitten heels, but they had to be more serviceable than Mary's worn-smooth sneakers.
"Don't let it bother you." Mary sidled up close to Jenna. Mary smelled fresh, citrusy; her encircling arm was firm and warm. "You can't let it bother you. Because if you do, it won't ever stop. It will eat you up inside. This place isn't going to change any time soon, so you have to. I'm not telling you to hide who you are, but you have to adapt. There will always be Patricks."
Jenna rested her head on Mary's shoulder, but Jenna's body remained stiff and angry. "There shouldn't be."
"It doesn't matter that there shouldn't, there is." Mary ran her fingers through Jenna's long hair.
Jenna straightened, jaw clenching. "Let's just get out of here. We can go to my place for a bit, my parents are gone for the weekend."
"Sounds good to me." Mary buttoned her battered down coat and wrestled her mittens from her pocket. "Lead the way."
Jenna started clicking off down the icy sidewalk, shrugging her shoulders up and nestling further into her scarf. "Soon as I graduate, I'm ditching this stupid place and you better come with me."
Slipping her arm around Jenna's, Mary said, "Way ahead of you there."
The diner door banged open and Patrick's mocking voice cut through the chill air. "Aw, did we spoil your date? Maybe we can make it up to you…" Underneath his words, the girls could hear the snorts and giggles of his friends.
With a whispered curse, Jenna made a sharp turn and yanked Mary into a dim alley between two shops. Mary's sneaker hit a patch of ice and she nearly toppled. "Hurry," Jenna said. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
Gooseflesh broke out down Mary's arms, and the cold seemed to take on a new bite. The whooping and laughter had disappeared. "Jenna…"
Jenna gave another tug and Mary did slip this time, cracking her kneecap on the uneven pavement and planting her hand firmly in a pile of dirty, ice-crusted newspapers. Jenna whirled. "Shit. Shit, I'm sorry." Mary glanced back down the dim alley. Nobody was pursuing them.
Mary shifted to sit on her rear, inspecting the knee of her jeans. Scuffed but not torn. And her kneecap wasn't broken. "Jen, do they bother you that much?"
Jenna knelt next to Mary. "Patrick gives me the creeps. The serious creeps. Are you ok?"
"Yeah, just a little messy and bruised, I think."
"At my place, you can—"
A tentative voice echoed down the alley, echoing off of the cold walls and frozen pavement. "Excuse… excuse me."
Jenna, seeming not to have heard, continued to fuss over Mary's knee. But Mary had heard, and she gaped at the little figure that had appeared at the end of the alley, the end they had come from. It was a child, and although the alley was too dimly lit to see clearly, Mary thought that it sounded like a boy. He was in some sort of thin jacket, a rain jacket, and rubber boots. Why was he in rain gear in this weather? He must have been freezing. He shuffled forward a few steps, seeming cautious of the slick pavement. The headlights of a passing car illuminated him for a moment, and Mary saw that the child was filthy and missing an arm.
"Jenna," Mary whispered. She reached out and clutched at Jenna's shoulder. "Christ. Jenna. Jenna, do you see him?"
"What?" Jenna lifted her head. "What are you talking about?"
"That boy." Mary pointed. "He looks bad. Where are his parents?" Fear clawed up Mary's throat, made her voice high and strained. The kid was in trouble. This was serious, adult-serious.
Jenna followed Mary's finger and jerked. "Shit. I didn't even hear him." She called, "Hey, kid! Are you ok? Did you come from the diner?"
The boy picked his way closer, placing his rubber boots carefully.
"Jenna, no, he didn't come from the diner. Look, he's filthy, he's…" Mary scrambled to her feet. "We have to take him to the police station." Despite her declaration, her feet remained locked in place, every cell in her body rebelling against the thought of approaching the boy.
"Are you sure he didn't just wander from the—"
"Jennaaaa… I wouldn't have taken you for a finger-wagger, Jenna." Jenna spun. A tall, lanky form stood at the other end of the alley. Although its features were indistinct, she recognized Patrick's voice. "A shame. You're such a knockout. A real waste, really."
"Fuck," Jenna whispered. She skittered back several steps, away from Patrick. Closer to the boy.
"Hey, wait." Mary made a swipe for Jenna's arm and missed.
Patrick began to swagger toward them. "I've always thought that all a dyke needed was a good dicking-down. Just a taste of what they're missing."
Jenna saw Patrick's eyes flash jack-o'-lantern orange in the dimness. Her gut clenched and a whimper escaped through her clenched teeth. She'd endured Patrick's bullying and teasing throughout the years, on the playground or on the bus. Hair pulling, name calling, some catcalls, some shoves. Mostly harmless, nothing notable, nothing other girls at the school hadn't endured. But this was different, this carried a sort of malevolent promise, a promise of real harm. "Mary…" Jenna backpedaled further.
Mary hadn't seen Patrick's eyes, had only barely registered his words. She was watching the kid striding toward them, making a beeline for Jenna, eyes locked onto her back like some housecat stalking a bird. Mary's heart jumped in her chest; she lurched forward and grabbed Jenna's coat, holding her in place. Jenna seemed not to notice, horror-wide eyes still on Patrick.
The kid closed the distance in seconds. He made an awkward sort of hop and wrapped his single arm around Jenna's thigh, dirty face split in a grin, eyes too wild and too excited, a giggle bubbling out of his mouth. Jenna didn't react, didn't seem to notice the child smearing mud on her white jeans. Up close he was in shocking condition: grime caked his skin and matted his hair, his eyes were bloodshot, his raincoat was ripped and splashed with God knew what filth, blood had dried in one of his nostrils, his cheeks were hollow, and his fingernails were ragged and broken. "You'll float too!" he yelled.
Mary asked, "What the hell?" at the same moment that Jenna flatly said, "Fuck."
Mary turned. Patrick was standing in front of Jenna now, one of his dark eyes listing to the side, an unnaturally wide grin on his face. His teeth were narrow and pointed, and there were too many of them.
Jenna gave a sharp inhale, probably to scream, and Patrick's hand closed around her throat. His fingers were tipped with dark talons, which sank easily into her flesh. Jenna's choking, wet gasps were quiet, far too quiet for anyone outside the alley to hear. Her blood ran, steaming, down her scarf and over not-Patrick's hand. As not-Patrick's lazy eye slid up to look at Mary, she distantly registered that the one-armed boy was clawing at her coat and growling childish insults at her: idiot, poopy-head, lardass.
Not-Patrick whispered, "Boo." But it wasn't his voice, it was the voice of a greasy porn shop cashier and a demon from hell rolled together.
She couldn't move, she couldn't scream.
Not-Patrick closed his other hand over her face.
Ben wiggled deeper into his comforter, ready for a quiet night of reading while his parents had some romantic dinner somewhere. His nail-biter for the evening was An Early History of Maine, accompanied by a cup of camomile. He was grateful for the opportunity to have the house to himself—no chance of his mother walking in and frowning at his choice of reading. Similarly, no chance of his father asking him if he had made any friends with the kids at school or in his neighborhood. He wasn't sure he could keep up his flimsy charade for much longer, passing off his complete lack of friends as being due to a disinterest, and not the result of the near-universal bullying that he received.
Awkward and doughy, Ben was no stranger to teasing, or even some rougher treatment from time to time. But there must have been something in the water in Derry, Ben had decided. He'd been in town for only a few months and he'd already attracted the dislike of Henry Bowers and his gang and a few other classmates and neighbors aside. Just for being new and chubby, apparently. Even the drugstore clerk gave him an unfriendly, distrustful sort of look when Ben had stopped in for a pack of gum. The town's wariness of any outsiders was sharp.
Whatever. To hell with them. Things would probably get easier once he worked up the courage to talk to a few of his classmates. Probably. There was a girl who sat a few seats in front of him in Social Studies, Beverly Marsh. She seemed nice, and she was pretty cute, if he was honest with himself. He'd never seen such red hair…
Ben crammed his headphones onto his head and started up his cassette player. As "I'll Be Loving You" by New Kids on the Block blasted into his ears, he flipped to "Chapter 13: Derry."
Started as a party of white settlers in 1738, a beaver camp that grew into Derry Township. Interesting. Some signs that Native Americans had inhabited the area before the settlers arrived, but it was unclear why they had left. Also interesting.
Oh. Oh.
The entire township, over three hundred people, disappeared without a trace in the summer of 1741.
The township broke up into several towns, one of them becoming Derry, a beaver camp. In 1768, ninety-one residents of the camp went missing. Strange.
In 1864, some gang of Confederates called the Derry Padrinos shot up about a hundred and twenty people.
Ben threw back his covers and lunged toward his desk, ripping his headphones from the cassette player's jack in his clumsy haste. He fumbled around in his desk drawer for a notebook and pen.
Derry's weird fucking aura was not, as it turned out, a recent development. Derry had been weird.
"Bev? Sweetheart?"
Chewing her lip, Bev shrank down, pressing her hip and shoulder even more firmly into the mint green porcelain of her bathtub.
"Honey?"
Bev's foot slid an inch, the sole of her sneaker squeaking along the tub's slick bottom.
Mr. Marsh's footsteps thumped toward the bathroom. Bev bit down harder, tasted blood. Mr. Marsh tried the knob and growled under his breath when it resisted him.
"Bev? Bev, open up." His voice had taken on an impatient tone; his knuckles rapped against the door with sharp authority.
Swallowing a whimper, Bev pressed a hand over her mouth. She didn't believe in a god, but she prayed fervently that her father would lose interest and leave.
A sudden bang shook the door and she jerked, almost yelped. His fist, or maybe his foot. She curled into a fetal position as best as she could in the cramped space, seeking comfort in the cold, hard angles of the tub. The basin didn't even conceal her—if her father knocked the door in, he'd see her bony shoulder and red curls over the rim. Not that he didn't already know she was in there, with the door locked…
Another bang. "Don't make daddy spend Valentine's Day alone, baby." His gruff tone belied the sick sweetness of his words.
Bev squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Mr. Marsh sighed and knocked again, but softer this time. His voice, too, had less of an edge. "Without your mother here, I only have you."
Bev's body was shaking with the effort of holding in some great sound, sobs or screams, she wasn't sure.
The knob rattled, and Mr. Marsh let out another whooshing exhale. "You don't have me, do you, Bev?"
Beverly shoved the knuckle of her index finger into her mouth and clamped down on it.
"I'll be on the couch if you change your mind about giving your old man some company." His footsteps receded down the hallway, back to the living room. Deflated in an instant. Maybe his temper had truly passed that quickly. Maybe he'd weighed the cost of repairing the door and decided it wasn't worth it.
Bev didn't rise from the tub, tear-streaked and sore, until she heard her father's loud snores coming from the living room for half an hour. Stifling sobs, she yanked on her boots and coat, grabbed a blanket and threw it around her shoulders, and slipped from the apartment. She mounted her bicycle and forced it through the snow, bearing down on the pedals with her full strength. She'd brave several hours on a bench in Bassey Park over being confined with her father at the moment. She'd be afraid that he'd call her a whore for going out on Valentine's Day night, accuse her of meeting up with some boy, but she knew he was too drunk to wake up any time soon. His patterns had become predictable.
The creak of a chair, a sigh, the scrape of a fork against a plate, soft chewing, the click of teeth against a glass. No laughter, no talking. Mrs. Denbrough had made spaghetti and meatballs, Georgie's favorite, and insisted on a dinner in with Bill rather than a date out. Bill understood. He was also incredibly uncomfortable. Mrs. Denbrough's eyes brimmed with tears as she fingered her glass of wine and stared at Georgie's empty chair. By contrast, Mr. Denbrough scowled down at his plate. Bill knew that his father thought his mother was wallowing, clinging to ghosts. He thought that the healthiest thing to do was to move on. Bill knew this because he'd overheard more than one argument on the subject.
For his part, Bill wasn't sure which he hated more: seeing his parents fracture over their different ways of grieving, or seeing them grieve over someone he believed—no, knew—was alive. And how could he begin to tell them? What could he tell them? That something unnatural, otherworldly, unknowable, had stolen their son? How, why, he couldn't say. What proof did he have? Adults needed proof. Hell, not even all of his friends believed him. The staunchest supporter he had was Stan, and even he seemed slow to back Bill up.
Abruptly, Mr. Denbrough cleared his throat. Bill jerked. Mrs. Denbrough blinked and stabbed at her spaghetti. "So," Mr. Denbrough began, "Bill. How has school been?"
The truth was that every bike ride to Derry High, alone until his path converged with those of Eddie and Stan and Richie, was a cruel reminder of his loss. No Georgie to rush him over his breakfast or race him to where they'd split—one to Derry High and one to Derry Elementary—no Georgie waiting for him at that fork in the afternoon, no Georgie blathering about his day on the ride home. The teachers gazed at him with sickening pity, he found condolence cards slipped through the slats of his locker door. Bill even missed the attention of Henry and his goons, who had been giving him a wide—and awkward—berth. He'd have taken the worst beatings Henry and Co. could dish out, daily, if it meant he could have his brother back safe. But his father didn't want to hear any of that.
Bill swallowed a mouthful of half-chewed spaghetti. "F-f-f-f-fine."
"Great. That's good to hear." Mr. Denbrough took a loud gulp of his wine, refilled his glass.
Mrs. Denbrough's eyes flicked to Bill, just for a second; she was more perceptive, she likely knew the emotional and psychological gauntlet that school had become for Bill. She'd probably heard the flatness in Bill's voice, missed by Mr. Denbrough. But she did not press. Now was not the time. Now, in this moment, the reigning rule was an attempt at normalcy, a try for fragile peace.
Bill swirled his fork in his noodles and offered his mother a soft, reassuring smile, one she gallantly returned. Mr. Denbrough reached over and ruffled Bill's hair, a gesture he hadn't performed in months.
Bill would find Georgie. He'd find Georgie and bring him home. He'd get his brother back, and he'd give his parents their son back.
"Now tell me, sweet baby," Mrs. Kaspbrak cooed, "is there any better way to be spending your Valentine's Day than with the most important woman in your life?"
Eddie cast a glance heavenward. "No."
"You don't sound very excited." Mrs. Kaspbrak peeled her eyes from the television set to glare suspiciously at Eddie through her coke bottle lenses.
"I am, Mom, I am. Just a little tired." Eddie ran his hands down his face. In all honesty, his mother was right—she was the most important woman in his life. No girlfriend to take on a date or sneak out to meet. But he'd take folding laundry over this. It was almost nine, so his mother couldn't have too many more game show episodes left in her.
"Come here, sweetie." Mrs. Kaspbrak patted the worn couch cushion beside her. "Scoot a little closer to your momma."
Biting back a sigh, Eddie slid a couple inches nearer to his mother. She looped a thick arm around him and yanked him the rest of the distance. She smelled of Pepto-Bismol, with a sour tinge.
Eddie was proven right—she was snoring deeply within half an hour, head drooping to her chest, one of her eyes still open a crack. He had always found that a little creepy.
Slowly, cautiously, Eddie shrugged his shoulder from under his mother's hand. He rose from the couch, swearing he could hear every creak and groan from his knees. As he crept from the living room, her snores hitched. She snorted, shifted, sighed. Eddie allowed himself a small exhale of relief as he slipped down the hallway to his bedroom. He eased the latch home, then turned the knob's little lock. He paused, listening. The laughter, dings, beeps, and claps from the TV were quite audible through the door, loud enough to drown out any small noise he might make. He'd just have to be careful.
Eddie crossed over to his bedroom window and lifted it inch by inch. When it was halfway open, a gloved hand shot out from the darkness and raised it with a thump.
"About fucking time, I've been waiting long enough."
"Jesus," Eddie hissed, glaring back at his door. "Be careful, will you?"
From the winter-dormant shrubbery, Richie's glasses flashed in the dim light cast by Eddie's bedside lamp. "You worry too much." He rolled his eyes as he adjusted his beanie. His nose and cheeks had been pinched red by the cold.
Easy for him to say, he didn't have to live with Mrs. Kaspbrak. She'd have a cow if she found out that Eddie had snuck a friend in on a normal night, but on Valentine's Day, when they were supposed to be spending time together… And the implications that he was a closeted homosexual would persist for months. Eddie had half a mind to send Richie away.
"Your mom creeps me out, Eds," Richie proclaimed, swinging a leg into Eddie's room, smearing dirt onto the sill. Sniffing, he plucked a twig from his hair and flicked it onto the carpet. "She probably thinks you're a queer anyway."
Eddie disguised his flinch with a scoff. "Nice, Richie. Thanks."
"Sorry," Richie mumbled, about as contrite as he was going to get.
"Did your folks notice you leave?"
"They aren't home, probably won't be back until tomorrow." Richie gave a casual yawn. Eddie wasn't fooled; he knew that the lack of attention that Richie's parents paid him ate at him. It made it easier to forgive some of his sharper verbal barbs, see them as the grabs for attention they were. Not that he would ever say that to Richie or to anyone else. He wondered if, on some subconscious level, Richie was jealous of Mrs. Kaspbrak's smothering.
Richie kicked residual snow from his boots, onto Eddie's carpet, and drummed his hands on Eddie's mattress. "Where's Spider-Man?"
Eddie bit back a snide remark about Richie dirtying his room—he was glad for the company, and Richie had waited in the bushes for the better part of two hours. He knelt and withdrew a cardboard box brimming with comics from under his bed. "Help yourself."
The beam of Mike's flashlight cut through the darkness like a knife through warm butter, illuminating snow-covered rocks and shrubs, catching tiny whirling flakes in its beam. Mike grit his teeth, kicking at the four inches of snow as he trudged through the pasture. He didn't particularly have anything better to do on Valentine's Day than look for a missing lamb, but he was angry and annoyed all the same. He didn't want to find the lamb chewed to scraps by a predator or struck dead from some mysterious ailment as so often happened with the fragile youngsters. As Mike plodded in the cold, wiping his runny nose on his glove, he thought of the bereft mother. She'd been calmly chewing her cud in the barn when he'd left, seeming to have forgotten that she had a child at all. She wouldn't be plagued by nightmares or grief, even as a first-time matron. If the roles between her and her lamb were reversed, the little thing would cry for warmth and milk, but would it startle awake with a scream on its lips and images of its mother's last moments playing in front of its eyes? Mike sneered. No, probably not.
The blessings of being a dumb, domesticated prey animal. To be a stupid sheep, unfazed by life's losses, to only worry about how quickly you could get to the barn when the weather was bad.
Mike's boot met a rock hidden under the snow and he stumbled. He caught himself before his face hit the ground, but his flashlight fell from his grasp to lie half-buried in the snow. In that instant of sudden near darkness, the sky seemed blacker, the wind louder, the air colder, and Mike felt the beginnings of fear. The flashlight's beam, though muffled, was still visible as a dim glow, and he snatched it back up again. Those few seconds of darkness, when the night pressed in around him, drove all the bitterness and anger from him like smoke before the wind. A thin tendril of unease remained wrapped around his heart. A stronger gust whistled in his hood-shrouded ears as he stood. Mike didn't even bother brushing the snow from inside his gloves or boots, even though his wrists and ankles felt instantly frozen to ice. The hairs on the back of his neck were on end, and he just wanted to find what was left of the lamb, verify it was dead, so he could go back home.
Teeth chattering, Mike pressed on. The barbed wire fence encircling the pasture loomed in the beam of his flashlight. He turned left and followed it—predators would likely have dragged the lamb under the fence, seeking privacy, if predators were to blame. Whether they'd managed to move the lamb completely out of the pasture or not, he'd probably see some sort of sign.
The snow damped sound; all Mike could hear was his own breathing and his own footsteps and the whistling of the wind. He swiped his tongue over his lips, felt his saliva freeze on his skin.
The brush on the other side of the fence hovered close to that arbitrary yet important, vital, border between the Hanlon property and the wilderness. Mike veered a little to the side, put a bit more distance between himself and the reaching shadows of the forest.
Boredom was something Mike often wrestled with—he was homeschooled so that he could devote more time to the farm, which was an obstacle enough, but he was also black in a virtually all-white town. Hell, virtually an all-white state. Trying to make friends was a herculean effort, and in his experience was not worth it. Mike spent his free time watching documentaries and game shows on the fuzzy television set or rereading Grandpa's old Westerns. But what he wouldn't give for a staticky game of Jeopardy or a dogeared Elmer Keaton now. What he wouldn't give to be sitting at home, bored.
Mike paused to look out across the blank expanse of pasture, at the house. The windows were lit with a soft golden glow, casting squares of light onto the snow. A thin tendril of smoke rose from the chimney to smudge the moon. In his mind's eye, he could see his grandpa sitting in his battle-scarred recliner, one leg lifted and resting on a pillow on the coffee table to ease the pain in his bad knee, head lolling to the side, snoring loud enough to wake the dead, possibly drooling. Even if his grandpa hadn't had a flare-up of stiffness in his knee, Mike knew that he still would have left the chore to his grandson. Building character and all that.
Maybe when one had friends, you could call them to come walk inky black farmland with you when you had a lamb missing. Assuming they had a working landline, and a bike.
Somewhere behind Mike, a branch snapped, shockingly loud in the snow-hushed quiet. He jumped and swore, sweeping his flashlight beam over the snowy branches, leaves, and needles on the other side of the fence. Nothing, not that he necessarily could have seen anything back there. A cougar? They would not pass up the opportunity for lamb chops. Wolves? Maybe. Could be a moose; they were vegetarian, but they had horrible tempers. Mike swallowed, licked his lips, and kept walking. Briskly. Returning without having checked the entire pasture for the missing lamb was unacceptable, and Grandpa would know if Mike lied. He always did.
Mike was reminded of a parable he'd heard more than once on a sleepy Sunday morning in the pew with his grandpa, ignoring sideways glances from some of the more old-fashioned residents of Derry: that of Jesus as the shepherd who ventures into the wilderness to find the missing lamb. That parable seemed a lot more ominous now. A lot less rosy.
A sharp bleat. Mike didn't quite jump, but his shoulders bunched up and the beam of the flashlight jerked skyward. There, about fifty yards ahead. A small fuzzy form huddled up against the fence. He jogged to the lamb, cold and fear forgotten for the moment. The lamb let out another loud bawl as Mike knelt to examine it. A vine had grown out from the forest and wrapped itself in and around the fence, during the summer, of course. They must have missed it when clearing the fence line. Mike himself might even be blamed. Though dormant, the vine was still sturdy. A loop of vine had snagged the lamb's foot just above its hoof. The lamb's attempts to escape had only resulted in it getting nicked by the barbed wire. Spots of dried blood stained the wool on its leg, and its thrashing has scraped away snow and the top couple inches of dirt in a large semicircle. It was but a matter of seconds for Mike to free the lamb—the wonders opposable thumbs could do! He clamped the flashlight between his teeth and hefted the lamb in his arms. It gave an appreciative grunt. Then Mike began to trudge toward the house, cutting a direct line through the pasture, the house's warm lights like those of a ship alone on a dark and stormy sea. The lamb shoved its nose into Mike's armpit, and he hugged it a little tighter to his chest.
"Penny." Georgie peered up at It, chewing on a lump of gristle from the hunk of thigh he clenched in his fingers, lips and cheeks smeared red. He was sitting on top of Pennywise's circus carriage, and he swung his legs, drumming his heels against the wood. "Why don't you have a family?"
From where It was perched on a rocking chair, halfway up Its tower of junk, two eyes shone down at the boy from out of the steamy shadows. Nothing apart from those unnatural yellow eyes was visible. This did not unsettle Georgie in the slightest, and he continued to wait patiently for the thing's response. Silver, bedded up next to one of the carriage's wheels, let out a snort. Finally, It spoke.
"And… what, exactly, makes you think I don't?" Its voice was low, soft.
"They're never around." Satisfied that he had now engaged the clown in conversation, Georgie sank his teeth into Mary's flesh.
One of the balls of yellow rotated to regard Jenna floating high above, among a few other figures. Its larder was sparse; normally, It would be much further along by now. It just… didn't have the energy. The vigor. "You're right."
"You don't have a family?" Georgie gnawed at Mary's thigh like a puppy with milk teeth.
"Nope."
"Where did they go? Everyone starts with a family."
Its reply was short. "I didn't."
"Where do you come from, then?"
Its chuckle was deep and drawn out, a slow-motion distortion. "How to explain to someone of your… intellectual standing. I was… begotten by something, if that's what you mean." Georgie blinked up at It. "I had a parent, you could call it."
"Just one? Where are they?"
"Yesssss. Just the one. And our, kind, uh, doesn't really sssstick around."
"Why not?"
The eyes took on a crimson hue. "Think of it as a hands-off parenting approachhhh."
Georgie sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth. "Have you ever had kids?"
It blinked, the balls of red-rimmed yellow popping in and out of existence. Again, It was slow to respond. "Yessssss."
Georgie managed to tear free a small scrap of meat and swallowed it after only a few chews—human teeth were ill-equipped for raw flesh. "You didn't stick around?"
"I ran them offfff." It punctuated this with a snort.
"Why?"
"I won't ssssshare space with my own kind."
The boy was quiet for a while, working at his meal. It watched him. Silver rose to "graze" along the damp cement. Then he sighed and looked up at It. "Will you run me off?"
Its answer was quick. "I don't think so." A thin, gloved hand emerged from the shadows to grasp a bicycle, then the other to grab a broom. With a jingling of bells, It crawled face-first from the darkness, settling on a TV set that was lit by the dim light from above. "No, I like you much more than my… sssspawn." It found something about this statement funny, and guffawed for a long moment, spittle running down Its chin, maintaining unblinking eye contact with Georgie the whole while.
When It had finished, Georgie asked, "Why?"
"You're…" Pennywise cocked Its head. "Different. Sssspecial. There is not… affection between me and my hatchlingssss."
"Affection."
The clown's eyes went bright blue. "You know what that means, yessss?"
"Yeah." Georgie rested the hunk of meat on his filthy lap to pick at his teeth with a ragged fingernail. "It's when you like someone a lot."
Letting out a bark of laughter, It clapped it hands and hopped, Its heel cracking the television screen. "What a smart, clever little boy you are, oh yes indeed."
Georgie abandoned his teeth cleaning. "Do you mean it? Do you like having me around?"
"HA! I should say, you'd know if I didn't."
"Because I'd be floating!" Georgie giggled and banged his heels against the side of the carriage. Silver bawled.
The clown howled, rolling and sliding several feet down the tower, scattering toys and trinkets. The bells on Its shoes tinkled as It kicked at the air. "Yes," It gasped. "That's exactly right."
Georgie hummed thoughtfully. "You talked about a parent. Don't I have one of those?"
Pennywise's laughter stopped and It froze with Its feet in midair, watching the boy.
"Maybe two." Georgie frowned. "I can't remember. Was that a dream? I think they were called… one of them was called Bill."
"No." It rolled over and lifted Itself onto all four limbs. "That must have been a dream."
Georgie did not argue, but his brow remained creased, and he did not pick up Mary's thigh again.
"Here." It turned and scurried up the junk tower. "It's Valentine's Day," It called over Its shoulder. The clown was swallowed by the shadows, then thrust Its pale face back into the light. "Will you be my valentine?" It held out a fist, and in Its fingers was Mary's dripping heart.
Grinning, Georgie slid from the carriage to climb up the tower, with a lot more slipping and grunting than Pennywise—one was an eons-old interdimensional being, the other was a malnourished and one-armed child. But It waited patiently, unblinking, smile frozen on Its face and frilled collar wet with saliva, until the boy had reached Its perch.
"Only if you'll be mine," Georgie panted.
"Such charm for one so small," It whispered. With Its other hand, It grasped him by the back of his raincoat and settled him next to It in the shadows. The child's fingers brushed Its hand as he took the heart, icy cold. Its lips pulled down into a frown. "Feeling chilly?"
"No."
Regardless, It snapped Its fingers and one of Georgie's blankets, chunky knitted wool crusted with mud and prickly with hay, settled around his shoulders.
If anyone else had been inside the Demon of Derry's lair that evening, they would have seen two pairs of eyes glowing yellow from that tower of pilfered junk, beneath the bodies floating like clouds.