Chapter 2: Hot Summer Streets

"The city is crowded

My friends are away

And I'm on my own

It's too hot to handle

So I got to get up and go"

-Bananarama, "Cruel Summer"

Carol opened her eyes slowly, adjusting her sight to the blinding morning sun pouring through her bedroom window. She was curled up securely under her airy summer sheets, grasping her sunken pillow tightly underneath her head. Groggily, she sat up, staring out the sun-filled glass pane on the opposite wall. Her room felt shockingly warm, much more so than the previous night, which had been rather cool for June. Once she felt strength returning to her body after waking from a poor night's sleep, she climbed out of bed to head to the kitchen.

Even from the hallway, Carol's nose could already detect the alluring aroma of the pancakes that her grandmother was preparing for breakfast. Stepping into the kitchen, she saw Ethel hunched over the counter, a plate piled with already half a dozen of the delicious pancakes, more in the process of being flipped on the griddle. A bottle of maple syrup, carton of orange juice, and bowl of whipped cream were placed in the center of the table.

"Morning Grandma," she announced, making her way over to her seat.

"Good morning, Carol," the older woman said with a smile. "I already have some breakfast made for you, if you want to get a head start. I whipped up some cream for your pancakes as well as a kind of summer treat."

"Whipped cream for breakfast?" she wondered out loud, taking a glass and pouring herself some juice. She was not much of a sugary kind of person, and her grandma knew that.

"I thought you might like a little something special to start off your first day of summer break," Ethel responded, flipping some more pancakes. "You can eat out in the living room as you watch your morning television, if you like."

During the school year, Carol never had the time nor the luxury to watch TV in the mornings, for her routine mostly consisted of getting up, eating breakfast, getting ready, and arriving at the school as quickly as possible. Over breaks, however, she frequently enjoyed chowing down while watching her favorite programs on the television in the living room. It was one of her favorite privileges that her grandmother allowed, as long she was cautious not to get any crumbs on the floor (which she never did).

Her home life might not be perfect, but at least she had a kind and tender guardian, which some children she knew were unfortunate enough to lack.

The young teen grinned. "Thanks Grandma," she said, grabbing a plate and helping herself to some pancakes, applying the maple syrup and whipped cream to them as well. She never overdid it though, as too much sugar always gave her a stomachache, and the last thing she needed was to throw up again.

Heading into the living room, she took her seat on the couch, her designated spot, and turned on the TV with the remote. She scrolled through the channels, hoping to catch one of her favorite morning shows. In front of the television set, her dog Spock was snoring in his regular spot, his head resting on his small white paws.

Back when she was younger, her grandmother had a great big mongrel that she called Scooby, after the dog in her favorite childhood cartoon. Scooby had a rather friendly and gentle disposition, and young Carol would enjoy walking him up and down the street as Grandma Ethel watched from the porch. After he died of old age when she was eleven, the same year she had gotten her bike Stardust, the bull terrier Spock had entered their lives. She came up with the name when her grandma brought him home as she was watching Star Trek reruns in the living room. Spock was more lively and active than Scooby had been, and she enjoyed racing her newer pet down the sidewalk when she felt the need to burn off some energy.

She continued to flip through the channels until an old episode of The Twilight Zone appeared on the screen. Bingo! The Twilight Zone was one of her favorite shows, along with Star Trek and The Addams Family. Carol took a scoop full of soggy pancakes and whipped cream with her fork as she listened to the deep and foreboding voice of Rod Serling welcome her:

"You're travelling through another dimension. A dimension, not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. Next stop, the Twilight Zone!"

Then the screen changed to show the episode "Nightmare At 20,000 Feet", where William Shatner was on the airplane and the gremlin would be out on the wing outside his window. Although she had seen the episode many times before, her eyes were glued to the television screen nonetheless as she slowly munched on her breakfast. She would watch an episode or two, and then she would change and get ready for the day.

As sunlight began to pour increasingly through the living room window to her left, Carol stole a glance to the outdoor world on the other side of the glass pane. The street and surrounding areas were not at all crowded, save for Mrs. Crowley in her front yard watering her petunias and Dave Gardner from a few blocks down walking his German shepherd down the sidewalk. Just another day in Derry, Maine.

After she had finished watching and breakfast, she snapped off the TV and headed to her bedroom. Her room was definitely toastier than the day before, so she decided to dress in preparation for it being excessively hot. She made her way over to her closet, looking its wooden folding doors up and down.

She had been afraid of her closet ever since she was a little kid. As a young girl, she would request that her grandmother make sure it was shut completely every night and that no monsters or bad men were inside, just waiting for the opportunity to pounce. It had been her greatest irrational fear as a child, but to Carol, there was nothing irrational about it. As a child, monsters hiding in the closet had seemed perfectly possible.

She recalled one night when she woke up to notice the closet doors open a sliver, revealing the concealing darkness inside. She had cried and cried, wailing her grandma's name, and the older woman had come in as fast as she could on her tired, stiff legs. She had insisted that Grandma Ethel investigate, and the woman obliged, only to find that the shadowy compartment was empty, save for her belongings. Her grandmother told her that there was nothing to fear, that there was no one out there that would ever hurt her, and told her to go back to sleep. Carol had been nine at the time.

Ever since that incident, she had developed a phobia of her closet, and closets in general. She only used the space to hang her clothes that couldn't fit in the crammed drawers of her dresser and for storage, stashing away all the items that she didn't have a problem with forgetting, which was what occurred unless she opened the doors. It was a place where she stored her memories that would be forgotten, covered under dust and cobwebs in the deepest, darkest part of her mind. Even now, she stared at the white doors with apprehension and unease. Closets held monsters. Closets held shadows.

Closets held secrets.

She opened the doors, regardless of her childhood fears, and picked out a t-shirt and jean shorts to wear. That should be good enough for the heat.

As she began to undress, she looked into the mirror at her gradually evolving appearance. Purple bags seemed to have established themselves permanently under her bloodshot eyes. Her skin was paler, despite being out in the June sun, and her cheekbones appeared more defined than usual. She wondered how her grandmother was failing to notice this change as she was, but then again, it might have been too gradual to really detect. She pulled up her jean shorts, noticing that they felt looser on her than they did the last time she had worn them. She guessed her meals were not doing a good job at securing her weight when she threw them up at what was becoming every other day.

Carol recalled what her friend Estelle had told her back in the fifth grade about people stricken with radiation sickness. She said that the victims, before dying of the illness, would start throwing up mass amounts of blood and flesh, along with a variety of other horrible symptoms. Later, Carol found this to be untrue, but victims of radiation exposure did vomit. She once again stared into the mirror, wondering how close she resembled said victims. It made her shudder in disgust and awe-like horror.

Shaking off that anxious thought, she pulled over her t-shirt. She decided that she would bike around town, maybe grab an ice cream, and pick up some movies to watch later that evening.

After putting up her hair, Carol went over to her bed and pulled her pack off the edge. Her pack was like a smaller bookbag, and she never went anywhere without it. Inside, she would stuff it full of the things she needed and might need on her trips into town: money, a flashlight, a walkie talkie, her pocket knife, a bottle of water, her Walkman, etc. Often, she barely found it necessary to use these items, but better safe than sorry. Slinging it over her shoulder, she headed out of her room.

In the kitchen, she heard her grandmother cleaning up dishes from breakfast, which she usually did before getting ready for work. Although she was nearing retirement, Ethel Perkins still worked three days a week as a cashier in Freese's Department Store.

"Hey Grandma, I'm going out," she called, heading toward the front door.

She heard the elder woman reply, "Okay, Carol. Be back before four."

"I will," she responded before stepping out onto the front porch, to where Stardust lay by the porch steps. Immediately, she was blasted by a scorching blaze of heat. It took her by surprise, for it had not been nearly as unbearable the day before. She groaned inwardly. It's only, like, nine in the morning…

Hopping on the worn leather seat of her bike, she pedalled down the driveway and off into town. Sweat was already oozing down her forehead and arms as she biked down her street, heading for downtown. She was astounded by the intensity of the weather; a heat wave must've rolled in during the night.

Riding along, her mind suddenly jarred a memory into her train of thought. Maybe it was because the road she was now on, Witcham Street, was one she had ran down five months ago, but the image in her head was not welcome and filled her with the same uneasiness she had felt that very night.

It was November second. Carol was over at Tabitha Amherst's house for her belated Halloween party, where they watched Halloween and Psycho, the movies being the highlight of the evening. Around eleven o'clock, the gathering ended and the group of seven went their separate ways. Carol did not ride her bike to Tabitha's, so she was left with no choice but to walk home in the dead of the night. Not that she minded, she was perfectly cool with it.

"I don't know how you could do it," Tabby told her and the others who didn't have a ride, "especially with that little boy missing."

At first, the walk home went normally. The street was empty and devoid of life, making an eerie yet peaceful setting. She embraced the shadows, the dimly lit surroundings soothing to her and almost aesthetic in a way. Only in the back of her mind did she ever recall the missing boy, George Denbrough, as she strolled along humming "Beat It" by Michael Jackson.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure standing on the other side of the street. The man (she figured it was a man) was tall and rather odd looking in the little lighting that Carol's eyes perceived. His hair glinted unnaturally orange in the dimness of a faraway streetlight, and his clothes were excessively baggy, the sound of bells jingling gently in the still night air. It took Carol a minute to recognize that the shadowy figure was dressed in all-out clown attire.

The clown was dancing. It was a peculiar number that involved many side steps, jerks, and his body contorting in various ways that Carol didn't recognize. She slowed down her pace to catch a better glance at this odd spectacle, wondering what on Earth this guy was doing dancing in the street in the middle off the night. It's past Halloween dude, you've missed you're shot, she judged silently.

The longer she stared, the more off and disturbing the clown and his dance seemed to her. All of her instincts told her to run or walk away quickly, but she didn't want to draw attention to herself when she had managed to avoid it so far. She began to pick up her pace slightly when the clown's head jerked in her direction.

The clown, upon seeing her across the street, began to smile, big and wide, eyes lighting up with joy. Silently, not uttering a word, he beckoned her to come across the street.

He wants to dance, Carol thought to herself.

(and then we'll float)

But she didn't want to. There was something sinister and wrong about the clown, a poorly disguised look of malicious delight in his

(golden)

eyes. Alarm bells were ringing inside her head, telling her this thing was evil, like the kind of monster that hid in your closet and waited till all was dark and you were sleepy before snatching you from the safety of your bed and dragging you into

(the sewers)

the shadows. She couldn't exactly explain how she knew this, but she was detecting a nefarious aura lingering around the mysterious performer. Ignoring the clown, she continued her tread home, hoping that her shift in pace wasn't too noticeable. She never dared to look behind her, but she felt his

(its)

eyes on her back as she departed, chills of dread tingling her spine as she sensed the disappointment, the frustration in the glare. It was almost inhuman. Maybe it is, she thought.

When she was out of the clown's sight, she ran, ran as hard and fast as she could until she reached her house, bolting inside and locking the door. She had difficulty sleeping that night, for fear that the clown would be at her window outside, waiting. Or worse, her closet…

Ever since that eventful November night, Carol never walked to or from anywhere, always taking her bike when out alone or with her friends. The memory of the clown was so distant yet vivid, and for some reason that she couldn't comprehend, when she thought of it, certain names came to mind. Names like Betty, George, Veronica, Matthew, Cheryl, and Donna. Needless to say, she didn't go out at night anymore, either.

As she reached the center of town, listening to "Magical Mystery Tour" by The Beatles on her Walkman, she noticed how packed and bustling the area was. There was a long line waiting in front of the Aladdin Theater, and the park was thick with parents, their little ones, and teenagers alike hanging out in the late morning sun. She passed multiple buildings- the synagogue, the library, Freese's Department Store, the Derry Drug- and was discouraged to find the majority of these centers were crowded with mostly children, relishing the freedom of their first day of summer.

What the fuck? Shouldn't most of you be sleeping in?

What hurt the most about these sights was that almost all of the children were with their buddies, their comrades, their friends, and they were having a better time than her. Most of them didn't have to deal with missing girls, or groups slipping away, or the fear of being alone slowly becoming a reality. These kids were probably going to have a great summer, a blast, and here she was, biking around town like a lost puppy with no friends.

A loser.

Oh, well. She'd just to go somewhere else to enjoy her free time and return later to pick up her movies. Pushing hard on the pedals, she rode Stardust onward toward the outskirts of Derry.

The rising sun scorched her back and scalp uncomfortably as she pedalled on in the insufferable heat. Derry's outskirts mostly consisted of farmland and country roads, seldom visited by many of the town's residents. However, Carol enjoyed riding her bike there, for she could acheive peace and quiet as she gazed at the fields of corn, soy, or whatever the hell farmers grew in Maine.

As she continued, some buildings, such as barns, appeared in the distance. She was entering the agricultural sector of Derry. She was careful not to inhale the scent of crop dust and manure as she basked in the picturesque landscape and, unwillingly, the hot air.

This heat bites, she thought irritably, relenting and pulling over to the side of the road. She climbed off her bike and unzipped her pack, stuffing her Walkman inside and taking out the bottle of water she had brought with her. Then she checked her watch. It was almost noon, meaning she had about four hours left before she had to be home. She'd rest there for a while, listen to some more music, and then head back into town to the video store.

Uncapping her bottle, she took a swig, rejoicing as the cool water ran blissfully down her parched throat. She resisted the urge to drink too much though, for she had to conserve it for the rest of her trip.

Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed someone biking up the road in her direction. She didn't think much of it, for the person would probably pass her by, like most people did in the world.

As the biker got closer, she grasped a better understanding of who it was. It was another kid her age whom she vaguely recognized. The boy was dark toned, wearing a white t-shirt, and the basket of his bike appeared to be holding some kind of raw meat. As the distance between the two closed, he glanced over at her, confusion and a little concern clouding his face.

Carol slipped her water back into her pack. The kid would pass her by. They always did.

However, as he neared her, he slowed down until he was only a feet feet away. Then, he pulled up to a complete halt and hopped off his bike. For a few moments he just stared at her, utterly perplexed. Then, after an agonizingly long pause, he asked, "Are you okay?"

She looked up at him, slightly surprised that he had actually spoken to her. "Yeah, I'm just peachy," she replied, not sure if she was being sarcastic or not, blinking drops of sweat out of her eyes. Her skin felt like burnt toast, and she was cursing herself out internally for forgetting to pack sunscreen.

"You look like you're about to get heat stroke," the boy observed, eyeing her closely.

Carol unzipped her pack again to display her half-filled bottle of water. "I got fluid." To be honest though, it already felt warmer than when she had first taken a drink. Welp.

Instead of responding, he glanced up at the clear blue sky thoughtfully. He remarked, "This heat wave's gonna last a while."

She followed his gaze upward, trying to locate what he must be seeing. "How can you tell?"

"My granddad told me," he said, looking back down. "We live on the farm down the road."

"I know. You're Mike Hanlon, the farmer's son. My grandma knows your family." Her grandmother had told her a few times about the Hanlons, who were one of the few black families that lived in Derry and had the most successful farm in town. Carol herself had seen the Hanlon boy on his runs into town, but she had never interacted with him before.

"Who's your grandma?" Mike inquired.

"Ethel Perkins. She works down at Freese's."

He must've recognized the name, for he said, "I didn't know Mrs. Perkins had a granddaughter."

"My parents burdened her with me when I was eight," she informed him, conjuring up the saddest jazz hands she could muster. "Surprise, I exist."

Mike actually smiled at that. Bingo. Then he pointed to her. "I like your shirt."

Carol glanced down at her Rosie the Riveter t-shirt, which was heavily dampened with sweat. "Oh. Thanks." She was not used to getting compliments from complete strangers. It was already a lot that he put a pause on whatever task he was doing to talk to her and found her pitiful jazz hands amusing.

Neither of them said a word after that, the two kids standing in silence in the pathway of the scorching sun. There was a few second pause before Mike stated, "I never got your name."

"Carol Chamblers. I was yesterday in the seventh grade at junior high."

"I've never heard of you before," he admitted, looking slightly guilty, as if he should've.

She shrugged it off. She learned not to take it too hard when people didn't know her, for it occurred more often than not. "Not many people have. I usually just hang out with my friends and that's all." She rolled her eyes with exaggerated humor. "And I have very few friends at that." Then she paused, wondering if she should mention the dilemmas that she was facing to this kid. She wasn't exactly following Her Rule, which banned almost all potentially risky social interaction with her peers, yet here she was, conversing with a boy she barely knew.

She didn't know why, but talking with him felt comfortable, like it had with the kid with the Walkman the day prior, however brief that moment had been. It was like they were already well acquainted, or good friends. I might as well, no one else is gonna hear it. "One of my friends went missing back in April."

Mike's gaze softened, looking at her sympathetically. "Which friend?"

Carol looked down, avoiding his eyes. "Donna Reese," she mumbled.

He nodded slowly in understanding. "I think I know her." He sounded solemn. "Is she one of the pretty twins with the strawberry blonde hair?"

She nodded. "My group's been kinda falling apart since then."

It was then Mike's turn to look down and avoid her gaze. "I don't have many friends," he confessed.

It was at that moment that Carol realized this Mike was very similar to her, in the sense that they were both outsiders. She guessed not many people bothered to come up and talk to him either, which was how things were with her. It was almost a relief to know that she could relate to someone that wasn't one of her friends, whose interests and social lives were the same as her own.

"I'm a bit of a ghost at school," she told him, hoping to distract him with her own story. "Not many people probably even know I exist; I'm kinda just there."

"You have it lucky then, being a ghost. I wish I didn't get the attention I receive," Mike said, his voice melancholy. "What I mean is I… I get bullied a lot."

Carol knew that the Hanlons were not exactly the most popular folk in town, often the target of racial discrimination as it were Georgia in the eighteen-sixties rather than the eighties in Maine. Not that she ever got involved though, because she never got involved with anything.

It made her sad that Mike was friendless, something she saw happening to herself in the not so distant future. A sentence of assurance clung to the tip of her tongue, and she wanted to say, I could be your friend, if you like. Rather, she scrapped that and asked, "Is it true that you're homeschooled? I know you don't go to the middle school, that's for sure."

He shrugged. "Yeah, but I go to Sunday school, too." He threw a glance over his shoulder at his bike, discarded at the side of the road with the raw, reddish flesh still in the basket. "I better get going to the butcher shop before that meat spoils."

"Alrighty." She knew their conversation couldn't have lasted forever, and time had flown by while they were talking. "See you around, Mikey. Drive safe."

Mike grinned. "See you later, Ghost."

Ghost. It was the first time someone outside her clique had ever given her a nickname. Even if it was a title she used frequently to describe her unpopularity and isolation, why not wear it with pride? It was true, anyway. She gave Mike a thumbs up and a "peace out" sign as he climbed back on his bike and pedalled down the road in the direction of town, out of sight.

Once he had fully disappeared in the distance, Carol glanced at her own bike, thinking that she better get into town soon, as most kids were probably taking a lunch break and it wouldn't be as busy. She took her Walkman out of her pack again and put it in the basket, plugging her headphones in. She rode Stardust back to central Derry, listening to Kim Wilde's "Kids In America" and John Mellencamp's "Pink Houses" along the way.

…

By the time she reached the main part of town again, she was playing David Bowie's "Starman" at full volume. It was almost an hour past twelve, and kids were finishing their lunches and clustering around the sidewalks again.

Carol rode up to Derry Video & Entertainment (which was like a small-town ripoff of Family Video) and skidded to a halt. She slipped her Walkman back into her pack and grasped her money before heading inside, a rush of cool air freezing the sweat on her skin.

She immediately made her way over to the Horror and Science Fiction section, her preferred genre of film. Her favorite movie of the following genre would probably be Halloween, but she had seen it many times before and wanted to rent something she didn't watch as often. She scoured the shelves in search of a good watch, grazing the covers of the movies with the tips of her fingers. Without thinking, she found her hand picking up a VHS copy of Night of the Living Dead.

Carol studied the cover, which depicted the main characters and the ghouls that tormented them throughout the film. She had seen many of George A. Romero's movies, such as Night of the Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead, and while they were all very good, she didn't watch them often because the zombies unnerved her. Personally, she found the concept of the dead returning to life and feasting upon the flesh of the living to be quite horrific, and being eaten alive by what used to be human beings had to be a sickening and agonizing way to go. Plus, it was just the fact that they looked so dead, with their rotting skin and clouded eyes. Once again, her mind was drawn back to her appearance in the mirror that morning.

Tentatively, Carol put the movie back on the shelf, deciding to find something different to watch. Scouring the shelves again, she picked up a copy of Alien. She vaguely recalled watching part of it at the Reese's house over the fall, and while the alien was terrifying, it didn't give her as vivid nightmares like Romero's movies did. She decided to check that one out, along with Jaws.

To her right, she observed a group of three boys, also in the same section, trying to decide on what horror movie they wanted to watch that night. It was then that Carol felt a pang, observing the obvious friends interact, when she herself was there alone. The boys were about her age, and she reckoned she had them all in at least one of her classes the previous school year. They were so absorbed with each other, they didn't even notice her standing not even five feet away.

She wondered if she caught fire, right where she stood, and if they would notice her then. Nothing like a little spontaneous human combustion to make me stand out.

She was staring at the trio so intently that she failed to reach down in time as the movies she was holding slipped out of her sweaty grasp. Dammit, she cursed herself internally at the clatter they made in the quiet store, picking them up hastily. As she reached down, she felt her eyes burn from sweat or tears or both.

One of the boys shot a quick glance into her direction, before turning his attention back to his companions.

At least I know I'm worthy of a glance, Carol told herself sarcastically. That's good to know. Straightening up, she grasped her chosen movies tightly as she walked past, overhearing snippets of the boys' conversations.

"No no Rich, I am not going to watch The Thing-"

"Why not?" the other boy asked, sounding amused and appalled, while the third just continued read the cases with a neutral expression on his face. "If you're too much of a pussy-"

"Of course I'm not, dipshit. I just-"

If she wasn't feeling so lonely at the moment, she may have openly laughed at their bickering.

Carol checked out her movies at the register and exited the blissfully air-conditioned store, putting the films in Stardust's basket as she finally headed home in the increasingly hot weather. The trio in the Derry Video lingered in her thoughts the entire trip there.

As she reached her street, she spotted a little boy riding a bike with training wheels near her house. It was her nine year old neighbor, Curtis Crowley, who lived four houses down.

"Hey, Carol!" the younger boy called as she neared her residence, biking up to her.

She gave him a smile. He was one of the few people she knew of that she took pleasure in talking to. "Hey, Curtis. What're you doing?"

"Just trying out my new bike," he replied, grinning. "My mom's making cookies inside."

"Sounds delicious," she commented, getting off Stardust and taking the movies out of the basket.

"Whatcha got there?" the boy asked, gazing at the two films with curiosity.

She held out the VHS copies for him to see. "Alien and Jaws. I'm gonna watch them tonight."

Curtis looked at the covers, eyeing them warily. "I saw a part of Jaws on TV once. My mom let me. What's Alien about?"

"Exactly what it sounds like: an alien. See here?" She pointed to the cover, where below the title was the caption, "In space, no one can hear you scream."

Curtis' eyes glinted with uncertainty. "Is it scary?"

"Yeah kid, it is. It kills people and stuff."

"Is it green with big, black eyes and travels in a-"

"It's not like those aliens, Curt. Not by a long shot," she interrupted, not wanting to go into too much detail about the dynamics and all the morbid aspects of the film. Instead, she began to walk her bike up her driveway as she said, "Ask you mom about it. She'd be better at explaining it than I." Really, she just didn't want to be the one responsible for giving the kid nightmares. "See ya, Curt."

As usual, she let Stardust fall to the ground in front of the porch steps before heading inside through the front door. Upon entering the house, Carol noticed her grandmother's absence in the living room. She must have still been work, for she came home an hour or two earlier than she had anticipated. Spock went up to greet her, wagging his tail.

Since Ethel had not arrived home yet, Carol put out some more food for the dog and got herself a drink of water. She felt a pulsing throb in her lower stomach, near the space in between her legs, siganling her bladder was ready to be emptied. However, she recalled the incident the day before, and chose to hold off on her trip to the bathroom. She didn't want to experience another oddity or horror like that unless her grandmother was home.

She decided that with her grandma still at work, she would start watching Jaws now and save Alien for after dinner.

As she reentered the living room to put the VHS tape in the VCR, she glanced out the window to see that Curtis was not in sight. He must've gone inside. Inwardly, she hoped she hadn't scared him too much with the movies.

The monsters can't get you out there, Curtis, she thought. Those monsters live in outer space or the ocean or the closet, not on the street where you live. The word sewers also came to mind, but Carol disregarded it at the moment and pushed it to the back of her mind.

She popped the tape in the VCR, then headed over to the couch, where Spock lay at the foot.

Sewers, that voice echoed again, creeping back into her train of thought like a troublesome weed. There's monsters in the sewers.

AN: *Jazz hands* Okay, so I was originally going to post this next week, but I already had this, the third chapter, and most of the fourth written, so I thought what the hell and went with it anyway. Happy holidays!

I was thrilled that I finally got to write the interaction between Carol and Mike. I feel they have a lot in common and am excited to write more about their friendship. I was also pleased to include the flashback to Tabitha's Halloween party. This won't be the last she sees of Pennywise!

As for the third chapter, things get more serious, although Carol will meet yet another other Loser. I must warn that the ending of the chapter will be the most disturbing the story gets so far. You all can probably guess why.

Hermione Romanoff: I am glad to hear you liked my story! Reader input is valued, and I am always willing to hear your opinions. We'll be seeing more character development from Carol as she befriends the Losers and encounters It as the story progresses. (Also, I'm looking forward to your sequel of "Dealing With Being A Loser" and the next chapter of "A New Family").

~ Robin M.