Chapter 4: Ridin' Fences
"And freedom, oh freedom, well that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walking through this world all alone"
-Eagles, "Desperado"
She was flying down the endless stretch of pavement and the houses that lined it like guards at a post, going on and on like an infinite loop. However, these flew by to the point where they blurred together into indistinguishable colors in the corners of her peripheral vision. Carol ignored her surroundings and just kept on running. That was all that mattered really, that and the direction to the safety of her home. She had devoted her mind so intently to this task that all other rational thoughts had since exited her brain. She never once felt exhaustion, just fear. Fear, tingling her spine. Fear, rattling her brain. Although, she had since forgotten what she was afraid of.
She had never stopped running, even when her street came into view and with it, her house. Even when she had secured a safe distance between whatever danger she was running from
(the clown)
and herself. Carol sprinted up her road, making a mad dash for the front porch of the Perkins residence. Her breath was catching in her throat painfully, and she felt like she was inhaling mustard, but her body was fueled by fear and adrenaline. And after all, she was the fastest girl in Derry. The rush of air berating her face froze the sweat induced by the heat of the day on her skin. Sprinting up the porch steps, she pounded her fists on the front door repeatedly, hoping, praying that her grandmother was home.
After a few agonizing seconds, Ethel Perkins finally opened the front door, her face bewildered at her granddaughter's current state and appearance.
"Goodness gracious, sweetheart!" Ethel exclaimed in stunned surprise. "Carol, what on Earth is the matter?"
It took her a few moments to regain her breath, overexertion and panic snatching the precious oxygen away from her desperate lungs. Never once during her flee did her legs tire, but now they seemed to melt, reduced to the composition of jelly. Taking one large gulp of air, she answered, "There was a dog chasing after me." It was a lie, but then again, Ethel chose to believe all the lies her Carol Denise told. "It was a big brute, like a guard dog or something, and it chased me all the way here from a few blocks down while I was walking home."
Ethel, still stunned and eyes widened with shock, brought her gaze down to Carol's feet. "Honey, where's your shoe?"
She followed her grandmother's gaze down, finally noticing and remembering that Dead Betty had grabbed her right shoe back behind the house on Neibolt Street. The image of the missing girl, her lower half torn away, unwillingly reentered her thoughts. She had not at all perceived running all the way to the Perkins' house with only one shoe, and now she felt the throbbing pain on the sole of her foot from pounding it against the pavement repeatedly in her mad dash home.
"Oh," she replied, unable to conjure a sufficient answer on the spot. "It must've fallen off, I guess."
While Ethel appeared to believe this lie, her eyes still glimmered with worry. "Did it bite you?" she pressed. "Are you okay? I can make you some lemonade, if you like-"
"I'm fine Grandma, trust me," she said, cutting her off. "Really, nothing's the matter. I just wanna be alone for a little while."
Alone. God, that was such an awful word. It was a deafening silence, holding echos and whispers of all the words left unsaid. It was a bottomless pit, an empty chasm, a black hole that vacuumed you in without you even realizing it until it was too late. And when the darkness and emptiness consumed you, there was no escape. Not ever.
Her grandmother nodded in understanding, although she sensed she was still perplexed at the whole situation. "Oh, okay dear. If you need anything, give me a holler."
Carol nodded and easily maneuvered around her grandmother through the front door, journeying off in the direction of her bedroom. When she had reached it, she sat down on the soft, comforting surface of her bed and brought one leg up closer to her, clutching her throbbing foot and ankle. It hurt like a bitch, but she decided to ignore the pain for the time being and try to take her mind off of lingering on the traumatic events that occurred earlier that day.
Rummaging through her discarded pack, she withdrew her Walkman, the wires of her headphones dangling limply like minuscule black snakes. She inserted them into her ears and pressed Play. Music was her escape route, for it could always managed to drag her mind away from whatever anxious thoughts plagued her and send her into her own safe, isolated world.
A few songs played, and she listened intently, her legs swaying back and forth from where she sat on the edge of her bed. After a couple, a slower, softer song resonated from the speakers, and she recognized instantly.
Pain from pearls, hey little girl
How much have you grown?
Pain from pearls, hey little girl
Flowers for the ones you've known
It was one of Carol's favorite songs. While the majority of the songs she enjoyed were deep in some sense, "Kid Fears" by Indigo Girls really hit home for her. She had discovered it the year prior, driving back into Derry with her grandmother after a visit to her parents' house. It had been a rainy, nighttime drive, and the music drifted softly from Ethel's car's radio speakers as Carol stared out the window pattered with rain into the dark treeline that whizzed by endlessly.
Are you on fire
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
"Kid Fears", in a sense, was like Carol's night song. She would listen to it often upon the sun's dying rays finally succumbing to the climbing darkness of the twilight horizon, staring out the feeble glass pane of her bedroom window on the carpeted floor as she gazed out into the town she called home, or past ten o'clock in the pitch-black shadows of her room, comfortably secured under her sheets.
But most often it would be at night, outside on the swings in her backyard, the ones she so frequently usef in her earlier childhood (which her grandmother had not yet removed). Carol would often sneak outside while Ethel Perkins was sound asleep and sit on one of the swings in her backyard when she was plagued with insomnia, seeking some peace of mind, Walkman in hand. She would sit there, at the increasingly rusted seat of the swings, the earbuds of her Walkman plugged in her ears, swinging back and forth gently in the night with the Walkman in her lap in silence, the soft voice of Indigo Sisters crooning softly into her ears. It seemed almost out of place to have been playing it in broad daylight. Needless to say, she perceived chills during the next verse.
Secret staircase, running high
You had a hiding place
Secret staircase, running low
They all know, now you're inside
("Carol, there's something floating!")
The clown. That fucking clown. She was almost entirely positive it was the exact same one that she had seen walking home from Tabitha Amherst's Halloween party on Witcham Street back in November, five months before. It was surely too much of a coincidence, right? But Carol simply did not understand how that was even connected to the horror she witnessed not even an hour before; her heart still hammered relentlessly like a beating drum from the sheer fright of it.
Are you on fire
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Kid fears
And the children, they had been all the missing kids: Donna, George Denbrough, Betty Ripsom, the whole box set. It was as if the occurence had been retrieved directly from one of Carol's childhood nightmares, as vivid and as mortifying as it had been in the darkest and most wildest depths of her imagination. Perhaps that was all that it had been, her imagination. Maybe she did not see undead children behind the abandoned house on Neibolt Street. It was quite possible she even conjured the clown within her wildly creative mind, maybe even back in November.
Carol did have a vivid imagination.
Skipping stones, we know the price now
Any sin will do
How much further, if you can spin
How much further, if you are smooth
But no, that wasn't it, it just couldn't be. Whatever that thing that she saw was, her deepest, darkest fears, had been there; tangible and able to touch. As if to affirm this internal statement to herself, she brought one hand back down to her bruising ankle, the one the shredded corpse of Betty Ripsom gripped as her hand shot out of the earth.
Are you on fire
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
("Now gimme your legs!")
How had dozens of zombie children vanished into the thin air in the backyard of the decrepit abode in the blink of an eye, a clown appearing out of nowhere and charging toward her at an impossible speed? And yet, somehow she was able to outrun it, outdistanced it until she had reached the safety of her home. Maybe it was because she was, as she always assured herself confidently, the fastest girl in all of Derry. Or perhaps she just simply believed that and continued to do so.
It was then that she realized with mounting puzzlement that she internally referred to the clown as it. Not he, or even she, but it.
Replace the rent with the stars above
Replace the need with love
Replace the anger with the tide
Replace the ones, the ones, the ones, that you love
Was this the cause of her increasing feeling of dread, the reason behind her sense that something evil was lurking in Derry? Of course, everything was off about Derry; she had lived there permanently for over five years, which was plenty long enough to feel the secrets, the hate boiling beneath the surface down below. She wondered how the people who had called their town of residence their lifelong home could bear it.
The ones that you love
Are you on fire
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Was it all connected? The blood rising in the toilet? Spock barking at the sewer grate? The dancing clown five months ago? The incident at Neibolt that day? Maybe even the disappearances of the missing kids? No matter how desperately hard she tried to deny it, that little inner voice told her otherwise. Yes, she had a strong feeling that it was. And as the song reached its final verse, she lied down on her bed, grasping a pillow and letting herself sink into it. Sinking, that's what she felt like. Not
(floating)
hurting, not petrified with fear, but sinking.
Are you on fire
From the years
What would you give for your
Kid fears
What would you give for your
Kid fears
What would you give for your
Kid fears
You can't feel
The kids
As the song ended and yet another began to emit from her trusty Walkman, Carol Chamblers had never been left so confused or alone.
"But none of this makes any sense," Carol whispered to herself, voicing wavering.
No, none of it does.
…
Nine year old Curtis Crowley reopened his eyes for what had to be the umpteenth time in the darkness of his bedroom. Growing paranoid, he stole a glance over on the clock on his nightstand. In the very faint glow that illuminated from his nightlight, he could read the hands at ten twenty-five. It was way past his bedtime, but he just couldn't fall asleep.
Curtis never had insomnia before, and he was not sure what was plaguing his consciousness that night. He had slept well the previous night, and the night before that, and so on. Nothing was particularly bothering him (not that he was aware of) and his mind was not occupied. It was just whenever he tried to close his eyes, his lids wanted to reopen themselves again.
He turned over under the sheets of his twin bed, shifting around to find a comfortable and durable position to fall asleep in. His eyes remained wide open, each pose he attempted not inducing the exhaustion necessary to fall unconscious.
He was becoming well aware of his throat being quite parched, the back of his esophagus scratching irritably. He needed a drink of water. Maybe after getting hydrated, he could finally manage to fall asleep peacefully and successfully. Climbing out of bed, Curtis made his way down the stairs in the darkness of the silent house.
His mother was sound asleep up in her bedroom, tired of a day's work in addition to caring for her only son. As for his father, he was still at his job. His dad was always at work. Dirk Crowley was a truck driver, often away from his wife, son, and home, on the road day and night. Curtis occasionally went for a few days without ever seeing his father.
His mother dealt with this well, for Violet Crowley had always been more of an independent woman, despite her docile nature. She was a very silent person, preferring to sit back and watch everything unfold with an uncertain look in her eyes and a rather nervous smile on her lips. Curtis never knew the reason behind his mother's timid and introverted behavior; he just assumed she had always been like that.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, Curtis carefully navigated himself through the dark, shadowy house to the kitchen. In a far corner, he could faintly make out the outline of the family cat, a rather fluffy black and white one christened Sylvester, treading to his designated sleeping space on the kitchen mat. Upon entering the room, he grabbed a nearby chair to hoist himself up to the cabinet where the glasses were kept, far out of his grasp.
A faint noise in the shadows caught his attention in his overly alert and awake state. He whipped his head around to glare into the pitch-black hallway beyond the kitchen, where it was impossible to distinguish anything that would be in there. But the sound had been so surreptitious and subtle that he dismissed it as a noise from outdoors, choosing a glass and stepping back down. After all, it was probably just the cat.
Curtis headed over to the refrigerator, getting his drink, listening to the glass fill and the gentle hum of the icebox in the dead silent kitchen. Once it had been filled to the rim, he brought the cup to his lips.
The water didn't taste like water at all. It was bitter, thick, and had an undesirable metallic tang. He immediately spat it out with disgust, wrinkling his nose and pursing his lips as if he shoved an entire lemon into his mouth.
Eww, dirty water!
He glanced down at his cup and yes, the water was dark and murky when it should've been clear and clean. Tentatively, he stuck his finger in, getting a few drops on his finger, and brought it up closer to his eyes. It smelled metallic, yes, like iron. Like liquid rust.
His heart froze, ice freezing his veins, arteries, insides, skin.
It was blood.
The glass slipped from his grasp, falling to the floor and shattering into dozens of bloodstained shards. The dark, crimson, liquid contents splattered on the kitchen floor and refrigerator with a splash, painting everything within a three foot radius with scarlet gore. Curtis stared down at the mess he had created with shock and horror, his hands coated with blood, as well as his legs. His terror only grew when Sylvester erupted a menacing hiss from the other side of the kitchen.
"Curtis…"
His eyes, which beheld the frightened look of a cornered rabbit, were drawn once again to the dark hallway beyond. Even in his petrified state, he could've sworn he could detect a faint, whispery, inhuman voice emit from the impenetrable darkness.
Then, something became clearer as something, or someone, came into his line of vision. A dark, looming figure was emerging from the shadows of the hallway into the kitchen, and in front of it was a rather brightly colored object. When it stepped into the dim lighting, he realized with a sickening, terrifying jolt what it was.
Oh God, it's an alien. Except it wasn't like the aliens Curtis recognized in most pop culture. It wasn't neon green with insect-like black eyes, an enlarged head, with a humanoid figure. Oh no, it was a far cry from those aliens. It was much larger than he could ever imagine, with a dark, skeletal, extraterrestrial body that seemed almost mechanical. Its head was elongated, with a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth and soulless eyes, and its tail whipped back and forth dangerously. Curtis knew, without a shadow of doubt, that this was the alien, like from the movie that Carol Chamblers from down the street had told him about.
He wanted to scream. God, how he longed to scream. But his mind had gone blank, his throat dry, his legs paralyzed, fingers numb. Poor nine year old Curtis Crowley was experiencing the utmost terror that mankind could perceive. In his fright, he had shut down completely, his mind a clean slate, unable to think of anything else except perceive the abomination in front of him. And yet, he didn't feel the fear, or at least not any more. He didn't feel anything. Fear had made him numb.
The alien nudged the vibrant red object floating in front of its face with its head, and the near circular shape drifted out of the concealment of the shadows over to where Curtis stood planted to the kitchen tiles. It stopped right in front of his face, until all he could see was red.
It was a balloon.
"Do you like it, Curtis?" the voice rasped again. This time, he was certain he wasn't imagining it. "It floats. Isn't that nifty, Curt?"
He desperately wanted to smack the balloon out of his face, but his arm couldn't move, trembling each time he attempted to lift it.
"I could take you up in my spaceship, Curty." He could hear the sound of footsteps as it came closer. "Then we could float together. In space, everything floats!"
A scream was building up in his throat as he gradually regained control of his senses. He opened his mouth to cry for his mom, when the balloon drifted away from his face, revealing the alien only feet from where he stood. Its mouth was open ajar slightly, revealing those dreaded teeth, something akin to saliva oozing between them and onto the previously spick and span kitchen tiles.
"Your mommy won't hear you," the alien told him, its voice almost mocking. "Adults choose what they want to hear, Curtis." It was leaning into him now, its elongated head dangerously close. "And in space, no one can hear you scream."
The little boy was trembling. He felt the crotch and legs of his pajama pants dampen with warmth as his bladder let go, the most visible sign of his petrifying fear besides his shaking and pale face. From his mouth emitted one word, barely audible and shaky with horror and childlike uncertainty. "Mom…?"
The alien's mouth was inches away from his, the oozing substance from its mouth dripping onto his pajama shirt. And somewhere in his mind, he recalled what It had said.
"In space, everything floats!"
"Mom?" he blurted out, slightly more certain this time, as well as frightened. The alien's mouth was opening. "Mom?! Mommy?!" And like It had said, nobody ever heard him scream. Not his mother, nor any of the surrounding neighbors.
The last thing Curtis Crowley knew of was teeth.
The kitchen clock read ten thirty-one. From within the darkness, Sylvester the cat licked his paw before trotting off to some other room. All was quiet.
AN: I meant to post this a few days ago, but my break just ended, and I was extremely busy. Updates will usually be a week or two apart now that school is up again. Also, I apologize if this seemed a little rushed, for I wanted to post the fourth chapter as soon as I could, and I will probably go back and edit it once it is.
This was a shorter chapter, but I promise the next one will be longer. I felt like the song "Kid Fears" really gives off strong Carol vibes to me, so I incorporated it into this chapter (and the title).You all will be excited for it, I'm sure. I won't say why, but you can probably guess.
Also, before I forget, happy New Year everybody!
For those wondering if I'm pairing Carol with one of the Losers and which one, I am trying to see where I can fit it in the story line. Personally, I think Carol could be paired with any of the Losers and it'd be great. I even made a chart and the pros and cons of each possible relationship (I know I'm a nerd, I'm proud of it!). I am very shipping indecisive and if I decide to pair her with one, I am going to have to see where it fits in the plot, which shouldn't be hard. I can't promise anything, but I will try to write in a little romance for those who want it, at the least a crush.
Also thanks to all those that reviewed, favorited, followed, or even read this story. Your support really motivates me!
Hermione Romanoff: Again, thanks for the feedback! I'm glad you are enjoying my story. She WILL meet more Losers in the next chapter as we reenter movie canon.
~ Robin M.