IT 2

Title: It 2

Author: Knight Wild

Rating: M

Spoilers: Stephen King's IT

Disclaimer: I do not own any IT people or places. They all belong to the master of horror, Stephen King. I make no money off this, it's strictly for entertainment only.

The New Interlude

Derry, Maine

July 18th, 1986

The way it started again was typical, although no one in Derry knew that the evil was stirring again.

Certainly not the young girl who walked the dark streets that night.

Thirteen-year-old Cassandra Morelli had never heard of Derry's dark past; to her it was simply the small, boring town where she had been born and raised.

Where there was nothing at all to do, or so many of the kids in town thought.

It was late, nearly three in the morning. Cassie had snuck out of the house as soon as she had been certain that her parents had been soundly asleep. Thank God when they did fall asleep; they slept like the dead.

Then she had proceeded to walk over to her friend Ashley's house, 'cause her parents were out of town. Therefore, they were going to have a party.

So now, Cassie was walking home, a little buzzed. There had been no shortage of booze nor pot at the party.

So she was too out of it, to hear the footsteps behind her.

She did hear however, when the growling voice spoke.

"What is a little girl doing out here so late by herself?"

Startled; scared, Cassie spun. Off-balance because of the drugs and alcohol, however, she stumbled, falling hard to the pavement.

The voice spoke again. "Don't you know that little girls can get hurt when they're alone?"

Her eyes wild, Cassie whipped her head around, trying to locate the source of the voice. She was scrambling backwards, crab-like on the side-walk, unmindful of her scraped and cut hands and legs.

Okay, I'm on Witcham, nearly home, if I can get up, and run, maybe I can make it. Or it doesn't matter, just get-

But her thought was suddenly cut off as the light suddenly exploded from the darkness. Illuminating everything.

Even if she didn't want to see it.

Cassandra Morelli began to scream, or tried to. Nothing left her throat, and her eyes bulged, as she stared at the nightmare in front of her.

"I'll take you home, young lady. And I'll even give you a balloon! Don't worry, they're not only free, but they float."

And Cassandra Morelli no longer had any complaints about Derry.

Boston, Massachusetts

July 19th, 1986

The phone was ringing.

After the first fifteen rings, Angela Morelli gave up hope that the caller would hang up, so she picked up the receiver.

"'Lo?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Angie?"

The voice made her sit up sharply in bed. It was familiar, yet she hadn't heard it in years.

"Rob?" she asked stupidly. Of course it was him.

"Yeah. It's me."

Angie was about to ask how he was, but the tone of his voice made her stop.

Something was wrong.

Quietly, switching on her bedside lamp, she asked. "What's going on Rob? What's wrong?"

Silence, a long terrible silence. Then she heard a dreadful choking noise, and realized that her older brother was crying.

"Rob!" she said, fear penetrating her bones, leaving her chilled. Something had to be terribly wrong, for him to be crying, for him to have called her.

"Cassie…"

She went still. "What about Cassie?" her voice was harsh, not sounding at all like herself.

"S-She's dead, Ange. My little girl is dead."

At those words, everything around her went distant and vague.

"Angie?"

With difficulty, Angie realized that Rob was talking to her. She swiped the tears off her face, even though they continued to stream down.

"Yeah, I'm still here. What happened?"

"Someone killed her. M-Murdered her," Rob gave a gasping half-breath, "Oh god, they hurt her so badly."

Angie's eyes closed tightly.

"Will you c-come home for the f-funeral," there was a silence as her brother fought to compose himself. "I know that we had our differences over the years, but C-Cassie loved you."

Angie gripped the receiver so tightly she was surprised it didn't shatter. "Of course I'll come."

"It's… it's in two days. So…"

"I'll leave tonight. Hang in there… Robby."

Her brother then totally dissolved into tears, and had to hang up.

But that was okay, because Angie was sobbing as well as she pictured her beautiful niece dead.

Murdered.

By that vicious fuck Pennywise.

By the time she finally regained some semblance of control, it was an hour later. She hurried around her apartment, yanking out clothes and shoving them into her suitcase.

When she had everything packed, she finally made the call she had been dreading.

It rang about six times, Angie was patient though, she knew that Paul would be asleep, and waited.

Finally, on the eleventh ring, a sleep-choked voice said, "Hello?"

"Hey, Paul."

"Angie?" she could picture him, squinting around in the darkness at his alarm clock. "Do have any idea what time it is?"

"Yeah," she said, glancing at her wristwatch, "It's 3:20 a.m."

"Well, what in the hell-"

Angie cut him off. "Rob just called me."

More silence. Then a rustling noise; he was sitting up.

"Rob called you?"

Paul knew about the rift between Angie and her brother because, he too, had grown up in Derry with them.

Paul Nichols had been Angie's best friend, and still was.

They had ran to Boston together, years ago, and remained here ever since.

So Paul knew all of Angie's secrets, and she knew his.

"Yeah, um…" Angie's voice began to thicken and she realized she was crying again. "Cassie. Cassie's dead."

The silence on the other end was full of shock this time.

"How?"

"Murdered."

She heard Paul draw in a quick breath. Then slowly, he said. "Pennywise."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Angie said quietly through her tears.

She bit down hard on her lip until she tasted blood, salty and metallic.

"I'm going back… for the funeral."

"I'm coming with you." Paul said immediately.

She smiled weakly. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Whatever happens," he continued in a low voice. "We face it together."

Again. He didn't say it, but Angie knew he was thinking it.

She whispered. "Remember what happened

June 28th, 1958

"last time you did that, Paul, you fell out of the fuckin' tree, and you broke your ankle," Angie put her hands on her hips, "And we couldn't do anything 'til you got the goddamn cast off."

Despite her words, there was amusement in Angie's voice.

Dropping out of the tree as easily as a monkey, Paul gave her an affected scowl.

Which had no effect on her whatsoever.

Paul raised an eyebrow, "What do you wanna do then?"

"Usually I'd say play in the Barrens, but there's been a buncha other kids down," she paused, looked up at the sky, which was slowly turning dark, and gave a mischievous smile.

"Wanna go tag the Canal?"

Now, years later, safe in her apartment, Angie whispered. "It was a dumb idea."

"How where we to know that a homicidal clown would be under the Canal?"

Angie was silent.

Paul correctly interpreted the silence, "There was nothing we could've done," he said gently. "Just as there was nothing you could've done for Cassie."

Angie didn't say anything; couldn't really as she was crying again, and was struggling to regain control.

But she didn't need to speak, as this was Paul, her best and closest friend. They could read each other so well, there was no need for words.

"When are we leaving?" Paul asked.

"Four thirty." she whispered.

"Okay. I'm packing right now, and then I'll be over," he paused. "All right?"

"Yeah."

Then she hung up, placed her head in her hands, and gave herself completely over to sorrow.

Richie's pool party- Interrupted

Los Angeles, California

July 19th, 1986

"Oooh-hoo is everybody having fun to-night?"

The gathered crowd gave a happy affirmative.

Of course you could not be having fun, what with 99 of your guests totally wasted, Richie thought. He was more than a little buzzed himself.

He, Richard Tozier, the man of a Thousand voices, was the host of this little soiree, and also the guest of honor, so to speak.

He was celebrating his recent purchase of KLAD radio, where he was still a disc jockey, but now also the owner.

He was celebrating with a few friends of course. Everyone getting drunk, on his booze and swimming in Richie's pool, a recent acquisition

Except that your best friends aren't here, are they Rich?

Richie frowned, his hand clenched tightly around a rather superb margarita.

He shook his head, as if to clear it, and drained his glass.
Dived headfirst into the pool.

You know, the whisper inside his head spoke again, your oldest and dearest friends? Bill Denbrough, Beverly Marsh, Mike Hanlon, and Ben Hanscom? You know, the voice seemed to turn sly now, your old friends from Derry?

Richie stiffened, and frantically burst to the top of the water. He scrambled out of the pool, and ignoring everyone, ran to another part of his house, shoving several people out of the way as he went.

Stan Uris and Eddie Kaspbrak, they were your friends too. But they're

"Dead." Richie croaked, as he sprinted into his bedroom, and then into his private bathroom.

Where he promptly got sick.

Mr. And Mrs. Benjamin Hanscom

Hemingford Home, Nebraska

July 19h, 1986

"Stop it." she said, trying to sound stern, but failing miserably.

Ben Hanscom grinned cheerfully at his wife who was sitting snugly next to him on their leather sofa. "Whatever do you mean?"

Beverly gave him a glare. "You know what I mean, buster. Keep those hands to yourself. Or you'll spend the night on the couch."

But despite the glare, there was laughter in her tone.

Ben tried for a solemn and innocent expression. "Yes, ma'am."

But apparently, his face wasn't all that solemn or innocent, as Beverly burst out laughing, making her blue-gray eyes sparkle with happiness, and her cheeks flush.

Ben was about to suggest moving things up to the bedroom when the telephone rang.

"Shall we ignore it?" he suggested hopefully.

Still laughing, Beverly shook her head; pointed to the phone.

Reluctantly, Ben got to his feet and answered. "Hanscom residence."

Beverly watched with alarm as blood drained from his face. It wasn't a gradual thing either, it was sudden, abrupt, scaring the hell out of her.

"Ben?" she whispered.

His eyes flicked toward her, and her fear increased into terror as she realized that he was afraid as well.

"Hello, Mike. Can't say that your voice… well, it's a surprise. And not a good one."

Mike…? Beverly frowned. Who was Mike…

Then, suddenly, as if she was slapped with it, memories flooded her mind.

Mike, Michael Hanlon from your old home town of Derry, Maine, Bevvie. He was a friend of yours. You, Mike, Ben, and four, yes, four others, there was something in Derry that was terribly wrong. And we fought it.

Who was we?

Beverly sat still, her own face gone dreadfully pale now.

Ben was talking to Mike, unaware.

Bill, she thought suddenly, Bill Denbrough, he was one of my friends. He stuttered… kids called him Stuttering Bill.

But we called him Big Bill.

I had a crush on him, too. He had red hair, just like mine.

Who else?

She strained to remember, but got nothing for her efforts but a headache.

A sudden click made her jump.

It was Ben replacing the receiver; his hands were trembling so badly it had fallen.

"Ben," she whispered, "What is it?"

She had never seen him like this, although she suspected she looked the same.

"Ben, what did Mike tell you?"

Finally, he turned to her, and he asked, his voice strange. "Do you even remember who Mike is?"

"Not until you said his name. Mike Hanlon… from D-Derry."

Ben flinched at the town's name.

"What did he tell you?" Beverly repeated.

"Do you remember our promise Bevvie?"

Beverly started to shake her head, but before she even started the action, froze.

In the Barrens, her hands bleeding.

Made by Stan from a shard of a broken Coca-Cola bottle.

Bill speaking, stuttering badly, "Swuh-Swear to muh-me that you'll c-c-c-ome buh-back. Swear to me that if Ih-Ih-It isn't d-d-dead, you'll cuh-home back."

Beverly couldn't precisely remember what It was at the moment, only knew in her heart, in her bones, that it had been terrible.

"Yes."

He regarded her gravely. "So you know… that we have to go back?"

She closed her eyes, the image of the boy, Bill, dancing behind her closed eyelids.

"Yes."

Big Bill

Ogunquit, Maine

July 19h, 1986

He sat silently in his office, staring at his computer screen thoughtfully.

He was supposed to be putting the finishing touches on his latest novel, but he had been preoccupied, much more important things on his mind lately.

It had began with his wife, Audra, leaving him four months ago.

Neither of them were completely sure why their marriage had ended, but it was for certain that Audra was afraid. A lot.

So much that she shuddered when he touched her.

Bill was confused; he had done nothing to make Audra afraid of him, but she was still the same.

At first.

Then recently, two weeks ago, everything had came flooding back to him.

The Losers Club, Richie, Mike, Beverly, Ben… and their dead members Stan and Eddie.
Fighting against IT. The promise that he extrapolated from them at the tender age of eleven.

He remembered Georgie, the paper boat…

He remembered everything.

He gave up on the novel, and wandered downstairs just as the phone rang.

And somehow, someway, he knew who was on the other end.

He picked up the receiver, striving for calm, but his hand was shaking.

"Hello Mike." he said quietly.

There was silence on the other end. Shocked silence, Bill supposed.

"Hello Bill. How did you know I was calling?"

"I don't know. I just did."

"So it seems that you remember me?" Mike asked.

Bill smiled to himself. It was a grim smile, the way someone might smile at a funeral.

"Bill?" Mike sounded worried.

"I'm still here. Yeah, I remember. I remember everything."

More silence followed this pronouncement, longer and deeper this time.

"Everything," Mike's voice was weak and unsteady, "You remember everything?"

"Yes," Bill paused, "Why, what about you?"

"I remembered names, flashes of our childhood, and last summer but…" Mike was quiet for a moment, "If you can remember, then what was the names of the other kids?"

"Michael Hanlon, Richie Tozier, Beverly Marsh, Ben Hanscom, Eddie Kaspbrak, and Stan Uris. We called ourselves the Losers Club. We fought a thing named Pennywise, or IT the summer of 1985, after my younger brother George was killed." Bill replied promptly.

More silence this time. Deep, deep silence.

"How did you-?" Mike cut himself off.

"Remember? I didn't, not until about two weeks ago," his voice turned serious, "But I doubt you're calling to ask if I remember the names of our old chums. It's starting up again, isn't it?"

"Yes. Why I don't know. I was sure you had finished IT last summer, but even if we hadn't, it shouldn't have started again for thirty more years, remember?"

"Yes. And I know I killed IT. I ripped it's fuckin' heart out. So whatever's happening, it's something new."

"Yes."

"Who's died?"

"So far, just one. A thirteen-year-old girl named Cassandra Morelli. Brutal, though, typical of IT."

Bill could sense, feel the hesitation in Mike's voice, he was holding something back.

"Spill it, Mikey."

He takes a long drawn-out breath. "You sitting down, Bill?"

"Yes." Bill swallowed, or tried to. But there was simply no saliva in his mouth.

Mike cleared his throat, "Her body was found on the left side of Witcham street, by a stormdrain. Her left arm had been-"

"Torn off." Bill finished in a soft, toneless sort of voice.

He was glad that he was sitting down, as his world had turned gray and shadowy when Mike relayed his grim information.

Oh, George.

IT, or whatever this new horror was, was screwing with them indeed.

Years ago, when Bill was only ten, Derry had been under a terrible rainstorm. Bill had a nasty case of influenza at the time, but his younger brother, George, who was six, had asked him to make a paper boat. So he could sail it down the rain-swollen gutters of Witcham and Jackson Street, where they had lived.

Bill had complied, but had been unable to go out with him, as he had been too ill to even get out of bed.

An hour later, a man named Dave Gardner would hear agonizing shrieks, and find Georgie dead on the pavement on the left side of Witcham street…

With his left arm ripped off.

He closed his eyes, mired in the muck of those memories. "I'll fly out tonight."

Mike hesitated again. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Why else would we be remembering," he paused, "Have you called the others?"

"Just Ben and Beverly. They're married, now. Living in Nebraska."

Bill nodded. He expected this, probably even knew it on some level, but it was still painful knowledge as he recalled Beverly's face.

Their night together last summer…

She's married to Ben now, and she's finally happy, so stop your fucking whining.

"I'll call Richie." Bill said now, gazing around his house.

He wondered if this was the last time he'd ever see it.

Not that he minded, really. It really wasn't his house, not anymore. Just a place he worked, and fought with his demons.

"All right. Bill, is Audra going to be okay with this?"

"Yeah. We, uh, got divorced two months ago."

Mike was silent, "I'm sorry, Bill."

"She was afraid… of me. But neither of us could remember. Or at least I couldn't until two weeks ago. But never mind that. I'll see you tonight, or in the morning Mikey."

Bill hung up; aware that he had probably left Mike feeling uncomfortable. But he'd reassure him that he was coping with the newly finalized divorce just fine when he got to Derry.

Oh yeah, it's been what… four, nearly five months since Audra first left your sorry ass, and you still wake up every morning, when you CAN get to sleep, hoping that everything was a bad dream. The little voice, the highly annoying one whispered in the back of his head.

Shut up, Bill mentally replied, Just shut up.

And you go into her closet sometimes because it still smells like her perfume, and you worry what will happen when it fades… the little voice continued happily.

"Shut up!"

Chagrined, Bill realized that he had shouted that thought. Luckily, there was no one in the house to hear his irrational outburst.

This large empty house. Audra had been so eager to get away from him, she'd gave him the house, money… everything…

Just to escape from him.

Calming himself, he picked up his address book, and flipped through until he reached the T's.

He smiled when he found the entry he was looking for.

In his neat, cursive handwriting, was written:

Richie (Trashmouth) Tozier # (901) 365-1846

He dialed.

It rang for quite some time before a strange, croaky voice answered, rather cautiously.

"Hello?"

Bill frowned, and asks, uncertain he has the right number. "Richie?"

"Yeah, who is…" Rich trailed off, and was quiet for a moment. Contemplating things.

Then he said. "Hey Big Bill. How are you?"

"Better than you, from the sound of it." Bill replied, feeling concerned.

Richie let off a high-pitched crazy-sounding laugh that sounded dangerously close to hysterics.

"You okay, Rich?" Bill asked quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I'm great. I'm fine. I'm-"

"Starting to remember, aren't you? Some of it?" Bill said softly, firmly.

There was an audible swallow on the other end of the line.

"Remember," the earlier not of hysteria was clear and present now. "Remember? Some things, yeah, I do. Just little fucking things, like the names of my friends, my hometown…" he stopped, frustration thick in his voice. "And that there was something bad there, in Derry, and we fought it. But-but I can't remember anything else."

Bill thought for a moment. He told Mike that he'd arrive in Derry tonight, but by the sounds of things, it would probably be better to fly to L.A., and talk Richie down off this emotional ledge. He sounded strung-out and ready to shatter into a million pieces.

He'd call and explain to Mike that he was making a detour. Then he and Richie could go to Derry together.

"Rich." he spoke now.

"Yeah?" Richie sounded no less calmer then when he began his tale.

"I'm gonna come out and see you, man, okay? We'll talk, get drunk, whatever."

Stillness on Richie's end, an absolute hush.

"Richie?"

"You don't have to do this Bill." Embarrassment was there now.

"I know I don't have to. I want to. Remember," he added quietly, "You were there for me once, too."

Of course, he was talking about the time after Georgie died, and Bill literally sobbed on Richie's shoulder.

"Okay?" Bill prodded.

"Fine, you win," Richie said. He sounded tired, defeated… and relieved. "Come on over to my house Big Bill."

More coming up...that is if you want it.