Chapter Seven: Coulrophile
It is a full ten minutes before I even lift my head to take in the altered room around me. I've only ever been as far as the kitchen and the basement before, and the deep places beneath the house. But what I saw had been old and rotting and decrepit and abandoned. The home of rats, mold, dust mites and one very bad tempered monster. But the moment my eyes adjust to the lack of illumination, I can see immediately that this room has been changed beyond belief. Heavy cream colored drapes partly cover the windows. There's a fireplace in here, and it looks as though it's never even been used. But there seems to be wood stacked nearby. I didn't bring a lighter. Just this dress and these shoes and the doll I gave you. But I get to my feet and carefully make my way to the hearth, the high heels sinking into a luxurious rug that I'm positive didn't even exist an hour ago. I kick off my shoes to enjoy the sensation, and my sore feet are immediately enveloped in warmth and comfort. Wow. For a crumbling haunted house, this is a dream bedroom.
I kneel down by the fireplace, somehow not even surprised to find long wooden matches in an ornate metal container to one side. I light one, poking it at the kindling already laid neatly across the grate, and within moments a warm yellow light begins to suffuse the room. The long match still burning in my hand, I stand up and look around for a candle or…..yep, there's an oil lamp on the antique bureau to my right. I fumble the glass hurricane off to expose the wick, and light it. This room is something straight out of a Victorian painting. Holding the lamp in my hand, I move through the flickering shadows to explore your handiwork. Outside, the rain has only intensified, running in rivulets down the glass panes of the windows. There's another lamp, and I light that too. Then a third. And finally, I can see everything.
An immense four-poster bed dominates one side, covered with an indigo coverlet turned back at one corner to reveal pristine white sheets. No rats making a nest in here. I wonder if you create this kind of splendor for yourself, when you're alone. Or is it just for me? Are you showing off? I run a hand over one of the soft pillows, my fingers sinking into the first silk-covered down I have ever touched. The best room I'd ever stayed in had been the guest bedroom of my Aunt Kathy's house. But it was nothing like this. Nothing. I move my hands down the full length of the bed, a little stunned at the sheer size of it. A full grown rhino could bed down here and have room to spare. But of course….you probably create everything a little bigger than normal because you yourself are so huge. For some reason, that thought makes me shiver despite the warmth of the room.
Don't think about the big killer clown reclining in bed. Do you even own pajamas? Jesus Christ, Bevie. Stop it. What the hell is the matter with me? You're hideous. I hate you. You're a lethal miracle with too many teeth and the temperament of a pissed off cobra. You're not my friend. You're my enemy. Right?
I move away from the bed, hugging myself. Feeling a little disoriented for a moment. Guilty, almost, for experiencing that persistent tingle of excitement in the back of my mind. You haven't killed me. You made the room comfortable for me. You're going to bring me food. It makes no sense in the world why I should feel safer here than I ever have before. Maybe it's because you're the biggest nightmare on the planet, and even the horrible memories of bullies and daddy don't hold up when compared to orange eyes and black claws. When you come back, fed and having had a chance to think all this over, I have no doubt that you'll want to talk. Should I be scared? Probably a lot more than I am. Bathe. You told me to bathe. I move past an ornate writing desk and a velvet loveseat to try the glass knob of one of the doors leading off the main room.
Nope. Closet. But it's an important find. There are medical supplies in here, even a little brown bottle with the word 'morphine' printed neatly on one side. Where the hell did you get your knowledge of healing? The nineteenth century? On a shelf, folded and stacked, are fresh towels and sheets. Long dresses hang from an iron bar. Boots are lined up below. A basket holds soap, lotion, a silver-backed hairbrush. What the actual hell….you really are from a wholly different era. But somehow, I find it perfectly fitting with the rest of the strangeness that surrounds you. Did you slip off to a place like this to devour the rest of Georgie? Maybe have a nap afterwards while you digested your meal, oblivious to the frantic shouting and searching of the little boy's family in the streets of Derry. I gather a towel, soap, a folded flannel nightgown that looks like something my great grandmother might have worn. How could something so evil create things of beauty? But then, are you really 'evil'? Do you even know what good and evil are? You are so alien. And only trying to eat, and be alive, and stay hidden. Are wolves and bears and crocodiles evil? They've eaten people too. Are you more animal than human?
I don't know. And my brain is too fuzzy and tired to really think about it. Fuzzy.
I reach for the bottle of morphine and open it, sniffing slightly at the unfamiliar scent. Then I take a sip. It's bitter, and I make a face and put the cap back on. My mouth is tingling. Did I drink too much? It was just a sip. But I don't know anything about the serving size of medications that haven't been readily available in hundreds of years. People these days use Tylenol to cure headaches. Is there a jar of leeches or a bottle of cocaine in here someplace too?
I close the closet and carry the items with me to try another door, holding an oil lamp in my free hand. The right room this time, a bathroom that looks just as antiquated and ornamental as the bedroom. The bathtub could accommodate the same rhino that might use the bed in another more fanciful reality. I set the lamp on a side table and lean way in to plug the drain, then spin the taps until hot clean water begins to fill the porcelain basin. This isn't a bath tub. This is a small pool. But I'm beyond questioning anything anymore. The morphine is taking effect quickly, and my limbs feel heavy. I move to the window in here to look out at the dark sky and the rain, the brief flashes of lightening in the distance where the clouds lift their wings like fireflies. Whatever fairy tale I've stumbled into, I both hope and dread that you'll make me stay.
When the tub is full, I slip off my dress. Step out of the slip, peel off the pantyhose. Remove my underwear and bra, placing everything aside on the lid of the weird looking toilet with the chain dangling nearby. Well at least this is normal-sized, leading me to believe that no, you do not in fact ever have to pee. Or maybe you just don't use a toilet. Is there a massive litter box somewhere in the house? Why am I even curious? If Bill and the others could see me now, they'd undoubtedly be horrified at the situation and perplexed at my failure to run from it. But they're not here. It's only me. And no one else is present to judge me or even note my actions and thoughts. I ease down into the bathwater until it's up to my neck, and for a few moments all I can do is close my eyes and float in the perfect deliciousness of the warmth. Heaven. This is Heaven. I hold my breath and slide under, lying on the bottom and just letting the water wash away everything. Every thought and feeling. The soreness in my body from too many nights sitting on the floor of my own bathroom rather than sleeping. Waiting through the long hours of the night for….what? Blood to spray from the drain? A shadow to cross the threshold of the door?
You were smaller that first time we truly met face to face. Closer to six and a half feet, maybe. But then, when you'd sprung from the projector in Bill's garage, you were nearly ten feet tall or more. Size is just a glamor to you, something mutable that you can adjust to any purpose. Like your appearance, like your eyes.
I don't know how long I spend in the bath, but the water is cold and my skin is wrinkled by the time I pull the plug and drain the soapy water. I step out and wrap myself in the thick towel, using it to dry my short hair. I feel like a new person, and the fear has faded completely. In fact, I'm even humming a little as I tug on the nightgown and pad over to the sink to glance at myself in the mirror above it. There's a bruise on my cheek. No idea where that came from. But the barely-forming bruises around my throat are pretty distinctive. I lift a hand to the place, measuring the difference between the length of your fingers and mine. You choked me. Hurled me down on a broken couch and then against the bannister of the stairs. But I know what you're capable of. I was there when you fought us all at the same time and damn near won. What you've done to me since I invaded your lair and sliced up my arm seems almost gentle in comparison.
I wander into the bedroom again and kneel down to add more wood to the fire. What time is it? There's no clock in here. They had clocks back then, right? When the firelight flickers up again, I straighten and walk to the bed. It's like scrambling up a mountain. I feel tired enough to sleep, but I don't want to. Not yet. Sick, broken, twisted thing that I am, I actually feel anticipatory excitement for your return. Not like a kid waiting for Santa. This is more like waiting for Krampus. But it is what it is, and I don't even bother trying to make mental excuses. I lie back against the pillows, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Maybe I'll just rest my eyes...
The smell of something that makes my stomach rumble is what awakens me. I sit up abruptly, rubbing my eyes, looking around the shadowy room for you. But I don't see you. Just a smeared pizza box on the low table by the loveseat.
"Oh my God." I pull back the covers and climb out, my eyebrows drawing together in shock. "Is that blood?"
It is. It's blood, still sticky and wet. But it's just on the box, not on the warm pizza inside. Did you kill a delivery boy or something? I'm touched. I eagerly pull out a slice and take a bite, moving to sit on the velvet cushions, almost choking in my haste. It feels like days since my last meal. Maybe it has been.
"You eat like an animal."
Your soft voice, carrying just the slightest hint of a growl, comes from the shadows of the far corner. I startle a little, turning to squint in that direction, but I don't see you until you move. Crouched like a gargoyle, I can barely make out your shape. Your light colored regalia is slick and dark with gore. I swallow.
"Did you roll on the floor of a slaughterhouse or something? You're covered in blood!"
"Every room in which I eat is a slaughterhouse."
Nodding, I take another bite of food. Chewing slowly. Bothered a little by the fact that I'm not bothered a lot.
"Want me to draw you a bath? The tub is huge enough for…"
I trail off as you shift into the light, orange eyes on me. A three-inch tongue extends from your jaws to lap at the bloody streaks on one gloved hand. Oooooooookay. Catlike, you groom yourself for a few minutes. I finish my pizza and reach for another slice.
"Did you seriously just offer to bathe me."
"I…I guess so."
"There is no physician in the world who could heal your mental sickness, Beverly." Aloof and dismissive. But not mocking. Almost casually, you rise to your feet and claw off the ruffled collar, dropping it with a wet splat on the stone near the fireplace.
You have my full attention.
"Stop it. Do not look at me as though I were a piece of meat, child, unless you wish me to do the same. And do keep in mind the fact that when I look at something as though it were meat, there is a VERY different outcome."
"How come you weren't like this when you were scaring the shit out of us five years ago?"
"Like what, precisely."
"THIS!" I point to you, then the room at large with my pizza crust. "You're like two different people! Back then you were a cackling screeching carnival nightmare! Now you're….I don't know. All cultured and stuff."
"Theatrics are more fun."
You peel off the top half of your filthy costume. I can't rip my eyes away despite your threat of a moment before. White. You're pure white even under the clothing. And there are a few scars here and there. On the wrist of your left arm is some sort of symbol. A tattoo? My puzzlement deepens. You're a huge walking, talking mystery that keeps getting more unreal with each passing moment. Glaring at me, you tug off your gloves and flex your claws. They extend, and then retract. Another catlike aspect. Not for the first time, I wonder what in the hell you really are.
"I do not normally bathe. There is no point to it. Who, exactly, is there to impress or disgust? Any of your kind that are unlucky enough to even catch sight of me are usually not long for this world. But for your sake, little morsel, I shall clean myself. I do not require assistance. Your distasteful coulrophilia is not something I wish to encourage. Were you not so advanced in years, I would assume it was the hormonal unrest of puberty coupled with post traumatic stress brought on by my consumption of that stuttering idiot's little brother and the fallout afterwards."
I blink. "Did you eat a thesaurus?"
"No. Just a five year old." You disappear into the bathroom, firmly closing the door, while I try to decipher what you just said.
"What's coulrophilia?"
Was that a sigh? Hard to tell through the door.
"Attraction to clowns. You used the term teratophile earlier, I assumed you'd researched other sick fetishes as well."
I get up from the loveseat, feeling insulted but strangely amused at the same time. You're actually TALKING to me! I'm having a conversation with Pennywise! I rest my cheek against the door, listening to you splash water on yourself. Should I be running? You just admitted to killing a child. Tonight. And probably a pizza deliveryman too.
"You know that's kink-shaming."
No answer. You don't even dignify the comment with a response. I press a little harder to the door, closing my eyes. You're really white, and the color is all over. Like a marble statue of a demon come to life. You didn't bring any clothes in there with you. Are you going to saunter out wrapped in a towel?
The door opens, and I topple against you with a gasp. Looking up at you and holding my breath. Waiting for you to explode in anger, maybe throw me across the room. Or unhinge your jaws and dazzle me into unconsciousness, my feet lifting off the floor and my eyes glazing over.
You do none of these things. Fully dressed in a clean costume conjured from thin air, you look down at me with annoyance.
"Are you trying to die?"
"N-no. I'm just…..not afraid of you."
"You will be. Are we really having this conversation again? Move aside, or I will bite your hands off."
"No you won't."
As though I weighed less than a sack of flour, you lift me off the ground by my shoulders and set me down to one side, moving past me into the room. I can't tell if you're angry or not. You always seem angry.
"Sit. Eat. We need to talk, you and I."
Slowly, I sink down onto the sofa again. You drop to your haunches on the other side of the table, and we eye one another across the bloody pizza box. There's a long pause while the fire crackles in the hearth and the rain pounds the windows.
"You are not as stupid as the rest of your kind. You have already realized that, for whatever reason, I don't want to hurt you. That does not mean I can't. It simply means I am not inclined to do so. This leaves me in rather an odd position. Unwilling to kill you, but unable to let you go. Humans live eight decades or more, barring some illness or accident. That is a very long time to put up with your presence. Especially for a creature who wishes to be left alone."
"I didn't expect you to let me live. I thought you were going to kill me."
"Beverly." My name on your tongue is uncomfortably, almost unbearably melodious. "Why do you want to die at all? You lived. You escaped. You left my hunting grounds. Your life could have gone on normally until old age claimed you. But you returned to this place that holds so few good memories for you. Why?"
I open my mouth to speak. Then close it again. Oh no. Not now. But there's no stopping it. Tears are welling up in my eyes and there's a lump in my throat that I can't get a single sound out around. I wipe at my face with the cuff of this ridiculously voluminous nightgown and try to calm down.
"Because I can't live with everything that happened. Not just you. All of it. Daddy. All of it, all of the shit and the pain and the bad things. I barely sleep. I barely eat. I'm sick of waking up every two hours in a cold sweat. I don't want to do this anymore. And I didn't want to just die some stupid and pointless death. I needed closure. You're closure."
That cold, intelligent gaze holds no judgment or pity. You simply listen. And I couldn't put into words if I wanted to how much it means to me. I draw a shaky breath, and go on.
"Things like you aren't supposed to exist. Monsters aren't real. I mean, they are…but they're always human. You aren't. You were this chilling mystery that my friends and I spent a summer chasing. And being chased by. And that was the best summer of my life. Yeah, I got away. I left. I would have been ok living with my Aunt and Uncle. But the dreams would have followed me for the rest of my life. Until I was old enough to drink myself into oblivion every night and probably die early and miserable."
"What did you dream, child?"
There's a tenderness to your voice for a moment. Or maybe I imagined it. I wipe my eyes again and sigh.
"I would dream that Daddy was chasing me. Or that he'd caught me. I'd dream of falling, of floating. I dreamed about blood fountaining out of the sink and sucking me back with it. I dreamed about you a lot. Always you, just about every night. Sometimes in my dreams, I was the one you'd caught underground, not Bill. I was the one in your claws when you offered to let the others go and just keep me. Only in those dreams, instead of staying and fighting the others would accept, and leave us alone."
Your lips part, the fangs visible now, and I am mesmerized at the sight of the tip of your tongue testing one sharp point.
"You were scarred by the past, nothing more. The dreams would have ceased in time."
"But they didn't. And after awhile, I don't know. You stopped being some hideous specter of the past and became a terrible and beautiful miracle that I wanted to see again. My only doorway out. I did try to kill myself with pills, you know. About two years ago. But I must not have taken enough, because I woke up with a killer headache a few hours later and my clothes were covered in vomit."
More silence as you ponder this, your claws lightly kneading the soft carpet. Many years from now I will come to understand that you make biscuits with your hands on anything soft when you're full and content, and the fact will make you even more endearing to me. But for now, I notice it only in some abstract way. There is a sudden bang against the window and I jump, looking toward the sound.
"Calm yourself. It is only the birch tree outside, moving with the wind. I assure you, nothing will menace you here. The ghosts even avoid this place."
"There's….such a thing as ghosts?"
For the first time, you grin at me.
"The universe holds more wonder and terror in it than your mind can comprehend, little one. Alright, very well. So you came here because you cannot heal from your past experiences, and you wished me to end your life. Where does the strange attraction come into the picture? I gave you no reason whatsoever to find me beautiful. This entire form is designed to elicit terror and revulsion. Not inspire brave young girls to swoon."
"You'll just pick on me."
"Fine. I shall simply read it in your mind later." You rise to your feet and stride to a bureau, opening the top to reveal a few crystal bottles and smooth glass ones. Selecting a vessel, you bring it back to me with a glass, effortlessly jabbing at the cork with a long-nailed finger to draw it out, and pour white wine into the cup you then hand to me. "Drink. It will steady your nerves while you listen."
I take the glass and smell it first, then accept a few small swallows of the not-unpleasant wine inside.
"You left your Aunt and Uncle's home in Portland to return here. Everyone knows this, I am assuming. You found me. A portion of what you were looking for. And now you know that you imagined nothing of what transpired the summer of your fourteenth year. I did great harm to you. You and the rest of the awful brats who followed that little fool on his mad quest to defeat me."
"I'm sorry." It's barely a whisper. My eyes are riveted to your face. Even when you're furious, there's something deeply arresting about your gaze. You draw breath in a hiss, fangs showing clearly now.
"I don't care how sorry you are. It will never be forgotten. And all of you should pay. But you, Beverly. You came to me this time. Seeking death, letting me make the decision as to what I should do with you. That changes things. You will be comfortable enough here while I consider the matter. But let there be no illusions; I am not keeping you because I particularly like you. I am keeping you because I need time to think, and you fascinate me."
I nod, my heart seeming to hold its breath.
"You fascinate me too, Pennywise." There's something almost forbidden about saying your name. We were always so careful not to speak it, as though uttering the three syllables could conjure you from the shadows to attack us.
"Come here." It's not a request. You don't make requests. Immediately I get up and move cautiously around the table. Even when you're crouching and I'm standing, you're still big enough that we are eye to eye. Slowly, I kneel down to sit on the floor next to you. This close, all the little details of your physical form come clear. The bells, red and gold, are sewn under ruffles at your elbows and wrists, and around the ruffled ankles of the costume. I reach out and touch one, hearing that menacing jingle sound softly in the stillness. The Nightmare of Neibolt Street, right here beside me. So close that I can feel you breathing.
As you did those many years ago, you sniff me. And I close my eyes and hold still for the olfactory inspection until you've finished.
Your claws click on the table when you reach for the wine glass, so small and fragile in your hand. I open my eyes to see you calmly taking a sip, watching me.
"You can eat and drink normal food?"
"I can eat and drink anything, curious human. How very full of questions you are."
My cheeks feel hot. You didn't attack me for touching your bell. Does that mean it's alright to touch you? Maybe if I don't get my hands too close to your mouth…
So of course, being a brave fool of the first order, I reach right for your face to touch the red line on your left cheek. You don't jerk away. Your eyes narrow, but you allow this small exploration. Your skin is smooth here, soft and warm. I touch your hair, and it's as wild and coarse as a horse's mane. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. The ruffled collar is clean, freshly manifested, and the satin regalia beneath it feels thick and decadent, pale gray as cloudcover. I'm mesmerized, maybe a little too much so, because the next words out of my mouth even startle me.
"If I tried to kiss you, would you bite me?"
"Yes."
"I-I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
You thrust the wineglass into my hand and move back, putting a little distance between us.
"Because you are tired, and out of your wits with the emotional and physical exhaustion of going too long without proper food or rest. Sleep. You will have a clearer head in the morning."
I look down to your belt, where you'd tucked my doll after I gave her to you. But she's gone. I wonder if you hid her away someplace special, or just tossed her on the midden heap deep underground beneath us. My eyes turn toward the bed, then back to you.
"Where will you be while I sleep? We could share the bed if you want."
"Heart of the Void, child! What dream are you living in?!"
Stung, I fall silent. When you say nothing further I get up and meekly make my way to the bed to climb in. Once nestled under the heavy covers, I roll onto my side to look at you again. What terror this sight would bring some kid in the middle of the night. Waking up to find you crouched on the floor only a few feet away. My eyelids feel heavy. I blink them, fighting against the sleep. But I'm warm and my stomach is full for the first time in a long time. The terrible aching tension is gone from my chest. It's done. I came to find you, and find you I did. Now you're here. Whatever happens from this moment forward, I'm at peace with it.
"Will you at least be someplace nearby? I don't want to have any nightmares."
"I AM the nightmare, little daydreaming fool."
"But will you stay? I don't want to sleep unless you stay."
"Fine. I will be in the corner. You will see my eyes."
I smile, blinking slower now. And with a sigh I allow the lids to close and the sweet comfort of sleep to begin its work.
"Good night, Nightmare."
A pause, and the low growl of annoyance. But then…words.
"Good night," You say softly, reluctantly, "Dream."