Chapter 9: Return

Morning brings a wash of sunlight filtering through the broken curtain in the bathroom, and the reflected glow illuminates the bedroom with soft yellow light. I rise to wakefulness slowly. My hand is still on your chest, your hand still on top of mine, your arm still around me. I wonder if you moved a muscle at all during the night. Not speaking yet, I move my hand up to your shoulder and hug you. When you don't growl at me, I feel for your face and lightly touch your cheek.

Still no negative reaction. I have all my fingers and my head is still attached to my shoulders, the rhythm of your breathing steady. And that's what gives me pause. I slowly lean up onto one elbow, looking at you. Your eyes are closed, mouth just slightly open, the wicked gleam of your teeth showing. Are you actually…..sleeping?

Pennywise sleeps? Like any other living creature? A catnap only, because you hibernate for 27 years at a time. But you're a predator. Wouldn't your instincts have awakened you the moment I moved? Are you slipping into hibernation now? You were supposed to already be asleep for what you referred to as the Long Rest. But your injuries kept you awake. Maybe you've finally succumbed to the hibernation? I don't know. I know nothing about your physiology. I barely know anything about you at all.

Gently, I stroke your cheek. Staring at you with the kind of chest-tingling, tummy-warming love that only a childish crush on a rock star could inspire. How could I have ever thought you were ugly? The demarcation lines on your cheeks are smooth and perfect, your lips full and soft and red. White skin, the preternaturally broad forehead, your fire colored hair. I know this is twisted and deviant and sick. I know that Bill and the others would be disgusted and horrified if they knew. But I can't seem to help myself.

I lean over you, still petting your cheek, and am struck with almost unbearable adoration when I detect the faintest sound of a purr under your breath. You hiss, snarl, claw, bristle, and purr. You crouch like a cat, groom yourself like a cat. And to me it is the most precious thing in the world. Strange, beautiful, horrifying, dangerous, wonderful beast. I close my eyes and kiss you. Soft and tender, the kind of kiss I've only bestowed on one other person in my entire life; your enemy. But that's just it. He is your enemy. I'm not. I don't want to be. I want this, this right here. The sweet kiss in the morning after a night cuddled up together, the quiet vibration of your purr under my palm on your chest, my other hand on your cheek feeling the warmth of your skin. There's no biting this time, no out of control passion, no threat. Just the most delicate…..

With a snort, you abruptly awaken. And before I can pull away, there are claws shooting into my shoulder and side with an awful sting that makes me cry out. The pain is horrible, made all the worse when you jerk your hands away and withdraw the stabbing talons. I collapse back on the bed, my hands going to the injured places to protectively cover them.

"Stupid girl! What did you think would happen?!"

You are up on your knees in under a second, your strong hands on mine, pulling them away from the wounds to inspect them. I'm whimpering in pain, trying to twist away from you and failing. So immersed am I in the agony that I don't even notice you pulling apart my nightgown over my side. But the warm wetness of your tongue on the gouges relieves the stinging almost immediately. My moaning trails off in shock at the sudden relief. When you shift your weight to lap at the blood on my neck, I sniffle and hold still, closing my eyes. You keep grooming me until the pain dulls to a throb, then vanishes completely. When you are finished, rather than continuing to berate me, you pull me into your arms and cradle me like a small child. The purr has vanished, replaced with an annoyed growl that ends in a huffed sigh. I hold onto a fistful of your costume tightly, trying to will this moment to last longer. You don't apologize. You don't make any excuse for what you are or for what you did to me. But you lower your head and nuzzle my temple with your red nose for a moment, and that's everything I need. I reach up for your face again, touching your cheek. You grumble a little.

"Aggravating food."

"You said I wasn't worth eating."

"You are not worth eating. That does not negate your status as food."

"Do you always heal your food instead of chew it?"

"Shut up, Beverly. For once, just shut up."

"I love you."

"No you don't. You are unwell, and need medication."

"Were you sleeping?"

"I was simply resting, not truly asleep. You are lucky I was not asleep. I devour the first living thing near me when I awaken from the Long Rest."

"Is that what happened to Georgie?"

"He was not the first thing I ate at that particular waking. I'd eaten four others before he stumbled right into my claws. Do not bring it up again, you will only become upset and say something we will both regret."

I settle down, actually doing what you tell me for once. But I don't stop touching you. Finally, when you've had enough, you nip lightly at my fingers and lay me aside before rising to your feet.

"You will go to your home and do what we discussed last night. Be back by sundown."

"What will you do while I'm away?"

"Brood in the sewers, perhaps hunt a little. It is not your concern. I may watch you to see what you do and who you speak with. That's the beauty of it….you will simply not know."

I shiver pleasantly, delighted at the prospect of being watched. Funny, to feel this way when I used to hope against hope that you were far away from me. I scoot to the edge of the bed and slip out, my feet hitting warm soft carpet instead of bare boards. Rested and content, ridiculously so. Yes, I'm mentally sick. Fine. After my upbringing and all the things I've been through, is it really a shock? I pad after you as you move about the room, still prattling on imperiously.

"Will you spend the night with me tonight again?"

"If I am not hunting."

"Did you like last night?"

No reply. You've crept to the window, and are even now pushing up the sash. We're on the second floor. I put a hand on your back, leaning out with you to look down.

"You're not seriously going to jump, are you? It's broad daylight! You'll be seen!"

"As I was seen five years ago when I stalked you, ALL of you, in broad daylight?" Your voice is annoyed, but you pause to turn to me. One gloved hand under my chin to lift it. "Such touching concern. I plan to kill a human today, you know. One of your kind. They will suffer before the end. I will feast on their flesh and fear, and carry what is left below to the sewer to properly season in the fetid dark and the rot. No more autumn leaves dancing around their feet, no more summer sun on their face. I shall bite into the part of their brain that knows the name of their mother, rip away their hopes and dreams, annul their future with teeth and claws and hunger. Does that not bother you?"

I chew on my lip, feeling queasy. How broken, exactly, am I….that I can't feel anything right now? After what you've said. And I know you mean it, every word. You tower over me even while bending forward slightly like this, one hand on the sill. I reach up and smooth the ruffles of your collar.

"No. There's probably something wrong with me."

You blink at me, and your large brow furrows in aggravation. Fast becoming the most familiar emotion for me to read on your face.

"Do you think?"

It is the last thing you say before slipping out of the window with eerie grace, scrambling up the side of the house to vanish in the eaves. A moment later a large black raven takes flight from the place where you disappeared. I shade my eyes to watch you fly into the sunrise. Anything. You can become anything, And this town, this little village where the adults look away from the cruelty and the dangers and the children fear every shadow and bump in the night until they either give into madness or despair; these are your hunting grounds. Someone is going to go missing today. Maybe a child. Maybe sad posters will go up, begging for someone to come forward and return the lost one to their grieving parents. I should be disgusted and horrified. I should be in tears of frustrated anger that I can't stop you. I should be outside prying up a fence spike to stab through your head when you return. I should…I should…I should.

But instead, I open the closet and pull out a dark blue dress to shimmy into, and slip on my shoes. Back before sunset, you said. And I don't intend to be late.

I close the front door behind me and look cautiously around to make sure that no one marks my leave taking. It would be hard to explain why an almost grown woman is messing about in an abandoned house. But no one is around, just as it was five years ago. No one is looking. No one comes here to this place. Their eyes pass over it, they don't see it. The Well House doesn't exist anywhere except as a vague nightmare, and so I am able to walk away and down the cracked sidewalk without being spotted.

Home. You told me to go home and gather my things, a little mercy that I wasn't expecting. Write a note indicating my absence….like anyone at all will care. Or notice. Not now. I know what they all think of me and how they've always thought of me, I know the rumors they all spread. The town slut, the piece of shit, the little abused troublemaker who had a chance to get out and probably blew it, maybe drugs were involved. Of course that's what they'd think, what they'd always thought. Never mind the truth. In a town like this, truth is a liability.

I know the way home, of course. It takes me about fifteen minutes to arrive back at the shabby little apartment building where I'd lived for most of my life. I climb the steps, taking them two at a time. Not that I think I'll have a hard time getting finished by my curfew with packing up my few possessions and leaving a note. A note no one will read or wonder about. There are a few desolate plants I'd bought at the market to give myself at least something alive to keep me company. I take the pots outside and set them on the porch where the sun and the rain can care for them. Not exactly setting a caged bird free…but I don't have a bird, and the symbolism is unnecessary anyway. I'm doing all this in preparation to enter a cage, not leave one. Although the more I think about it the less sure I am that that's the case here.

In the mirror over the sink in the bathroom, I pause to stare at myself as I pack up my toiletries. There's a cut on my lower lip, and it's a little swollen. I look pale and nervous and excited. My eyes are really glassy, the way they get when I haven't eaten or slept enough. Well…there's a reason. I look down at the sink again, and time seems to roll back half a decade to another moment in this very bathroom. In the tub, fully clothed and surreptitiously reading a beautiful poem from a secret admirer. The whispers from the drain, the way the porcelain had felt so cold under my hands when I pushed myself up and out of the bathtub, the catch of breathing in my throat as I approached the sink and leaned, leaned, leaned over. Trying to hear. Trying to listen with all my might to the hidden and buried voices coming from some far-off hidden and buried realm.

Then the blood. The icy cold, salty, metallic, stinking blood that gushed out of the drain like a geyser, filling my mouth and getting into my eyes, causing me to choke and gasp and scramble away as fast as I could, feet squeaking on the slick tiles, the entire bathroom like an abattoir, the scream ripped from my lips as though by force. I shudder, hugging myself. You weren't being playful and you weren't being flirtatious. That horrible experience had been a warning. A warning I had not heeded then and could not heed now. What the hell am I getting myself into? You're a monster, a fiend from the deepest pits of Hell or the blackest places between the stars, deadly and cruel and determined to destroy the only friends I've ever had.

So why did I take an extra long shower the moment I arrived? Why am I making sure to pack my perfume, my makeup, a razor to keep my legs smooth and scented soap and shampoo to keep me smelling nice? Why am I tossing a box of condoms into my overnight bag, a box I'd bought at Keene's Pharmacy on my way into town for no discernable reason? Even if they could fit you, which I am pretty damn sure they won't, what the hell makes me think for a moment that you're interested in anything beyond snapping my limbs off to drink the marrow inside? I stare at the box. Trojans. Extra large.

"Jesus Christ, Bevie. What the hell are you even thinking?!" I whisper, and fish them out of my bag to throw them in the trash and bury them under toilet paper. Ashamed. It's not like you could impregnate me anyway, even if everything I'm terrified and hopeful about comes to pass. We aren't the same species. You would mock me mercilessly if you knew I'd bought these with some vague thought of you in the back of my mind. Even worse if you knew that I'd covered my notebooks with doodles of balloons and inane poetry. Lethal clown with fire eyes / Hold me close that I may die. / Death with you is hardly more / Than the little deaths before.

Stupid girl. Stupid sow. Stupid food.

I move into the bedroom and pack my clothes. Only the nicest ones, the panties with no rips or stains, the dresses that flatter my body the most, the shirts and leggings and boots that my Aunt bought me at the fancy outlet malls in Portland. Then it's on to the books, where I take a few actual hours to look through every title and pick out only the ones I think you might like too. Do you even read? I'm sure you know how. All those centuries studying human beings, learning our culture enough to maneuver through it. The Missing posters you synthesized to frighten Richie in the Well House all that time ago. The writing on my bedroom walls, the writing on your stage far below us in the sewer chambers. Oh yes…you can read and write just fine. I wonder if you'll let me read to you sometime.

I tuck everything I can into two suitcases, and latch them closed. I am just sitting down with a pad of paper to write the note informing anyone who may want to know that I've decided to take a road trip to clear my mind when there's a hesitant knock on the door. I am so startled by the sound that I drop the pen. Who the hell? I have no friends here, no one who might care enough to come to my house and climb the stairs and rap on the door in the hopes that I might answer. It has to be some mistake. I'll just wait for them to….

*knock, knock, knock*

Dammit.

I get up from the kitchen table and make my way into the living room, hoping that it's you out there but knowing it isn't. And through the filmy white curtain that covers the glass window in the door, I see a figure that surprises me and fills me with nervousness. It's Mike Hanlon. God only knows why he's here, why he decided to drop by TODAY of all days, right now. I hesitate, then unfasten the dead bolt and open the door.

"Mike?"

His face breaks into a smile, and he moves to hug me. "Bev! I'd heard you were back in town! Sorry I haven't come to see you, I've got an internship at the public library and I'm taking classes at the community college. It's a lot to do. But I wanted to come and say hello, see how you were. Mind if I come in?"

Yeah, I do mind. You're in danger if you get too close to me, and you don't even know how much.

"Of course. Um…yeah. Come on inside if you want. For a minute anyhow. I'm in the middle of…tidying up."

I step away from the door and let him in, and he looks around the place with an air of curiosity. That's right, he's never been inside the apartment.

"So you're taking classes? That's…that's neat. Really neat. Cool."

Hands in his pockets, he stands awkwardly in the entryway and smiles and nods as I smile and nod. Just two old friends, smiling and nodding. This is excruciating.

"Library science." He explains simply. And walks boldly into the room to take a seat on the sofa, settling in like he's been here a hundred times. Reluctantly I find myself playing the proper role of hostess.

"Can I offer you something to drink? I have some orange pop and some iced tea."

"Tea would be great. Thanks, Bev."

I slip into the kitchen and quickly shove the note under the phone book, kick the suitcases beneath the table, then turn to the fridge to get out the tea. I'm reaching for two clean glasses when Mike's voice comes from the living room.

"Seen the others at all? We kind of fell out of touch."

"No. We…fell out of touch too. That happens sometimes. You're friends as kids and then when you start growing up, you just get distant. You know? Find out you don't really have a lot in common after all. People go on to school or work and they meet someone and get romantic, and you just end up forgetting the past. Happens literally all the time. I'm surprised you even remember me. Ha! Great memory though, Mike! You'll be a great librarian someday. Is that what they call the boys too? Librarians? I guess it's a gender neutral term, right? Cool career choice, you'll get to be around all those books."

I'm babbling like an idiot, trying to control my nervousness. Any second, any moment that door could give way under a massive white hand. And there would be shrieking and begging and fighting and blood. And I would have to watch you eat Mike.

I reappear in the living room with the drinks, coming to set one down in front of my old friend. I sit a little stiffly in the chair on the other side of the coffee table, just holding my own glass in my hands between my knees. Leave. Just leave. Leave, Mike. Leave while you can.

"Yeah, I guess. It's challenging but I'm having fun." There's a little silence while we drink our tea and look at each other. It's not the kind of companionable silence between friends who are comfortable and content to sit in peace and stillness. It's the kind of silence that feels as though the room is holding its breath. In about three hours, the sun will begin its descent toward the trees along the western horizon. And I have someplace to be.

"Bev. You look really good. It's great to see you." His voice is warm and friendly. Not flirtatious, just complimentary. This eighteen year old boy is genuinely happy to see me. He's remembering the good times. Swimming at the quarry. Fighting off the dirtbag town bullies together. Talking and laughing in the Barrens with stolen cigarettes and bottles of pop and comic books. He's remembering our friendship. I relax.

"Thanks. It's really great to see you too." I smile, and this time it's a real smile. I take a sip of tea and breathe out a long sigh. Letting the tension go. After all, I won't be able to have afternoons like this pretty soon. Maybe I should enjoy it while I can.

"So what's been happening? I felt bad when you had to go live in Portland. We all kind of knew that things here at home weren't ideal," a delicate way of putting it, but I could hug him for his politeness. His refusal to make me out to be a victim, and instead gloss over things I'd just as soon not discuss. "But everyone missed you when you left. I know I sent you some newspaper clippings and things like that. You never wrote back, so eventually I figured you were really busy with your new life. What was Portland like?"

And so we talk.

We talk about high school, about the proms we both went to alone because we'd been through so much that we were distanced from our peers and dating anyone our age was impossible. We talk about plans for the future, about friends and pets, about families and town gossip from years ago. We talk about how Eddie's mom had her second heart attack, and is probably going to have a third if she doesn't start getting healthy. We talk about how Greta Keene is pregnant already, not even married but she has a bun in the oven, poor unborn child. We talk about how the town has changed, what businesses are still going strong and which ones have closed their doors for good. We talk about the woods and the lakes and the best spots for fishing and the best places to camp. We talk about how he finally left the meat industry and is now devoted full time to books. We talk until our tongues are tired and we've both lost track of time, and I can't believe how natural it feels.

"So wait. Shut UP, you haven't been on a date since the eighth grade?!" I'm laughing, and we're on our third glass of tea. Mike shakes his head, laughing with me.

"My Uncle drove me and Sally Richardson to the skating rink in his Buick. Maybe not the most romantic thing in the world, but the memory is probably going to need to last a lifetime, the way I'm going. Do you have any idea how narrow the prospects are when you're the only Black person in town? These people are still stuck in the fifties."

"Least you have some good stories to tell, that should impress a date. You can take her to any restaurant and be an unchallenged expert on every single meat on the menu!"

"Yeah, or I could take her to a circus."

All at once the laughter dies, and both of us go quiet. The clinking of the ice cubes in our glasses is the only sound until Mike clears his throat uncomfortably.

"Well hey, it's been great to see you."

"Yeah! Yeah, this was nice."

"We should do it again sometime. You can always come by the library, you know. Stop in and see me."

"Maybe I will, sure."

We are both getting to our feet, the temperature in the room seeming to have dropped by about ten degrees. I walk Mike to the door and he opens it.

"Thanks for coming by, Mike. I mean it."

"Are you kidding? Wild horses couldn't have kept me away when I heard that a Loser had come home to roost." He grins, and before I can stop him he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Just a friendly peck, nothing romantic. But I feel a sense of foreboding immediately. If you're watching now….

"See you around."

"Yeah. Um…see you around."

And with that, I close the door before he's even started down the stairs. I turn the lock and lean against it, my eyes shut. You probably wouldn't like it if you knew that I'd spent a few hours with one of the people who tried to kill you. In fact I'm certain you wouldn't like it. I glance out through the curtains to see Mike walking away across the yard, hands in his pockets again. And it is then that the redness of the sky finally gets through to me exactly how much time has passed.

"SHIT! Shit shit shit shit!" I spring into action, rushing to the kitchen to dash off the rest of the note. Dumping both glasses into the sink and scrubbing them with Dawn and hot water before drying them and putting them away. I drag out the suitcases from under the table and run to the door as fast as I can under such a burden. And I fling it open to rush out and….

There's a stranger on my porch.

Tall. Six-six or so. Lean. Well dressed. Dark hair and dark glasses. Handsome, with an elegant bearing that only the wealthy seem to have. My first thought is that I'm looking at some high powered realtor come to make an offer on the apartment complex.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm in a real hurry here. If you want to leave your card, that's fine. I'll get back to you when I can. But right now I'm late for an appointment." I say as politely, but firmly, as I can.

"Yes," he tells me in a low voice, "You are."

Slowly, you ease off the sunglasses to reveal what they've hidden with their dark lenses. Eyes every bit as red as the sunset now lighting the sky to the west on fire. I'm stricken silent, stunned at this revelation of yet another form. When you step toward me, I reflexively back up until I'm standing in my living room again. The door swings shut behind you as you tuck the glasses into the pocket of your blazer.

"We had an agreement, Beverly."

"I-I know. I just…"

"You were to be back by the time the sun set. That was thirty-six minutes ago. The sun is now eight degrees below the horizon, and we have entered nautical dusk." You lean down slightly, looking right into my eyes. "You. Are. Late."

All the air seems to leave my body at once, and I wilt into the chair to look dumbly up at you.

"Mike was here."

"I am aware."

"We talked for awhile. Not about anything important."

"Yes."

"I….I'm sorry."

"You will be. Get your things."

As though electrified, I jump up and grab my bags. But I fumble with one of them, it drops from my hand and pops open, spilling clothes and books all over the place. I give a dismayed whimper and kneel down to shovel everything back into the suitcase, shaking. You move toward me abruptly, and without even thinking, muscle memory takes over. I raise my hands to ward off a blow.

You straighten up again, and very slowly I lower my arms to look at you. My face as white as the moon.

"Did you think I was about to strike you, Beverly?"

What can I say? This isn't really my home. Never was. This is Daddy's home, and in Daddy's home…nothing good ever happened. If I was late coming home, I'd get a spanking or the back of his hand to my face. If I dropped a dish…maybe he'd twist my arm and shout at me that I'm as clumsy as my mother was. If I backtalked, it was a toss up between not being able to sit for a few days or spitting out a mouthful of blood. And that's just the way it was. The smell of this place, the lighting, the feel of the walls all around me, your anger. All of it came together like the pieces of some awful and depressing puzzle, revealing a picture that I'm too ashamed to admit I know better than my own face. I look down again, pulling a dress toward me to wad up and stuff into the suitcase. Wordless and confused and sad and scared.

In this moment, you could do so many different things. You could hurt me. You could comfort me. You could…

"Stop being such a sniveling coward, child. You survived the assaults of your father and you have survived two nights beside a monster. You can certainly bear my annoyance. You are very good at inspiring it."

…or that, I guess.

I look up at you guiltily, and you bend down to take the other suitcase from me. Giving me full use of both hands to clean up my mess. I finish putting everything back and I latch the case, getting to my feet. We look at each other in this hateful room with its wooden paneling and its grim memories. I feel small and stupid and fragile and weak in front of you, things that I never felt while we were fighting you. It was in the bathroom just down the hall that you once appeared out of nowhere and filled the entire doorway and grabbed me by the throat. Your hand comes up again, but not to take me in an iron grip and fling me around like a doll. Instead, when I close my eyes miserably, I feel the soft warmth of your palm against my cheek.

I open my eyes. Your voice is low and gentle, like it was briefly last night when you told me to go to sleep.

"I will not hit you. If I did, I could kill you. And I do not wish to kill you. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Say it. And do not stutter. I loathe stuttering."

"You….won't hit me. Because you'd kill me. And you aren't going to kill me."

"Very good. Are you ready, then?"

"You said I'd be sorry though. For being late."

Your back is to me as you move toward the door to open it, and you don't even turn around when you answer me.

"And indeed you will be. Your dinner is going to be cold."