The premiere was unusual, to say the least.
The media coverage of the event had been hushed and secretive, which of course only made the general public ravenous for more information. Whether Bill Denbrough had planned it this way or not was a mystery. The event was held in an abandoned warehouse (which had been converted into a theater by the ever-vigilant and ever-bewildered production crew) on the outskirts of Hampstead Heath, under the cloak of nightfall. Actors and celebrities arrived in limousines like half-real creatures from the fog, wandering into the shadowy dream world of Denbrough's design.
The warehouse had been converted to look like the lair of the Spider in The Nameless Evil. Tattered cobwebs were strewn over the doorway and strung over the ceiling of the interior, hanging in pendulous, eerie curtains. Bones (plastic, of course, but remarkable imitations) stabbed up through the ground in a wasteland of jagged shapes. The red carpet cut a swath through the graveyard of skeletons. Squinting, one could almost imagine that the carpet was really a river of blood, wickedly crimson.
However, the most impressive effect was in the antechamber, the large, high-ceilinged room with almost wall-sized doors on the far wall that led into the converted theater. Through the lacy drifts of cobwebs, an imitation egg sac, the size of a small car, hung from the ceiling. An elaborate system of floodlights, timers, and fog machines gave the impression of pulsing, unearthly light coming from deep within it.
Bill felt transfixed by this fake plastic prop as he walked down the red carpet. In fact, he could barely take his eyes off of it. It stirred up faded memories in the back of his head as if kicking up dirt in some mental cemetery, revealing coffins underneath, cradling the corpses of his past.
"Something wrong?" somebody said from beside him.
Bill jumped. "No, nothing. I'm fine." The response came out robot-automatic, smooth, practiced, reassuring. Then the illusion of calm was broken when he realized who he was talking to.
It was himself. Sure, there were differences, but they were fleeting and superficial. First, the man in front of him was about fifteen years younger. He also carried a brilliant movie-star confidence that Bill, even at his most charismatic, had never possessed. But the russet hair, the bright blue eyes, even the quietly handsome angles of the face...these were all mirror images.
He realized that this was the actor who was playing him. Not him, exactly, but an obvious facsimile of himself-- a surrogate Bill Denbrough reliving the real Bill's horrific experiences in an artificial version of Derry. He knew without scanning the crowd that somewhere there was a false Eddie, a Bev, a Stan...and even, somewhere in the sea of faces, was someone made up in white greasepaint, acting the part of Pennywise the Dancing Clown. He shuddered involuntarily.
"Hey, keep it together. Milton's looking for you." Fake-Bill looked hurt, and a little puzzled. Even his voice sounded the same as Bill's.
"Milton?" Bill asked hoarsely.
"Your agent, remember?" Fake-Bill's confusion grew more pronounced. "And you used to chew me out for missing a line."
"Sorry," Bill said nonsensically, beginning to shamble towards the doors leading into the theater. "Thanks."
"Guh-guh-guh-go g-g-get 'em, Big Buh-Buh-Bill," Fake-Bill called after him. His stutter was so realistically similar to the real Bill's former way of speaking that it was like hearing a radio transmission from across time. Bill felt another chilling pang of fear as yet another part of his past slammed into his thoughts with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.
The theater was mostly quiet. Only a few people were seated in the audience. At the front of the chamber was a gigantic movie screen-- even bigger than the one at Mann's theater, although some film quality had been compensated for the opportunity to hold the premiere at such an eerie location. The screen was partially hidden by a black velvet curtain that was draped nearly to the floor in shining, sable-dark layers.
A small man in wire-rimmed spectacles jogged up to Bill, looking harried and out-of-breath.
"Where have you been? You're due to present the opening speech in ten minutes," he hissed urgently. Bill guessed this was the infamous Milton. His rabbit-y face looked un-intimidating, but his eyes burned fire.
"Just lost track of time," Bill said, managing an extremely unconvincing smile.
"Follow me," Milton said. He began to pull Bill along with a strength he hadn't expected the little man to possess.