Ron and Gary-1961
'I wandered so aimless, life filled with sin, I wouldn't let my dear savior in, then Jesus came like a stranger in the night, praise the Lord I saw the light.'
"C'mon man, hurry up!" Gary yells over the warbling of Hank Williams, as Ron emerges, zipping his fly, from the nearby bushes just off to the side of the road, the red neon sign above the door of the only gay bar in Derry, the Falcon, painting his lean frame in vibrant crimson. He wipes his nose with the cuff of his plaid sleeve as he hops back in Gary's blue and white Ford pickup. He pauses, as he briefly makes eye contact with an extremely tall, pale man in a black leather jacket with a copper tuft of hair, shoulder blades rested against the wall near the bar's entrance. A thin trail of vapor snakes around his head as he watches.
Ron gives him a dirty look before slamming the truck door. "I don't know what the fuck he's starin' at." He casually rolls down the window to spit his lump of chewing tobacco to the blacktop.
Gary, a smaller man with a visible five o' clock shadow and a head sparsely covered in gray hair, scrunches up his face. "Man, you shouldn't do that. Kinda nasty..."
Ron gives a subtle scoff, arching his brows, he turns to his buddy, elbow rested on the dashboard.
"Oh, you offended there, Holdsworth?" he queries, as Gary observes his reflection in the rear view mirror, reaching up to massage his stubble. Ron gives another scoff, this time more derisive.
"Worryin' about your facial hair? Damn, maybe you should be in there with the fags." he says as he digs his finger in his right ear.
"Look, Nat just doesn't like stubble. She says it makes her itch."
"Take your balls outta her purse, alright? Real men sport beards-just look at Paul Bunyan." he gives a cursory touch to his own dark thick hairy jawline peppered with gray streaks, his mind picturing the statue of the famed lumberjack on Main Street that the two had spent a fair amount of time loitering around well after midnight in their teens. Drinking, smoking and raising Hell.
"Now, let's get's outta here. I don't want anyone I know seeing me sittin' in front of this place." he adds.
On their way back from The Great Lost Bear, a bar two and a half miles down the road, the three pints Ron had consumed over the course of the evening to relax after a long strenuous day in the lumber yard had left his bladder about to burst and entering the Falcon to use their restroom was out of the question.
"Can't believe Elmer even lets that debauchery happen in there." Ron adds as Gary revs up the engine, his gaze landing on the strange man, unblinking and stone-faced, taking drawn-out drags from his cigarette nestled between his spindly fingers.
For a fleeting second, Gary seems to glimpse two tiny white spheres in the man's corneas.
"It's turnin' a profit...wonder who that is?' he inquires, craning his neck to peek around Ron's broad shoulders.
"Why? You interested?" Ron snickers.
"C'mon, cut it out. It's just he looks a...little weird." A few days before, the police had discovered a 1958 Chevrolet Impala that had belonged to two Beatniks that had been seen cruising around town, abandoned in a parking lot just a block away, dried blood cracked along the seats and smeared along the windows. Their bodies have yet to be found. Just as quickly as the news hit the papers, however, it was forgotten. He certainly didn't want to get caught out too late, not if there could be some psycho on the loose.
Something he wouldn't voice to Ron. No, such a concern would be met with taunts and accusations of being a "pansy."
"Just one of the queers." Ron dismisses, gesturing with an underhanded finger motion for Gary to hurry up and get going, as he treats the man to another glower as Gary pulls out of the driveway.
The drive is quiet, the road isolated, dark, without another soul in sight. It's almost disquieting, until Ron cracks open another beer from the remaining six-pack stored in the backseat as he turns up the volume on the radio and starts to croon along;
'Let me travel this land, from the mountains to the sea,'cause that's the life I believe, he meant for me, and when I'm gone, and at my grave you stand, just say God's called home, your ra-amblin' man-'
Wham!
Both men are suddenly jerked forward as something violently slams against the tailgate of the truck, Ron's beer spilling into his crotch as he curses.
"The Hell?" he growls as he turns to look at the culprit. All he sees are bright orange headlights, seemingly not attached to any vehicle.
Gary takes rapid peeks over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver, as he rams into them again.
"What the Hell is this asshole doing?" Gary exclaims as he hits the gas. Ron keeps his gaze turned behind them, his lids now slitting as the other car's front window comes into view and he sees a silhouette of what looks like the man that had been standing outside the bar. His sleek black truck difficult to see in the pitch darkness.
"I think it's that weirdo from the Falcon," he says, crushing his half-spilled beer can, chucking it out the window, the remaining liquid splashing along the road. "He wants trouble, we can certainly give it to him." He flips the man the bird and his hand is immediately slapped down by Gary.
"Don't do that," he scolds. "He-"
Wham!
The man begins doing a continuous loop of bumping their tailgate and slowing down, only to speed up again and slam into them harder.
Gary decides to do a sharp skid off the side of the road down a dirt path, both men bouncing in their seats as he takes off down the gravelly trail that cuts through a field, turning to head the other direction.
"Hopefully we can loose him." he says as he does a u-turn, wheels trampling the tall blades of grass. Now heading the opposite direction, cautious relief washing over him as he eyes Ron, who looks angry, his mouth a quivering thin line.
"I wish we could get our hands on that little fucker, we coulda-"
"No," Gary cuts him off, inhaling deeply. "Don't bring that up. I'm not doing that shit again. They don't hurt nobody. We just forget that."
"Yeah, whatever," Ron shakes his head, disgusted mien shadowed in the darkness of the vehicle. "You know you-"
Just then the mysterious driver appears in their path, seemingly out of thin air, coming directly at them at full speed.
"What the fuck!" Gary shouts as the orange headlights illuminate the inside of their truck. Gary shields his eyes as he struggles to swerve out of the way.
"The fuck! He's gonna crash into us the crazy bastard! Step it up!" Ron yells, anger now dissolving into panic as he grips the steering wheel. They skid off the side of the road, Gary slams his foot on the breaks, bringing them to a screeching halt along the miry ditch along the roadside.
There's a few moments of tension, with their ragged breaths visible in the chilly night air.
"Jesus, that crazy asshole was gonna kill us," Ron breathes. "Maybe he has a death wish."
"I don't get it. How'd he come out in front of us?" Gary ponders as is head darts around, surveying the area, sweat just starting to pearl at the top of his forehead. The road they were on, Witcham, circled around a lake alongside the field. The man wouldn't have been able to come at them from the opposite direction without taking at least half an hour to drive around. The lake and trees made any shortcut impossible.
Just then, the radio begins to switch, jumping to different stations. Ron, eyes now bulging, silently elbows Gary as he stares at the dial visibly moving on its own. Gary's mouth gapes as both watch as it starts to shift back and forth, a barely-audible voice begins to emerge from the crackling static. Too distorted initially, before becoming louder, like the wails of a young man crying out in anguish.
"What the...what is that?" Ron breathes.
Louder and louder the voice cries, almost shrieking, until Gary reaches to shut off the dial, only to have it blare up again. Startling both men to fling open their respective doors to leap out.
"I don't know what's goin' on here." Ron shakes head as the the voice becomes more banshee-like, drifting outwards from the inside of the car and filling the murky air surrounding them, like an echo. Both men clamp their palms tightly to their ears as Gary manages to stumble inside and switch the dial off, the numbers glowing a dazzling orange-yellow.
"Let's go," he says, gesturing for Ron to get in. His friend heeds as Gary attepts to start up the engine.
"Shit..." he mutters.
"Lemme push." Ron offers as he jumps out to make his way to the tailgate. As he pushes, Gary slams on the gas and the truck rips out of the shallow ditch and Ron runs to take his seat.
"Go, go." he orders as he glances back to check for their attacker. No sign of those strange headlights in the distance.
His eyeline then lands on a shadowy figure standing near the ditch. Too dark to see, but clearly a young man, possibly a teenager.
That looks like...
It can't be him.
"Who is that?" he points back and Gary follows his gaze.
"I don't see anyone." he replies.
As both turn in unison to look ahead, they are met with a gory sight; on the hood of the truck is a young man, sitting cross-legged, eyesockets like pools of tar. His skin crumbling pieces of bloody strips.
And no mouth. Only pale skin with blue veins rooting along the surface.
He leaps upwards to the top of the truck, the shock causes Gary to swerve as both men scream in sheer horror.
"Ahhh! Fuck! What the Hell is that?!"
The ghoul disappears as Gary smacks into an ancient tree just near the edge of the lake, his skull cracking against the steering wheel as Ron hits the dashboard.
Gobsmacked, Ron sits frozen, blood coursing down his aching scalp and down his forehead, his lids fluttering as he tries to focus. He shakily reaches to touch Gary. He pushes his shoulder, but he only falls limp against the window. His brown pupils blank, lifeless.
Ron staggers out the truck, falling to ground, a stressed whimper escaping him as he comes to a halt along the swampy ground along the bank at a pair of muddy shoes. He charily gazes up, blood trailing from both nostrils as the mouthless spector stares down at him.
Seeing him up close made him more recognizable; Nathan Wells. He had been a sixteen year old student at Derry High School, rumored to have been gay. One drunken night Ron and Gary accosted him along the roadside while he was driving his father's truck, beat the boy with two-by-fours, tossed him into the truck and pushed it into the lake.
The same one he now sat beside.
"No," Ron wails. "No, no, it ain't you. It can't be." he hangs his head down and begins to quietly sob.
Then, something begins stirring beneath the surface of the water, now bleeding with irradiated orange light, the frenzied bubbling dying down as a pair of headlights become visible, followed by the hood of a black truck.
In a burst of energy, Ron shoots up as he sees it's the same phantom vehicle that had been menacing them, those orange-yellow lights coming closer as it comes to a stop along the bank. The driver's side opens and the odd man with the auburn hair steps out, a creepy visage highlighted by the moonlight, dark crescents beneath his eyes as he flicks his cigarette to the swampy earth.
Ron is immobilized, almost hypnotized by the lights, his irises mimic that same blinding glow as the man approaches, bringing those long tapering fingers to Ron's face. His mouth now becoming elongated with needle-like stained incisors.
"Beautiful, beautiful fear..." he mutters as he chomps down on Ron's jugular, blood spurting in runnels from his neck as the flesh is torn away. Ron falls to the ground, gaze fixed on eternity.
As It eats, It ponders. It had remembered these two and their act of violence that had awoken It twenty-seven years earlier.
Seeking them out, torturing and killing them was amusing.
After finishing devouring the flesh from Ron's corpse, It removes Gary's body from the truck and retreats back to Its lair.
It's a few days before the Ford truck is discovered under the giant tree, and after a brief investigation, the case is forgotten and the car taken to the junkyard where it sits alongside a 1958 Chevrolet Impala.