Chapter Four: Pain

The Kitchener Ironworks had a black reputation. It was here, fifty-one years before, that disaster had struck. It was here, where the remains of the machinery now crumbled under rust, that a terrible explosion had ripped through the factory, even though every machine was shut down and stone cold. It was here, where the wind now whistled and shrieked through gaping holes in the structure, that children, reaching for brightly coloured Easter eggs with peals of laughter, were snuffed of their lives in a wave of fire that billowed out from the centre of the building. It was here, where emptiness and loneliness now reigned supreme, that the bloodcurdling screams of loss were lifted up by dozens and dozens of parents, and a town was plunged into mourning. It was here, where grass and weeds now grew with impunity amongst the debris of humanity, that nine of the bodies were never recovered.

It was here, fifty-one years later, that tragedy would ultimately strike again.

But not just yet.


The Derry Highschool was on the same side of town as the Ironworks. Teenagers needed their private spaces, though not for the same reasons that preteens did. The aptly named Kissing Bridge was a favourite haunt for young couples, although they had to take care to avoid slipping and falling into the canal. In defiance of Kitchener Ironworks' grim history, bands of teens could be spotted there every day, claiming different areas for their groups like gangs in the bigger cities. Luckily, violence was as rare as a blue moon, although on many days there was more weed than weeds in the Ironworks.

After the disappearance of two of their colleagues, however, both locations were almost totally abandoned, especially after they became areas that were repeatedly searched by the police. The more desperate stuck around, of course, scrambling for cover like dealers at a drug bust, whenever a police car drifted past.

One of these "more desperate" was Regan Horner, a fairly plain lad with average grades and parents who scrutinised and judged him from the moment he stepped in the house. That's why he liked the Ironworks. It was somewhere he could be safe from prying eyes.

Today, about the same time that Bill and George Denbrough were on their way home from their outing, he was exploring one of the more intact sections of the Ironworks. Spared by the explosion, it still had gantries and pipes running overhead, smelters and conveyer belts, covered in rust but still largely whole. He was alone, simply because he was not popular amongst other seventeen-year-olds in Derry. In truth, Regan hated being a teenager. All the social intrigue, the strange hormones and attractions, the pressure, the responsibility. He sorely missed the time when he was a carefree little kid. That was one of the reasons he didn't have any friends. He pushed them away because they reminded him of his true age, what he really was.

Unfortunately for this unfortunate boy, the curtain was about to fall, quickly and miserably, on his far too short life.

It started with a heavy iron bar, the supports of which had been ground through by rust. As Regan was walking aimlessly through the room, the tiny vibrations set off by his feet on the floor chewed away at the last of the rust that was keeping this bar, about an arm's width in diameter, suspended in its place high above the ground. With a grinding shriek, the bar fell down, accelerating swiftly through the stale air of the Ironworks. Regan did not look up in time, but he let out a scream as he tried to duck backwards and away from the Damocles bar racing towards him. He wasn't fast enough, and the bar struck him in the thigh, and then pinned him to the floor. Something broke, within Regan's leg, and he let out another scream, this one the loudest that had been heard in the Ironworks since that day, fifty-one years ago.

There was nobody around to hear Regan's screams for help. Even if there were, the sound of pain-filled shouts emanating from the Ironworks would have quickly sent them fleeing.

Above the blanket of clouds that covered Derry, the sun rode through the sky, finally reaching late evening on a Saturday. By the time night fell, Regan had been trapped for almost six hours. The bar was too heavy for him to move, no matter how hard he pushed. There wasn't much he could do anyway, as it seemed that every movement sent new pain shooting out of his trapped leg.

Hours of screaming finally broke Regan's voice, leaving his throat hoarse and raw and painful. Whispering for help would do nothing, so he could do no more than bite his lip every time another bolt of pain hammered up his body.

The pain was so intense, he didn't notice when the floor under him became liquid and gooey, turning an empty shade of black. What he did notice, however, were the two hands.

Covered in black mucus, brown and withered with age, like the hands of an ancient zombie, they rose up from the floor on either side of him, palms turned inwards as if they were prepared to grab him. Regan was too terrified to cry out through what remained of his throat.

The hands pounced like tigers, gripping his sides through his shirt. The touch seemed acidic, burning through the fabric, and clutching directly at his flesh, and then into his flesh. The fingers seemed able to push into and through his skin like his body was a sponge. Compared to the agony he had been suffering for the past hours, it was fairly less intense. He still tried to cry out, especially when the hands started to pull him downwards, and he felt his body start to squish into the viscous liquid on the floor.

The bar, which had kept him in pain for so long, now offered a chance at salvation. In pinning him to the ground, it was also preventing him from being pulled further under the earth. He reached out with his hands, trying to hold on to the length of iron that was just out of reach.

Quicker than they'd appeared, the foreign hands were gone. Then they emerged right under the bar, on either side of his trapped leg. The fingers gripped at the bar, and began to squeeze, accompanied by the hiss and bubble of something burning through solid metal.

Regan pushed at the ground, trying to free himself from the thick soup below. Unfortunately, it was like mud; sticky mud that burned on contact with his skin. He was firmly trapped, and his assailant was almost finished with the bar.

The three sections fell with a clang each. Regan gasped in relief as the pressure on his leg vanished, and the pain died to a dull throb. Relief that was short lived, as the hands grabbed his sides again.

He managed one croaky scream before he was drawn fully into the substance with a bubbly, sucking noise.

The last sound to resonate in the Ironworks was a slow, deep-voiced chuckle that was so distorted that it could hardly be considered a laugh.