"I've realized that..." he started, then took a shaky breath. "Earlier today, when Stanley pulled you aside... seeing you two so close and secretive, I hated it." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I don't like how others make you smile..." He traile...
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*•°Vanessa's POV°•*
The 4th of July festival was in full swing, a burst of noise and color that felt alien and too bright. It was the first time I'd stepped out of the house and shown my face to my friends since the rock war incident a few days prior.
Getting dressed had been a strategic operation. I'd chosen a long-sleeved blouse and jeans despite the summer heat, a necessary uniform to cover the tapestry of bruises on my arms and legs. The makeup I'd caked on my face and neck felt like a brittle mask, each dab of concealer a desperate attempt to hide the evidence of Henry's rage. Every smile I forced felt like it might crack the facade.
We were huddled in a quieter alley, a temporary refuge from the festive chaos. The mood was somber, our attention fixed on a new crop of missing kids posters plastered on the brick wall.
"They say they found part of his hand all chewed up near the stand pipe," Stanley said, his voice hollow as he stared at the poster for Ed Corcoran.
In the background, Richie was fiddling with some noisemaker-a kazoo or a recorder-the jaunty, off-key sound a grotesque contrast to our conversation.
"He asked to borrow a pencil once," Ben added softly, his sadness a tangible weight.
Bill carefully lifted Edward's missing poster. Underneath was Betty Ripsom's. She looked so young. "It's like she's been forgotten, because Corcoran's missing," Bill observed, his voice tight.
"Is it ever gonna end?" Stanley asked, the question hanging in the air, heavy and unanswerable.
"What the fuck, dude," Richie muttered from behind us, his usual bravado muted.
Eddie finally reappeared, balancing a precarious tower of ice cream cones. "What are you guys talking about?" he asked, his eyes scanning our grim faces.
Richie immediately swiped a cone from his hands. Eddie shot him a glare but didn't protest, instead handing me his own cone after taking a few polite bites. The cold sweetness was a small comfort.
"What they always talk about," Richie said around a mouthful of ice cream.
"I actually think it will end," Ben said, drawing our attention. "For a little while, at least."
I looked at him, curious. "What do you mean?" Beverly asked, voicing my thought.
"So I was going over all my Derry research," Ben explained, "and I charted out all the big events. The iron works explosion in 1908, the Bradley gang shooting in '35, and the Black Spot fire in '62, and now the kids being... I realized this stuff seems to happen..."
"Every 27 years," Bill and Ben said in unison.
A cold dread, separate from the ice cream, settled in my stomach. The clown, the visions-it was all part of a pattern. A cycle of horror.
We eventually migrated to the park, finding a spot near the giant, imposing statue of the founder holding his axe. I perched next to Eddie on the seat of Bill's bike, our shoulders touching. Every shift in position sent a dull throb through the bruises on my arms and ribs.
"Okay, so let me get this straight," Eddie said, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It comes out from wherever to eat kids for, like, a year? And then what? It goes into hibernation?" He'd put into words the exact question gnawing at me.
"Maybe," Stanley offered. "It's like... what do you call it? Cicadas. You know, the bugs that come out once every 17 years."
"My grandfather thinks this town is cursed," Mike said, his gaze distant. "He says that all the bad things that happen here are because of one thing. An evil thing that feeds off the people of Derry." An evil thing. The image of the clown's grinning, rotting face flashed in my mind. I couldn't argue.
"But it can't be one thing," Stanley pointed out, logical as ever. "We all saw something different."
"Maybe," Mike countered, his voice low. "Or maybe it knows what scares us the most, and that's what we see."
"I saw a leper," Eddie whispered, staring at a fixed point on the ground. "He was like... a walking infection." I could see the fear trembling in his hands. I didn't care who saw; I reached over and intertwined my fingers with his, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"But you didn't, because it isn't real!" Stanley insisted, his voice beginning to waver. "None of this is! Not Eddie's leper, or Bill seeing Georgie, or Vanessa seeing her father, or the woman I keep seeing." He looked down, his composure cracking.
"She hot?" Richie asked, the attempt at a joke falling painfully flat.
"No, Richie! She's not hot! Her face is all messed up!" Stanley's voice broke. "None of this makes any sense. They're all like bad dreams." Beverly hugged herself, looking pale and distant.
"I don't think so," Mike said gently but firmly. "I know the difference between a bad dream and real life, okay?"
"Mike," I asked, turning to him. "Did you see something too? What did you see?"
He took a deep breath. "You guys know that burned-down house on Harris Avenue? I was inside when it burned down. Before I was rescued, my mom and dad were trapped in the next room over. They were pushing and pounding on the door, trying to get to me, but it was too hot." His voice was steady, but the memory was clearly agony. "When the firemen finally found them... the skin on their hands had melted down to the bone." A collective, horrified silence fell over us. "We're all afraid of something."
"Got that right," Richie stated, uncharacterively quiet. He was looking down, unable to meet anyone's eyes.
"Why, Rich?" Eddie asked, his voice soft. "What are you afraid of?"
Richie finally looked up, and the answer he gave was so simple, so utterly terrifying in its irony, that it sent a fresh chill through me.
