"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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°•°Eddie's POV°•°
The drive to Neibolt felt endless, every second stretching into an eternity of pure dread. All I could think about was Vanessa, trapped somewhere in the dark, at the mercy of that thing. We finally skidded to a halt in the overgrown yard, throwing our bikes to the ground with a clatter that sounded too loud in the oppressive silence.
Before we even reached the porch, I stopped. My fanny pack-my mom's stupid, prescribed security blanket-felt like an anchor tying me to a life of fear and lies. I unbuckled it and threw it into the tall grass. I didn't need it anymore.
"Guys. Spikes," Bill said, his voice low and steady. He started gathering the rusty metal rods we'd stashed nearby. We all moved quickly, stuffing as many as we could into his backpack. The weight of it was a comfort. We were preparing for war.
The sound of shattering glass made us all jump. Richie stood there, holding the jagged neck of a broken beer bottle. He just shrugged, a grim look on his face, and let the shards fall to the ground. He was arming himself too.
Bill pushed the front door open. It groaned on its hinges, a long, mournful sound that should have been a warning to turn back. But it didn't stop me. Nothing could stop me now.
"Stan?" Ben's voice was soft. We all turned. Stanley was still standing on the porch, his feet rooted to the spot, his face pale with terror.
"Stan, we all have to go," Bill said, his voice firm but not unkind. "B-Beverly was right. If we split up like last time, that clown will kill us one by one. But if we stick together, all of us, we'll win. I promise."
That was all it took. Stan took a shaky breath and stepped across the threshold. We moved as one unit through the cursed house, straight to the basement, to the gaping mouth of the well Bill had seen.
"Hey, Eddie. You got a quarter?" Richie mumbled, staring into the abyss.
"I wouldn't want to make a wish in that fucking thing," I snapped, a shiver of disgust running down my spine. I stepped closer to the edge, my heart in my throat. "Vanessa?" I called down, my voice echoing into the darkness. "Beverly?"
Ben joined me, his calls mixing with mine. Our voices were swallowed by the void.
"How are we supposed to get down there?" Mike asked, voicing the practical problem none of us had thought of.
Bill swept his flashlight beam around the basement. The light landed on a coil of old, filthy rope draped over a beam. It looked ancient, but it was our only hope. They grabbed it, tying it off as best they could above the well before throwing the end down into the blackness.
Mike tested it, putting his full weight on it. It held. Bill went first, disappearing into the hole. I was next. Climbing down one-handed with a broken arm was agony. Every jarring movement sent sharp, white-hot pain shooting through me, but the image of Vanessa's face kept me moving. Bill helped me through the opening in the well shaft, and I huddled in the dark, waiting.
Stanley and Richie came down shortly after. "Guys, guys, help," Ben called from above, struggling to get through the narrow opening.
Richie reached up and pulled him through. "All right, buddy?" Richie asked, his usual bravado replaced with genuine concern.
"Yeah, I'm okay," Ben muttered, breathing heavily.
We all looked up, waiting for Mike. Then we heard it.
A scream. His scream.
"Mike!" we all yelled in unison, our voices merging into a single panicked cry.
We craned our necks. Henry Bowers was staring down at us, his face a mask of blood and pure, unadulterated evil. His eyes, glinting in the faint light, found each of us.
"Bowers," Richie breathed, the name a curse.
"Mike. Fuck," I whispered, my blood running cold. Henry started to laugh, the sound echoing down the shaft, a horrible, manic sound.
"Mike!" Bill yelled.
"Where is he?" Ben asked, squinting into the darkness above.
"We're next!" Richie muttered, his voice tight with fear.
Henry grabbed the rope. "No, no, no! Grab it!" Stanley yelled.
But it was too late. With a final, mocking smirk, Henry let go. The rope slithered down the well shaft like a dead snake, falling past us into the deeper darkness below.
"Oh shit," someone whispered.
"Run, Mike!" "Mike!" "Mike!Leave him alone!" "Mike!"
We screamed uselessly up the shaft, our voices raw. Our friend was up there alone with a murderer.
"I sh-should get up there," Bill said, his jaw set with a desperate determination.
"Are you insane? With what?" I asked, grabbing his shoulder. We had no rope. We were trapped.
We could only stare upward, waiting, praying, our hearts hammering against our ribs.
A sudden, blurry shape came falling down the shaft without any warning.
"Holy shit!" "Oh my!"
It was Henry. He plummeted past us with a silent, flailing weightlessness, disappearing into the black depths below.
"Mike!" I yelled, my voice cracking.
A moment later, Mike's face appeared at the opening above, panting and pale. "I'm okay. I'm okay."
A collective sigh of relief washed over us. He was safe. For now. The well shaft felt a little less dark with him there. But we were still trapped, and below us, something far worse than Henry Bowers was waiting.
