❝ 𝘪𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪'𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴
𝘪 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 ❞
or in which verity summers returns to derry after twenty-seven years, and finds that nothing is the same
[it chapt...
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ooooo. the last phone call
VERITY SUMMERS BOLTED UP IN BED, chest heaving, her eyes wild. She stared around at her surroundings, disoriented in the dark. She rubbed her eyes, trying to regulate her breathing. The nightmare was slipping out of her grasp like water, but she could still remember parts of it. Sunflowers, rotted boards under her feet, the far-off sound of running water, and, most disturbingly, a pair of glowing yellow eyes, burning like two malevolent torches.
Shivering, she clicked her phone on and groaned; three a.m.
"Fuck," she muttered. With a slight sense of defeat, she dragged herself out of bed, knowing she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, no matter how much she tried.
She padded out of her bedroom, stopping to put on the kettle before going to her office. Might as well finish developing the new set now. She thought, opening her laptop.
All the lights in the room glowed brightly, in an effort to banish the nightmare from her thoughts; there was no time to be scared when there was work to be done.
The room was covered in a mix of bookshelves, and one wall was plastered in framed photographs. One showed a picturesque skyline, another, an old stone castle. Verity fondly remembered the trip she had taken to Scotland to get that one, how she had gotten lost on the foggy moors and accidentally trespassed on some elderly farmer's land.
She peered at the photos on the screen, blearily willing the kettle to boil so she could make a much-needed coffee. Her eyes lingered on one in particular; a shot of a flock of birds taking flight against a watercolour sky, their wings held aloft.
She couldn't explain it, but there was something.. familiar about the photo. Something that almost made her feel safe-
She jumped, snapping out of her reverie as her phone buzzed. Frowning, she noticed the unknown number, her eyebrows lowering at the area code. Maine.
"Um, hello?" She said, apprehensive. After all, who did she know that would be calling this early in the morning?
"Verity? Is that you?" The tone was hesitant, almost shy. "It's me, Mike. Mike Hanlon?"
"I'm sorry, I don't think-" she was cut off, gasping as an image filled her vision; hands held in a circle under the burning sun, a cluster of bikes in the grass, drops of blood, shining like gems.
There was a pause.
"Mikey?"
A sigh of relief. "Yeah, it's me. Listen, Ver, It's back."
She stared at the screen, not taking it in. "But... we killed It.."
"I'm so sorry, Ver, but I need you to come back to Derry. To come home."
She shook her head numbly, feeling sick.
"I need you here by tomorrow," he went on. "Is that okay? I'm calling the others too, I'll text you the details, alright?"
She noticed with a sort of detached wonder that he was speaking very gently, as though to a frightened animal. Then, realising that he was waiting for a response, she said "I'll- I'll be there."
"Wait, Mikey?" She closed her eyes, the sickness in her stomach fleetingly replaced by something else. "Is.. is Stan coming?"
"I called him a few minutes ago.. He seemed a bit off, but I'm sure he'll come." He said, but there was a hint of something in his voice, something Verity couldn't place.
"See you tomorrow, then." She said quietly, before the line went dead.
Only when she put the phone down did she realise her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Jesus," she whispered, running a hand through her hair, freezing as she went to fix her bangs. She hadn't had bangs since she was a teenager.
Suddenly, she hissed in pain as more images flashed before her eyes, as bright as camera bulbs, slow at first, then faster until she thought she was going to black out. A darkened attic room, cigarette smoke and laughter, the bright gleam of an axe in the dark.
"Stop," she pleaded, clutching her head. "God.. it hurts!"
But still they came; bodies in the water, the choking smell of rot, and birds, so many birds.
And so she sat there, slumped on the desk, tears of pain needling from her eyes, the harsh whistling from the kettle ringing through the air.
