Dæmon (Bill Denbrough x Reader) [An IT & IT: Chapter 2 Reader-Insert]

Chapter 7 - Dream of Death

N/A: The image is property of A.L Stanford and can be found at ArtStation (https://www.artstation.com/artwork/xzoKR2). And with that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter that I had some hard time writing (because my inspiration goes to somewhere, comes to me and then goes to somewhere again in an almost infinite cycle that is impossible to control XD).

"I hear you, tits".

You heard Patrick Hockstetter's voice in the dark; you were back in that dark and smelly sewer tunnel. His shoes made a slimy, wet noise as he walked through all that accumulation of garbage that floated, stagnant, in the sewage from that sewer. Your sneakers, unlike Patrick's, didn't make any sound at all, nor did they appear to be getting wet as you walked around as well. The water rose by capillary flow through Patrick's pants, soaking everything below the knee and above it partially wet. But the capillarity of the water wasn't affecting your own pants at all, it was completely dry to your touch, its fabric intact and unalterable under your fingertips. Patrick's shoes sank in the sewage, yours too; consequently, his pants touched the surface of the waters, yours too. So why was his clothes soaked in that liquid disgusting, but not yours?

A flare of fire suddenly occurred from Patrick's hands, a momentary illumination and a sensation of heat in the room. It all came from a dangerous combination between the lighter he always carried with him (religiously using it to light the cigarettes that Bowers' gang members, except Victor, frequently smoked after school time), and a can spray that he used as a flammable fuel to do the blasting explosive trick. Another flare came later, and although you took advantage of the brief light to get a better look at Patrick and then yourself —he was effectively wet and dirty while you seemed impermeable to gray water— you still didn't believe what you were feeling and seeing was real. How was such a thing possible? Well, it wasn't, you must be dreaming or something like that. It was the only logical explanation; it had to be another of your dreams. But why were you dreaming about Patrick?

Patrick soon found another tunnel to the left and headed inside; you followed him without hesitation. If it was all just a dream, you had no choice but to go along with the dream until it ended or you woke up, whichever came first. The situation was that simple. A third flare arose and Patrick spoke. "Don't think you can stay down here all damn day".

You knew beforehand that he wasn't referring to you, but to someone else, although at the moment you couldn't remember that other person's name. Patrick didn't seem to be aware of your presence there, you were like a ghost to him, a type of invisible companion. He couldn't see you, even though you were practically walking beside him, and you started to suppose that he couldn't hear you either, so you didn't try to do it; you would be a simple spectator of events. Both of you continued walking for a while until Patrick stopped dead in his tracks and you stared at him in confusion. Why did he stop? The darkness allowed you to see almost nothing and what little you saw was more and more garbage in the sewer, nothing more. There were no real reasons to stop, or at least you thought until you started hearing voices. Patrick was listening to them too.

"You found us, Patrick ... You found us, Patrick ..." The voices said over and over, repeating the same phrase as if it were the chorus of a song, and increasing the volume of their tones, going from slight whispers to loud exclamations that resounded around the tunnel. "You found us, Patrick!"

Little silhouettes appeared in the dark, these silhouettes seemed to be of children, but you couldn't see anything more than that. Neither colors nor expressions, only the heights of the dark silhouettes. Patrick lifted the spray can to the lighter nozzle, pressing the button, and flared again. What he and you saw left both of you paralyzed; the fear and terror that both felt for those few seconds that the flare lasted. The silhouettes were indeed of children, but their appearances were terrifying and appalling to look at. They looked like zombies: pale skin, totally gaunt and covered with bleeding wounds; slimy, cloudy eyes, devoid of color and soul; tattered clothes in dirt, rot and blood. One of the children, who was a girl with black hair, showed her teeth with a macabre smile, all of them turned into rows of thick fangs made to cut meat. Patrick's meat.