Punywise

Derry, Maine – January 7, 1985 – 11:29 p.m.

The clown moved down Straphammer Street without sound, boots gliding over the slush as though the sidewalk itself recoiled from contact. Ahead of him floated the red balloon, buoyant at the height of a child’s shoulder, taking corners with the lazy certainty of something that had already won.

The sleet had thickened into snow—great wet clumps that stuck to the filthy ruff around Pennywise’s neck and melted the instant they touched the greasepaint, carving dark tear-tracks down the white cheeks. The clown never once glanced back toward the Marsden house. Not once. Yet the deadlights burned brighter, wider, sweeping the night in slow, deliberate arcs.

The smile remained, of course. But now it held extra teeth—small, sharp rows folded secretly behind the painted grin, waiting.

It drifted past two houses, then three. Paused before a low ranch-style home, basketball hoop bolted above the garage door. A single sniff—head shaking once, like a wet dog—and it moved on.

At last it stopped before the two-story house on the corner of Straphammer and Maple. Porch light extinguished. All windows black except one on the ground floor, where faint blue television flicker pulsed like distant lightning. A lone car sat in the driveway, hood already wearing a thin shroud of white. In the front yard stood a half-finished snowman, crooked, one coal eye gone, carrot nose lying abandoned in the slush.

Pennywise tilted its head. A low purr rose in its chest, vibrating the falling flakes.

This time it did not go to the windows. It circled the house instead—slow, deliberate—toward the narrow side yard squeezed between this property and the next. There, low and high on the foundation, was a basement window, small, snow-dusted, grimy. Behind the filthy glass glowed one dim amber safety light.

Something moved inside. A small, quick shadow.

The clown crouched. Joints crackled like green wood snapping. The red balloon settled beside it, brushing snow without sinking.

One long, multi-jointed finger rose and touched the glass—not pressing, merely resting.

Inside, eight-year-old Ethan Carver sat on an ancient couch, blanket drawn to his chin, watching cartoons with the sound turned off. Dark circles shadowed his eyes; sleep had been a stranger for weeks.

He did not notice the finger at first.

Then he did.

His head turned slowly. Cartoon light washed his face in shifting reds and blues.

Outside, Pennywise’s smile opened like a fresh wound.

And then the screen changed.

Without warning, without channel or remote, the cheerful woodland animals vanished. A single flicker, like bad tracking on old tape, and there was a clown. Not the clown. Not yet. Just a cartoon clown—big shoes, polka dots, tennis-ball nose—juggling pies on a tightrope.

He wobbled. Tripped. Fell arms-windmilling into custard. Splat. Canned laughter.

Ethan blinked. Did not smile. Did not look away.

The scenes arrived faster, seamless, as though the program had always been this.

Unicycle over a canyon of cartoon sharks. Tire pops. Plummet. Chomp chomp chomp. Red confetti.

Circus ring. Cage. Lions in party hats. Banana peel. Suspenders snagged on bars. Legs kicking while lions leaped.

Pie-throwing contest—razor blades hidden inside. Sawing himself in half, halves crawling desperately to reunite. High dive into empty pool—crunch, starburst of red paint.

And then the final scene.

Seven cartoon children in a storm drain. Slingshots, water guns loaded with something viscous, nail-studded bats. In the center: the clown. No longer generic. Filthy suit. Torn ruff. Running greasepaint.

They raised weapons in perfect silence.

A rock took an eye. Acid melted half the smile. Bats cracked bone. Methodical. Rhythmic. Until the clown lay broken in the muck, twitching.

The children formed a ring. They danced—slow, ceremonial, hands clapping to a heartbeat that was not theirs. One stepped forward. Stomped. Pop. The remaining eye burst like a balloon.

The screen held on the image: bright colors, warped calliope lullaby, seven children circling the leaking corpse.

Ethan made a tiny sound—half whimper, half gasp.

Outside, Pennywise stood upright now, spine bent at an impossible angle. The deadlights blazed orange furnaces. The smile had split at the corners, showing something wet and black beneath.

Very slowly, the clown raised one gloved hand. Five fingers. Then six. Then seven. All pressed flat against the glass.

A hairline crack appeared at the center.

The voice was soft, almost tender, aimed at the screen more than the boy.

“…Clever. Very clever.”

The deadlights pulsed—searching, tasting, knowing something watched back.

The glass trembled. The crack lengthened by the width of a hair.

Then the picture bled and reformed.

New title card in dripping red bubble letters:

PUNYWISE AND THE BIG CHASE!!!

Xylophone and kazoo, too fast, too frantic.

Punywise—pathetic parody, head too large, limbs noodly, shoes absurd—ran after three stick-figure children down a storm drain.

“COME BACK! I JUST WANNA PLAY!” he squeaked, voice cracking.

The children glanced back, bored. Jogged lazily.

Punywise tripped. Faceplanted into green slime.

They turned. One girl with pigtails leaned forward. Spat.

A fat loogie landed on the painted nose. Splat.

The others joined. Spit. Spit. Spit.

The greasepaint melted in slow rivulets. The children pointed. Laughed—not cruel, merely casual. The laughter of victors who were already finished.

Cut.

Carnival. Huge mallet. Mirror maze shattered. Three synchronized loogies. Face dissolved. Wail. High-fives. Whistling departure.

Cut.

Playground slide. Spit from above like acid. Suit sizzled. Polka dots melted. Shoes deflated with sad wheezes. Heap at the bottom. Chanting. “Punywise! Punywise!”

The loop tightened. Faster. Meaner. More spit. More grotesque melting. Until the face was little more than a sagging sack of dripping paint and exposed bone.

Ethan’s mouth hung slightly open. A thin thread of drool gleamed at the corner. Not fear. Something closer to fascination.

Outside, Pennywise had gone unnaturally still. The deadlights shrank to furious pinpricks. A low, grinding sound rose in its throat—teeth chewing metal.

The red balloon sank slowly into the snow until only the knot remained, winking shut.

Then the voice again—soft, calm, promising.

“…Keep laughing, little watcher. I like it when they laugh first.”

The fingers lifted. The crack ceased spreading. The glass sighed back into shape.

Pennywise turned. Glided away. Coat-tails dragging silent furrows. The balloon remained behind, half-buried, wheezing deflation.

Inside, the loop continued.

Spit. Melt. Laugh.

Spit. Melt. Laugh.

One corner of Ethan’s mouth twitched upward. Just a little.

Derry, Maine – January 7, 1985 – 12:37 a.m.

The snow had ceased. The remaining crust glittered brittle under moonlight.

The back door of the Rusty Nail slammed, spitting a big man into the alley. He’d driven up from Portland that afternoon to see family, he’d told the bartender earlier—thick slur, vague promise to “straighten things out.” Now he slumped against the brick, blood trickling from a fresh cut above his eye after someone finally swung back.

He wiped his mouth, muttered wetly about how his mother used to say he was just like his no-good father who never stuck around, how the little ones always cried too easy when he got mad, how nobody ever thanked him for “toughening them up.”

His coat strained across a chest gone soft with years and bottles; he slid down the wall into the slush, breathing ragged and slow.

Pennywise drifted into the alley mouth, red balloon hovering chest-high, motionless. For years the clown had enjoyed this one from afar—easy to nudge, quick to act on the soft whispers that slipped through cracked doors when he was small, then later through bar mirrors and empty rooms.

Lately the fear had dulled to gray nothing; the man drifted, unfocused, got tangled in pointless bar scuffles unrelated to the prey. A toy that might just be too broken to keep playing with.

The gloved hand closed around the thick throat almost gently. Eyes opened too late, bleary confusion giving way to a single choked gurgle. Blood spiraled upward in lazy coils; the body jerked once, then sagged sideways against the wall, head lolling, eyes staring blankly at the sleet.

The clown lingered a moment, then glided away.

The red balloon bobbed once and followed. Down the block a drunk yelled “Thomas, you asshole!” at the closing door.

In the alley the corpse sat slumped, coat gaping, blood already freezing in dark streaks across the snow.

The watcher drifted behind, silent, unseen, letting the meal pass without interference.

Now the clown moved again—slow, almost leisurely—toward the old part of town where houses leaned close and sidewalks cracked with ancient roots.

And scattered across Derry, waiting for morning:

A comic page taped inside a bus shelter on Main Street—Punywise mid-chase, nose melting into a sad puddle. Wobbly marker caption: “Punywise forgot to brush!!!”

Another stapled to a telephone pole by the elementary playground—three kids high-fiving while the suit dissolved into polka-dot soup. Speech bubble: “You smell like old popcorn and loser.”

A third caught beneath a windshield wiper near the Barrens—seven children raining spit like artillery. Final panel: puddle of red-and-white goo. No caption. Only SPLORCH.

They had appeared without witnesses. As though they had always waited.

Pennywise did not look at them directly. But every so often its head twitched—small, birdlike—when it passed one. The deadlights narrowed. The painted smile pulled tighter across too many teeth.

The night stayed quiet.