Vegetarian

Derry, Maine – January 9, 1985 – 12:37 p.m.

The midday sun hung pale and thin above Main Street, just strong enough to glaze yesterday's snow into a slick, treacherous mirror on the sidewalks. People hurried between the diner and the pharmacy in heavy coats, breath fogging in quick white bursts. Inside Marsh Threads, Beverly Marsh spoke softly with a customer about winter wool blends, her voice a calm counterpoint to the ordinary bustle outside.

At 12:37 p.m., every television screen in Derry woke up at once.

No announcement. No title card. Only a bright, deliberately cheerful xylophone jingle that felt wrong in the winter air.

The cartoon opened on a sunny meadow that looked suspiciously like the Barrens in springtime. There sat Punywise—the floppy-shoed, pathetic version—on a checkered picnic blanket, red balloons drifting lazily around him, a glistening cartoon femur clutched in both gloved hands. He gnawed with exaggerated smacking noises, drool cartoonishly bright.

Then Small Periwinkle appeared.

Blue suit immaculate, hat slightly askew, she carried an enormous wooden salad bowl in both arms. She set it down with a gentle thump. Inside: crisp lettuce, ruby cherry tomatoes, cucumber moons, shredded carrots, a delicate shimmer of vinaigrette.

She clasped her hands behind her back, rocked once on her heels, and spoke in a voice sweet enough to rot teeth:

“Punywise… you should try being a healthy vegetarian! Meat makes you grumpy and smelly. Look—salad is fun! It’s crunchy and colorful and good for your tummy!”

Punywise paused, mid-bite. Looked at the salad. Looked at her.

Then he cackled—a high, wheezing cartoon-villain laugh—and shoved the dripping femur toward her.

“Nahhh! Meat is yummy! Salad is for bunnies!”

Periwinkle’s face fell. Her lip trembled—perfect, heartbreaking, one perfect second.

Then she reached behind her back and produced a comically oversized wooden stick, the sort that belonged in a fairy-tale woodsman’s hands. She swung.

BONK.

Punywise’s eyes crossed. His hat pinwheeled away. He toppled backward with a sad cartoon sproing.

Periwinkle stepped forward, seized him by the filthy ruff, and upended the entire salad bowl over his head like a helmet.

Lettuce rained. Tomato slices slid down the greasepaint like bloody tears. A cucumber wheel settled on his nose like a monocle.

She dusted her hands, once, satisfied.

“There. Now you’re a vegetarian. Whether you like it or not.”

The screen faded to cheerful green text:

Eat your greens, or get the stick!

Healthy choices are always the best choice! 🥗

Every screen in town went dark.

Derry, Maine – January 10, 1985 – 12:41 p.m.

Beneath Derry, in the black chamber where the water never froze, the ancient thing rose.

Pennywise stood waist-deep in the oily pool, head cocked, deadlights pulsing slow and patient. The low purr in Its chest had sharpened into something impatient, something waiting.

The air behind It thickened.

Periwinkle appeared—not small this time. Full-sized. Pristine blue suit, lavender ruffles crisp, conical hat tilted at a rakish angle. In her right hand, the oversized stick, polished to a gleam. In her left, another huge ceramic salad bowl, brimming.

Pennywise’s head turned—slow, impossible—one hundred eighty degrees, until the painted smile stared directly over Its own shoulder.

The deadlights flared.

Periwinkle’s voice lilted, sweet, but edged with unbreakable steel:

“Daddy… you should try being a healthy vegetarian.”

The clown’s smile stretched wider, showing every impossible row.

It opened Its mouth.

She didn’t wait.

The stick cracked across the top of the conical hat with a clean, ringing sound. The hat spun away into darkness like a thrown disc.

Greasepaint split along the impact line.

Pennywise staggered—arms windmilling, almost comical.

Periwinkle stepped in, seized the ruff, and dumped the entire salad over Its head.

Lettuce cascaded in wet sheets. Tomatoes plastered themselves across the white face. Carrots clung to the teeth. A cucumber wheel balanced, absurd, on the tip of the nose.

She dusted her hands.

Leaned close.

“Now you’re a vegetarian. Whether you like it or not.”

The stick vanished. The bowl vanished.

She smiled—small, bright, unyielding.

Then she was gone.

Pennywise stood dripping, carrot flecks in the ruff, cucumber monocle still perched.

The deadlights narrowed to furious slits.

A low, grinding sound began in Its throat—half growl, half laughter.

Derry, Maine – January 9, 1985 – 12:46 p.m.

In the quiet of Marsh Threads, Beverly Marsh stared at the latest comic page that had appeared on her counter while she was in the stockroom.

The salad. The stick. The triumphant little blue figure dusting her hands.

Bev’s lips twitched—almost smile, almost grimace.

She traced the crayon lines of Periwinkle with one fingertip.

“You really did that, didn’t you?” she murmured.

No answer.

She folded the page carefully, tucked it into her apron pocket beside the others.

Then she turned to the next alteration: a child’s navy winter coat, faux-fur hood torn at the seam.

She spread it out, pinned the rip.

The spool of matching navy thread was already in her hand.

She hadn’t reached that far.

Sunlight shifted through the window, pooling exactly where she worked—warm, never too hot.

A loose pin rolled to the table’s edge and waited.

The bobbin she needed was already wound.

When she leaned back, the chair behind her scooted forward half an inch—perfect timing.

The radio cleared from static to “Landslide.”

Bev kept sewing.

Once, mid-stitch, she stopped.

Set the presser foot down.

Looked at the empty space beside her.

“I don’t know what you’re after,” she said quietly. “Sometimes I’m not even sure if you’re real, or if I’m finally losing it. But… thank you.”

She waited.

The sunlight stayed warm.

The thread never tangled.

The coat finished faster than it should have.

Outside, a single red balloon bobbed against a lamppost—then popped without sound.

Inside, the air felt lighter. Safer. Held.

Derry, Maine – January 9, 1985 – 9:47 p.m.

That night the temperature had plunged. The Kenduskeeg was black glass under the iron bridge, cracking like distant gunshots.

Pennywise hunted.

A young man named Kyle Brenner walked the river path home from the late shift—headphones in, hood up, thinking of leftover pizza.

The path lights dimmed behind him, one by one.

Ahead, in the orange glow of the last lamp, the clown waited.

Red balloon floating at shoulder height.

Kyle stopped. Pulled one earbud out.

Saw the clown.

Then his right hand jerked upward.

Fingers closed around nothing—then around something heavy. A ceramic salad bowl materialized, brimming.

He tried to drop it. His arm refused.

A wide, mechanical, terrified smile spread across his face—bright, billboard-bright, wrong.

He tried to scream. Only a strangled laugh escaped.

His arm cocked back like a pitcher.

He hurled the salad.

It struck Pennywise square in the face with a wet SPLAT.

Vinaigrette dripped. Cucumber clung to one eye. Carrots decorated the teeth like confetti.

Kyle’s knees buckled. He dropped, gasping, the empty bowl clattering beside him.

Pennywise stood motionless.

Then reached up slowly.

Crushed the cucumber wheel.

Pulp oozed between Its fingers.

“…Again,” It said, voice tasting the word.

Two minutes later, the red balloon rippled.

From beneath it, a small wicker picnic basket appeared.

The string shortened, tied itself to the handle in a neat bow.

Inside: another salad—fresh, perfect, wholesome.

Tied to the handle with lavender ribbon, a pale blue note in careful, girlish handwriting, little hearts over the i’s:

for Daddy

♡

The basket drifted forward—slow, gentle—until it hovered at chest height before the clown.

Pennywise tilted Its head.

Very slowly.

One gloved hand closed around the handle. Wicker creaked.

It lifted the basket.

Inhaled.

The purr in Its chest vibrated the night.

Not quite laughter. Not quite rage.

Recognition.

Fingers dipped into the salad.

Smearing vinaigrette and lettuce across the already dripping greasepaint—slow, almost tender—drawing a wet arc from one torn corner of the smile to the other.

Then, soft, intimate, to the empty dark:

“…Pester me… little star… while you can.”

The words drifted upward like smoke.

Kyle scrambled to his feet and ran—slipping, catching himself, disappearing toward the distant streetlights.

Pennywise did not follow.

It stood in the orange lamplight, basket in one hand, red balloon floating serenely above.

A single carrot shred fell from Its chin and landed softly in the snow.

The clown tilted Its head back.

Looked up at the black winter sky.