Blueberry Monsters

Derry, Maine – January 14, 1985 – 9:41 p.m.

The little Cape Cod on Pond Street had already dimmed for the night.
Porch light off.

Living-room windows dark except for the faint blue flicker of a television someone forgot to power down.

Upstairs, in the smallest bedroom at the end of the hall, nine-year-old Noah Whitaker moved through his pre-sleep checklist with the careful gravity of someone who knew the dark sometimes paid attention.

Brush teeth: two full minutes by the pumpkin-shaped sand timer. Up-down, all around, spit, rinse.
Light switch: off-on-off. (Four was unlucky. Two felt unfinished.)
Closet inspection: door opened wide, flashlight swept left-right-left, nothing staring back tonight. Closed. Checked again.

Blanket fort: top sheet tented over his head, flashlight tucked under his chin, stuffed turtle pressed tight against his chest.

He whispered the closing line, barely louder than breath:

“Night-night, bad things. Stay outside where you belong.”

He clicked off the flashlight.

The room swallowed itself in black.

Outside the window, the red balloon floated motionless against the glass, perfectly centered in the lower right pane like a signature written in blood.
It did not sway.

It waited.

A soft click.

The window latch surrendered without protest.

Cold air curled in, carrying sleet and the faint, sweet rot of carnival sugar and old greasepaint.

Pennywise stepped over the sill without touching the carpet.
The filthy white suit trailed frost along the floorboards.

The ruff still wore stubborn patches of wilted lettuce; a single shriveled cucumber wheel clung to the left pom-pom like a forgotten medal.

The clown stood at the foot of the bed for a long moment, head cocked, listening to the small, even whistle of Noah’s breathing.

Then it spoke—soft, almost tender, the voice that had once made children laugh until they cried:

“Hello, little sailor… still building forts against the dark?”

Beneath the sheet-tent, Noah’s eyes snapped open.
His fingers tightened on his stuffed turtle so hard the stuffing creaked.

For one frozen heartbeat he stared up through the thin cotton, wide-eyed and pale in the faint moonlight leaking around the edges of the blanket, seeing the tall white shape looming at the foot of the bed.

The voice drifted closer, conversational, amused:

“I used to know a boy who built forts just like this. He thought the blankets would keep me out too. Funny thing about blankets… they’re only cotton. And cotton floats.”

A gloved hand—too long, too many joints—reached out and closed around the top edge of the blanket near where Noah’s head should be.

Noah made a tiny, choked sound.

He yanked the blanket up over his head in one frantic motion, pulling it tight around himself like armor, curling into the smallest ball he could manage.

The flashlight rolled out and clicked on, throwing a weak yellow circle against the inside of the sheet.

Under the blanket, Noah’s heart hammered so loud he was sure the clown could hear it.

Outside the fort, Pennywise chuckled—low, wet, intimate.

“Shy tonight, are we? That’s all right. I like shy ones. They taste… surprised.”

Very slowly, deliberately, the clown’s fingers began to lift the top edge of the blanket.
One inch at a time.

Slow as rising theater curtains.

Beneath the half-lifted fabric: no terrified child’s face.

No wide eyes waiting to meet the deadlights.

Instead, perfectly centered on the pillow, lay a white porcelain dinner plate.
On it, someone had arranged a smiling face made entirely of salad:
Round romaine cheeks.
Cherry-tomato blush spots.
Carrot-curl eyebrows arched in cheerful surprise.
Cucumber moons for sleepy half-closed eyes.

A wide, bright crescent of yellow bell pepper for the mouth—curved up, unbreakable, happy.

Floating just above the plate, tethered by nothing, was a single cyan balloon.
Glossy.
Unmoving.
Bold black marker lines on its surface: the familiar wide smirk, crescent brows, scattering of tiny dots that might be freckles or stars or waiting teeth.

Tied to the string, dangling just above the cucumber eyes, a small white tag in purple crayon:

Be strong!
You can do it Daddy!
<3

The clown stared at the plate.
At the balloon.

At the smiling salad face.

The deadlights shrank to furious pinpricks.

A low grinding sound rolled in Its chest—half growl, half something dangerously close to laughter.

One gloved finger reached out, trembling theatrically slow, and nudged a cherry tomato.
It rolled once.

Stopped.

The purr deepened.

At that same moment, from the room directly across the hall, the faint but unmistakable electronic chirps and victory fanfares of a video game leaked under a closed door—bright, cheerful, defiant little beeps and boops cutting through the heavy silence of the house.

Pennywise paused, fingers still hovering above the untouched salad smile.

Head tilted slowly toward the sound from across the hall.

The deadlights flared once—sharp, curious—before narrowing again.

A single low, wet chuckle bubbled up from deep inside the chest, tasting the air.

The cyan balloon in the bedroom gave one soft, almost fond bob.

Then the clown turned, coat-tails dragging silent frost across the carpet, gliding back toward the open window.

The red balloon outside bobbed once, as though nodding in acknowledgment.

The window eased shut behind the departing clown.

The latch clicked home.

Across the hall, in the small bedroom, the glow of a handheld LCD game washed Noah’s face in simple, flickering blacks and grays.

He sat cross-legged on the rug, the chunky plastic device gripped in both hands, tongue poking out in fierce concentration.

On the tiny screen, his bouncy platformer character hopped from lily pad to lily pad, collecting glowing carrots in a grid of crude pixels.

Periwinkle sat beside him—full-sized tonight, pristine periwinkle-blue suit, lavender ruffles crisp, conical hat tilted at a rakish angle.

The white greasepaint face glowed faintly in the screen light; the orange deadlights had softened to something warm, almost like candle glow.

She leaned forward, elbows on knees, utterly absorbed.

“Noah! Higher! The big carrot’s floating!”

“I’m trying!” Noah laughed, mashing buttons. “She keeps slipping!”

Periwinkle reached over, gently adjusting his thumbs on the controller.

“Like this—see? Thumb here… and… hop!”

The character leapt, spun, snatched the carrot mid-air.

A burst of tiny pixel sparkles flashed across the screen.

Noah whooped.

Periwinkle whooped louder, clapping delightedly.

For a little while, in that warm flickering room, the night outside stayed outside.

No red balloons drifted past the windows.

No ancient hunger pressed against the glass.

Just two players, shoulder to shoulder on the rug, cheering every perfect jump, laughing when the character fell in the water with a cartoonish sploosh.

And across the hall, on Noah’s pillow beneath the carefully re-tucked blanket, the smiling salad face waited patiently in the dark—still smiling, still whole, still untouched.

Derry, Maine – January 15, 1985 – 2:14 a.m.

The guest room at the end of the upstairs hall in the old Hanlon farmhouse is simple and shadowed, with slanted ceilings and a single twin bed under a faded star-patterned quilt. Fairy lights drape the headboard, unplugged for the night, casting no glow.

Beverly lies on her side, facing the empty half of the mattress where a small shape had curled the night before. The cyan star pendant rests cool against her skin, over the soft cotton of her sleep shirt. Her breathing is slow, deep—the kind of rest she rarely allows herself after decades of Derry's whispers pulling her awake.

The house is silent except for the soft tick of cooling radiators and the muffled hush of fresh snow settling against the windowpanes.

Then the air beside her simply… warms.

No sound. No flicker of light.

A small weight settles under the covers.

A child’s body curls against her back—arms slipping around her waist from behind, cheek pressing between her shoulder blades, small hands flattening against her stomach. The scent is clean cotton pajamas, faint lavender soap, and something indefinably sweet, like carnival treats remembered from very far away.

No greasepaint. No conical hat. No periwinkle suit.

Just a little girl, perhaps six or seven, dark hair spilling across the pillow, breathing soft and even against Bev’s spine.

Beverly stirs—barely.

One hand moves instinctively, finding the smaller one resting on her abdomen. Fingers lace together.

She doesn’t open her eyes.

A tiny, contented sigh escapes her.

The snow keeps falling outside.

They sleep like that—quiet, ordinary, held.

Derry, Maine – January 15, 1985 – 7:38 a.m.

Morning light arrives pale and gentle, slanting through the thin curtains in gold bars that creep across the worn floorboards.

Beverly wakes slowly, aware first of warmth at her back, small arms still wrapped around her from behind, steady breathing against her shoulder blade.

She turns carefully, quilt rustling softly.

The little girl is still there—face tucked into the crook of Bev’s neck, dark hair fanned across the pillow, one small fist clutching the hem of Bev’s sleep shirt like an anchor.

No trace of white makeup. No orange glow behind the eyelids. Just flushed cheeks, long lashes, the soft open mouth of deep childhood sleep.

Bev’s throat closes.

She turns fully, slow so the quilt barely shifts, and pulls the girl closer until they’re facing each other.

The child stirs.

Brown eyes flutter open—sleepy, unfocused, then clearing as they find Bev’s face.

A tiny, shy smile curves the mouth.

Bev brushes dark hair from the child’s forehead with trembling fingers.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she whispers.

The girl blinks once, twice—then burrows forward, pressing her face into the hollow of Bev’s throat, arms tightening.

“Good morning,” comes the sleepy, slightly hoarse reply.

They stay like that for several long minutes, breathing together, the house still quiet around them.

Derry, Maine – January 15, 1985 – 7:42 a.m.

The girl finally lifts her head, eyes brighter now.

She stretches—small arms reaching upward, back arching—then settles again, forehead gently touching Bev’s.

“Did you like the present?” she asks suddenly, voice bubbling with childlike hope, hands clasping together under her chin.

Bev’s fingers drift to the cyan star pendant.

“I love it,” she says, voice rough. “Haven’t taken it off once.”

The girl beams—full, dazzling—and throws her arms around Bev’s neck in a fierce hug.

Then, pulling back just enough to look up with enormous eyes:

“Bev… can we have breakfast now? Pleeeease?”

She bounces once on the mattress, quilt shifting.

“I’m sooo hungry! Pancakes? With syrup rivers? And blueberries? Lots of blueberries! Pleeeease?”

The pout is theatrical, perfect, then instantly replaced by a huge grin.

Bev laughs—soft, surprised, real.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Let’s make pancakes.”

She swings her legs off the bed, scoops the girl up easily—legs dangling, arms still looped around her neck—and carries her downstairs toward the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Derry, Maine – January 15, 1985 – 7:50 a.m. – 9:45 a.m.

The kitchen slowly fills with the smell of butter, coffee, and browning batter.

The girl is perched on Bev’s hip while Bev pours circles onto the griddle, the child directing blueberry placement with the solemnity of a battlefield commander.

“More! Make a monster face! Big scary eyes! Grumpy eyebrows!”

Richie is the first to wander in from the living room couch, hair vertical, hoodie half-zipped, mug in hand. He stops dead in the doorway.

“…She’s back. And she’s… demanding pancakes. This is surreal.”

Eddie appears next from the hallway, already clutching his inhaler like a talisman, eyes narrowing.

“You’re… eating actual food? Like, real pancakes?”

The girl turns toward him, cheeks puffed with excitement, not a hint of otherworldly strangeness—just pure, cheerful normalcy.

“Pancakes are flat cakes! With syrup rivers! And monster blueberries!”

She makes claw hands and a tiny growl, complete with wiggly eyebrows and a playful snap of her teeth.

Eddie stares, mouth half-open. Then—miraculously—lets out a small, startled laugh.

“…Okay. One monster face. For science.”

Ben arrives already rolling up sleeves, quietly rinsing a colander of blueberries under the tap, glancing over with a soft, bemused smile. Mike, Stan, and Bill trickle in from upstairs or the back porch, each pausing at the doorway—skepticism flickering across their faces (Mike’s watchful gaze, Stan’s precise frown, Bill’s hesitant stutter starting in his throat)—cycling through confusion, then reluctant softening as the girl waves enthusiastically at each of them with both hands, grinning like she’s known them forever.

No one says the obvious. No one asks what she is.

They just… play along, pulled into her cheerful orbit like planets around a small, bright sun.

Richie burns the first pancake spectacularly—black edges curling—and blames the pan with theatrical outrage. “This thing’s possessed! Swear to God!”

The girl giggles so hard she nearly topples off Bev’s hip; Eddie very seriously arranges three blueberries into “angry eyebrows” on his stack, muttering about structural integrity. Ben quietly adds a tiny banana-slice smile to one, earning a squeal of approval.

The girl claps sticky hands every time a new monster is created—“It’s alive! Rawr!”—before devouring it with dramatic chomps and pretend monster screams. Bev keeps one arm looped around the child even while flipping pancakes, as though letting go might make her vanish.

The awkwardness lasts maybe ten minutes—stolen glances, half-started questions dying on lips. Then it’s just breakfast: sticky fingers wiped on dish towels, second (and third) helpings piled high, quiet laughter filling the room as Richie pretends a blueberry is screaming (“Nooo, mercy!”) before popping it into his mouth. The girl chatters nonstop—cheerful, strangely normal, demanding everyone try her “super-secret syrup swirl technique”—and the Losers melt into it, passing plates, refilling coffee, the farmhouse feeling alive in a way it hasn’t since they were kids themselves.

The rest of the day

Late morning (10:00 a.m. – noon): Cleanup turns into a full-blown game of bubble attacks. The girl stands on a step stool by the sink—sleeves rolled up to her elbows, too big for her small arms—wielding a soapy dishcloth like a sword. She flicks bubbles at Richie, who clutches his chest and crumples dramatically to the floor (“Assassinated by a six-year-old bubble ninja! Tell my trash comedy I loved it!”). She shrieks with laughter, nearly toppling; Bev catches her mid-fall, spinning her around while Eddie shakes his head but sneaks a bubble flick back. Stan methodically dries plates nearby, hiding a rare smile; Mike watches from the table, sipping coffee, the girl roping him into “bubble target practice” until even he chuckles softly. She’s relentlessly cheerful—dancing between tasks, declaring every popped bubble a “victory explosion”—so disarmingly normal that the lingering skepticism fades into easy indulgence.

Afternoon (12:30 p.m. – 4:00 p.m.): The group migrates to the living room, snow-glazed windows framing a quiet Derry outside. The girl drags Bev by the hand to the bookshelf, pointing at colorful spines with urgent glee: “Read that one! No, that has a dragon! Dragons are the best!” Bev settles on the couch with her in her lap, reading aloud from an old illustrated book about a brave little fox outsmarting a mean old bear. The girl interrupts constantly—gasps at the scary parts (“He’s gonna eat her!”), cheers at the clever escapes (“Yesss, fox power!”), little fists pumping the air. Ben sketches quick doodles in the corner armchair—foxes in tiny hats, monsters with blueberry eyes—passing them over for her solemn inspection (“Perfect! Ten stars!”). Stan sits cross-legged on the rug, letting her climb on his back like a pony (“Giddyup, horsey Stan! Faster!”) until he’s trotting in circles, precise as ever but grinning. Richie does voices for the book characters, escalating to ridiculous accents; Eddie pretends to read a magazine but glances over every time she cheers, eventually joining in with a fox “rawr.” Bill and Mike trade quiet stories from the kitchen, drawn back by her laughter. She naps for twenty minutes mid-afternoon, curled ordinary against Bev’s side, thumb half in mouth, lashes fluttering—strangely normal, the room falling to whispers around her.

Snack time (3:00 p.m.): A solemn procession back to the kitchen for apple-slice monsters—peanut butter glue, raisin eyes, pretzel arms. Hers has a comically huge raisin mouth; she roars at it before chomping the head off, juice dribbling down her chin. “Monster down!” The Losers follow suit, Richie’s resembling a deranged trash can, Eddie’s “medically accurate” with tiny aspirin raisins. Laughter rolls easy, her cheer infectious.

Evening (5:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m.): Pasta dinner—steaming bowls of marinara, garlic bread crisping in the oven, a big salad she devours cherry tomatoes from (“Squishy explosions!”), demanding seconds with wide eyes. She sits boosted on two phone books at the big oak table, swinging legs, insisting everyone say “please” and “thank you” in her most serious voice (“Manners make you strong!”). After, she declares a “dance party”—Ben drops a needle on the record player, queuing up some synth-pop from the stack of LPs. She grabs Bev’s hands first, spinning in wild dizzy circles until they collapse giggling on the rug; Richie joins with over-the-top dad-dancing (flailing arms, hip thrusts), pulling Eddie into one awkward spin (“Don’t step on me, Kaspbrak!”) before he retreats laughing. Stan does precise robot moves; Ben sways gently, lifting her for twirls; Bill and Mike clap rhythm, her shrieks of joy filling every corner. She’s a whirlwind of cheerful normalcy—tripping over feet, hugging knees when dizzy, demanding encores—turning the farmhouse into a bubble of warmth against Derry’s chill.

8:30 p.m. – Bedtime

The girl’s energy finally ebbs. She’s in oversized borrowed pajamas (Bev’s old flannel set, sleeves rolled four times, hems dragging), hair damp and tousled from a quick bath, smelling of lavender soap and minty toothpaste.

Bev carries her upstairs to the same small guest room—cozy under the slanted ceiling, fairy lights now plugged in glowing soft gold above the twin bed.

She tucks the girl in, pulling the quilt up to her chin.

Small arms open immediately.

“Stay? Please? Just until I fall asleep?”

The voice is small now—still cheerful in its cadence, but softer, sleepier, the day’s boundless energy giving way to quiet need.

Bev kicks off her socks, slides under the covers without a word, pulling her close.

Head tucks under chin. Small fist fists in shirt. Legs tangle like they’ve shared a bed a thousand nights.

The house quiets below: low voices debating who crashes where, coffee mugs clinking, the Losers deciding—no discussion needed—to stay another night.

Upstairs, the girl yawns—tiny, jaw-cracking—then shifts slightly, eyes still open in the dim glow.

“Bev,” she murmurs, voice a touch more serious, weighty for her size, “thank you for today. It’s like living a dream.”

Bev’s hand stills on her back, then resumes slow circles. She presses her forehead to the girl’s.

“You’re welcome, little star. Felt like a dream for me too. The best kind.”

She kisses the forehead—slow, lingering—then settles fully, arm draped protectively.

“You can have more days like today. As many as you want.”

The girl sighs—a long, contented sound—and nuzzles closer.

Breathing slows. Deepens.

The fairy lights stay on.

She falls asleep—small, warm, ordinary, safe. Strangely, cheerfully normal to the last.

Bev stays awake a little longer, simply holding her, listening to the house breathe around them—the soft snores downstairs, the wind against snow.

For tonight, at least, everything is simple.