Stella Marsh

Derry, Maine – January 16, 1985 – 10:19 a.m.

No title card. No fanfare. Just the soft, familiar xylophone jingle that had already become dreadfully recognizable.

The scene opened inside a dark child’s bedroom. Moonlight slanted through the window in pale silver bars.

Punywise stepped over the sill—slow, theatrical, red-and-white suit trailing frost. The ruff still carried wilted lettuce scraps; a sad cucumber wheel dangled from one pom-pom like a war medal no one wanted. The red balloon floated behind him at shoulder height, perfectly still.

He paused at the foot of the bed. Head cocked. Deadlights glowing low and hungry.

A thin string of cartoon drool slipped from the corner of the painted mouth and stretched toward the blanket fort like warm taffy.

“Little sailor…” the voice purred, wet and intimate. “Still hiding under your cotton walls?”

One gloved hand—too long, joints cracking—reached for the top edge of the sheet.

The fabric lifted slowly, like a theater curtain rising on the final act.

Beneath the tent: no terrified child.

Only a white porcelain dinner plate resting on the pillow.

Arranged in a perfect smiling face:

Romaine cheeks, cherry-tomato blush, carrot-curl eyebrows, cucumber moons for sleepy eyes, a wide crescent of bright yellow bell pepper grinning up at the clown.

Floating just above the plate—tethered by nothing—was a glossy cyan balloon. Bold black lines: the smirking crescent mouth, arched brows, scattering of tiny dots.

Tied below it, a small white tag in purple crayon:

Be strong! You can do it Daddy! ♡

Punywise froze. The drool snapped and fell in a wet splat onto the carpet.

The deadlights narrowed to furious slits.

Then the blanket rustled.

From beneath the sheet, small blue-gloved hands emerged—crisp periwinkle suit sleeves, lavender ruffles bright even in the dark.

Periwinkle rose smoothly, sitting cross-legged on the bed like she’d been waiting all along. Conical hat tilted rakishly. Orange eyes soft, almost fond.

She lifted the plate with both hands, offering it like a birthday present.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said sweetly. “I made you a smiley salad. It’s healthy. And happy.”

Punywise’s smile tore wider—showing every jagged row. A low grinding growl rolled in his chest.

He raised one hand to swipe the plate away.

Periwinkle didn’t flinch.

She simply leaned forward and—quick as a hop—pressed the entire smiling salad directly into his face.

SPLAT.

Lettuce plastered across the greasepaint. Cherry tomatoes burst against the nose. Carrot curls stuck to the teeth. The yellow bell-pepper grin smeared sideways across the lower row, still curving upward in stubborn cheer.

She sat back on her heels, dusted her gloves once, twice.

“There,” she said brightly. “Now you’re smiling too.”

The screen held on the image: Punywise dripping vinaigrette and vegetable confetti, deadlights blazing, the cyan balloon bobbing serenely beside him.

Soft lavender text faded up:

Even monsters need their greens.

Especially when love serves them.

The screens went black.

Matching comic pages appeared across town minutes later—taped to bedroom doors, slipped under pillows, left on nightstands.

Same bright crayon colors. Same brutal tenderness.

Final panel: close-up of the salad-smeared face, one furious orange eye glaring through a cucumber slice.

A tiny speech bubble from off-panel, in purple crayon:

Goodnight, Daddy.

Eat up. ♡

Derry, Maine – January 15, 1985 – 8:47 p.m.

The guest room under the slanted ceiling is quiet now, fairy lights strung along the headboard glowing soft amber, turning the quilt into something warm and golden. The house below has settled: low voices murmuring goodnights, mugs clinking in the sink, the faint creak of floorboards as the others claim couches and spare beds.

Beverly sits on the edge of the twin mattress, still in her sweater and jeans, one hand smoothing the faded star-patterned quilt over the small body already tucked beneath it. The girl is in Bev’s old flannel pajamas—sleeves rolled four times, pant legs pooling around tiny ankles—dark hair fanned across the pillow, cheeks still flushed from the day’s laughter and syrup.

Bev leans down, presses a slow kiss to the smooth forehead. “Sleep tight, little star.”

She starts to rise.

A small hand shoots out from under the quilt and catches her wrist—not hard, but firm. The grip is steady in a way a child’s shouldn’t be.

Bev freezes.

The fairy lights dim, just a fraction, as though the room itself is listening.

The girl sits up slowly. The oversized pajamas hang off her narrow shoulders. Her face is still flushed and ordinary—until the eyes open fully.

They are not brown anymore.

They are orange. Not the dead, burning orange of the thing that wears the white suit. Softer. Older. Like embers banked under ash, holding light instead of giving it.

The child voice is gone.

What replaces it is quiet, low, cracked at the edges—like someone speaking through a throat that hasn’t been used in decades.

“Bev,” she says, “you never ask me any hard questions.”

A long silence stretches between them.

“Do… do you know who I am?”

Beverly exhales through her nose, slow and careful. She doesn’t pull her wrist away. Instead she turns her hand, palm up, so their fingers lace together naturally.

“I… I don’t know your name,” she answers. “Not the real one. Not the one that matters.”

She sits back down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly.

“I know you’re something different. Something powerful. I’ve seen your eyes glow the same way his do… but I know you’re not him.”

“When we first met, you told me you were who you wanted—or needed—to be.”

Bev’s thumb brushes once across the small knuckles.

“I know you’re not just a little girl playing house with her… family.”

She meets those ember eyes without flinching.

“Will you tell me who you really are?”

The girl—no, the thing wearing the girl—looks down at their joined hands. For a moment the orange dims, almost human again.

Then the voice comes, softer, frayed.

“I don’t know.”

A small, helpless laugh—barely a breath.

“I don’t know who I am… not anymore.”

“I’m not like him. Or… I wasn’t. Not at first. I think.”

She lifts her free hand, studies it as though it might belong to someone else.

“I have memories of you. Things from the past. Things that haven’t happened yet. Things that maybe could have happened if the world had bent a different way.”

“I look like this now, but it isn’t real.”

Her gaze returns to Beverly’s face—searching, almost pleading.

“I can be anyone. Anything. But I chose this… just to spite him, I think… She was his until I stole her.”

A pause. The fairy lights flicker once.

“But somewhere… I lost the ‘real’ me.”

The orange glow wavers, uncertain.

Beverly is quiet for a long time.

Then she shifts closer, lifts the quilt, and slides under it without letting go of the small hand. She pulls the girl against her chest, arms wrapping around narrow shoulders, chin resting lightly on dark hair.

“I don’t know the whole shape of you either,” she says against the crown of the head. “Not the beginning. Not the before. But I know what I’ve seen these past days. I know what it felt like to hold you while you slept. I know what it sounded like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. I know the look on your face when you ate that third pancake monster and said it was the best thing ever.”

She tightens her arms.

“Maybe the ‘real’ you got lost somewhere. Maybe pieces of it are still scattered. Maybe some of them hurt too much to look at. But the part that’s here right now? The part that chose to come back? The part that hugged me like it had been waiting forever?”

Bev’s voice drops to a rough whisper.

“That part isn’t lost. That part is lying in this bed, wearing too-big pajamas, talking to me like I’m the safest place in the world. And I’m not letting that part go unless it wants to be let go.”

She feels the small body tremble once—once only—then settle.

“So if you don’t know who you are tonight… that’s okay. You can be the girl who ate blueberry monsters and fell asleep in my arms. You can be the thing that came out of the dark and chose pancakes instead of teeth. You can be both. Or neither. Or something in between.”

Bev kisses the top of the head again, softer this time.

“And tomorrow… we’ll figure out the next piece. Together. No hard questions unless you want to ask them. No answers you’re not ready to hear.”

“For tonight, you’re just… you. And that’s enough.”

The orange in the eyes fades slowly, like sunrise bleeding out of the sky, until only ordinary brown remains—tired, grateful, human.

The small voice returns, child-soft, sleepy.

“Bev…”

A tiny pause. Fingers tighten once in the fabric of Bev’s sweater.

“…would you… name me?”

Beverly’s breath catches. She doesn’t answer right away. Instead she shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow so she can look down properly, brushing dark hair back from the child’s forehead with careful fingertips.

The question hangs between them like a fragile thing—something that could break if handled too roughly.

Bev studies the face in the dim light: the soft curve of cheek, the faint freckles that weren’t there yesterday, the way the lashes cast little shadows when she blinks. She thinks of the cyan star pendant still resting cool against her own skin, of the way this being chose light instead of hunger, chose laughter instead of screams, chose pancakes and bubble fights and bedtime stories over teeth.

She thinks of stars: distant, steady, burning for a long time even when no one is looking.

A small, real smile touches Bev’s mouth.

“Stella,” she says quietly.

The word feels right the moment it leaves her lips.

“It means ‘star.’”

The girl’s eyes widen—just a fraction—then soften. Something bright and wondering flickers across her face.

Bev repeats it, slower, tasting the shape of it.

“Stella.”

Then, softer still, like a promise she’s making to both of them:

“Stella Marsh.”

Stella lets out a tiny, surprised breath, almost a laugh. Her small hand finds Bev’s again, fingers lacing tight.

“Stella Marsh,” she whispers, trying it out. The name sounds new in her mouth, like something she’s been waiting to hear her whole life.

She burrows closer, face pressing into the hollow of Bev’s throat, arms wrapping around her waist as far as they can reach.

“Thank you,” she murmurs against the skin there, voice muffled and sleepy and full of something too big for words.

Bev presses her lips to the top of the dark head, lingering.

“You’re welcome, Stella.”

She pulls the quilt higher, tucking it around them both.

Stella sighs—a long, contented sound—and nuzzles in deeper. Her breathing slows. Deepens. The small fingers in Bev’s sweater loosen, then relax completely.

Her lashes flutter once, twice… then still.

Stella falls asleep.