The River

Derry, Maine – January 17, 1985 – 10:15 a.m.

The breakfast dishes had been mostly cleared, the kitchen still carrying the sweet ghost of maple syrup and fresh coffee. Sunlight poured through the windows, turning the fresh snow outside into a dazzling field of broken glass. Stella tugged at Beverly’s sleeve while Bev stood at the sink rinsing the last mug, her small face tilted up with bright, pleading eyes.

“Can we go for a walk? Please? I wanna see the snow! And the river! And maybe throw snowballs!”

Bev smiled—warm, automatic—then hesitated. She glanced toward the window, the half-finished winter coat waiting on her cutting table in the next room, then back at the little girl.

“I’d love to, little star. Really. But I promised Mrs. Abernathy I’d have her coat done by noon—she’s leaving for Portland tomorrow and it’s her only nice one. The hem’s almost finished, but the lining needs to be perfect.”

Stella’s lower lip pushed out in a theatrical pout, arms crossing, but the disappointment was soft, half-hearted. She could feel the quiet guilt threading through Bev’s voice, the way her mind was already measuring thread and pressing seams.

Bev knelt so they were eye to eye, brushing dark hair from Stella’s face with gentle fingers.

“But you should still go. The fresh air will do you good. And you’ll have company.”

She looked past Stella toward the living room.

“Hey—anyone up for taking Stella on a walk? She’s got snow-exploring energy and I’m stuck with a deadline.”

Richie answered first, already shrugging into his absurdly puffy coat with the fake-fur hood.

“I’m in. Someone’s gotta teach her how to make the perfect snowball. And by ‘perfect’ I mean ‘one that will definitely nail Eddie in the back of the head.’”

Eddie, halfway into his own coat, shot Richie a glare.

“I’m only going because someone needs to make sure she doesn’t eat yellow snow or whatever. And because I don’t trust you to keep her out of trouble.”

Ben appeared from the hallway, gloves already on.

“I’ll come too. The river path’s beautiful after a fresh snow. And I could use the walk.”

Mike nodded quietly from the doorway, coat already buttoned.

“I’ll walk with you.”

Bill hesitated only a second, then reached for his scarf.

“I’m in.”

Stan was last—he’d been watching from the window. He shrugged, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.

“Sure. Why not.”

Bev helped Stella into one of her own too-big coats, sleeves rolled up four times, then wrapped a scarf around the girl’s neck twice and tucked her hair under a knit hat.

“Stay with them, okay?” Bev said, kneeling again to adjust the hat. “No running too far ahead. And if you get cold, come straight back. I’ll have hot chocolate waiting.”

Stella nodded solemnly, then threw her arms around Bev’s neck in a quick, fierce hug.

“Love you, Bev.”

Bev froze for half a heartbeat, then hugged her back—tight, warm, like she’d never let go.

“Love you too, Stella. Be good.”

The six of them—Richie, Eddie, Ben, Mike, Bill, Stan—escorted her out into the dazzling white morning.

The walk was slow, meandering. Snow crunched under boots. Stella threw handfuls of powder into the air and laughed when it sparkled down like glitter. Richie taught her how to pack a snowball (badly—his were lumpy and fell apart almost immediately). Eddie scolded him for demonstrating “dangerous techniques.” Ben pointed out animal tracks—rabbit, deer, something that might have been a fox. Mike walked beside her, matching her shorter stride, occasionally nodding toward interesting shapes in the ice along the river. Bill told her the story of the paper boat again, softer this time, like a lullaby. Stan walked a little behind, smiling whenever she glanced back at him.

Eventually the path curved toward the old iron bridge over the Kenduskeeg.

Stella tugged on Richie’s sleeve.

“Can we go up there? On the bridge? I wanna see everything from high up!”

Richie looked at the others. They all nodded, small smiles tugging at their mouths.

“Bridge time it is, tiny commander.”

They climbed the short set of stairs to the pedestrian walkway. The river below was frozen in patches, black water moving slow and dark beneath cracked ice. Snow dusted the railing like powdered sugar.

Stella climbed onto the bottom rail (Mike’s steady hands on her back so she wouldn’t slip), gripping the top bar with mittened hands, looking out over the glittering white town.

The wind was cold up here, but it felt clean.

She turned her head, looking at the six adults who had followed her without hesitation.

“This is nice,” she said, voice small but bright. “All of us. Together.”

They didn’t answer right away.

They simply stood with her—Richie leaning on the rail beside her, Eddie pretending not to be cold, Ben smiling quietly, Mike watching the horizon, Bill and Stan flanking the group like quiet sentinels.

The snow kept falling—soft, slow, peaceful.

And for this moment, on top of the old iron bridge, nothing in Derry was trying to take anything away.

Then Stella went still.

Completely still.

The excited bouncing stopped.
Her body locked.

Her face smoothed into an empty, glassy expression—eyes open but unfocused, mouth slightly parted, like a doll someone had forgotten to wind.

Richie’s half-finished joke died in his throat.

“…Stella?”

No answer.

She stood motionless for nearly a full minute—long enough that the wind felt louder, colder.

Eddie stepped closer, voice soft and careful.

“Hey… kid? You okay?”

Still nothing.

Then the tremor began—small at first in her shoulders, then stronger, shaking her whole frame.

Her head tilted forward slightly, hair falling across her face.

And then she laughed.

It started low—giggling, almost normal—then rose, twisted, became something else entirely.

Multiple voices layered over each other:
her bright child’s laugh,
a deeper, wetter chuckle,
a high, scraping cackle,
an old woman’s wheezing mirth—

all overlapping, all echoing strangely off the iron girders as though the bridge itself were laughing back.

The sound wasn’t loud.
It was intimate.

It crawled under the skin.

Her arm lifted—slow, jerky, like a marionette on tangled strings—and pointed down at the black water of the Kenduskeeg.

“Look over there!”

The six adults followed her finger instinctively.

The river—sluggish where it wasn’t frozen—began to move strangely.

Against the current.

A bizarre, unnatural flow of… something drifted upstream:
vague green shapes skimming the surface like drifting leaves,
bright flecks of orange and red bobbing in slow, deliberate spirals,
pale slices fanning out in neat, almost orderly patterns,

all of it gliding toward every storm drain, every sewer grate along the banks, disappearing down into the dark with quiet, deliberate purpose.

At first it looked like nothing more than strange river debris—perhaps trash caught in an odd eddy, or some trick of the light on the ice.

Then, as the shapes slipped beneath the grates and vanished into the sewers, the recognition hit them all at once.

Lettuce.
Carrot shreds.
Cherry tomatoes.

Cucumber moons.

Vegetables.

The sight was silent.
Almost serene.

And utterly wrong.

The layered laughter rose again—bright, terrible, echoing.

“He’ll like that,” she said, voice splintering into multiple tones at once.

“It will make him so… healthy.”

The last word stretched—sibilant, amused, ancient.

Then the laughter stopped.

Completely.

Her body sagged.

The unnatural voices vanished like someone had cut the power.

She looked up at them with her own eyes again—wide, brown, terrified.

Her lower lip trembled.

In a small, normal, panicking child’s voice—cracked, shaking, hers alone—she whispered:

“I want to go home now.”

Tears filled her eyes instantly—big, bright, spilling over.

Her small hands clutched the railing so hard the mittens bunched.

Richie dropped to one knee beside her, hands hovering.

“Hey, hey—Stella, c’mere—”

She turned toward him, tears streaming, and threw herself into his arms.

He caught her, stood, pulled her against his chest—big hands awkward but gentle on her back.

“We’re going. Right now. Home. Promise.”

Eddie was already moving—scooping up her fallen hat, wrapping his own scarf around her neck even though she was bundled.

“Let’s go. All of us. Now.”

Ben and Mike flanked Richie on either side—protective shadows.

Bill and Stan fell in behind, eyes scanning the river, the bridge, the drains where the strange flow had vanished.

No one spoke about what just happened.

They simply moved—fast, quiet, coordinated—like they’d done it before.

Stella clung to Richie’s coat, face buried against his shoulder, small body shaking with silent sobs.

The group walked quickly back toward the house on Straphammer Street—six adults and one frightened little girl—leaving the iron bridge and the unnatural river behind.

The snow kept falling.

The town stayed quiet.

But something had shifted.

Again.

Derry, Maine – January 17, 1985 – 11:02 a.m.

The front door closed behind them with a soft, final click.

No one spoke.

The moment Richie’s boots hit the entryway rug, Stella slipped from his arms—quick, silent, small feet already moving.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t wait for anyone to call her name.

She ran—straight through the living room, up the stairs, footsteps light and rapid on the old wood.

The others froze in the foyer, coats still half-unzipped, snow melting in small puddles around their feet.

Bev dropped her sewing basket onto the hall table and followed—fast, but not running, not wanting to frighten her more.

Stella reached the guest bedroom first.

The door was already ajar.

She pushed through, crossed the room in three steps, and threw herself face-down onto the bed.

The quilt muffled the impact.

She buried her face in the pillow, arms wrapped tight around it, small body curled into a tight ball—knees drawn up, shoulders hunched, as though trying to disappear into the mattress.

No loud sobs.
No words.

Just the rapid rise and fall of her back, the way breathing gets when someone is trying very hard not to fall apart.

Bev reached the doorway first.

She stopped—hand on the frame—taking in the sight: small, silent, face hidden, the borrowed hat still on, scarf trailing off the edge of the bed like a forgotten tail.

She crossed the room—slow, careful footsteps—and sat on the edge of the mattress beside her.

The others arrived quietly behind her:
Richie in the doorway, expression stricken.
Eddie hovering just behind him, hands clenched.
Ben and Mike near the dresser, silent sentinels.

Bill and Stan at the threshold, watching.

No one entered fully.

They gave the room to Bev and Stella.

Bev reached out—slow, open-palmed—and rested her hand lightly between Stella’s shoulder blades.

Not pressing.

Just there.

“I’m right here, Stella,” she said, voice low and steady

The guest room was quiet except for the soft, uneven rhythm of Stella’s breathing against the pillow. The fairy lights glowed low along the headboard, casting tiny golden flecks across the quilt like distant stars. Bev sat motionless on the edge of the mattress, hand resting between the girl’s shoulder blades, tracing the same slow circles she had used so many times now—steady, patient, a small anchor in the dark.

After a long stretch of silence, Stella stirred.

She pushed herself up slowly, quilt sliding off her shoulders. The borrowed hat had slipped sideways; the scarf still trailed behind her like a loose ribbon. Her face was flushed, cheeks streaked from earlier tears, eyes red-rimmed but wide and searching.

Without a word she turned and threw herself into Bev’s arms.

The hug was sudden, fierce, desperate—small arms locking around Bev’s neck, face pressing hard into the hollow of her throat. Bev’s breath caught. She wrapped both arms around Stella immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles across her narrow back. Stella’s whole body trembled, not with sobs now, but with the kind of tension that comes when someone is holding everything in at once.

They stayed like that for what felt like minutes—Bev on the edge of the bed, Stella half in her lap, clinging as though letting go might mean falling forever.

Then, muffled against Bev’s sweater, the words began.

“They won’t hurt you,” Stella whispered. “They don’t want to. And I won’t let them. They’re not evil.”

A long pause. Bev felt the small chest rise and fall against hers.

“They’re just… hurting. They’re angry and scared… and lonely.”

Another silence, deeper this time.

“When he eats you,” Stella continued, voice cracking a little, “he doesn’t always eat everything. He tries, but sometimes he spills. Tiny pieces of his victims remain. Scattered.”

Bev’s hand stilled for half a heartbeat, then resumed its gentle motion.

“Maybe they’re not scared enough,” Stella went on, “or maybe when he’s interrupted, he tears off the ‘good’ parts and spills the remains. Scattering them.”

She swallowed audibly.

“Some are little more than residual feelings. Some are just memories. A few might even come close to resembling… a being.”

The room seemed to grow quieter, as though the house itself were listening.

“At first,” Stella said, so softly Bev had to strain to hear, “I was human too… I think. Eaten, like so many. But never digested. I just woke up some time earlier. And then it happened again. And again. And again. No matter what I did. I lost count.”

She drew a shaky breath.

“He was somewhat aware of it, I think. He read it on me when I was still readable. It made it even more fun to him. With every ending I lost another part of me.”

Bev tightened her arms without thinking.

“At some point I picked up the crumbs.” Stella’s voice trembled now, thin and fragile. “They filled me, where I was empty. Maybe I’m a monster too, for eating them. Or maybe… I was a monster from the start, chasing after the scraps.”

“It sustained me. Kept my remains together. Made me what I am now.”

A long, shuddering pause.

“I remember waking up. Everything was dark and there was nothing. I had no shape. Around me only a vast emptiness. I cried myself to sleep—or something resembling it. When I woke it was less empty. The world came into being. Not much, but no longer empty.”

“I couldn’t interact with it, so I slept for even longer.”

“He woke me when he first came here. Then I couldn’t even recognize him. He kept still and quiet, maybe because there wasn’t anyone to hunt… yet.”

“More and more filled the once-empty space as time passed. It was only when I saw him eat the clown… become the clown… that I knew it was him. Memories that were buried deep came rushing back.”

“Whenever he hunted I wanted to stop him. But I didn’t yet know how. Much later I learned what I could do. First only whisper, guide a lucky few to safety. But the more time passed, the more I could do.”

“He no longer recognizes me anymore. I’m unreadable to him. Sometimes even to me.”

“I’ve become strong. Strong beyond imagination. I’m stronger than him now—or just stronger than the part of him that is here.”

“He follows the rules. But I do not.” A small, bitter laugh escaped her. “I’m a cheat, he says.”

“But there are so many voices inside me. And they scream and shout and cry. Sometimes they tower above me and I lose myself amongst them.”

“Some want to punish him. Others want to be eaten and rejoin with what they’re missing. Some don’t understand and just lash out.”

“Often now I follow him. Disrupt him. Humiliate him. Punish him.” Her voice cracked. “I would be a greater monster myself.”

Tears slipped hot and silent down her cheeks, soaking into Bev’s sweater.

“When I’m no one,” she whispered, “when I let the voices out, it doesn’t hurt so much. But I become so small. So lost. So scared.”

She lifted her head just enough to look up at Bev, eyes huge and shimmering.

“But when I’m with you… the voices aren’t as loud. I can find my way out. I become me. Whoever that is.”

“I don’t even know where me starts and ends. I remember you… and us. But the memories contradict. Maybe they’re not memories at all. I’m not sure.”

“With you, I can be the loudest. I can be… coherent. And I know I want to be… me.” Her small hands fisted in Bev’s sweater. “I want to be Stella.”

Bev’s throat closed. She cupped Stella’s face gently between her palms, thumbs brushing away the tears that kept falling.

“Then you are,” she said, voice rough with everything she was holding back. “You’re Stella. Right here. Right now. And that’s enough.”

She pulled the girl close again, tucking Stella’s head under her chin, rocking her the way she had rocked frightened children in the shop so many times before.

The fairy lights glowed on.

The snow kept falling outside.

And upstairs, in the small room under the slanted ceiling, two small shapes held each other in the quiet—two people who had both lost pieces of themselves long ago, and were trying, very carefully, to find them again.