Picking Up the Pieces

Derry, Maine – January 17, 1985 – 12:13 a.m.

Upstairs, the guest room had grown very still.

Stella’s breathing had evened out at last—slow, deep, the kind of sleep that comes after everything has been poured out and there is nothing left to hold onto. She lay curled on her side, face half-buried in the pillow, one small hand still loosely fisted in the edge of Bev’s sweater even though Bev had carefully worked her fingers free minutes earlier. The borrowed hat had slipped off completely now; the scarf lay in a soft heap at the foot of the bed. Fairy lights traced gentle patterns across the quilt, catching on the drying tear tracks that still gleamed on Stella’s cheeks.

Bev sat beside her a little longer, simply watching the rise and fall of the small chest, making sure the sleep was real and not another fragile mask. When she was certain, she leaned down, pressed the lightest kiss to the exposed temple, and whispered,

“I’m right here when you wake up, little star.”

She rose slowly, careful not to disturb the mattress too much, and slipped out of the room, pulling the door almost closed behind her.

Downstairs the others waited.

They had not moved far from the foyer. Coats still hung half-zipped on the rack, boots left wet prints on the rug that no one had bothered to wipe away. Richie sat on the bottom step of the staircase, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Eddie paced a tight line between the living-room doorway and the kitchen arch, inhaler clicking absently between his fingers. Ben stood near the window, arms folded, watching the snow fall like he could read something in the way the flakes drifted. Mike leaned against the wall beside the coat rack, quiet and watchful. Bill sat at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a cooling mug he hadn’t touched. Stan remained standing near the front door, back straight, expression unreadable.

When Bev appeared at the top of the stairs they all looked up at once—six pairs of eyes carrying the same unspoken question.

She came down slowly, one hand trailing the banister.

“She’s asleep,” Bev said when she reached the bottom. Her voice was low, steady, but rough around the edges. “Cried herself out. She’s… exhausted.”

No one spoke immediately.

Richie was the first to break the silence, voice quieter than usual.

“What did she tell you?”

Bev crossed to the living-room doorway and leaned against the frame, arms folded loosely across her chest. She looked at each of them in turn.

“She told me… where she came from. Or what she thinks is where she came from.”

She took a slow breath.

“She says she was human once. Eaten. Like so many others. But never fully digested. She kept waking up—over and over—losing pieces of herself every time. Until there wasn’t enough left to recognize. Until she started gathering… the leftovers. The crumbs he spills when he’s interrupted, or when he tears off what he wants and leaves the rest behind.”

Eddie stopped pacing.

“Crumbs,” he repeated, barely above a whisper.

“Residual feelings. Memories. Tiny fragments that might almost be people, or close to it.” Bev’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling, toward the room where Stella slept. “She collected them. Ate them, she said. Because they were all she had to fill the emptiness. She thinks maybe that makes her a monster too. Or maybe she always was.”

A long silence followed.

Ben spoke next, voice careful.

“So… she’s made of what he left behind.”

Bev nodded once.

“She remembers waking up in darkness. Nothing around her. No shape. No world. Just… emptiness. She slept—cried herself to sleep, she said—until the world started to fill in. Until he arrived. She didn’t even recognize him at first. Not until she saw him eat the clown. Become the clown. Then the memories came back.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“She’s older than he is,” he said. Not a question.

“I think so,” Bev answered. “Or at least… she’s been here longer. In some form. She’s stronger now. Stronger than the part of him that’s here. She doesn’t follow his rules. She calls herself a cheat. She disrupts him. Humiliates him. Punishes him. But there are so many voices inside her—screaming, crying, wanting different things. Some want revenge. Some want to be eaten again so they can be whole. Some just lash out. And sometimes… they drown her out.”

She looked down at her hands.

“When the voices take over, she says she becomes no one. Small. Lost. Scared. But when she’s with us—with me—the voices get quieter. She can find her way back. She can be… coherent. She can be Stella.”

Richie rubbed both hands over his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “She’s… what? A patchwork kid? Made out of everybody he didn’t finish?”

Bev’s jaw tightened.

“She wants to be Stella,” she said firmly. “That’s what matters. She told me she remembers me—us—but the memories contradict. Some of them might not even be real. She’s not sure. But when she’s here, with us, she can be the loudest voice in her own head. And she wants that. She wants to be her.”

Eddie exhaled sharply.

“She’s terrified,” he said. “We saw it on the bridge. Whatever that was—whatever came out of her mouth—that wasn’t play-acting. She was scared out of her mind.”

Bev met his eyes.

“She said they’re not evil. Just… hurting. Angry. Scared. Lonely.”

“That’s what she believes. About the voices. About the pieces.”

Stan spoke for the first time since they’d returned.

“And the salad in the river?” His voice was quiet, precise. “That was her. Or… them. Feeding him. Keeping him occupied. Keeping him weak.”

“I think so,” Bev said.

Mike pushed away from the wall.

“She’s protecting us,” he said. “In her own way. Keeping him distracted. Keeping the town quiet. But she’s also… afraid of herself. Of what happens if she loses control.”

Bev nodded.

“She’s afraid of becoming the monster she thinks she already is.”

Eddie frowned. “But if she was ever human—”

Bev cut in quietly, voice low but firm.

“Then maybe the human part came later. Or maybe the memories are mixed up. Or maybe time doesn’t line up the way we think it does when you’re made of everybody’s leftovers.”

She shrugged one shoulder, small and certain.

“Doesn’t matter tonight. What matters is she’s upstairs, sleeping like she hasn’t slept in forever. And we’re not going anywhere.”

The room fell quiet again.

Richie finally looked up.

“So what do we do?” he asked, voice rough. “Because I’m not gonna lie—I’m worried. For her. For us. For whatever the hell happens if those voices decide they’re done being quiet.”

Bev straightened.

“We keep being here,” she said simply. “We keep her safe. We keep her grounded. We let her be Stella for as long as she can hold onto it.”

She looked around at the worried faces of the people she had known since they were children.

“And we watch,” she added. “We listen. We stay together.”

Mike gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“She came home,” he said quietly. “That’s the part that matters most right now.”

Bev looked toward the stairs.

“I’m going back up,” she said simply. “She might wake up and need to know someone’s still here.”

No one tried to stop her. She climbed slowly, footsteps soft on the worn wood, the house seeming to breathe easier around her.

Upstairs the guest room was unchanged: fairy lights tracing golden threads along the headboard, Stella curled small on her side, face half-hidden in the pillow. One small hand still rested where Bev’s sweater had been, fingers loosely curled as though waiting. The cyan star pendant on Bev’s chest caught a stray beam of moonlight and scattered faint purple sparks across the quilt.

Bev kicked off her socks, slid under the covers without disturbing the mattress too much, and gently gathered Stella close. The girl stirred once—instinctive, sleepy—then settled against her, cheek to collarbone, small fist finding the hem of Bev’s sweater again. Bev pressed her lips to the dark crown of hair and whispered, barely audible:

“I’ve got you, little star. Whatever you are, whatever comes… I’ve got you.”

Stella sighed once, long and trusting, and slipped deeper into sleep.

Bev stayed awake a little longer, listening to the slow, even rhythm against her ribs, feeling the warmth of something fragile and fierce held safe for the night. Downstairs the voices had gone quiet. The house felt full. For the first time in a long time, the dark didn’t seem quite so hungry.

Downstairs, the living room had dimmed to embers and moonlight.

Richie had started the kettle for hot chocolate nobody really wanted, just something to do with his hands. Eddie sat rigid on the couch, inhaler turning over and over between his fingers. Ben stood by the window, arms folded, watching snow fall like slow ash. Bill and Stan had moved to the kitchen table, mugs cooling untouched. Mike remained near the coat rack, back to the wall, eyes on the staircase Bev had disappeared up.

None of them spoke for several minutes.

Then the lights flickered once—not the whole house, just a single soft stutter in the living-room lamps.

A low, wet chuckle rolled out from somewhere impossible: not the vents, not the fireplace, not the ceiling, but from everywhere and nowhere at once. It sounded like water moving over broken teeth.

Mike’s head snapped up first.

The others felt it a half-second later—skin prickling, the way the air suddenly tasted of old popcorn and rust.

A single red balloon materialized in the center of the room.

It did not drift in through a door or window. It simply was—perfectly round, perfectly still, tethered by nothing, floating at chest height. The rubber gleamed wet under the moonlight, reflecting six distorted faces back at them in crimson miniature.

No painted smile. No deadlights. Just the balloon.

Then the chuckle came again, closer now, intimate, layered with children’s giggles and an old woman’s rasp and something deeper, hungrier.

A voice—soft, amused, tasting every word—spoke from inside the balloon itself, or perhaps from the reflection of their own faces staring back:

“She’s keeping my plate warm… playing house… pretending she’s yours.”

A pause, wet and deliberate.

“But when the lights go out… when the voices get too loud… she’ll eat you too. Or I will.”

The balloon trembled once, as though laughing silently.

“Family should stay together. We all float… one way or another.”

The red surface rippled. For the barest instant the reflections warped—six faces stretching into open, screaming mouths filled with rows of needle teeth. Then the balloon popped.

Not with a bang.

With a soft, wet sigh—like a lung giving its last breath.

Red flecks spattered the rug in a perfect radial pattern. They looked like tomato seeds and carrot shreds mixed with something darker.

The room snapped back to silence.

The lights steadied.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, steam rising forgotten.

Richie stared at the spot where the balloon had been, mouth half-open.

Eddie’s inhaler clicked twice, fast and panicked.

Ben stepped away from the window, face pale.

Bill whispered, “He knows.”

Stan’s voice was flat. “He’s afraid of her.”

Mike said nothing at first. He simply reached down, picked up one red fleck between thumb and forefinger, studied it in the moonlight. Then he let it fall.

“He’s not the only one who should be,” Mike said quietly.

Upstairs, Beverly held Stella closer, unaware.

The snow kept falling.

The house stayed quiet.

But the dark had remembered its appetite.