Seconds, Please

Derry, Maine – January 17, 1985 – 2:47 p.m.

The snow had eased into a fine, glittering mist by mid-afternoon, turning Main Street into something almost postcard-pretty: white sidewalks, sodium lamps already glowing soft against the gray sky, shop windows fogged at the corners. Nan’s Luncheonette sat halfway down the block, the same narrow brick storefront it had always been. The sign still read Nan’s Luncheonette in faded red-and-white script—no one had bothered to update it when the menu shifted toward milkshakes and sundaes in the late nineties. Big plate-glass windows gave a clear view of the street and the frozen canal beyond, the booths inside still the same cracked red vinyl, the air still carrying that familiar mix of hot coffee, waffle cones, and decades of fryer grease.

Stella claimed the window booth the second they walked in, pressing her nose to the cold glass like she’d never seen snow before.

“Blueberry monster!” she declared, bouncing on the seat. “With cookie dough chunks! And rainbow sprinkles! And extra whipped cream! And a cherry on top like a little red hat!”

Richie grinned, already pulling out his wallet. “You heard the commander. One blueberry-cookie-dough apocalypse with sprinkles and a cherry crown.”

Eddie muttered something about sugar crashes and cavities but ordered a small vanilla anyway. Ben got mint chip. Mike black coffee (he never changed). Bill and Stan split a banana split, mostly so Stella could steal the cherries. Bev sat beside her, arm draped casually along the back of the booth, watching the girl’s face light up every time the server approached with the towering creation.

Stella attacked the sundae with focused, almost reverent intensity. Spoon in, scoop of blue and brown, eyes fluttering shut at the cold-sweet explosion. “Mmm. Cold explosions. Best day ever.” Another bite. A small, happy hum. Whipped cream on her nose. She didn’t wipe it off; she just kept eating, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk.

The Losers let the moment stretch. No one mentioned the balloon from last night. No one mentioned the river, or the voices, or the thing Pennywise had whispered through the red rubber. For twenty minutes it was just ice cream and quiet laughter and Stella narrating every bite like a sports commentator.

“Whipped cream avalanche! The cherry is holding strong—oh no, it’s slipping—direct hit!” She giggled, bright and ordinary, spoon waving like a conductor’s baton.

Then—

A giggle that wasn’t hers.

It started small, the same bright sound she’d been making, but it layered. Echoed. A child’s laugh underneath an old woman’s wheeze underneath something wetter, deeper, like water moving through broken glass. It lasted maybe two seconds—long enough for every head in the booth to snap toward her.

Stella froze mid-scoop. The spoon hovered. Whipped cream dripped onto the table in slow white blobs.

Her eyes went wide, pupils flaring briefly orange—not burning, just flickering like a bad bulb—then back to ordinary brown.

She blinked once, twice.

“Oh…” she said, voice small and normal again. “That’s bad. Just a moment.”

And she was gone.

No sound. No swirl of glitter or smoke. One heartbeat she was there—spoon in hand, whipped cream on her nose—the next heartbeat the booth seat was empty. The sundae sat untouched, spoon still balanced on the rim.

Richie’s mouth opened. Closed. “What the fu—”

Bev was already half-standing, eyes scanning the room. “Stella?”

Eddie’s inhaler was out in an instant. “Where did she—”

Mike’s gaze went straight to the window.

Outside.

Across the street, under the awning of the shuttered pharmacy, a boy—maybe nine, bundled in a blue parka—walked slowly toward the canal path. A red balloon floated at perfect shoulder height beside him, string taut, not swaying in the wind. The boy’s steps were mechanical, eyes glassy, face slack in that unmistakable way.

Stella stood next to him.

She hadn’t walked there. She simply was—small blue coat too big, hat slightly askew, hands in mittens. She reached up, tapped the boy gently on the shoulder. Once. Polite. Like asking to borrow a pencil.

The boy stopped. Turned.

Stella pointed the other way—back toward Main Street, toward the brighter lights of the shops and the people.

The boy blinked. Looked down at his hand.

The red balloon was gone.

In its place: a glossy cyan one. Perfectly round. Unmoving. Tied neatly to his wrist like a bracelet.

The boy blinked again—harder this time—then shook his head like waking from a dream. His face cleared. He looked around, confused but no longer vacant, then turned and walked quickly in the direction Stella had pointed, cyan balloon bobbing behind him.

Stella watched him go for half a second.

Then she was back.

In the booth. Same seat. Same whipped cream still on her nose. Spoon still balanced on the rim of the melting sundae.

She looked up at them with enormous, innocent eyes.

“Seconds please!” she chirped, clapping sticky hands. “More blueberry monster! The first one was yummy but it got lonely without friends!”

Silence at the table.

Bev exhaled—slow, relieved, a small smile already curving her mouth. She reached over, wiped the whipped cream off Stella’s nose with her thumb, then tucked a strand of dark hair behind the girl’s ear.

“Of course, little star. Seconds it is.”

She waved the server over without hesitation.

The others stared.

Richie’s voice came out hoarse. “Did… did we all just see—”

Mike nodded once, eyes still on the window where the boy had disappeared around the corner, cyan balloon trailing like a small blue moon.

Eddie’s inhaler clicked twice. “She just… saved him. Right in front of us.”

Ben spoke quietly. “And came right back for ice cream.”

Bill looked at Bev. Bev looked back—calm, certain, utterly unshaken.

Stella bounced once on the seat, already pointing at the menu board. “Can we get extra cherries this time? Cherries are like little red hats for monsters!”

Bev laughed—soft, warm, real.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Extra cherries.”

She flagged the server again.

Outside, snow drifted past the big windows, soft and relentless.

The cyan balloon the boy carried turned the corner and vanished from sight.

Derry, Maine – January 17, 1985 – 11:19 p.m.

The Juniper Hill Psychiatric Facility had stood on the edge of town since before the first cycle, a squat red-brick institution half-hidden behind pines and chain-link topped with razor wire that never quite kept the wind out. By 1985 the place had shrunk—budget cuts, fewer beds, more outpatient programs—but the oldest wing still smelled the same: bleach, institutional meatloaf, and something faintly metallic that no one could name.

Room 217 in the secure ward had been occupied for twenty-seven years by the same patient.

Henry Bowers.

He no longer paced. He no longer screamed about clowns or lights or the thing in the drains. He sat on the edge of his thin mattress, back straight, hands folded in his lap like a schoolboy waiting for recess. The fluorescent light above buzzed faintly. The observation window was one-way glass; the night orderly had checked him at 10:45 and seen only stillness. Henry’s file said catatonia. The orderlies said he was finally broken.

At 11:19 p.m. the light flickered once.

Not the whole ward—just the bulb in 217.

Henry’s head lifted slowly. Not in surprise. In recognition.

The air in the room thickened. Not with cold. With sweetness. Carnival sugar and old greasepaint and the faint copper tang of blood long dried.

A low, wet chuckle rolled out from under the bed.

Henry did not flinch.

The chuckle grew legs. Became words.

“…Hello, Henry. Long time no see.”

The voice was soft. Almost fond. Coming from everywhere and nowhere. From the vent. From the mattress springs. From inside Henry’s own skull.

Henry’s lips parted. His voice was rusty, unused for months.

“You’re late.”

Another chuckle—deeper, amused.

“I’ve been busy. New toys. New games. Same old town.”

A red balloon rose slowly from beneath the bed. It did not float up; it simply appeared, perfectly round, perfectly still, tethered by nothing. It hovered at eye level, reflecting Henry’s gaunt face back at him in crimson miniature. The painted smile on the rubber was faint, almost shy.

Henry stared at it.

The voice continued, intimate, tasting every syllable.

“They forgot you, Henry. Locked you away. Let the years chew on you. But I never forgot. I never forget a good dog.”

The balloon bobbed once—gently.

“They’re playing house now. Laughing. Eating ice cream. Thinking they’re safe. Thinking the little blue bitch can keep the lights on forever.”

Henry’s hands tightened in his lap. Knuckles white.

The voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial.

“She’s got them wrapped around her finger. Especially the red-haired one. The one who stood up to you once. The one who made you bleed. She’s playing mommy now. Keeping the leash tight. Keeping you in the dark.”

A pause. The chuckle returned—slow, rolling, satisfied.

“I’m bored, Henry. I want to see them run again. I want to see them remember what fear tastes like. And you… you remember how to make them bleed.”

Henry exhaled once—long, shuddering.

The balloon drifted closer until it brushed Henry’s cheek. Cool rubber. Warmth underneath. Like skin.

“Start with what hurts her most,” the voice whispered. “Remind them who used to own this town.”

Henry stood.

The restraints had not been used in years. There was no need. The ankle cuff clicked open without a key. The door lock turned itself with a soft, polite snick.

Henry walked to the door. Paused. Looked back at the balloon.

It bobbed once—nodding.

Henry opened the door.

The hallway was empty. The orderly station light was off. The security camera in the corner blinked once, then went dark.

Henry Bowers stepped into the corridor.

Behind him, the red balloon followed—silent, patient, perfectly still.

Outside, the snow had stopped. The pines stood black against the night sky. Somewhere far off a dog barked once, then fell silent.

Henry walked down the long driveway toward the road. No coat. No shoes. Just thin institutional pajamas and the certainty of purpose returning to his limbs like blood after a long freeze.

The red balloon floated ahead of him, turning left at the gate, toward town.

Toward the old Hanlon farmhouse on the quiet edge of West Broadway.

Toward the people who had forgotten what it felt like to be hunted.

Henry smiled.

Small. Tight. Familiar.

The smile of a boy who had once carved his name into a bridge with a switchblade.

The smile of a man who had waited twenty-seven years to carve it again.