Timeout

Derry, Maine – January 18, 1985 – 2:03 a.m.

The spherical chamber beneath Derry had not changed in centuries. Black water lapped at the filthy hem of the red-and-white suit. The ceiling dripped in patient, eternal rhythm. The faint orange glow from the deadlights pushed the darkness back just enough to remind it how small it was allowed to be.

Pennywise sat cross-legged in the exact center of the pool. Spine unnaturally straight. Head tilted forward. Gloved hands palm-up on his knees. The ruff at his neck hung in wet tatters. A single wilted lettuce leaf still clung stubbornly to one pom-pom like a medal no one had bothered to remove. The painted smile had tightened into something thin and contemptuous. He had not moved since the last salad had been dumped on his face. He had not spoken. He had simply waited.

The air thickened.

A soft hop—cartoonishly light—landed behind him.

Periwinkle stood there in full regalia: pristine periwinkle-blue suit, lavender ruffles crisp as new paper, conical hat tilted at that familiar rakish angle. In one gloved hand she held a small, brightly colored hardcover book the size of a child’s picture dictionary. The cover showed two cartoon clowns—one red-and-white, one blue—hugging awkwardly under a rainbow made of floating balloons.

She took one careful step forward.

“Daddy?” Her voice was high, lilting, achingly sweet. “I’m home.”

Pennywise did not turn. Did not twitch. The deadlights remained narrow slits, drinking light rather than giving it.

Periwinkle tilted her head, hat wobbling slightly.

“I missed you,” she said, softer now. “I missed playing with you. Performing together. Like we used to.”

Still nothing.

She hopped once—closer. The ruffles rustled like tissue paper.

“You’re ignoring me again.” A small pout crept into the words. “Are you angry? Did I do something wrong?”

The deadlights flickered—once, barely perceptible.

Periwinkle’s lower lip trembled theatrically. She clutched the book to her chest like a shield.

“I’m sorry if I made you mad. I just wanted to help. I just wanted us to be a family again.” Her voice cracked on the last word—childish, heartbreaking, perfect. “Can we make up? Please?”

No answer.

She waited. One heartbeat. Two.

Then, with a small, determined hop, she climbed onto his lap—perching cross-legged on his folded knees like a child settling in for storytime. Her small gloved hands rested on his shoulders for balance, fingers curling lightly into the filthy ruff. Up close, the deadlights reflected in her own eyes—twin orange furnaces mirroring his.

“Look what I made for you,” she whispered, opening the book with exaggerated care, as though handling something fragile and holy. “It’s a special story. About making up after a fight.”

She cleared her throat—small, theatrical—and began to read in a singsong nursery-rhyme cadence.

“Punywise was grumpy, his smile turned upside-down,

He wouldn’t play or talk, he just sat with a frown.

Periwinkle tried and tried, with hugs and silly games,

But Punywise just stared, and called her silly names.”

She turned the page with a flourish. The illustrations were crude crayon work: a sad Punywise in the sewers, a bright-blue Periwinkle hopping around him with hearts and question marks floating above her head.

“Then Periwinkle said, ‘I’m sorry if I made you sad,

Let’s be friends again, like we never had a fight so bad!’

Punywise looked up, his frown began to crack,

He gave a little smile, and they never looked back.”

She beamed at the book, then up at Pennywise’s impassive face, inches from her own.

“See? It’s easy. We just have to say sorry and hug and everything’s okay again.”

She closed the book gently.

Pennywise still had not moved.

Periwinkle’s smile faltered. Just a fraction.

Then she hurled the book away from her with sudden, vicious force.

It sailed across the chamber—pages fluttering—struck the far wall with a soft thump, and burst into bright orange flames before it could hit the water. The fire consumed it in seconds: paper curling black, crayon colors sizzling, the happy ending devoured in hungry light. The flames died as quickly as they had come, leaving only a faint smell of burnt sugar and melted wax.

Periwinkle stared at the ashes floating down like dark snow.

Then she slid off his lap—quick, deliberate—taking three sharp backward hops until she stood several feet away. She turned on her heel, oversized shoes squeaking once against the stone.

Her face crumpled.

“It’s not fair!” she shouted, voice cracking into multiple registers—child, teenager, old woman, something ancient and furious—all at once. “Why won’t you play with me anymore? Why won’t you look at me? I’m right here! I’m right here!”

She stomped one oversized shoe. The chamber shook—stone groaning, drips turning to sudden streams, the black pool sloshing violently against the walls like a beast waking. Her eyes glowed brighter, orange flaring to white-hot deadlights that cast jagged, blinding shadows across Pennywise’s greasepaint face. Her body twisted—spine arching backward at an impossible angle, arms elongating with wet cracks, fingers multiplying into spider-like claws that flexed and clawed at the air. The air warped around her, reality buckling like heat haze, the deadlights in her eyes drinking the faint light until the chamber dimmed to near-black. Cracks spiderwebbed up the curved walls; pebbles rattled loose from the ceiling and plinked into the water.

Pennywise remained still beneath the onslaught. A single low growl escaped his chest—warning, indifferent.

Periwinkle’s shoulders shook. Fake tears glittered on her greasepaint cheeks, but the orange in her eyes was real and burning.

Then—suddenly—her form snapped back to child-size with a sharp, audible pop. The glow dimmed to embers. The shaking stopped. The chamber settled, dripping resuming its patient rhythm.

“Maybe…” she sniffled, wiping at her face with a lavender-gloved hand, smearing the paint into abstract streaks. “Maybe we both need a little time to think.”

She reached behind her back—impossibly—and produced an identical book. Same cover. Same cheerful clowns hugging under a rainbow.

She held it up, pointing at the title with a trembling finger.

“Look,” she said, voice small again, almost pleading. “It says so right here.”

The title, in bold purple crayon letters:

TIME OUT

(For When Even Monsters Need a Break)

She clutched the book to her chest.

Then she hopped once—backward—toward the tunnel mouth.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she whispered. “Or the next day. Or whenever you’re ready.”

A final hop.

She vanished.

Not with fanfare. Not with glitter.

Just absence.

The chamber was silent again except for the drip-drip-drip from the ceiling.

Pennywise remained exactly as he had been: cross-legged, head tilted forward, hands palm-up.

But the deadlights had gone very narrow indeed.

And somewhere deep in his chest, the low, subsonic purr had changed.

It was no longer patient.

It was waiting.

Derry, Maine – January 18, 1985 – 9:37 a.m.

The farmhouse living room smelled of maple syrup, fresh coffee, and the faint cedar tang of the old wood. Sunlight poured through the tall windows in long gold bars, catching dust motes that drifted like slow snow. Breakfast plates had been cleared to the kitchen; the table still held a half-empty pitcher of orange juice and a sticky jar of blueberry jam.

Richie had claimed the big couch, legs stretched out, remote in one hand, the other lazily draped over the backrest. Stella sat tucked against his side, knees drawn up, still in Bev’s oversized flannel pajamas with the sleeves rolled four times. The TV was tuned to an old animated collection—something soft and colorful from the nineties, the kind of thing that played on weekend mornings when the world felt safe.

On screen, Little Red Riding Hood skipped through a cartoon forest, basket swinging, red cloak fluttering. The wolf—big, toothy, comically villainous—lurked behind trees, rubbing his paws together.

Eddie hovered near the armchair, pretending to read a magazine but stealing glances at the screen. Ben sat cross-legged on the rug, sketching absentmindedly in a small notebook. Bill leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, half-listening to Bev moving around behind him.

Stella watched with rapt attention, chin resting on her knees, eyes wide.

The wolf tricked the grandmother. Swallowed her whole—big cartoon gulp, belly bulging comically. Then Red arrived. Door creaked open. “Grandma, what big teeth you have…”

The wolf lunged. Gulp. Screen went briefly dark, then cut to the woodsman arriving with his axe.

Richie snorted, nudging Stella gently with his elbow.

“Man, that wolf’s got an iron stomach. Two for the price of one and still asking for seconds. Bet he regretted it when the axe guy showed up.”

Stella didn’t laugh.

She tilted her head slowly, dark hair falling across one cheek.

“Maybe she tasted good,” she said quietly.

The words were soft. Matter-of-fact. The way a child might comment that chocolate is sweet or snow is cold.

But her eyes flickered—brief, unmistakable—orange. Not a flare, not a glow that lit the room. Just a quick shift behind the brown, like a match struck and immediately snuffed. Gone in half a second.

Richie’s arm froze where it had been resting along the couch back.

Eddie’s magazine lowered an inch.

Ben’s pencil stopped moving.

Bill turned fully in the doorway, mug halfway to his lips.

Eddie’s fingers tightened on the magazine until the pages crinkled.

Ben closed his notebook without a word.

Bill looked toward the kitchen doorway where Bev was humming softly, oblivious, pouring fresh coffee.

From the kitchen, Bev’s voice floated in—warm, casual, carrying over the cartoon music.

“Stella? Sweetheart, come here for a sec? I need my little helper to taste-test the fresh batch of hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows if it’s good!”

Stella’s head snapped up instantly.

Her face lit with pure, uncomplicated joy.

“Hot chocolate!” she chirped, scrambling off the couch in a tangle of too-long pajama legs. She darted toward the kitchen doorway without a backward glance, small feet pattering on the wood floor. “Coming, Bev! Marshmallows! Lots!”

Bev laughed from the other room—soft, real, the sound of someone who hadn’t heard a thing.

“Coming right up, little star. Let’s see if we can make it extra gooey.”

Stella disappeared around the corner.

The living room went very still.

Richie stared at the empty spot on the couch where she’d been.

Eddie set the magazine down slowly.

Ben looked up from the rug.

Bill stepped fully into the room, lowering his mug.

Richie spoke first, voice low, almost a whisper.

“You heard it too, right?”

Eddie nodded once. Sharp. “Yeah.”

Ben exhaled through his nose. “She said it like… like it was nothing.”

Bill’s jaw tightened. “And the eyes. You saw the eyes.”

They sat with that for a long beat.

From the kitchen, Stella’s delighted squeal echoed—Bev had apparently added too many marshmallows, and the mug was overflowing.

Richie forced another grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well. At least she’s happy.”

No one answered.

On the TV, the new cartoon started.