Bad Daddy

Derry, Maine – January 20, 1985 – 1:47 a.m.

The guest room was still. Fairy lights lay scattered across the floor in broken glass and twisted wire, their faint glow long extinguished. The quilt had slipped halfway off the bed. Bev sat on the edge of the mattress, back straight, arms wrapped around the small shape curled against her chest. Stella’s breathing was slow, shallow—too still for sleep, too quiet for tears. The shallow wound on Bev’s shoulder had closed completely; the torn shirt was whole again, bloodstains gone like they’d never been there. Only the memory of pain lingered in the ache of her muscles.

Henry Bowers lay slumped against the far wall—alive, breathing in ragged hitches, eyes open but vacant. A broken thing. The room smelled faintly of ozone and burnt sugar.

Bev rocked gently, one hand stroking dark hair, the other resting over Stella’s heart. She hadn’t spoken since the healing. Neither had Stella.

Then—sudden, sharp—Stella’s body stiffened.

Her head lifted slowly.

Nostrils flared.

“I smell him,” she whispered.

Bev’s arms tightened instinctively.

Stella’s eyes opened—brown again, but distant, searching the dark corners of the room as though following a scent no one else could trace.

“He smells like Daddy.”

A small, twisted laugh bubbled out of her—high and childish at first, then layered, echoing half a second behind itself. Not joyful. Not cruel. Something older. Something amused and wounded all at once.

“Oh bad Daddy…” she murmured, voice lilting. “Secretly having someone sneak you a meal.”

The laugh faded.

She blinked once—twice—then simply wasn’t there.

One heartbeat she was in Bev’s arms, small and warm.

The next heartbeat the space was empty.

Bev’s hands closed on nothing.

She stared at the empty quilt for a long second, breath caught.

Then she stood—slow, deliberate—ignoring the faint tremor in her legs.

She walked downstairs.

The others were already gathered in the living room—lights on now, mugs of cold coffee forgotten on the table. Richie paced near the window. Eddie sat rigid on the couch, inhaler turning over and over in his hands. Ben stood by the fireplace, arms folded. Bill leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. Mike sat at the table with a notebook open, pen still in his hand. Stan watched the stairs.

They all looked up when Bev appeared.

No one spoke at first.

Bev crossed to the couch and sat—slow, careful, as though the room might shatter if she moved too fast.

“She’s gone,” she said quietly. “Just… gone.”

Richie stopped pacing. “What do you mean, gone?”

“She woke up. Smelled something. Said ‘I smell him. He smells like Daddy.’ Then she laughed—laughed like…” Bev trailed off, searching for words. “Like she knew. Then she was gone.”

Eddie’s inhaler clicked once.

Mike closed his notebook slowly.

“I heard what she said,” he said. “During the scream. The voices. It was… layered. Many languages. But fragments came through clear enough.”

He looked around the circle.

“‘You will die for your sins. You will be torn apart and consumed. Suffer for eternity.’ That’s what I caught. Like a judgment. Like every voice inside her was speaking at once.”

Ben exhaled through his nose. “Jesus.”

Bill rubbed his face. “And now she’s gone after… what? Pennywise?”

Bev nodded once. “She knew it was him. She said he’d been naughty. Sneaking someone a meal.”

Richie barked a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. That tracks. Sent Bowers to do his dirty work.”

Eddie’s voice came out thin. “And she just… left. After all that.”

Bev looked down at her hands—clean now, no blood, no scar.

“She was afraid,” she said quietly. “Afraid she’d lose me. Afraid of what she did. I think… I think she needed to go somewhere she could breathe.”

Silence settled over the room.

Outside, snow began to fall again—soft, relentless.

Mike spoke first. “Police will be here soon. They’ll find Bowers. We can’t explain… any of this. But we can say he broke in. Attacked. We defended ourselves.”

Stan nodded. “Self-defense. He’s catatonic now. They’ll take him back to Juniper Hill. Or wherever they send people like him.”

Richie rubbed the back of his neck. “And we just… wait for her to come back?”

Bev looked up—eyes steady.

“Yes,” she said. “We wait.”

The group sat with that.

No one argued.

The house stayed quiet.

And somewhere far below Derry, in the black chamber where the water never froze, something waited.

Derry, Maine – January 20, 1985 – 2:04 a.m.

Periwinkle appeared with a soft hop—cartoonishly light, oversized shoes squeaking once against the stone.

She stood behind him in full regalia: pristine periwinkle-blue suit, lavender ruffles crisp, conical hat tilted rakishly. Her gloved hands were clasped behind her back like a child hiding a present.

“Oh Daddy!” she sang, voice high and bright. “I’m home!”

Pennywise did not turn. Did not twitch. The deadlights remained narrow slits.

Periwinkle hopped once—closer—then began circling him in slow, exaggerated bounces, ruffles rustling.

“I know you’ve been… naughty,” she said, sing-song, teasing.

She stopped directly in front of him—head tilting, hat wobbling.

Then her head turned—further than any human neck could—180 degrees, then another 90, until she was looking at him upside-down, eyes wide and gleaming.

The cheerful mask cracked.

“This is why nobody wants to be friends with you anymore,” she said, voice dropping low, angry, layered.

She straightened with a sharp snap.

“Everyone tries so hard to help you,” she continued, pacing now, small fists clenched. “And then you secretly, sneakily, slyly, deviously do naughty things.”

Her voice shifted—sudden, excited, almost gleeful.

“You made the meatbag do bad things.”

She raised one gloved hand as though to strike—fingers splayed.

A wooden stick materialized in her grip—oversized, cartoonishly thick—just a heartbeat before impact.

She swung.

The stick cracked across his chest with obscene force.

Pennywise flew backward—boots skidding across the water, body slamming into the curved wall. Stone cracked. The stick crumbled to ash in her hand, dissolving into nothing.

She stood there—breathing hard, eyes blazing orange.

Then the anger softened—just a fraction.

She smiled—small, sweet, terrible.

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” she said, voice lilting again. “I will always love you. I will teach you… to be… ‘better.’”

A giggle—bright, layered, echoing.

“Even if I have to find you… the true you… all the way in the Prim… to do so.”

She hopped once—backward—toward the tunnel mouth.

And vanished.

A last echo drifted through the chamber—soft, lingering:

“I’ll make you… better.”

Pennywise remained where he had landed—half-slumped against the wall, water lapping at his boots.

The deadlights narrowed to slits.

A low, wet chuckle bubbled from deep in his chest.

“Oh,” he whispered, voice tasting the word. “But do come find me.”

He straightened slowly.

“I’ll be waiting for you, little star.”

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

And somewhere far above, in a quiet farmhouse, the snow kept falling.