Whispers

Derry, Maine – January 20, 1985 – 10:47 a.m.

The living room of the old Hanlon farmhouse felt too big without her. Sunlight slanted through the frost-laced windows, turning the snow outside into brittle diamonds, but inside the air hung heavy — coffee gone cold on the table, remotes untouched, the TV droning low like white noise to fill the quiet.

Richie sprawled on the couch, feet up, flipping channels with half-hearted jabs. Eddie sat rigid in the armchair, inhaler balanced on his knee. Mike leaned against the mantel, arms crossed, staring at the dead fireplace as though answers might flicker there. Stan and Ben murmured low in the kitchen doorway; Bill paced slow circles near the window, notebook forgotten in his hand.

The local news cut in mid-sentence — Channel 5 Derry Daily, the anchor's voice crisp against the sleet forecast.

"...turning now to an unusual story out of Augusta. Long-term resident Henry Bowers, 39, committed to Juniper Hill Psychiatric Facility since 1958, was reported missing early this morning after an apparent escape. Staff found him back in his room by shift change — uninjured, no signs of struggle or forced entry. Doctors describe him as 'physically stable' but 'severely catatonic, possibly irreversible.' Bowers, convicted in the murders of his friends Victor Criss and Belch Huggins — crimes he confessed to alongside Derry's unsolved child killings — showed no recollection of leaving. Security footage shows... nothing. Police are investigating, but sources call it a 'miracle.' Back to you, Tom."

The screen held on grainy cell footage: empty bed, moon drawings on the wall (faintly visible), then Bowers slumped exactly as he'd been decades ago — white hair wild, eyes vacant pits.

Richie killed the TV with a sharp click. Silence crashed back in.

"Miracle my ass," he muttered. "She shipped him express."

Eddie exhaled, shaky. "Back where he belongs. Broken."

Mike nodded once, eyes on the blank screen. "She's tying loose ends."

No one argued. Upstairs, the guest room stayed empty.

In the kitchen, Bev stood at the sink — sleeves rolled, hands deep in soapy dishwater from breakfast no one had eaten. The cyan star pendant lay cool against her skin, silent since the bird. She scrubbed a mug harder than needed, staring at the steam-fogged window over the sink. Snow piled against the glass in soft ridges.

Then — faint, like wind through cracks — whispers.

*"I'm so scared..."*

A child's voice. Hers.

*"Please don't leave me..."*

Layered, echoing — not just one girl, but a murmur of many, pleading through the storm.

Bev froze. Soap suds dripped from her fingers. She pressed her palm flat to the glass, breath fogging it further.

Outside — knee-deep in untouched snow under the porch light — stood Stella.

Small, barefoot in her dusk-blue dress (no coat, no hat), dark hair whipping in the wind. Skin pale as the drifts, lips blue-tinged, but eyes fixed on the window — wide, brown, brimming. Trembling, arms wrapped tight around herself, she mouthed words Bev couldn't hear.

"Stella!"

The yell tore from Bev's throat — raw, desperate. She lunged for the door, hand fumbling the knob, boots forgotten —

She didn't have to run.

Warmth bloomed at her side. A small, icy hand tugged the hem of her sweater — fabric bunching in tiny fingers.

Stella stood there. Inside. No door opened, no footprints trailed. Snowflakes melted on her shoulders, dress hem dripping slush onto the linoleum.

"I'm sorry," she choked, voice cracking small and wet. Tears carved hot tracks down frost-nipped cheeks. "I got lost again, Bev. I couldn't find you anymore. I was so scared."

Her knees buckled. She sagged against Bev's legs, sobbing — wrenching, hiccuping cries that shook her whole frame.

Bev dropped to her knees — water forgotten, arms crushing Stella close. She rocked her fiercely, one hand cradling the dark head, the other rubbing frantic circles on her back. Snowmelt soaked them both, but Bev didn't care.

"Shh, little star. Shh. You're here now. You found your way back. That's all that matters." Her voice broke, lips pressed to shivering temple. "I never left. I waited. I've got you — always."

Stella clung — face buried in Bev's neck, small fists knotted in sweater wool. "I sent the bad man away... But they screamed... It hurt..."

Footsteps thundered from the living room. The guys burst in — Richie first, wild-eyed; Eddie pale, inhaler out; Mike steady behind.

"Bev? What — holy shit, she's —"

Richie knelt fast, awkward arms joining the hug — one hand on Stella's shoulder, voice thick: "Hey, kiddo. Don't pull that vanishing act again, yeah? We missed your trash mouth."

Eddie hovered, then sank down too — tentative pat on her back, voice rough: "You're safe. No one's leaving."

Mike knelt last, hand gentle on her hair — quiet anchor: "Welcome home."

Four of them now — clustered tight on the kitchen floor, a messy knot of coats and limbs shielding the small shape in the center. Stella's sobs slowed, breaths evening against Bev's collarbone. The pendant warmed — faint pulse, like a second heartbeat.

From the doorway, Stan and Ben watched — silent nods, giving space. Bill lingered in the hall, notebook forgotten, a rare half-smile cracking his face.

The whispers were gone. The snow kept falling outside.

For the first time since the bird, the farmhouse felt whole.

Derry, Maine – January 23, 1985 – 2:18 p.m.

The sky had finally cracked open — pale winter sun spilling across unbroken snow, turning the Hanlon yard into a blinding white canvas. For the first time in days the farmhouse felt less like a bunker and more like a house. Windows open an inch, letting cold air mix with the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon toast inside.

Stella had been quiet all morning — not withdrawn, just watchful. She sat at the kitchen table in Bev’s oversized sweater (sleeves rolled six times), drawing snowmen with purple crayon on scrap paper. Every few minutes she glanced toward the back door, as though checking if the world was still there.

At lunch she set the crayon down, looked up at Bev with enormous eyes, and asked — small but certain:

“Can we build snowmen? Real ones. With hats. And friends.”

Bev’s heart did that familiar squeeze-and-release. She smiled.

“Yeah, little star. Let’s build the best ones Derry’s ever seen.”

Word spread fast. By the time everyone was bundled — coats, scarves, mismatched mittens — Richie had already declared it an official contest.

“Rules are simple,” he announced, stomping snow off his boots on the porch. “Best snowman wins eternal glory, bragging rights, and the last slice of Ben’s apple pie tonight. Losers buy hot chocolate for a week.”

Eddie groaned. “This is how frostbite happens.”

“Quit whining, Kaspbrak. You’re on my team. We’re gonna build a masterpiece.”

Teams shook out quick: Richie/Eddie (chaotic energy), Ben/Bill (methodical), Mike/Stella/Bev (the quiet powerhouse). Stan opted to referee — clipboard in hand, scarf knotted precisely — while occasionally lobbing snowballs at anyone who cheated.

The yard became a battlefield of laughter and flying snow.

Richie and Eddie’s first attempt collapsed into a lumpy torso with stick arms that looked suspiciously like middle fingers. Richie blamed the snow. Eddie blamed Richie’s “structural incompetence.” They rebuilt — bigger, uglier, eventually topping it with a traffic cone Richie swore he “found” (no one asked questions).

Ben and Bill worked in near silence — rolling perfect spheres, patting them smooth, stacking with engineer precision. Their snowman stood tall and dignified, almost architectural, until Bill carved a shy smile with his glove and Ben added twig glasses. “It’s you,” Ben said. Bill blushed under his scarf.

Mike, Bev, and Stella built slowest. Mike rolled the base — massive, solid. Bev shaped the middle, smoothing curves with careful hands. Stella handled the head — small, round, determined. She pressed coal eyes, carrot nose, pebble mouth, then paused.

“Needs a hat,” she said. “Like mine.”

Bev unwound her own knit cap — blue, soft, a little frayed — and set it on the snowman’s head. Stella beamed.

“Friends,” she declared, and ran to gather snow for tiny companions — three small snowballs balanced on the big one’s shoulders like extra heads. She shaped them quickly, pressing cyan-tinted pebbles (from the driveway, somehow still bright against white) for eyes.

Richie wandered over, hands on hips. “That’s cheating. You’ve got three heads.”

“It’s not cheating,” Stella said solemnly. “It’s… extra friends. In case one gets lonely.”

Richie opened his mouth — then shut it. He ruffled her hat instead. “Fair enough, commander.”

They stepped back to judge.

Richie/Eddie: lopsided trash-can abomination with a traffic-cone hat and crossed-stick arms.
Ben/Bill: tall, elegant, bespectacled gentleman with a shy smile.

Mike/Bev/Stella: sturdy family unit — big body, blue hat, three tiny cyan-eyed companions perched like watchful siblings.

Stella clapped sticky mittens. “Mine wins.”

No one argued.

As the sun dipped lower — golden light slanting long across the yard — Richie started a snowball fight. Eddie got buried to the waist. Ben tackled Richie into a drift. Bill laughed so hard he couldn’t throw straight. Mike lobbed perfect, arcing shots. Stella darted between legs, shrieking with delight, snow in her hair like diamonds.

Bev hung back a moment, watching. The ache in her chest — the one that had lived there since Stella vanished — eased just a fraction.

Then she saw it.

Far at the tree line, drifting lazy above the pines: a single red balloon. Shoulder height. Perfectly still against the wind.

Stella froze mid-throw.

Her small body went rigid. Mittened hand clenched around the snowball.

Bev stepped closer — slow, calm. “Stella?”

The girl didn’t answer. She stared at the balloon. Then — casual as breathing — she wound up and threw.

The snowball arced true. Struck the balloon dead-center.

It popped — not with a bang, but a wet, collapsing sigh. Red shreds fluttered down like bloody confetti… then dissolved mid-air into harmless white flakes before touching ground.

Stella exhaled — shaky, relieved. She turned back to Bev, eyes wide but clear.

“Gone,” she whispered.

Bev pulled her close — snow-dusted hat and all. “Gone,” she agreed.

The fight wound down. Everyone drifted inside — red-cheeked, snow-crusted, laughing — promising hot chocolate and dry socks.

Stella lingered a moment longer.

She walked to each snowman in turn. Pressed a tiny cyan snowball onto the top of each head — like a hat, like a beacon. The cyan pebbles in their eyes caught the dying light and flickered — once — soft, steady, watchful.

She stepped back, took Bev’s hand.

“They’ll watch tonight,” she said quietly. “So we can sleep.”

Bev squeezed her fingers. “They will.”

Inside, the kitchen filled with steam and voices. Outside, three snowmen stood in the fading gold — tall one, lopsided one, family one — each crowned with a glowing cyan hat.

The sun slipped below the trees.

The snowmen stayed.

Watching.

Guarding.

Blue hats bright against the gathering dark.