I Got You

Derry, Maine – January 25, 1985 – 3:14 p.m.

The alley behind the shuttered pharmacy on Up-Mile Hill smelled of wet brick, old fryer grease, and the faint metallic bite of snow melting on asphalt. Sodium lights buzzed overhead, throwing sick orange pools that never quite reached the corners.

Lucas Reed, ten years old, cut through on his way home from his cousin's house. Backpack heavy with library books, hood up against the wind, sneakers crunching thin ice. He should have taken Main Street. He knew better. But the alley was faster.

A red balloon floated into view at the far end --- shoulder height, perfectly still.

Lucas slowed.

The balloon drifted closer --- not bobbing, not swaying, just gliding. The rubber gleamed wet under the light.

He took a step back.

The balloon kept coming.

A low, wet chuckle rolled out of the dark behind it.

"You look like you need a friend, Lucas..."

The voice was everywhere --- inside his skull, under his skin, tasting his name like candy.

Lucas turned and run.

Pennywise stepped into the light.

Filthy white suit, ruff dripping black, greasepaint running in long tear-tracks. Conical hat tilted at a mocking angle. Deadlights burned low and patient, orange furnaces drinking the sodium glow.

He did not hurry.

He glided --- boots floating a fraction above the ground, coat-tails dragging without mark.

Lucas stumbled backward, hit the brick wall, backpack thudding against his spine.

Pennywise tilted his head --- slow, theatrical.

"Running already?" The smile stretched wider. Teeth multiplied behind the painted grin --- rows folding into rows, sharp and restless. "We haven't even played yet."

Lucas made a small, choked sound.

Pennywise raised one gloved hand --- fingers elongating, joints cracking like wet wood. The hand hovered inches from Lucas's face. The kid could smell it: old popcorn, rust, something sweet and rotten underneath.

"Floating isn't so bad," Pennywise murmured, voice intimate, tender. "Once you get used to it."

The hand closed around Lucas's throat --- not tight, just enough to feel the pulse jump.

Lucas screamed --- high, raw --- and bolted sideways.

Pennywise let him go.

The chase was slow at first --- almost leisurely. Lucas slipped on ice, scrambled up, lungs burning. His vision blurred with tears, the alley tilting like a funhouse mirror, walls leaning in, sodium lights smearing into orange streaks. Pennywise glided after him --- never quite touching ground, never quite hurrying, letting the fear build.

Lucas rounded the corner toward the canal.

Pennywise's laugh followed --- wet, bubbling, delighted.

Then --- WHACK.

A dense, ice-packed snowball --- almost a hockey puck --- slammed into Pennywise's face with brutal force. The impact snapped his head back; greasepaint cracked across the cheek, white shards spraying like bone fragments. The conical hat flew off, tumbling into shadow.

The clown staggered --- one step, two --- boots finally scraping pavement with a surprised hiss.

Periwinkle hopped into the alley --- pristine blue suit, lavender ruffles crisp despite the snow, conical hat tilted rakishly. She landed light, knees bent, arms wide like a gymnast sticking the landing.

"I got you!" she sang, voice bright and triumphant.

Lucas skidded to a stop --- chest heaving, tears freezing on his cheeks.

Periwinkle turned to him --- eyes glowing soft orange, smile wide but not cruel.

"Do you want to have a snowball fight?" she asked sweetly.

Lucas stared --- shaking, heart hammering so hard he thought it would crack ribs.

He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He wanted his mom.

But his hands moved anyway.

They scooped snow --- cold biting through mittens --- packed it tight. His arms wound up. He threw.

The snowball struck Pennywise square in the chest --- ice cracking against the filthy suit.

Periwinkle clapped delightedly.

"Good throw!"

She scooped her own snowball --- dense, heavy --- and hurled it. It hit Pennywise's shoulder with a meaty thud. The clown snarled --- low, furious --- deadlights flaring white-hot.

Lucas laughed.

He didn't want to.

The laugh bubbled out of him like someone else was pulling strings in his throat --- high, cracking, forced between clenched teeth. His lips stretched wide in a grin that hurt, while his eyes begged for it to stop, wide and wet and desperate. His body kept moving --- throwing, laughing --- while inside he screamed in silence.

Periwinkle laughed too --- bright, manic, echoing off brick walls. She hopped in exaggerated bounces, each throw precise and vicious.

"Come on, Daddy! Catch!"

Pennywise dodged --- coat-tails whipping --- but snowballs burst against his suit, ice shards sticking to the ruff like cruel decorations. His snarl became a growl. The deadlights narrowed to furious slits.

Another ice ball struck his face again --- right across the nose --- greasepaint smearing sideways, teeth bared in a furious grimace.

He staggered back, retreating step by step into the deeper shadow at the alley's end.

Periwinkle clapped again --- delighted, victorious.

"Oh... but we only just started."

She turned to Lucas --- smile softening just a fraction.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" she asked gently. "Let's play again soon."

Lucas's laughter died in his throat --- sudden, ragged. His hands dropped. The compulsion snapped like a cut string.

He stared at her --- shaking, tears freezing on his cheeks.

Periwinkle gave a small hop --- backward --- then another.

She vanished around the corner in a puff of snow.

Lucas stood alone in the alley.

The red balloon was gone.

A single cyan snowball lay on the ground where she'd stood --- glowing faintly, then melting into nothing.

He ran.

Home.

Lucas burst through his front door, backpack sliding off one shoulder, gasping. His mom called from the kitchen --- "Lucas? You okay?" --- but he didn't answer. He just ran upstairs, slammed his bedroom door, and leaned against it, heart still hammering.

He slid to the floor.

That was when he saw it.

Taped to the inside of his bedroom door --- fresh, the tape still sticky --- a single sheet of paper. Crayon colors, bright and brutal.

The comic was simple: three panels.

Panel 1: Lucas (unmistakably him --- same hoodie, same backpack, same terrified eyes) running down an alley, red balloon floating behind him like a bloodshot eye.

Panel 2: A giant blue clown (Periwinkle --- conical hat, lavender ruffles) winding up with an enormous ice snowball. Pennywise's face (greasepaint cracked, hat flying off) frozen mid-snarl.

Panel 3: Lucas and Periwinkle side by side, both laughing (his smile too wide, too forced), pelting Punywise with snowballs. Punywise retreating into shadow, tiny speech bubble: "No fair!"

Underneath, in big wobbly purple letters:

That was fun, wasn't it? Let's play again soon!

♡

Lucas stared.

The paper was still warm --- like it had just been drawn.

He reached out --- trembling --- and touched the corner.

The crayon lines shimmered once --- cyan and orange flecks dancing under his fingertip --- then went still.

He yanked his hand back.

Downstairs, his mom called again --- softer this time.

"Lucas? Honey?"

He didn't answer.

He just sat there --- back against the door --- staring at the comic of himself laughing when he hadn't wanted to.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Derry, Maine – January 25, 1985 – 4:34 p.m.

Mike's scanner had been quiet most of the day---routine calls, a fender-bender on Route 7, nothing that smelled like him. Then, around 16:34, a dispatcher's voice crackled through: "Possible 10-57 near the canal path behind Up-Mile Hill Pharmacy. Child screaming about clowns---witness says a blue clown 'intervened' with the red one. No visual on suspect. Unit en route."

Mike was already pulling on his coat.

Bev looked up from the kitchen table where she'd been folding a pile of clean laundry, cyan star pendant catching the overhead light.

"Clowns again?" she asked quietly, voice tight.

Mike nodded. "Kid. Sounds like the same pattern as Theo Grayson yesterday. I'm going to check it out---quietly. No uniforms if I can help it."

Bev set the towel down. "Not alone."

Stan, who had been sitting silently at the far end of the table nursing black coffee and sketching precise little birds on a napkin, folded the napkin once, tucked it into his pocket, and stood without a word.

"I'll go with you," he said. Calm. Decisive. The way he always was when something needed doing right.

Bev gave him a small, grateful nod. "Thank you."

Mike didn't argue. The three of them left without fanfare---coats zipped, flashlights in pockets, no goodbyes to the others still scattered around the house. Some things didn't need explaining twice.

Derry, Maine – January 25, 1985 – 5:05 p.m.

Mike parked half a block away. The three of them approached on foot---slow, hands visible, no sudden moves.

Sgt. Mallory was still outside with Lucas's mom. She looked up as they neared, eyes red-rimmed, clutching her robe tight.

Bev spoke first, voice soft but clear.

"Mrs. Reed? I'm Bev---from Marsh Threads. I do the alterations for your neighbor Mrs. Abernathy. We heard on the scanner there was trouble near the canal. Something about... clowns again." She paused, letting the word land gently. "There've been other kids talking about seeing things like that lately. We just wanted to check if everyone's okay---and if your boy saw anything we might recognize. Maybe talking to someone who's heard similar stories could help him feel less alone."

Mrs. Reed's shoulders sagged a fraction. She glanced back toward the house.

"He won't talk to the police at all. Just keeps saying clowns---red one chasing him, blue one... doing something worse. He's terrified. If you really think you can get him to say what happened without scaring him more..."

She stepped aside.

They followed her inside. The living room was lit low; a single lamp burned on the coffee table. Lucas sat on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the carpet. His mom sat beside him immediately, arm around his shoulders, staying close.

Bev knelt on the rug in front of him---keeping distance, voice gentle.

"Hi, Lucas. I'm Bev. This is Mike and Stan. We live nearby. We've heard other kids say they saw scary clowns too. We just wanted to see if what happened to you was like the other stories. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. We're just here to listen."

Lucas didn't look up at first. His fingers twisted in the hem of his pajama shirt.

After a long silence he whispered: "The red one wanted to eat me. Said floating wasn't bad."

Bev nodded slowly. "I know that one's mean. But someone stopped him, right?"

Lucas gave a small, jerky nod.

"The blue one. She hit him with snow. Hard. He fell."

He finally lifted his eyes---huge, glassy, pupils blown wide.

"But then she made me... do things. I didn't want to. My arms moved by themselves. I threw snowballs at him even though I was crying. I laughed---really loud---but inside I was screaming. I couldn't stop. My body wouldn't listen to me. It was like... it wasn't mine anymore."

His voice cracked.

"She smiled while I did it. Like she was proud. But her eyes were wrong. Orange. Like fire. She saved me from the red one... but she's a monster too. They both are."

Mrs. Reed's arm tightened around him. She looked at Bev---pleading, helpless.

Bev reached out slowly---gave him time---then rested her hand very lightly on the couch cushion near his knee, not touching.

"You're safe now," she said. "No one's going to make your body do anything it doesn't want. Ever again. I promise."

Lucas stared at her pendant---the cyan star catching the lamplight, throwing tiny purple flecks across his cheek.

After a long beat he pointed toward his bedroom door.

"There's a picture," he whispered. "She left it. After."

Stan stepped forward quietly, opened the door wider. Taped to the inside---at exactly Lucas's eye level---was the crayon comic.

Three panels. Lucas running. Periwinkle slamming snow into Pennywise. Lucas and Periwinkle side by side---him laughing too wide, eyes panicked even in crayon---both pelting the retreating clown.

Underneath, in wobbly purple:

That was fun, wasn't it?

Let's play again soon.

♡

Bev stared until her eyes burned.

Stan peeled it off carefully---fingertips only---and folded it into his pocket.

Lucas whispered: "I don't want to play again. Ever."

Bev leaned in just enough to meet his eyes.

"You won't have to," she said. "Not if we can help it."

She stood. Looked at Mike and Stan.

They left without another word---Mrs. Reed thanking them in a numb voice at the door.

Outside, snow fell thicker now.

Bev walked between them, arms wrapped tight around herself.

"She saved him," she said quietly. "But she hurt him doing it. Took his body. Made him part of her game."

Stan nodded once. "She's fighting a war. Wars have casualties---even the people you're trying to protect."

Mike's voice stayed measured. "And she's getting stronger. But so is the cost."

The three of them exchanged a long, silent look---concern etched deep in every face---before turning back toward the farmhouse.

No one said anything more.

The snow kept falling.