Whispers from Home

Derry, Maine – January 26, 1985 – 8:40 a.m.

Richie shuffles into the kitchen, hair vertical, still in yesterday’s hoodie, yawning so wide his jaw cracks. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the coffee maker and the soft scratch-scratch of a crayon.

Stella is already at the kitchen table, cross-legged on a chair she’s dragged over, wearing Bev’s oversized sweater like a dress. She’s bent over a piece of paper torn from a grocery list pad, purple crayon moving with careful, deliberate strokes. The drawing is nearly finished — bright, wobbly lines, but unmistakably complete.

She doesn’t look up right away. Just keeps coloring the last bit of Richie’s ridiculous hair (exaggerated into a spiky explosion).

Richie stops in the doorway, blinking.

“Morning, tiny dictator. You’re up early. What’s the masterpiece?”

Stella finally glances over her shoulder, big smile breaking across her face like sunrise.

“It’s us!” she says, turning the paper around so he can see it properly.

The drawing is simple crayon art, but precise in its own way:

Two stick figures holding hands. Left figure: tall, gangly, wild scribble-hair, glasses, huge grin — unmistakably Richie. Right figure: small, dark scribble-hair, wearing a too-big sweater, smiling even wider. Background: the old Aladdin Theatre marquee (faded letters spelling “FUN PLACE TODAY”), a few snowflakes, and a cyan balloon floating above them like a happy thought. No red balloon anywhere.

Below the figures, in the same big, wobbly purple crayon letters (clearly written before he walked in):

“Richie is taking me to the fun place! We’ll be back soon. Don’t worry! ♡ Stella”

Richie stares at it for a long second. The coffee maker gurgles behind him like it’s trying to fill the silence.

“…You drew this before I even came down.”

Stella nods, proud. “I knew you’d be first. You always wake up hungry for trouble.”

Richie lets out a short, disbelieving laugh — half charmed, half unnerved.

“Okay, kid. That’s… creepy-cute. Like, award-winning levels of creepy-cute.”

He leans closer, squinting at the paper.

“And you already decided we’re going to the Aladdin? What if I said no?”

Stella tilts her head, eyes sparkling.

“But you won’t.”

Richie rubs the back of his neck, caught.

“Yeah… yeah, you’re probably right.”

He glances toward the stairs, then back at her.

“We should probably tell the others, though. Bev’s gonna have a heart attack if we just vanish.”

Stella shakes her head, already hopping off the chair.

“No need. I left a letter.”

She points to the paper again — as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Richie looks at the drawing/letter again. The little heart at the end. The confident “We’ll be back soon.”

He exhales through his nose, half-smiling despite himself.

“Alright, you tiny psychic menace. Let me grab my coat. But if Bev kills me when we get back, I’m blaming you.”

Stella giggles, already tugging on his hoodie sleeve toward the door.

“Deal!”

Derry, Maine – January 26, 1985 – 9:06 a.m.

The canal path is empty except for their footprints. Snow crunches under Richie’s boots; Stella’s smaller ones patter beside him. She’s chattering nonstop — about how the Aladdin probably still smells like old popcorn, about whether ghosts watch movies, about wanting to sit in the very back row “so no one sees us throw snowballs at the screen.”

Richie lets her talk, half-listening, half-laughing at the right places.

Then he spots it — far ahead, just past the bend where the path curves toward town.

A red balloon.

Floating perfectly still at shoulder height above the snow, tethered to nothing. Bright against the gray sky.

Richie’s step falters.

Stella keeps babbling, oblivious. “—and maybe the projector still works! We could watch a whole movie with just us and the ghosts—”

Richie blinks.

The balloon is cyan now.

Same height. Same spot. Same stillness.

He blinks again.

Still cyan.

Stella tugs his hand. “Richie? You’re staring.”

He forces a grin. “Just… admiring the local balloon population. Very patriotic color scheme today.”

Stella glances ahead, sees the cyan balloon, and waves cheerfully at it like it’s an old friend.

Richie doesn’t wave.

They keep walking.

Derry, Maine – January 26, 1985 – 9:45 a.m.

They’re halfway down the canal path when Stella suddenly stops walking.

Richie glances down. “What’s up, short stack? See a snowman that needs judging?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead she lifts her mittened hand and waves — big, enthusiastic, like she’s greeting someone at a parade.

Richie follows her gaze.

Up on the flat roof of the old Aladdin Theatre — maybe twenty feet up, perched right on the edge like it’s the most normal seat in the world — sits a small blue figure. Conical hat tilted, lavender ruffles catching the weak winter sun, one gloved hand raised in mirror-wave.

Periwinkle.

She waves back, slow and cheerful.

Stella — still standing right beside Richie on the snowy path — turns to him with a huge, delighted grin and says in her brightest, most normal little-girl voice:

“Wow Richie! You look so tiny from over there!”

Richie freezes mid-step.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“…What?”

Stella giggles, then cups both hands around her mouth like she’s calling across a playground and shouts up happily:

“Hi me!”

Periwinkle gives one more big two-handed wave from the roof, then hops backward — out of sight behind the marquee — like she was never there.

Richie stares at the empty roof for several long seconds.

As they start walking again, his eyes drift to the brick wall beside the path — old graffiti half-covered in snow, faded red letters barely visible:

COME PLAY

The words are jagged, angry, unmistakably Pennywise’s style.

Richie blinks — just once.

When his eyes refocus, the red paint is gone.

In its place: the same spot, same size, now crisp lavender crayon strokes:

PLAY SAFE! ♡

A tiny smiling face doodled at the end.

Richie stops breathing for half a second.

He stares at the wall — heart thudding once, hard — letting the change sink in. The red threat overwritten by lavender reassurance. The smiling face feels almost mocking in its cheer.

Stella keeps tugging his hand, humming happily, completely oblivious.

He exhales — shaky — and forces himself to keep walking.

Then he looks down at Stella — who’s already skipping ahead a step, ready to keep going, unfazed.

“Okay,” he says slowly, voice pitched somewhere between amusement and mild existential crisis. “Psychic grocery-list prophecy — cute. Rooftop narration — freaky. Yelling ‘hi me’ like you’re waving at your evil twin? That’s next-level. Meanwhile I’m just trying to keep up without having an existential crisis in public.”

Stella swings their joined hands, grinning up at him.

“She’s not evil, Richie! She’s just… me, but up high. Like when you look in a mirror and wave, but the mirror waves back first!”

Richie exhales through his nose, a half-laugh escaping despite himself.

“Yeah. Sure. Totally normal. My day is 100% normal right now.”

He lets her pull him forward again, but his eyes keep flicking — now not just to rooftops, but to every wall, every lamppost, every scrap of color in the snow.

And every time he glances at Stella, he can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s looking back at him from two directions at once.

Derry, Maine – January 26, 1985 – 10:20 a.m.

They never quite make it inside the Aladdin.

Half a block away, Stella’s steps slow. Her chatter fades. She leans heavier on Richie’s hand, eyelids drooping.

“I’m… tired,” she says, voice small and surprised, like tiredness is a new feeling.

Richie stops. Looks down. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, but her eyes are heavy.

“Yeah? All that rooftop waving wear you out?”

She nods, yawning hugely.

They find an old wooden bench half-buried in snow near the canal railing. Richie brushes it clear with his sleeve; they sit.

Stella curls against his side immediately — small body fitting under his arm like it belongs there.

“We needed to be here today,” she murmurs, head on his coat. “Out in town. He’s… active. Trying hard.”

Richie’s arm tightens around her shoulders, casual but protective.

“Yeah? So the rooftop stunt double was… what, crowd control?”

Stella gives a sleepy half-laugh.

“Closer is easier. And you’re here. Helps me… coordinate.”

She yawns again, bigger this time, then lifts her head just enough to look up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Richie… can you carry me home now? Please?”

Before he can even answer — before the words “Sure, kid” can finish forming — her head drops back against his coat. Her breathing slows, evens out. She’s asleep — completely, trustingly out — small hand loosely curled in his sleeve.

Richie blinks down at her for a second, caught between a laugh and something softer.

“Guess that’s a yes,” he mutters to himself.

He sighs, adjusts his grip, and stands carefully. Scoops her up piggyback-style. She doesn’t wake — just shifts instinctively, arms looping around his neck, cheek pressing into his scarf.

He starts the walk back.

Derry, Maine – January 26, 1985 – 10:45 a.m.

Richie’s arms are on fire. Stella’s dead asleep against his back — cheek squished into his scarf, tiny hands loose around his collar, slow warm breaths puffing against his neck. He keeps shifting her weight, grumbling under his breath to stay calm.

“Next time you conk out, kid, you’re walking. I’m not Uber for tiny psychics.”

She doesn’t stir. Just sleeps — deep, trusting, completely gone.

The shortcut spits them out at the mouth of the narrow alley behind the pharmacy — same one kids used to dare each other through back in ’58. Richie keeps his eyes forward, pace quick, telling himself it’s just an alley.

Then the air turns thick and wrong — carnival sugar gone rancid, rust, wet concrete.

A low, bubbling chuckle rolls out of the shadows.

Richie stops dead.

Pennywise steps into the faint sodium glow at the alley entrance — not gliding, just there. Suit filthy and dripping black at the hems, ruff in tatters, greasepaint streaked like old tears. One pom-pom missing from the crooked hat. Deadlights low and patient, orange embers drinking the light.

“Well, well,” the clown purrs, voice sliding under Richie’s skin like syrup over broken glass. “Trash-mouth and his little blue bedtime story. How sweet.”

Richie’s grip tightens on Stella’s thighs. She doesn’t wake.

He forces the grin — all teeth, no warmth.

“Hey, Pennywise. Still rocking the discount-store sad-clown aesthetic. Very 1985.”

Pennywise tilts his head. The smile stretches — wider, wetter — corners tearing small wet splits in the white.

“You’ve been marinated almost perfectly now,” he says, voice dropping to something almost tender. “I hope she’ll share.”

He takes one slow step forward. The deadlights flare — just enough to catch something behind him.

Richie’s stomach drops like a stone.

In the deeper shadow at Pennywise’s shoulder — a second pair of eyes glints.

Cyan.

Small. Unblinking. Calm. Watching.

They don’t move. Don’t blink. Just stare — patient, ancient, impossibly still.

Pennywise doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge them.

But Richie sees.

The clown’s voice drops even lower — intimate, delighted.

“She’s been so patient with you. Letting you carry her. Letting you think you’re keeping her safe.” A wet little laugh. “But everything has to be just right… before the first bite.”

The implication lands like ice water down Richie’s spine.

Not that Pennywise is going to eat him.

That Stella is.

That every piggyback ride, every sleepy mumble, every time she’s curled against him has been… tenderizing. Softening. Marinating.

Richie’s mouth goes dry.

He forces his voice steady — barely.

“Yeah, well… tell her I’m gamey. She’ll hate the aftertaste.”

Pennywise chuckles — deeper, wetter, delighted.

“Run along, little comedian. Enjoy the babysitting while it lasts.”

The deadlights dim.

He melts backward into the alley’s dark — coat-tails trailing like smoke — gone in seconds.

The cyan eyes linger one heartbeat longer.

Then they close — slow, deliberate — and vanish.

Richie stands frozen, heart slamming so hard he’s sure Stella can feel it through his back.

She shifts — small sleepy murmur into his scarf.

“…home?”

He swallows once — hard — and starts walking again. Faster this time. Not running. Not yet.

“Yeah, kid,” he whispers, voice rougher than he wants it to be. “Home.”

The whole way back he keeps his eyes on the path ahead.

Doesn’t look over his shoulder once.

But he feels them anyway.

Watching.

Derry, Maine – January 26, 1985 – 11:20 a.m.

Richie carried Stella up the farmhouse stairs without a word — arms numb, back screaming — and tucked her into the guest-room bed. He pulled the quilt up to her chin, smoothed her dark hair off her forehead, and sat on the edge of the mattress for a long minute. Her face was peaceful in sleep — small, ordinary, no trace of whatever had watched him from the alley shadows.

He stood finally, rubbing his neck, and slipped out. Closed the door softly.

Downstairs, the Losers were already gathered in the living room — fire crackling low, mugs of cold coffee scattered like forgotten props. Bev sat at the far end of the couch, legs tucked under her, a small notepad balanced on her knee. She was sketching quick alterations for Mrs. Abernathy’s coat — navy thread loops, hem measurements — pencil moving in short, distracted strokes while she listened.

Eddie looked up first from the window seat, inhaler turning in his hands. “She okay?”

Richie dropped into the armchair across from Bev, exhaling hard.

“Yeah. Conked out halfway back. Kid’s got the stamina of a sloth on sedatives.”

Bev’s pencil paused. She glanced up, eyes sharp despite the faint shadows under them.

“What happened out there? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Richie hesitated — eyes flicking to her notepad, then away. He settled for half-truth.

“Ran into our favorite clown in an alley. The usual taunts. ‘Float with me,’ yadda yadda. Nothing I couldn’t handle with some grade-A sarcasm.”

Bev’s jaw tightened. She set the pencil down, but kept the notepad open on her lap — a small anchor to the world outside these walls.

“He got close?”

“Close enough to smell his breath. But… we walked away.” Richie shrugged, too casual. “Stella slept through it. Lucky her.”

Mike leaned against the mantel, arms crossed. “He’s getting bolder. Testing boundaries.”

Ben nodded from the floor by the fire, sketchbook forgotten. “And we’ve been here… what? Two weeks now? Three?”

The room went quiet.

Bill spoke first, voice low. “Audra’s called twice. Thinks I’m on an extended research trip for the next script. But if I don’t get back soon… she’ll start asking questions I can’t answer.”

Eddie rubbed his face. “Sonia’s blowing up the phone at home. Thinks I’m having a midlife crisis or some affair. And work? I took ‘family emergency’ leave, but my boss is already talking replacement. If I’m gone much longer, I’m fired.”

Richie snorted. “Join the club. My agent’s probably shopping my gigs to the next loudmouth with glasses. And the wife… well, let’s just say ‘extended vacation in Derry’ isn’t flying anymore.”

Ben glanced at Bev. “You’re still trying to keep the shop running?”

Bev exhaled through her nose — small, tired smile. “I’ve been calling in orders from here. There’s a pile of work waiting — hems, patches, alterations — enough to keep me up half the night if I let it.” She tapped the notepad once. “But yeah. Bills don’t stop. And I hate leaving her alone for even an hour.”

Stan spoke quietly from the doorway. “Bath’s the same. Clients rescheduled, but patience has limits. And Miriam… she’s supportive, but worried. This isn’t sustainable.”

Mike nodded slowly. “I’m already here. The library’s my life. But you all… you have worlds outside Derry. We can’t hide forever.”

Richie leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And It? He’s upping his game. Taunts in alleys. Sending Bowers. Whatever’s going on with Stella… it’s taking a toll. Kid’s exhausted half the time. Laughing one minute, vanishing the next. We’re not just fighting him anymore — we’re trying to keep her from cracking too.”

Bev’s pencil stilled completely. She looked down at the half-drawn hemline on her pad, then back up.

“I know,” she said softly. “She tries to hide it — the yawns, the way her eyes flicker when she thinks no one’s looking. But I see it. Every time one of you takes a turn watching her so I can make a phone call or finish a seam… I feel guilty. Like I’m choosing thread over her.”

She paused, voice dropping.

“And the things he keeps saying… about her ‘seasoning’ us, about waiting for the first bite… I know it’s just taunts. But when she glitches — when her eyes change, or she vanishes for a second — it sticks. I hate that it sticks.”

Eddie’s voice was gentle. “We’re all taking turns, Bev. You’re not alone in that. And we all hear it too. The whispers. The implications. But she’s still the one keeping him at bay.”

Mike exhaled through his nose. “But if we stay much longer… some of us won’t have jobs to go back to. Relationships won’t survive the silence.”

Bev closed the notepad slowly. Set it on the coffee table.

“I’m not leaving her,” she said — not angry, just certain. “She needs us. And I trust her. Completely.”

A small voice cut through from the stairs.

“You don’t have to stay.”

They all turned.

Stella stood at the bottom step — in her pajamas, hair sleep-mussed, rubbing one eye with a small fist. She looked tiny in the doorway — barefoot, vulnerable.

Bev stood immediately. “Stella — honey, you should be in bed.”

Stella shook her head, padding closer. She climbed onto the couch beside Bev, tucking her knees up.

“I heard you talking. I won’t stop you from leaving. If you want to go home… you can.”

Richie frowned. “Kid, it’s not that simple.”

She looked around at them — eyes wide, brown, carrying that ancient weight again.

“But if you’re away from me…” Her gaze drifted slowly across the circle. “…I may not be able to stop him from whispering to you.”

She paused, voice softening, almost confessional.

“My senses dull with distance. Only with sheer luck would I even notice… and then maybe make it in time to intervene.”

The words hung there—quiet, reluctant.

“From far away. He’ll try to make you forget. Or come back. Or…”

Her gaze settled—only for a heartbeat—on Stan right as the next words came softer, almost reluctant.

“…hurt yourselves.”

Her voice dropped lower — layered for just a second, echoing faintly.

“You’d need to be strong enough to resist by yourselves. At least while he's awake.”

Stan’s shoulders stiffened—almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitched once against the mug he was holding, then stilled. For the briefest moment his eyes unfocused, as though something long-buried had brushed against the surface of memory: a calm, insistent voice cutting through static, pulling him back from a razor’s edge he hadn’t yet admitted to anyone he’d stood on. The moment passed. He blinked, swallowed once, and looked down at his coffee.

Bev pulled Stella close, arms wrapping tight.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Stella’s head. “You’re safe with us. We’re safe with you.”

Stella nuzzled into her side — small, sleepy — but her eyes stayed open, watching the group.

The fire crackled.

Outside, snow whispered against the windows.

And somewhere far below, the whispers waited.