The Quiet Games

Derry, Maine – February 6, 1985 – 7:42 p.m.

The guest room under the slanted ceiling was lit only by the faint amber glow of a single bedside lamp. Outside, full February night had long since swallowed the last gray scraps of afternoon. Stella lay curled on her side in the narrow twin bed, quilt pulled tight to her chin, dark hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. She had fallen asleep on the living-room couch shortly after the confrontation—Bev carrying her upstairs while the others cleaned up below—and had barely stirred since.

Most of the day had passed in heavy, unbroken sleep. Only four times had she woken at all—brief, frantic flashes that left her colder and shakier each time.

The first three had come that morning, right after she collapsed on the couch.
Each time her eyes snapped open—glassy, wide, pupils blown—and she gasped a single word or half-sentence before vanishing again.
Gone for ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.
Then reappearing—crumpled on the rug, or slumped against the headboard, or simply back in the exact same spot on the mattress as though she’d never left. Each return was worse: colder skin, shallower breathing, a thin trickle of cyan light leaking from the corner of her eye or nose before winking out.

The fourth time had been only minutes ago—shortly after quiet settled downstairs.
She woke with a small, startled sound, eyes darting around the room like she didn’t recognize it.
“I’m back,” she rasped, voice cracked and thin.
Her hand reached for Bev’s—shaking so badly the fingers barely closed.
Then—mid-breath—her body went limp again.
Gone.
Back almost instantly this time—barely a minute—crumpling sideways onto the pillow like a cut string. A faint violet glow leaked from beneath her closed lids for a heartbeat before fading.

Now she had been still for nearly an hour—the longest stretch yet.
But it wasn’t peaceful sleep.

Her breathing was slow, shallow, almost too even. Every so often her small body twitched—once, twice—like something inside was pulling at invisible threads. Her eyelids fluttered but never opened. And from beneath the closed lids came thin, shifting threads of light: cyan, orange, violet, black—flickering like dying embers behind paper, leaking out in tiny pulses that painted the walls in impossible colors for half a second before fading.

Bev sat on the edge of the mattress, one hand wrapped around Stella’s smaller one, the other stroking slowly through dark hair. She had not moved in hours. Her thumb traced gentle circles over Stella’s knuckles, the same soothing rhythm she’d used since the first collapse.

Downstairs the others waited—voices low, footsteps soft, the house itself seeming to hold its breath.

Up here, Stella murmured.

“Please don’t cry anymore…”

The words were small, cracked, barely louder than breath. Her fingers flexed once in Bev’s grip—weak, searching.

“Where did you go…?”

Another twitch. A thin line of cyan light slipped from the corner of her eye, ran down her temple like a tear made of starlight, then vanished into the pillowcase.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking on the last syllable. “I didn’t mean to…”

Bev leaned closer, pressing her lips to the crown of Stella’s head.

“I’m right here, little star,” she murmured. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re safe. Come back when you’re ready.”

Stella’s brow furrowed. Her free hand clutched the quilt tighter. The leaking lights pulsed faster—brief strobes of orange and violet—then dimmed again.

Bev kept stroking her hair. Slow. Steady. Never stopping.

Minutes passed. The murmurs softened. The twitching eased. The lights under her eyelids flickered once more, slower, fainter… and finally went out.

Stella sighed—a long, shuddering breath that seemed to empty her whole body.

Her hand relaxed in Bev’s.

She slept on—deep, quiet, dreamless now.

Bev exhaled shakily, bowed her head until her forehead rested against Stella’s, and stayed like that for a long time.

Downstairs – 8:19 p.m.

The living room was dim, lit mostly by the low fire and one floor lamp. The Losers had gathered in a loose circle—coffee gone cold, coats still half-on like they might have to run at any moment. Richie sat on the arm of the couch, knees bouncing. Eddie paced a tight line between the fireplace and the window. Ben leaned against the mantel, arms folded. Bill sat forward on the edge of an armchair, hands clasped between his knees. Stan stood near the doorway, back straight, expression unreadable. Mike sat at the small table with his notebook open, but the pen had not moved in twenty minutes.

Bev came down the stairs slowly. She looked ten years older than she had that morning—hair loose and tangled, eyes red-rimmed but steady.

“She’s sleeping,” Bev said quietly. “Really sleeping now. The lights stopped. She’s… calm.”

A collective breath left the room.

Richie rubbed his face with both hands. “Four times today. Four. And each time she comes back worse.”

Eddie stopped pacing. “She barely gets a sentence out before she’s gone again.”

Bev sank onto the couch, pulling her knees up. “The first three were this morning. Right after she collapsed on the couch. She’d wake up gasping, reach for me, say half a word—then vanish. Back on the rug, or the floor, or just… here. Colder every time. The last one was only minutes ago. She woke, looked at me like she didn’t know where she was, then collapsed again. Almost instantly.”

Bill’s voice was low. “She’s fighting somewhere we can’t see.”

Mike closed the notebook slowly. “And losing ground. Every time she goes… she comes back less.”

Silence settled, thick and heavy.

Ben spoke first, quiet. “We can’t keep watching her unravel like this.”

Eddie’s hand tightened on his inhaler. “The ritual of Chüd. She told Mike it would be catastrophic.”

Mike nodded once. “She said it would burn the tether. Push him out of Derry. But he’d come back stronger. Eventually. Everywhere. No more cage. No more limits.”

Richie let out a short, bitter laugh. “So we either let her keep bleeding herself dry trying to hold him back… or we do the ritual and basically hand him the keys to the whole damn world.”

Stan’s voice was calm, precise. “If we do Chüd and it works short-term, we buy time. Decades, maybe. But long-term… we release him from whatever prison Derry is keeping him in. He becomes unbound. Global.”

Bill rubbed his temples. “And if we don’t do it?”

Bev’s voice was soft but certain. “She keeps fighting. Until there’s nothing left of her to fight with.”

Another long silence.

Richie looked around the circle—eyes tired, voice rough. “So that’s it? We’re out of options. We either watch her die slow… or we risk turning one monster loose on everyone.”

Eddie exhaled shakily. “We’ve got nothing.”

The words hung there.

Then the air beside the fireplace thickened.

Not cold. Not sudden. Just… present.

A small blue figure stepped out of nowhere—periwinkle suit crisp, lavender ruffles perfect, conical hat tilted at that familiar rakish angle. The same playful, kind Periwinkle who had first appeared to them during game night months ago. No neediness. No tears. Just bright orange eyes and a wide, gentle smile.

The Losers froze.

Richie was the first to react—half-standing, eyes wide, a startled laugh escaping him.

“You’re awake!”

Bev’s hand flew to her mouth. Eddie actually took a step forward. Even Stan’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

Periwinkle tilted her head, then gave a delighted little hop—ruffles bouncing—before rocking once on her heels.

“Not quite,” she said, voice high and happy, “but some of me is.”

She hopped again—light, playful—then spun in a quick circle like she was showing off a new dress. The motion sent a faint shimmer of cyan sparkles trailing behind her, gone before they hit the floor.

Bill exhaled, almost smiling despite everything. “Jesus. You scared us.”

Periwinkle giggled—bright, childlike—and hopped closer. She paused in front of Richie, rocked up on her toes, then—without warning—hopped straight into his lap, perching there for a heartbeat like a bird on a branch. Richie froze, arms half-raised, then awkwardly patted her back once.

“Hey, tiny,” he managed, voice rough. “Good to see you too.”

She beamed up at him, then hopped down just as quickly—landing light beside Bev on the couch. She sat cross-legged right next to her, small hands resting on her knees, looking around the circle with wide, fond eyes.

“If I fail,” she said—still cheerful, still bouncing slightly even while sitting—“if I cannot hold back Daddy any longer… you should do the ritual. the Chüd thingy.”

Eddie’s hand tightened on his inhaler. “You told Mike it would be catastrophic.”

“And it will be,” Periwinkle said happily, like she was talking about rain on a picnic. She kicked her feet once—oversized shoes tapping the air—then leaned sideways to rest her head briefly against Bev’s shoulder. “Immediately dangerous. For each of you.”

Mike leaned forward. “Then why—”

“Because Daddy’s return is unlikely to happen within your lifetimes.” She smiled wider—innocent, sunny—and hopped off the couch again, spinning once more before landing in front of Ben. She reached up and patted his knee like he was a very tall puppy. “No matter how Angry he gets. You'll be long gone when he get's here. And the world will end either way—it’s just a matter of timing really. Stars burn out. Turtles die. Everything becomes nothing again. Such is life.”

She paused, rocking back on her heels, ruffles bouncing, then added with a small, almost wistful shrug:

“Besides… normal dying is way more fun than getting-eaten dying. Entirely different circus, really!”

The room went very still.

Periwinkle clasped her hands behind her back again.

“I’d rather see you live out your messy, silly, beautiful human lives…” Her voice stayed playful, almost singsong as she hopped over to Bill and gave his knee a quick, cheerful pat. “…than have them cut short now. An ongoing struggle to postpone the inevitable. That’s all any of us ever really do.”

She looked straight at Bev—eyes softening just a fraction—and hopped back to the center of the circle.

“I like your messy human life best of all.”

Then—soft pop—she was gone.

The fire crackled.

No one moved for a long moment.

Richie finally spoke, voice rough. “Well. That was cheerful.”

Bev sat back down—slow, careful—hands shaking just a little.

“She’s giving us permission,” she said quietly. “To save her… by risking everything.”

Mike looked at the empty space where Periwinkle had stood.

“Or to let her keep fighting until she can’t anymore.”

The house settled around them—old wood creaking, wind tapping the windows.

Upstairs, Stella slept on—quiet now.

But the drip-drip-drip in the dark below never stopped.

Patient.

Always patient.