No One Fights Alone

Derry, Maine – February 7, 1985 – 7:18 a.m.

Bev wakes slowly to gray light leaking around the curtains. The guest room feels hushed, almost sacred in the early quiet. The quilt is warm against her skin; the air carries faint traces of lavender soap and old cedar.

She turns her head.

Stella is already awake.

She lies on her side facing Bev, cheek pillowed on one small hand, dark hair spilling across the pillow like ink. The cyan star pendant rests cool against Bev’s collarbone. Stella’s eyes—brown, clear, no flickering lights—are wide open and fixed on Bev’s face. There’s something nervous in them, something hesitant, like she’s holding words behind her teeth and isn’t sure how to let them out.

For a long moment neither speaks.

Then Stella offers a small, tired smile.

“Good morning, Bev,” she whispers. Her voice is still a little hoarse, but the cheer is there—deliberate, fragile, brave. “You snored a tiny bit. It was cute.”

Bev exhales a shaky laugh that’s half relief, half ache. She reaches out, cups Stella’s cold cheek, thumb brushing the faint shadow under one eye.

“Morning, little star.” Her voice cracks softly. “You look… better.”

Stella’s smile flickers—small, uncertain. “I had a long nap.” She scoots closer until their foreheads nearly touch. “I missed being here.”

They stay like that for several minutes—breathing the same air, listening to the house stir below: faint clatter of mugs, Richie’s muffled yawn, the soft creak of floorboards as someone starts the coffee maker. For just this sliver of time everything feels almost ordinary. A quiet morning. No void. No voices. Just warmth under the quilt and the soft patter of snow against the window.

Stella’s fingers find Bev’s and lace together tightly.

She doesn’t speak again.

Not yet.

Downstairs – 7:45 a.m.

The kitchen is already alive when they come down hand-in-hand.

Richie’s at the stove, burning toast for the third time and cursing under his breath. Eddie hovers with the spatula like he’s about to stage a coup. Ben pours orange juice with careful precision. Mike sits at the table with yesterday’s legal pad open but untouched. Bill and Stan lean against the counter, talking low.

The chatter dies the moment Bev and Stella appear in the doorway.

Stella lets go of Bev’s hand. She walks to the center of the room and stops—small in Bev’s oversized sweater, sleeves dangling past her fingertips, bare feet silent on the wood. Her spine is straight, but her hands twist together in front of her, nervous.

She takes a breath.

“I don’t want you to do the ritual,” she says. Clear. Steady. But quiet enough that everyone has to lean in. “Please.”

The room goes very still.

She looks around at them—meeting each pair of eyes for a heartbeat.

“It’s… it’s extremely dangerous. For all of you. Yes, it could hurt him. It could open a door to push him out. But it’s also a way for him to hurt you. He has the advantage there. He’s older. He’s hungrier. He knows how to twist things.” Her voice trembles once, then firms. “I can still fight. Even if it looks scary sometimes. Even if it’s hard. I’ll make up for it with effort. I’ll try harder. I promise.”

Richie turns the burner off. The toast pops up black and forgotten.

He leans forward, elbows on the table—no smirk this time, just quiet resolve.

“Stella,” he says, low and rough, “we heard you. No ritual. Not today. Not tomorrow. We’re not gonna force that on you.”

A tiny, relieved breath escapes her.

But Richie keeps going.

“Here’s the part you don’t get to veto. We’re not sitting in this house anymore while you bleed yourself dry out there alone. We’re going out. We’re patrolling. In pairs. Every night. We watch the alleys, the drains, the Barrens—anywhere he might show his stupid painted face.”

Stella’s eyes widen. “No—”

Eddie cuts in—sharp, almost angry. “Yes. Because every time he comes after one of us, he’s not going after some random scared kid. He’s coming after adults who already know his tricks. Adults who’ve beaten him once. That buys you time. It pulls his attention.”

Ben nods slowly. “We’re not asking permission, little star. We’re telling you. We’re in this with you now. Not behind you. Beside you.”

Mike’s voice is calm, steady. “We rotate shifts. Two at a time. We stay in radio contact. We call you the second anything feels wrong. You don’t disappear without telling us where you’re going. That’s the deal.”

Stella’s lip trembles. She looks at Bev—pleading.

Bev kneels in front of her, taking both small hands in hers. Her voice is soft but iron-hard underneath.

“I see it, Stella,” she says. “Every time you come back from… wherever you go… you’re colder. Paler. Smaller. There are shadows under your eyes that weren’t there last week. Lights leaking out of you like you’re cracking open.” She squeezes Stella’s fingers. “I cannot lose you. I won’t sit here folding laundry and baking cookies while you carry this alone. I’m carrying it with you. We all are.”

Stella’s eyes fill again—bright, spilling over.

“But…” Her voice drops to a whisper, so small the others have to lean in. “But if you come with me… you’ll see things. Ugly things.”

She looks down at their joined hands, then back up—ashamed, terrified.

“I’m afraid I’ll show you… an ugly side of me. Parts that aren’t… nice. Parts that scare even me.” Her lip quivers. “I don’t want you to… see me like… a monster.”

Bev’s thumbs brush the tears away—slow, deliberate.

“I already know,” she says quietly. “I’ve seen the lights under your eyes. I’ve heard the other voices slip out when you’re tired. I’ve felt the air change when you’re angry. And I’m still here.”

She leans closer, forehead touching Stella’s.

“You’re not a monster, little star. You’re a girl who’s been carrying too much for too long. A girl who fights when she’s scared. A girl who still wants pancakes and snowmen and bedtime stories. And none of that changes this: I love you. All of you. I’m not giving up on you. Ever.”

A sob rips out of Stella—small, broken. She throws her arms around Bev’s neck and buries her face in her shoulder.

Richie clears his throat, voice rough but gentle.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Stella peeks over Bev’s shoulder, eyes red-rimmed.

Richie leans forward, elbows on knees.

“Even if it ever comes to it… I’d much rather you ate me than let Pennywise get a single nibble.”

The room freezes for half a heartbeat—then Eddie snorts coffee through his nose.

Stella blinks once, processing. Then—very slowly—a tiny, mischievous grin curls the corner of her mouth. It’s small, human, almost shy… but unmistakably playful. The kind of grin a kid gets right before they steal the last cookie.

She leans in, eyes sparkling just a little, opens her mouth just enough to show small teeth…

…and nips his forearm. Quick. Gentle. Playful. Like she’s testing a cookie.

Richie yelps—loud, theatrical, flailing his arm like it’s on fire.

“OW! Jesus, kid! Warn a guy before you sample the merchandise!”

Stella sits back, wipes her mouth daintily with her sleeve, and fixes him with the flattest, most unimpressed stare imaginable.

“Not interested,” she says, deadpan. “Too gamey. But good effort.”

The kitchen explodes.

Richie clutches his arm, staggering backward like he’s been shot.
“Rejected! By a literal eldritch abomination! My ego is in the ICU!”

Eddie is wheezing, doubled over. Ben has his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking silently. Even Stan lets out a rare, startled bark of laughter. Mike hides a grin behind his coffee mug. Bill just shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Bev—still holding Stella—laughs until tears prick her eyes, then pulls her close and kisses the top of her head.

“See?” she murmurs against dark hair. “Even when you’re scary, you’re still our Stella. And apparently you have standards.”

Stella ducks her head, cheeks pink, but the tiniest upward curve touches her mouth.

“Next time,” she whispers to Richie, “I’ll aim for the funny bone.”

Richie clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.
“She’s vicious! I love her!”

The laughter fades slowly, leaving the room warm and breathing again.

Stella looks around at them all—eyes still shiny, but steadier now.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “You can come. But… you have to promise you’ll run if I start to scare you. If I start to look like something you can’t love anymore… you’ll tell me. And you’ll run.”

Bev cups her face again.

“We promise we’ll tell you the truth,” she says. “But we’re not running. Not from you. Never from you.”

Stella nods—slow, exhausted, but real.

Then—tiny, almost shy—she adds:

“Can we still have pancakes after patrol?”

Richie lets out a watery laugh.

“Kid, after patrol you’re getting a whole stack. With extra blueberries and whipped cream mountains. Deal?”

Stella manages the smallest, shakiest smile.

“Deal.”

Bev pulls her close again, rocking her gently while the others drift toward the stove—Richie flipping the burner back on, Eddie muttering about sugar crashes, Ben already pulling out the mixing bowl.

Outside, snow taps the windows.

Down in the dark, something waits.

But in this kitchen, for this morning at least, there is coffee, and toast, and seven adults plus one small ancient girl making a new promise:

No one fights alone anymore.

That Afternoon – 1:32 p.m.

The house had gone quiet after breakfast. The others had drifted away—some to nap, some to read, some to pace the snowy yard on quiet patrol—leaving Bev and Stella with the rare gift of an empty afternoon. Pale winter sunlight slanted through the half-drawn curtains in soft gold bars, catching lazy dust motes that floated like slow snow inside the room. The quilt was still rumpled from the morning, its faded star pattern warm against their legs. The air carried the faint, comforting scent of lavender soap from Stella’s bath and the lingering ghost of Richie’s burned cinnamon toast drifting up from the kitchen below.

Bev sat cross-legged against the headboard, one arm loosely around Stella’s shoulders. Stella was curled into her side, cheek pillowed on Bev’s sweater, small fingers idly twisting and untwisting the loose hem thread. Her bare feet poked out from under the quilt, toes flexing absently against the cotton.

Stella was in full, sleepy babble mode—happy, carefree, completely lost in the moment, words tumbling out like she was narrating the best dream she’d ever had.

“…and then the snowman needs a scarf, right? But not just any scarf. A magic one. The kind that always feels warm but doesn’t make him melt. And maybe he has a secret penguin friend who lives inside his hat. They go on adventures together and sometimes eat blueberry pancakes together. With extra whipped cream mountains. And sprinkles. Lots and lots of sprinkles. Because sprinkles are happy confetti, and snowmen deserve to be happy too.”

She giggled—bright and bubbly—tilted her head back, and looked up at Bev with sparkling eyes.

“Do you think snowmen dream about being real? Or do they just dream about carrots? Carrots are very serious business for snowmen. They probably have carrot meetings. ‘Today’s agenda: crunchier noses! Motion passed!’”

Bev laughed softly, the sound warm and low in her chest. She brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Stella’s forehead with gentle fingertips.

“I think they dream about both,” she murmured. “Carrots for breakfast, adventures for dessert.”

Stella beamed—pure delight—then snuggled even closer, still chattering happily.

“And the penguin would wear tiny boots! With pom-poms! Like mine, but smaller. And they’d slide on their bellies down the big hill and—oh! And maybe they invite the snowman, but he can’t slide because he’s too round, so they just roll him like a bowling ball and—wheeee! I think he’d become bigger if they do that.”

Her giggles bubbled up again, small body shaking with joy against Bev’s side, the quilt rustling softly with every delighted wiggle.

Bev let the sound wash over her, smiling, content simply to listen. The room felt safe. Warm. Ordinary in the best possible way—the kind of quiet afternoon that made the rest of the world feel far away.

Then—quietly, almost without warning—Bev felt it again: that same gentle certainty blooming in her chest, warm and familiar, like the voice that had once pushed her out Tom’s door. It lived in the way Stella’s small hand fit perfectly in hers. In the way the afternoon light caught the cyan star pendant at her throat and scattered tiny purple flecks across the quilt like fallen stars. In the way the gentle silence between Stella’s happy ramble carried the same soft, insistent nudge.

Bev shifted just enough to look down at her.

“Stella,” she said, voice low and careful. “Can I ask you something?”

Stella’s babble cut off mid-sentence. Her eyes went wide—surprised, then curious, then slowly nervous. The playful sparkle dimmed just a fraction. Her fingers tightened once in the sweater fabric.

Bev continued gently, “I don’t think it’s something you want to talk about… but I need to know.”

Stella swallowed—small and quick. She didn’t pull away. Instead she nodded once—hesitant, trusting—and met Bev’s eyes.

“You can ask me anything,” she whispered, voice suddenly smaller but steady. “I’ll answer honestly… even if I maybe… don’t want to.”

Bev took a slow breath, thumb brushing idly over the back of Stella’s hand where their fingers still touched.

“When I left Tom… my ex-husband… it wasn’t just me deciding one day. I stayed way too long. I told myself I deserved it, or that it would get better, or that I couldn’t survive on my own. But one night something changed. I felt… a push. Inside. A voice—not loud, not angry—just certain. It said I was strong enough. That I had to go right then, before he woke up. And I did. I walked out. I never looked back.”

She paused. The memory still carried heat—the sound of the front door closing behind her, the cold night air hitting her face like freedom.

“Last month… the police called. Said Tom had come looking for me. Got into a fight in an alley. Died. No suspects. But I always wondered… he was good at finding people. Good at tracking. Why didn’t he ever show up at my door? Why did he end up dead before he could?”

Bev’s eyes never left Stella’s face.

She felt it then—the same quiet certainty blooming stronger now, warm and familiar, like the voice that had once pushed her out Tom’s door. It lived in the way Stella’s small hand fit perfectly in hers. In the way the room felt safer when she was near. In the way the silence between them now carried the same gentle insistence.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Bev asked softly. “That whisper. That strength. You helped me leave him. And then… you made sure he never found me.”

Stella went very still.

For a long moment she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then her shoulders curled inward, small and guilty. She pressed her face harder against Bev’s sweater, as though trying to hide inside it.

“I saw you,” she whispered, voice muffled and cracking. “When you couldn’t yet find the strength to leave him. He would’ve kept hurting you for years more to come.”

Bev’s throat tightened. She kept stroking Stella’s hair—slow, steady—waiting.

“So I whispered,” Stella continued, barely audible. “Told you what you already knew, but was made to forget. I helped you remember.”

Another shaky breath.

“Other whispers then led him here… trying to find you, to hurt you again.”

Her fingers twisted tighter in the fabric.

“When the whispers told him you were here, I mangled the words. Diverted him to the wrong places.”

Stella’s voice dropped to something raw, almost ashamed.

“Then when he was deemed no longer useful… It killed him… I could have stopped it. But I didn’t. And I didn’t want to.”

A single tear slipped free, soaking into Bev’s sweater.

“I let him face… It. Because I hated him. Because I was angry for what he had done to you.”

She swallowed hard, voice trembling.

“I’m afraid I’m already showing you my ugly sides.”

“I did not kill him. But I let it happen. And if he had found you… I would have killed him… probably.”

“Do you think I’m…”

The words did not come out.

Bev showed a gentle smile. She pulled Stella closer—arms wrapping fully around her, chin resting on the crown of her dark head.

“You saved me,” Bev said quietly, voice rough with everything she was holding back. “From a life that was killing me slow. From nights I didn’t think I’d survive. Whatever came after… that’s not on you. It’s on him—and the monster who took him.”

She tilted Stella’s chin up gently, so their eyes met.

“You’re not ugly, little star. You’re fierce. You’re protective. And yes—sometimes that fierceness looks scary. But it came from love. From wanting me safe. And I will never be afraid of that part of you.”

Stella’s lip quivered. Fresh tears spilled over.

Bev brushed them away with her thumbs, voice softening even more.

“You’ve been protecting me for so long, without me even knowing it. Thank you.”

Stella blinked—surprised, then shy. A tiny, trembling smile touched her mouth.

Bev leaned closer, forehead touching Stella’s again.

“But… why did you only show yourself to me much later on? Why not sooner?”

Stella swallowed once, eyes dropping to their joined hands. Her voice came out small, almost confessional.

“I wasn’t planning on ever showing myself. I was just waiting here for Him to wake again.”

She paused, fingers tightening.

“I was no one then, and that was okay. I had a single purpose.”

Her gaze lifted slowly, meeting Bev’s—wide, vulnerable, ancient.

“Then you came here and gradually… that wasn’t enough anymore.”

Bev’s breath caught. She cupped Stella’s face with both hands, thumbs tracing the soft curve of her cheeks.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she whispered, voice thick. “I love you, little star.”

Stella’s eyes filled again—bright, spilling over. But this time the tears were softer, warmer.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Bev’s one last time, and whispered back—small, certain, trembling with feeling:

“I love you too, mommy.”

The words hung between them—simple, enormous, perfect.

Bev pulled her close again, arms wrapping tight, rocking her gently as the afternoon light kept slanting through the curtains, turning dust motes into slow gold stars.

Outside, snow continued to fall—soft, relentless.

But inside the guest room, two small shapes held each other in the quiet, and for a little while longer, the dark stayed outside.