Loser Patrol
Derry, Maine – February 7, 1985 – 8:12 p.m.
The first patrol was quiet. Too quiet, in the way Derry sometimes gets when the town itself seems to be holding its breath.
They’d split differently tonight: Eddie stuck with Mike and Bev (Eddie had insisted, muttering something about “not letting Bev out of sight after the last time”), while Ben and Bill took the Barrens edge. Richie and Stella were… somewhere else.
No one had asked too many questions when Stella simply said, “Richie and I will watch from above.” One second they were in the living room; the next, the couch cushion was empty and the front door hadn’t even opened.
Canal path – Eddie, Mike, Bev
Eddie walked between Mike and Bev like a nervous chaperone, flashlight beam sweeping every grate and shadow along the frozen canal. The wind off the water carried the metallic bite of ice and old iron.
“Feels like we’re walking through a graveyard at midnight,” Eddie muttered, breath fogging white. “Except the corpses are polite enough to stay buried tonight.”
Bev gave a small, tired smile. “I’ll take polite corpses over the alternative.”
Mike’s voice stayed calm, eyes scanning the dark. “He’s testing us. Seeing if we’ll flinch first.”
They passed the spot where Lucas had nearly floated two nights earlier. The snow here was still disturbed—small craters where snowballs had hit—but already softening under fresh powder. No scorch marks. No feathers. Just quiet.
Eddie swept his light across the black water. “Nothing. Not even a ripple.”
Bev exhaled. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
They kept moving.
Barrens edge – Ben and Bill
Ben carried the bigger flashlight; Bill had the walkie. They stuck to the treeline where the Barrens met the old train yard—familiar ground, even after twenty-seven years. The underbrush was thick with snow, branches heavy and silent.
Bill kept glancing at Ben, voice low. “You okay?”
Ben nodded once. “Just… remembering.”
Bill gave a small, rueful smile. “Yeah. Me too.”
A branch snapped somewhere deeper in the trees—sharp, deliberate.
Both men froze.
Bill thumbed the walkie. “Mike, Bev—Barrens side. Possible movement.”
Static. Then Mike’s calm voice: “Copy. We’re two blocks west. Hold position.”
Ben swept the light slowly across the dark. Nothing but snow-laden pines and the black mouths of old drainage pipes.
Another snap—closer.
Bill’s grip tightened on the walkie.
Then—a soft, wet chuckle drifted out of the trees.
Low. Playful. Familiar.
Ben’s stomach dropped.
The chuckle faded almost immediately, as though whoever made it had simply changed their mind.
Silence returned.
Bill exhaled slowly. “Gone.”
Ben lowered the flashlight. “Testing us.”
They waited another minute—nothing else moved.
Mike’s voice crackled again: “All clear on our end. Rendezvous at the old kissing bridge in ten.”
Ben nodded. “He’s watching. But he’s not biting tonight.”
Bill gave a tight nod. “Good. Means we’re doing something right.”
Rooftop – Aladdin Theatre marquee – Richie and Stella
Richie was still trying to figure out how gravity had betrayed him.
One second he’d been standing in the living room holding a half-eaten piece of toast; the next he was thirty feet up, ass planted on the cold metal lip of the Aladdin’s old marquee, legs dangling over the edge like he was sitting on the edge of the world.
The faded letters below him still read FUN PLACE TODAY in peeling red-and-white paint. Snow dusted the bulbs. The wind up here was sharper, carrying the faint metallic smell of the canal and the distant hum of sodium streetlights.
Stella sat cross-legged beside him—perfectly comfortable, like rooftops were her natural habitat—wrapped in one of Bev’s oversized sweaters, sleeves dangling past her mittens. She had the walkie-talkie in her lap, volume low, occasionally thumbing the button to check in.
Richie stared at her sideways.
“Okay, tiny wizard. Explain to me—slowly—how we got up here without using stairs, a ladder, or literally any part of my body that remembers physics.”
Stella didn’t look at him. She was scanning the streets below, small face serious in the orange glow of the streetlamps.
“It’s easier to keep track of them like this,” she said simply.
Richie blinked. “That’s… not an explanation.”
She finally turned her head, giving him that patient, slightly pitying look children sometimes give slow adults.
“You were thinking about toast,” she said. “And worrying about Bev. And wanting to be useful. So I… helped.”
Richie opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“You teleported us because I was thinking about toast.”
“And because I wanted to see everything,” she added helpfully. “Up high is better. I can feel where everyone is. Like… little lights on a map inside my head.”
Richie rubbed his face with both gloved hands. “I need a raise. Or therapy. Or both.”
Stella giggled—soft, bright—and scooted a little closer so her shoulder bumped his arm.
Richie glanced down at the streets. The other pairs were tiny moving shapes—flashlight beams cutting slow arcs through the dark.
“Seriously though,” he said quieter. “You okay up here? After… everything?”
Stella’s smile faded a little. She looked out over the town—snow-covered roofs, dark windows, the frozen canal like a black scar through the middle.
“I’m trying to be,” she whispered. Then, before he could press, she straightened her spine and added firmly: “Don’t worry. I’m really strong.”
She said it like it was a fact written in a rulebook somewhere—no room for argument.
Richie studied her for a second—the stubborn set of her small jaw, the way her mittened hands were clenched in her lap like she was holding herself together.
Then he smirked, just enough to take the edge off.
“Yeah? Strong enough to carry me back down if my old-man knees give out?”
Stella’s eyes flicked to him, a tiny spark of mischief breaking through.
“I brought snacks in case I get hungry,” she deadpanned, patting the pocket of Bev’s oversized sweater. “You’d be gamey, but I’m very determined.”
Richie barked a startled laugh—genuine, loud enough that it echoed off the marquee.
“Wow. Dumped and appetizer-zoned in ten seconds flat.
Look—I know I said gamey, but that was bravado. Truth? I taste like burnt toast and bad decisions. You’d spit me out and sue for false advertising. Save your appetite, tiny.”
Stella’s mouth twitched upward—just a little—but she leaned into his side anyway, small head resting against his coat.
“I know,” she murmured, softer now. “That’s why it’s easier tonight.”
Richie draped an arm around her shoulders—casual, protective—and didn’t say anything else.
They sat like that for a while—two small figures on a forgotten marquee, watching the town breathe beneath them.
No red balloons drifted past.
No wet laughter rose from the drains.
Just quiet wind, distant footsteps, and the soft crackle of the walkie when Mike checked in.
All pairs – 10:22 p.m.
The rendezvous at the kissing bridge was brief.
Everyone accounted for. No sightings. No taunts. No incidents.
Richie thumbed the walkie. “Rooftop crew reporting in. All clear. Also, we’re freezing. Permission to come down and raid the cocoa stash?”
Mike’s voice came back dry. “Granted. Rendezvous at the house. Bev’s already got the pot on.”
Stella smiled sleepily against Richie’s shoulder.
“See?” she mumbled. “Quiet night. Good job, everyone.”
Richie ruffled her hat. “Yeah. Good job, tiny air-traffic controller.”
He stood, scooped her up piggyback-style—she didn’t protest, just wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his scarf.
“Hold on, commander. Time to get you home before Bev sends a search party.”
Stella yawned against his back. “Home sounds nice.”
Richie started down—careful, even though he still had no idea how they’d gotten up here in the first place.
Below, the other pairs were already moving toward the farmhouse—flashlight beams converging like slow stars.
No red balloons followed.
No shadows moved wrong.
Just six adults, one small girl, and a quiet town holding its breath.
For tonight, at least, the dark stayed quiet.