Riddles

Derry, Maine – February 10, 1985 – 10:51 p.m.

The sewers beneath Derry smelled of damp stone, stagnant water, and the faint sweet rot of carnival sugar long gone stale.

Periwinkle hopped into the spherical chamber—light, cartoonish bounces—pristine blue suit untouched by the filth, lavender ruffles crisp, conical hat tilted at a rakish angle.

“Daddy!” she sang, landing with a soft squeak of oversized shoes. “Guess what we did today? Snowmen! With blue hats! And they watched over us all night!”

Pennywise sat cross-legged in the center of the black pool, unmoving. Deadlights dim, almost contemplative. He did not acknowledge her.

Periwinkle hopped closer, undeterred.

“You’re being grumpy again. That’s okay. I brought a new game idea. Want to hear?”

Still nothing.

She plopped down in front of him—knees bent, hands clasped behind her back.

“Daddy?”

The deadlights flickered—once, amused.

Pennywise tilted his head—slow, liquid.

“Want to play a game?” he asked softly, voice tasting the words like honey laced with rust.

Periwinkle’s eyes lit up—wide, sparkling.

“You’re playing with me!” she squealed, clapping both hands to her cheeks. “You’re really playing!”

Pennywise’s smile stretched—corners tearing wetly.

“Riddles,” he said. “Win, and I’ll behave. Lose… and we’ll share a meal”

Periwinkle bounced once—pure joy.

“Yay! Riddles! You first!”

Pennywise leaned forward.

“What has a head but never thinks, a bed but never sleeps, and a mouth but never eats?”

Periwinkle tilted her head, hat wobbling.

“A river!” she chirped. “My turn!”

She bounced again.

“What’s red and white and full of lies?”

Pennywise’s deadlights narrowed.

“A clown,” he answered, low and wet.

Periwinkle giggled—delighted, bouncing in place.

“Wrong! It’s you when you say you’ll behave!”

The clown chuckled—soft, dangerous.

Another riddle.

“What cries without eyes, floats without wings, and remembers every scream?”

A voice inside Stella stirred—faint, a child’s whimper from long ago. Her smile flickered for half a second.

“…A balloon?” she tried.

Pennywise leaned closer.

“Close,” he whispered. “A child. After I’m done.”

The whimper grew louder—a crumb waking up. Periwinkle shook her head—quick, like shaking off water—and grinned wider.

“My turn! What’s blue and sparkly and always wins?”

“You,” he answered immediately.

Periwinkle beamed—clapping so hard her ruffles shook.

“Right! You’re good at this!”

The riddles continued—silly, meaningless on the surface: circus tents, cotton candy, broken toys. But each one brushed a different voice inside her—a girl who loved clowns, a boy who hated the dark, a mother who never came home. They stirred, whispered, tugged. Her hops grew slower. Her laugh cracked once.

Pennywise watched.

Then—after her seventh riddle—he shifted.

“Enough riddles,” he said softly. “Let’s play something else.”

Periwinkle tilted her head—eyes bright, trusting.

“Something else?”

“Hide and seek,” he murmured.

Periwinkle squealed—pure delight.

“I’ll count! You hide!”

Pennywise did not move.

He simply smiled—slow, intimate.

“Okay! But no peeking!””

Pennywise’s voice dropped—velvet over razors. “Okay! But no peeking!” “I won’t peek, little star. I promise. Close your eyes. Cover them tight. And don’t look until I say ready.”

Periwinkle spun around—face to the curved stone wall, small gloved hands clapped over her eyes, hat wobbling.

“One…” she began, voice singsong and trusting.

Pennywise did not hide.

He stayed exactly where he was—cross-legged in the black water, deadlights glowing low and steady.

“Two…”

He began to hum—soft, familiar, the warped calliope tune that had once filled circus tents.

“Three…”

The hum wrapped around her like smoke—warm, sweet, pulling. Periwinkle swayed a little, still counting, still obedient.

“Four… five…”

Inside her, other voices softened. Not silenced by force, but lulled. Drowned out by the something that felt familiar. The game was perfect now.

“Six… seven…”

Her counting slowed—dreamy now. Her shoulders relaxed. The restless flicker of cyan and violet under her skin dimmed to almost nothing. Periwinkle was all that remained—bright, needy, fully present, locked in the moment.

Pennywise’s hum deepened—pleased.

“Eight… nine…”

He rose—slow, liquid—boots floating above the water.

“Ten…”

The word lingered.

Periwinkle kept her hands over her eyes—still counting softly, lost in the game.

Pennywise turned.

He glided toward the tunnel mouth—silent, unhurried.

And vanished upward.

Marsh Threads – 11:16 p.m.

Bev was alone in the shop.

The last alteration of the night had been finished twenty minutes ago—a child’s winter coat, navy wool, faux-fur hood reattached with careful stitches. She’d locked the front door, turned the sign to CLOSED, dimmed the lights to just the back workroom lamp.

She was folding the coat over a hanger when she heard it.

A small, familiar giggle—high and needy—from the alley behind the shop.

“Mommy Bev…?”

Bev froze.

The voice was Stella’s—but softer, younger, almost pleading.

She set the hanger down.

“Stella?” she called quietly.

Another giggle—closer now, right outside the back door.

Bev moved toward it—slow, cautious—but her heart was already racing ahead.

She unlocked the deadbolt, cracked the door an inch.

The alley was dark except for one flickering sodium bulb.

No Stella.

Just a single red balloon—floating at shoulder height, perfectly still.

Bev’s stomach dropped.

She started to close the door—

A gloved hand—long, multi-jointed—slipped through the gap and caught the edge.

The door was wrenched open.

Pennywise stood there—filthy white suit dripping black at the hems, greasepaint streaked like old tears, deadlights burning low and patient.

Bev stepped back—heart slamming—but he did not lunge.

He simply glided inside—boots never touching the floor—and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Bev’s hand went to the cyan star pendant at her throat.

It was cold. Silent.

For the first time since she’d worn it, it gave her nothing.

“Don’t,” Pennywise whispered, voice soft, almost tender. “Not yet.”

He tilted his head—smile tearing wider.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Beverly.”

A slow, wet smile.

“Not yet. I’m here so she can watch.”

She did not scream.

She stared at him—eyes steady, terrified, furious.

Pennywise reached out—slow, deliberate—and brushed one gloved finger along her cheek.

No pain.

Just cold.

And the promise of worse to come.

Sewers – same moment

Periwinkle was still counting—soft, dreamy, hands over her eyes.

“Twenty-nine… thirty…”

Her voice faltered.

A cyan spark leaked from the corner of one eye—bright, sudden.

Then another.

The other voices inside her woke—not whispering now, but screaming.

BEV!

Periwinkle’s hands dropped.

Her head snapped up—eyes flickering between orange and brown, face twisting.

“Liar…” she whispered, voice cracking.

A single cyan tear slipped down her greasepaint cheek—bright, glowing—then vanished into nothing.

She vanished in a burst of light—sharp, silent, desperate.

The chamber was empty.

Only the drip-drip-drip from the ceiling remained.

And far above, in a small shop on Lower Main, a door stood ajar.

Waiting.