The Greatest Clown Show

Derry, Maine – February 12, 1985 – 3:47 p.m.

The walk into town felt almost festive.

Snow had stopped falling sometime after noon, leaving the streets bright and crisp under a pale winter sun that made everything look freshly washed. Stella skipped ahead of the group—boots crunching, dusk-blue coat flapping open, knit hat slipping sideways so one dark pigtail bounced free. She was humming something tuneless and happy, occasionally spinning in place with arms wide like she was trying to hug the whole street.

Every few steps one of the other voices inside her slipped out—not as a glitch, not as something painful or fractured, but as gentle, cheerful leaks.

A little girl’s giggle bubbled up mid-spin: “Faster, faster!”

An old woman’s warm rasp followed right after, fond and amused: “Look at her go, like she’s got springs in her shoes.”

A boy’s excited shout overlapped them both: “We’re gonna see the biggest show ever!”

None of it felt like conflict. None of it felt like losing control.

It felt like… company. Like all the pieces of her were walking together today, excited for the same thing.

The Losers followed a few paces behind in a loose knot—coats zipped against the cold, hands in pockets, breath fogging white. They kept exchanging glances: half-amused, half-wary, entirely unsure what to make of this version of Stella who was simultaneously a giddy child and a chorus of happy ghosts.

Richie was the first to voice it, low enough that only the people nearest him could hear.

“Is anyone else getting serious ‘everything’s fine, nothing to see here’ vibes from our tiny eldritch cheerleader?”

Eddie’s mouth twitched. “She’s humming. And the voices are… giggling. That’s new.”

Ben glanced at Bev. “She hasn’t flickered orange once since we left the house.”

Bev’s eyes stayed on Stella—soft, steady, protective. “She’s happy,” she said quietly. “Really happy. Let her have it.”

Mike nodded once. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s been planning this.”

Stella spun again—coat flaring like a cape—then ran backward so she could face them while still moving forward.

“Come oooon!” she called, arms windmilling. “We’re almost there! Best seats in the house!”

Richie raised both hands in mock surrender. “Lead on, tiny ringmaster. We’re just the clowns following the parade.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then turned and dashed the last block.

They rounded the corner into Memorial Park—the wide, open circle of ground in the dead center of Derry where the town held parades, summer concerts, and the occasional winter market.

And stopped dead.

The park had been transformed.

A perfect ring of wooden bleachers had appeared overnight—simple but sturdy, tiered in wide concentric circles around a flat, snow-cleared oval of ground large enough to hold a circus ring or a small football pitch. The seats rose high enough that every row had a clear view; rough plank benches stretched all the way around. Rough estimates put capacity at three thousand—more than enough for the entire population of Derry, children included.

Strings of bare bulbs had been looped between tall poles that hadn’t been there yesterday, dark now but promising light when night fell. A single wide aisle cut through the eastern bleachers like an entrance ramp. At the very top of the southern section—prime VIP real estate—was a smaller, raised platform with six cushioned chairs arranged in a neat row. A hand-painted sign (crayon purple on white cardboard) had been nailed above them:

RESERVED – STELLA & FRIENDS

Stella stood at the bottom of the aisle, bouncing on her toes, hands clasped behind her back like a proud tour guide.

“Ta-da!” she sang. “Special seats for special people!”

The Losers stared.

Eddie was the first to speak—voice thin, incredulous.

“Stella… did you… build this?”

She shook her head happily. “Nope! I just asked nicely. The town helped.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in recognition. “The town.”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded like it was the most obvious thing. “Everyone wants to see the show. So they made a place to watch.”

Richie rubbed the back of his neck, looking from the bleachers to the empty ring and back again.

“Okay, tiny impresario. I’ll bite. What kind of show are we watching?”

Stella’s grin went wide—bright, mischievous, utterly childlike.

“The best one,” she said. “You’ll love it.”

She skipped up the aisle toward the VIP section. The others followed—slowly, exchanging looks that ranged from bewildered to quietly terrified.

The six reserved chairs were simple wooden rockers with thick wool blankets folded over each backrest. A small table had been set between the two middle seats: a thermos of hot chocolate, a plate of fresh sugar cookies, and—because of course—a small bowl of extra blueberries.

Stella plopped into the center chair like she owned it, kicked her boots against the footrest, and patted the seats on either side of her.

“Bev here—” she pointed left, “Richie here—” right. “Everyone else, pick a spot!”

They sat—awkwardly at first, then settling in as the strangeness became its own kind of normal.

Bev took the seat beside Stella without hesitation, pulling the blanket over both their laps. Richie dropped into the other side chair with exaggerated ceremony, as though afraid it might bite. The rest filled in around them: Mike and Stan on Bev’s side, Eddie and Ben on Richie’s, Bill taking the end seat like a quiet lookout.

For a long minute no one spoke.

They simply sat—seven adults and one small ancient girl—looking out over the empty ring, the silent bleachers, the darkening winter sky.

Finally Eddie cleared his throat.

“Stella,” he said carefully, “how exactly… are you going to get him here?”

Stella turned her head to look at him—eyes sparkling, cheeks pink from cold and excitement.

She laughed—bright, bubbling, completely unburdened.

“You’ll see,” she said cheerfully.

Then she reached for a sugar cookie, took a big bite, and leaned back in her rocker with a contented sigh.

“Show starts soon.”

The bulbs overhead flickered once—then came on, soft golden strings lighting the ring like a promise.

Somewhere far below Derry, something ancient and hungry stirred.

But up here, for just a little longer, there were blankets, hot chocolate, sugar cookies, and seven people holding tight to one small girl who had finally decided it was time to end the long, long game.

Sewers beneath Derry – February 12, 1985 – 4:12 p.m.

The spherical chamber smelled worse than usual — wet stone, stagnant water, old greasepaint, and something new: the faint sugary rot of anticipation.

Pennywise sat cross-legged in the exact center of the black pool again, boots floating just above the surface. The suit was pristine once more (he always mended it eventually), but the ruff still hung a little limp, as though it remembered being torn. One deadlight glowed low and steady; the other flickered occasionally like a bulb about to burn out.

Periwinkle appeared with her signature soft hop — oversized blue shoes squeaking once against the stone.

She landed light, ruffles crisp, conical hat tilted at that familiar rakish angle. Her orange eyes sparkled with pure, unfiltered delight.

“Daddy!” she sang, clapping both gloved hands to her cheeks. “Daddy Daddy Daddy! It’s time! We’re going to have soooo much fun today!”

Pennywise did not move. The deadlight pulsed once—slow, amused.

Periwinkle hopped closer, bouncing on her toes like a child who’d just been told recess would last forever.

“We’re giving a show, Daddy! A big one! You, me, me, me, and many more me!” She spun once—ruffles flaring—then stopped with both hands on her hips. “The whole town is waiting. They even built seats! Isn’t that nice? They want to watch us play together.”

The deadlight narrowed.

Pennywise tilted his head — slow, liquid, the painted smile stretching just wide enough to show new rows of teeth knitting themselves behind the old ones.

“You think I’m going upstairs to perform for meat,” he said softly. The voice tasted the words like spoiled candy. “Cute.”

Periwinkle giggled — bright, bubbling, then dropped half an octave into something colder.

“You’ll regret hurting me,” she whispered — not playful now. The words slithered out layered, venomous, every crumb inside her speaking at once.

The chamber went very still.

Even the drip-drip-drip from the ceiling seemed to pause.

Pennywise’s remaining deadlight flared — orange furnace suddenly hungry.

Then he laughed — low, wet, rolling.

“Oh, little star,” he purred, “you still think you’re the one holding the leash.”

He rose slowly — boots never touching the water, coat-tails trailing black mist.

“I made you,” he said, gliding one slow circle around her. “Scraps. Leftovers. Crumbs I spat out because they weren’t worth swallowing. And now you think you can drag me into the daylight like a dog on a walk?”

Periwinkle didn’t flinch. She rocked back on her heels, hat wobbling, smile never wavering.

“Shall we go upstairs?” she asked sweetly. “Maybe I can ride on your back? Or… you can carry me… like a princess!”

She held both arms up — expectant, delighted, utterly unafraid.

Pennywise remained motionless in the center of the black pool. The deadlight pulsed once—slow, dismissive.

“I said no,” he repeated, voice soft and final. “I don’t perform for crowds. I eat them.”

Periwinkle’s head tilted — exactly the way his did when he was toying with prey.

Then she giggled again — but this time it echoed wrong, bouncing off the curved walls in too many voices at once.

“Silly Daddy,” she said, almost pitying. “You don’t get to say no today.”

She hopped once — backward — toward the tunnel mouth.

There she stood, hat tilted, hands clasped behind her back like a schoolgirl waiting for permission to leave class. Her orange eyes sparkled with something that was almost innocence—and almost malice.

“Okay, Daddy,” she chirped. “If you won't carry me… like a good daddy would…” "I'll carry us… all the way… up"

She raised both gloved hands—palms up, fingers spread—and the chamber groaned.

It started low—a deep, tectonic rumble that vibrated through the stone like distant thunder trapped underground. The black water shivered. Pebbles rattled loose from the curved ceiling and plinked into the pool. The drip-drip-drip stuttered, then stopped entirely.

Pennywise’s head snapped up.

The deadlight flared—orange furnace suddenly alert.

“What are you—”

The floor beneath him bucked.

Not a tremor. A lift.

The entire spherical chamber tilted—then rose.

Stone cracked in jagged lightning patterns. Black water sloshed violently against the walls, then poured upward in impossible defiance of gravity, cascading toward the ceiling like ink rising in a bottle. The walls themselves began to peel inward—ancient brick and mortar folding back like lips parting for a bite.

Periwinkle giggled—bright, delighted—as the whole dripping underworld tore itself free.

Above them, the surface of Derry split open.

The ground in Memorial Park heaved once—a slow, rolling wave—then cracked wide.

Wooden bleachers shuddered but held. The strings of bulbs flickered wildly, then steadied. Snow slid off the top rows in glittering curtains.

And up through the widening maw rose the spherical chamber—inverted, dripping, obscene.

The black pool now hung suspended like an open wound in the sky. Water streamed downward in thick ropes, freezing into jagged icicles before it hit the ground. The curved stone walls bloomed outward like the petals of a rotting flower, revealing the clown at its center—still floating, still furious, still trying to look like he had planned this all along.

The bleachers were already full.

Hundreds—then thousands—of Derry’s people sat in stunned silence. Parents clutching children. Shopkeepers still wearing aprons. Teenagers who had been walking home from school. Old men with canes. They had not come willingly. Their faces were slack, eyes glassy, bodies moving as though pulled by invisible strings. Yet they sat. They watched.

Compelled.

The VIP platform remained untouched—the six rockers and their blankets still neatly arranged at the southern rim. The Losers sat frozen, blankets clutched in white-knuckled hands, staring down into the open throat of the earth where Pennywise now hovered, furious and exposed.

Stella bounced once in her chair—clapping both hands to her cheeks in pure, childish glee.

“Look!” she crowed, pointing with both arms. “That’s me over there! And there’s Daddy—all ready for the great show! And look—so many people came to watch!”

She turned to Bev, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Isn’t it perfect?” she asked, voice bright and bubbling. “Everyone gets to see!”

Periwinkle hopped once—light, delighted—onto the lip of the inverted chamber wall. She balanced there effortlessly, ruffles crisp against the dripping stone, conical hat tilted at that familiar rakish angle.

She leaned down toward Pennywise—close enough that her shadow fell across his greasepaint face—and whispered, voice wicked and sweet:

“So many people, Daddy.”

She gestured with one gloved hand toward the sea of silent faces ringing them.

“I think there’s even people here from… beyond your sphere of influence.” Her smile stretched—too wide, too bright. “All to see… us.”

Pennywise’s remaining deadlight flared—supernova orange—then narrowed to a furious slit.

The painted smile tore at the corners again, not from injury this time, but from sheer rage. His body trembled once—not fear, never fear—but something close to insult. The greatest insult. His lair—his private dark, his feeding ground, the one place in this miserable little sphere where he had always been absolute—ripped open and put on display like a carnival sideshow. And she—this patchwork thing made of his own discarded scraps—had done it. Cheerfully. Casually. As though dragging an ancient entity into daylight was no more serious than pulling a toy from a toybox.

He should have been able to crush her. Snap her little neck. Tear the voices out of her one by one until only silence remained.

And yet she stood there—stable. Whole. Not flickering. Not cracking. Not bleeding light from every seam.

She shouldn’t be that strong.

The uncertainty crawled under his skin like something alive.

Periwinkle tilted her head—studying him the way he had studied so many terrified children.

“You look surprised, Daddy,” she said, almost gentle. Then the gentleness vanished. “Good.”

She straightened—spun once on the stone lip with arms wide—and raised both hands like a conductor calling for silence.

The voice that came out of her was suddenly everywhere—bright, amplified, impossibly loud without a microphone, bouncing off the bleachers, the snow, the sky itself:

“Welcome to The Greatest Clown… Show!”

The words rang out—cheerful, childlike, merciless.

The crowd did not cheer. They did not clap. They simply stared—compelled, waiting.

Down on the VIP platform, the Losers felt it hit them like cold water down the spine.

This felt wrong.

Not just dangerous. Not just risky.

Wrong in a way that made the hair on their necks stand up and their stomachs turn over.

Richie’s hand tightened on the armrest until wood creaked.

Eddie’s breathing hitched—shallow, fast.

Ben leaned forward, eyes wide. “Stella…”

Mike’s voice was low, urgent. “This isn’t right. Look at them. They’re not here because they want to be.”

Bill’s knuckles whitened on the blanket. “She compelled the whole town.”

Stan stared at the sea of glassy faces. “And she’s happy about it.”

Bev’s hand found Stella’s under the blanket—squeezing hard.

“Little star,” she whispered, voice shaking just a little. “What are you doing?”

Stella turned to her—eyes still bright, still ordinary brown, still sparkling with childish excitement.

She squeezed Bev’s hand back—gentle, reassuring.

“It will all work out,” she said simply. “And then maybe we’ll go get ice cream afterwards?”

She smiled—small, hopeful, utterly guileless.

Like this was just another Saturday.

Like the entire town hadn’t been dragged here against their will.

Like the thing floating in the broken-open chamber above them wasn’t about to be forced into a performance that could end everything.

Above them, Periwinkle clapped once—delighted—and hopped down onto the wide stone ledge that now served as the stage rim.

She looked straight at Pennywise—still hovering, still furious, still uncertain—and beamed.

“Ready when you are, Daddy,” she sang.

The show lights—those strings of bare bulbs looped between the poles—flared brighter.

The ring waited.

The compelled town waited.

The Losers waited—hearts hammering, hands linked under blankets, every instinct screaming that something had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.

And in the center of it all, Pennywise finally opened his mouth—teeth knitting back together in real time—and spoke one word.

Low.

Wet.

Furious.

“Fine.”

The deadlight flared wide—orange furnace ready to burn.

The curtain—if there had ever been one—was up.

And there was no going back.