I'll Be There

Derry, Maine – February 19, 1985 – 6:47 p.m.

The guest room had become a kind of vigil.

The fairy lights were gone—most shattered that night in the park, the rest quietly packed away by Bev the next morning because their soft glow now felt like mockery. A single bedside lamp burned low, throwing long shadows across the slanted ceiling. The quilt was pulled up to Stella’s chin, but she lay on her side in a tight fetal curl, knees drawn so high they nearly touched her chest, small hands fisted against her sternum as though trying to physically hold something inside that kept threatening to spill out.

She had barely spoken in seven days.

The first forty-eight hours she slept almost continuously—deep, unnaturally still sleep that made Bev check her breathing every few minutes. When she woke it was sudden, eyes snapping open with no transition, staring at nothing for long seconds before curling tighter and slipping back under. No screams. No tears. Just silence and the occasional low, incomprehensible murmur—fragments of words in voices that weren’t always hers.

By day four the pattern shifted: short, restless bursts of sleep broken by abrupt awakenings. She would jerk upright, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy, then slowly fold in on herself again like paper being crumpled. Sometimes she rocked—tiny, almost imperceptible motion—forehead pressed to her knees. Sometimes she simply stared at the wall, pupils fixed, unblinking, until Bev gently turned her face away and coaxed her back down.

The spark was gone.

That bright, mischievous glint that used to light her brown eyes even in the worst moments—no longer there. What remained looked hollowed out, like someone had reached inside and scooped away the part that still remembered how to hope.

Downstairs the others had gathered in the living room, coats already on, flashlights and walkies lined up on the coffee table like weapons of last resort. The fire had burned low; no one had bothered to add another log. The room smelled faintly of old coffee and the sharp, metallic bite of fear-sweat.

Richie sat on the arm of the couch, knees bouncing, staring at nothing. Eddie paced a tight line between the fireplace and the window. Ben leaned against the mantel, arms folded so tightly his knuckles showed white. Bill sat forward in the armchair, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Stan stood near the doorway, back straight, expression unreadable. Mike sat at the small table with his notebook open—but the page was blank. He hadn’t written anything in two days.

Bev came down the stairs slowly, barefoot, still in the same sweater she’d worn for three days straight. Her face was pale, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She didn’t sit. She just stopped at the bottom step and looked at them.

“She’s still sleeping,” she said quietly. “Or… something like it.”

Eddie stopped pacing. “Any change?”

Bev shook her head once. “She woke up twenty minutes ago. Stared at the ceiling for maybe thirty seconds, then curled up again. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me.”

Richie rubbed both hands over his face. “Jesus. She used to bounce off the walls. Now she’s… shrinking.”

Mike closed the notebook—slow, deliberate.

“He’s active again,” he said. The words landed flat, factual at first—then his voice cracked just slightly on the next sentence. “Twelve bodies… that we know of. In four days.”

Eddie made a small, choked sound. Ben’s arms tightened until the leather of his jacket creaked. Richie’s bouncing knees stilled completely.

Mike continued, quieter now. “Six teenagers near the canal and the Barrens over the weekend, four kids yesterday alone, two more this morning behind the rec center and one on the kissing bridge at dawn. Quick. Clean. No theatrics. Just… feeding. Like he’s making up for every missed meal since the park.”

Ben exhaled through his nose, the sound rough. “Twelve. In four days. He’s not even pretending to be subtle anymore.”

Bill’s voice was low, almost hollow. “And he’s not hiding it. Bodies left in plain sight—park benches, storm drains, even propped against the library steps like he wanted the morning shift to find them first. Almost like he wants us to know he’s back. Wants us to feel every single one.”

Eddie’s fingers tightened on his inhaler until the plastic creaked. “Patrols haven’t caught him once. Not a glimpse. Except—”

“Except last night,” Stan finished quietly. “Mike and I were on the kissing bridge. We saw him. Just for a second. He stepped out from under the far railing—full white suit, orange glow behind the eyes—and looked straight at us. Our eyes met. He smiled… then laughed. Just once. Low. Wet. Like he was savoring something. Then he melted back into the dark. Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak. Just… let us know he could’ve taken us if he felt like it.”

Richie gave a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s toying with us. Recovering, sure—but mostly enjoying the fact that we’re jumping at shadows while she…” He jerked his head toward the stairs. “…while she’s up there turning into a ghost.”

Bev wrapped her arms around herself. “She’s not eating. Barely drinks. When I try to get her to take anything she just… turns her head away. Like it hurts to swallow.”

Silence settled—thick, suffocating.

Mike spoke first, voice steady but carrying the weight of finality.

“We’ve waited long enough.”

He opened the notebook even though the page was blank.

“The Ritual of Chüd,” he said. “We know the words. We know the shape. We’ve done it before—when we were kids, when we still believed we could win clean. It hurt then. It’ll hurt worse now. But it’s the only thing that ever put him down for more than a season. Twelve bodies in four days. If we wait another four… how many more kids?”

Eddie’s breathing hitched. “She said it would be catastrophic. That if we cast him out, he’d come back unbound. Global.”

Mike met his eyes. “She also said that if she failed, we should do it anyway. Plan A has failed.” He paused, letting the words settle. “And look at her. Every day she fades a little more. If we wait until she’s gone completely… there won’t be anything left to save. And he’ll keep feeding until there’s no one left in Derry to feed on.”

Richie stood up—slow, like his body didn’t want to cooperate.

“So we go,” he said. “Tonight. Right now. Before he decides the appetizer course is over and comes for the main dish.”

Ben nodded once. “We gear up. Flashlights, walkies, anything we think might help. We head to the old standpipe—or straight to the chamber if we can find the entrance again.”

Bill rose too. “We tell her first. She deserves to know.”

Bev shook her head—small, stubborn. “She’s barely conscious. If we wake her just to say goodbye—”

A soft creak from the stairs cut him off.

They all turned.

Stella stood in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs—barefoot, still in her too-big pajamas, dark hair tangled and wild around her pale face. She held the banister with one small hand, knuckles white, knees buckling slightly under her own weight. Her voice cracked on the first word when she spoke.

“I’m… coming with you.”

Bev was already moving—crossing the room in three quick strides, hands reaching out.

“Stella—no. You’re not strong enough. You can barely stand.”

Stella shook her head—small, stubborn, the motion making her sway again.

“It’s necessary,” she whispered, the words trembling but resolute.

She didn’t explain. Didn’t elaborate. Just stood there—small, fragile, broken-looking—but upright. Insistent. Like the ember inside her had flared one last time, refusing to go out without being present for the end.

Bev searched her face—searching for any sign she could talk her out of it—and found only quiet, exhausted resolve.

She exhaled—shaky—then nodded once.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But you stay close. And if it gets too much—if you start to fade—you tell me. Promise?”

Stella nodded—slow, certain.

Bev helped her into a too-big coat, wrapped a scarf around her neck twice, tugged the knit hat down over her ears. Then she took Stella’s hand—small, cold, trembling—and led her to the group.

The others stood frozen for a heartbeat—then moved.

Mike opened the door.

Snow swirled in—soft, relentless.

They stepped out together—seven adults and one small, ancient girl who looked like she might break in the wind—into the February night.

Toward the sewers.

Toward the end.

Toward whatever came after.

Derry, Maine – February 19, 1985 – 8:47 p.m.

The snow had thickened again, falling in slow, heavy curtains that swallowed streetlamp glow and turned every sound into something muffled and distant. The group moved down West Broadway in a loose, instinctive formation—Mike and Stan at the front with flashlights cutting pale tunnels through the white, Richie and Eddie flanking the middle like uneasy sentries, Ben and Bill bringing up the rear. Bev walked near the center, one arm looped protectively around Stella’s narrow shoulders.

Stella’s small hand was locked in Bev’s—fingers threaded so tightly the knuckles showed white. She hadn’t let go since they stepped off the porch. Her coat was zipped to the chin, scarf wrapped twice around her neck, knit hat tugged low over her ears, but she still looked impossibly small against the falling snow, like a child who had wandered too far from home and forgotten the way back.

Physically, though, she matched their pace without visible effort.

When they reached the storm-drain grate behind the old textile mill—the same one the Losers had used as kids to enter the underground network—Mike knelt and pried the rusted cover free with a crowbar. The metal groaned, protesting, then gave way with a dull clang. Blackness yawned below, exhaling cold, wet air that smelled of stone and iron and things long drowned.

One by one they dropped down.

Mike went first, lowering himself onto the ladder rungs, flashlight beam sweeping the curved concrete tunnel below.

Richie followed, muttering curses about rust and tetanus the whole way.

Eddie hesitated at the edge—inhaler already in hand—then climbed down with the grim focus of someone walking into surgery.

Ben and Bill went next, steady and quiet.

Bev paused at the lip, looking down into the dark.

Stella stood beside her, still holding her hand.

Bev squeezed once—gently.

“You don’t have to—”

Stella didn’t answer with words.

She simply stepped forward—off the edge—without reaching for the ladder.

She dropped straight down.

No flinch. No sound of boots scraping rungs.

She fell perhaps twelve feet—small body arrow-straight—and landed soundlessly on the tunnel floor beside Mike, knees barely bending to absorb the impact. Snowflakes still clung to her hat and shoulders; they didn’t melt right away. She stood there—perfectly still—waiting.

Bev exhaled once—sharp, almost a sob—then climbed down the ladder as quickly as she could.

When her boots hit concrete, Stella’s hand found hers again. The grip was just as tight. Cold fingers. Steady pulse.

They moved deeper.

The tunnel sloped gradually downward. Water trickled along the center channel—black and sluggish—reflecting flashlight beams in oily smears. Every few yards a side passage yawned; Mike marked each one with quick chalk Xs on the wall. No one spoke unless necessary.

Richie tried once—low, half-hearted.

“Hey, kid… you good?”

Stella didn’t turn her head.

She only nodded—once, small—and kept walking.

Her eyes caught the flashlight glow whenever a beam swept across her face.

They shimmered now.

Not orange rage. Not violet hunger.

Just… sadness.

Deep, liquid, bottomless. The kind that doesn’t cry because it has already cried everything it had and now only reflects what’s left.

Eddie noticed first.

He slowed until he was walking beside Bev and Stella.

“Stella,” he said quietly, “if it gets too much down here… you tell us, okay? We turn around. No shame.”

She didn’t answer.

But after three more steps her free hand lifted—slowly—and brushed Eddie’s sleeve once. Light. Brief. Almost apologetic.

Eddie swallowed hard and nodded.

They kept going.

The air grew colder. Wetter. The trickle in the channel became a steady murmur. Somewhere ahead, a low rumble—not quite machinery, not quite breathing—vibrated through the walls.

Mike raised a hand.

They stopped.

Ahead, the tunnel widened into the familiar spherical chamber.

The black pool still hung in the center—impossibly suspended, water streaming upward in slow, lazy spirals toward the unseen ceiling. Stone walls glistened with condensation. The drip-drip-drip was louder here—almost conversational.

And in the exact middle of it all floated Pennywise.

No visible traces of last week’s fight remained.

The suit was pristine again—filthy white fabric somehow immaculate, ruff crisp and full, pom-poms bright and round. Both arms were whole, gloved hands resting loosely at his sides. Greasepaint flawless, smile painted in perfect crimson arcs. The conical hat sat at its familiar rakish tilt. Even the deadlights glowed steady and patient—twin orange furnaces drinking the faint light of the chamber rather than spilling it.

He looked exactly as he had the first time they ever saw him.

Like nothing had ever touched him.

Like nothing ever could.

The group stood frozen at the mouth of the tunnel—flashlight beams trembling slightly in their hands, breath fogging white in the cold, wet air.

Stella’s grip on Bev’s hand tightened—small fingers cold but steady.

Pennywise floated motionless for a long moment.

Then his head turned—slow, liquid—until his painted gaze settled on them.

The smile widened—just a fraction.

The deadlights flared once—bright, searching.

And when they found Stella standing there among them—small, silent, shimmering with that deep, liquid sadness—his smile stretched further.

Corners tearing small wet splits in the white.

Teeth glinting behind the painted grin—rows folding into rows.

He did not speak.

He simply looked at her.

And smiled.

Like he had been waiting.

The drip-drip-drip counted the seconds.

The chamber waited.