The rusted frames of bikes crashed against the overgrown lawn in front of the infamous Neibolt house. A palpable tension hung in the air, thick and heavy like the Derry summer humidity. “Spikes,” Bill murmured, his voice barely audible as he began scavenging for makeshift weapons amongst the debris. Richie, ever the pragmatist, seized a discarded glass bottle, smashing it against a crumbling post, only to find it too blunt, too useless against the unseen horrors within. Disgusted, he tossed the broken glass aside. Eddie, in a nervous gesture, unclipped his fanny pack and hurled it away as if trying to shed his own anxiety. Unseen, lurking in Belch’s idling car, Henry Bowers watched, a predator observing his prey. A low whistle escaped his lips, a prelude to the violence he embodied.
“Like lambs to a slaughter… wouldn’t you say, fellas?” Henry addressed the empty passenger seat, his head turning to acknowledge the gruesome specters of his deceased friends, necks already violated by his own hand. “Yeah… sure you would.” A sinister grin stretched across his face, mirroring the depravity that stained his clothes with the blood of his father and cronies. His eyes, dark and predatory, followed the group of children as they disappeared into the gaping maw of the Neibolt house.
The heavy front door of the house groaned open under Bill’s hesitant push. One by one, the children slipped inside, shadows swallowing them whole, except for Stan, who remained frozen on the threshold. “Stan? Aren’t you coming in?” a voice called back, laced with concern. “We all have to go. If we stick together, we’ll win.” Hesitation warred with fear on Stan’s face, but the fragile bond of their group, the desperate hope of survival, finally propelled him across the threshold. They descended into the suffocating darkness, guided only by flickering flashlights, until they reached the gaping maw of the well. “Hey Eddie, got a quarter?” Richie’s attempt at levity fell flat in the oppressive atmosphere. “I wouldn’t wanna make a wish in that fucking thing,” Eddie retorted, his voice tight with apprehension. They peered into the abyss, the well a dark mirror reflecting their growing dread. “Beverly?” Ben’s voice echoed into the depths, swallowed by the silence.
“How are we supposed to get down there?” Mike questioned, his flashlight beam dancing nervously. A beam of light settled on a coil of rope, hanging precariously nearby. Moving with newfound purpose, Mike retrieved the ropes, his hands working quickly to secure them to a rusted hook above the well. He tested the knot, a reassuring tug against the ominous unknown below. Bill, his face grimly determined, grabbed the rope and began his descent. One by one, they followed, a chain of fragile hope against the encroaching darkness. Reaching a narrow opening in the well wall, Bill slipped inside, the others close behind, venturing deeper into the labyrinthine depths.
A crimson bead of blood landed on Beverly’s face, a jarring intrusion into her unconsciousness. Another drop, and then another, until she stirred, her eyes fluttering open to a world of cold, damp concrete. Disoriented, she pushed herself up, her limbs heavy and unresponsive. She stumbled, lost her footing, and plunged into the stagnant greywater that pooled around her. Gasping, she looked up, her gaze fixing on a massive, ornate door. Emblazoned across its surface, in gaudy, circus-like lettering, were the words: “Pennywise the Dancing Clown.” A macabre collection of children’s belongings – toys, clothes, faded photographs – was piled high against the door, silent testimonies to vanished lives. Looking further up, Beverly’s blood ran cold. Floating impossibly in the air above, were the lost children of Derry. Panic seized her, and she scrambled towards the door, her hands slipping on the cold metal as she strained to open it. A faint, tinkling sound began to permeate the oppressive silence – a music box, its melody chillingly whimsical.
“Step right up Beverly! Step right up. Come change. Come float! You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll cheer, you’ll die. Introducing Pennywise the Dancing Clown!” The disembodied voice boomed from hidden speakers, echoing with manic glee. The music box melody abruptly ceased, replaced by a sharp ‘pop’ as a miniature clown figure sprung from its confines. With a grotesque flourish, the massive door swung inward, revealing the source of the terror. Distorted circus music swelled, a nightmarish parody of merriment, as Pennywise the Dancing Clown emerged, his movements a sickeningly fluid dance.
Beverly stood transfixed, horror and morbid fascination warring within her as she watched Pennywise the Dancing Clown contort and twist. Instinct screamed at her to flee, but her feet remained rooted to the spot. With unnatural speed, Pennywise lunged, his hand, grotesquely large and pale, clamping around her. She struggled, writhing against his grip. “I’m not afraid of you,” she choked out, a fragile defiance in her voice. Pennywise paused, his eyes, pools of malevolent yellow, narrowed as he seemed to inhale her fear. A look of exaggerated disgust twisted his painted features. “You will be.” His voice, a sickeningly sweet whisper, promised unimaginable terror. His mouth opened, widening impossibly, his face stretching and distorting into a nightmarish visage. Faint, ethereal lights began to emanate from the gaping maw, accompanied by the faint, chilling sound of children’s screams. Beverly stared into the abyss, her eyes glazing over, turning a lifeless, stone grey. Pennywise released her, and she began to ascend, floating upwards into the darkness.
Mike slumped against the damp wall, placing his makeshift gun beside him as he counted his remaining bullets, a meager defense against the horrors they faced. A sudden, sharp pain exploded in his back. He cried out as Henry Bowers, wielding a heavy tool, loomed over him. Henry yanked viciously on the rope, severing their only escape route.
“Get the rope, get the rope!” Eddie’s panicked voice echoed through the tunnels. “Shit!” someone yelled, their fear mirroring Mike’s own.
“You didn’t listen to what I told you, did you? You should’ve stayed out of Derry. Your parents didn’t, look what happened to them. I still get sad every time I pass that pile of ashes. Sad, that I could’ve done it myself,” Bowers sneered, his words dripping with malice.
“Run Mike!” a voice urged. Mike scrambled for his gun, his fingers fumbling to load it in his panic. Henry snatched the weapon, jamming it against Mike’s head, his finger tightening on the trigger. Mike struggled desperately against Henry’s superior strength.
“I sh-should get up there, I–” Bill stammered, his eyes fixed on the precarious situation above. “What are you, insane?! With what?!” came the frantic reply.
Just as Henry was about to unleash the fatal shot, Mike, in a surge of adrenaline, shoved the gun aside. The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed through the wellhouse. Seizing a jagged rock, Mike brought it crashing down on Henry’s skull. Bowers staggered back, momentarily stunned. Mike didn’t hesitate, pushing Henry backwards, sending him plummeting into the dark abyss of the well. “Holy shit!” Richie and another voice exclaimed in unison, the shock reverberating through their small group.
Mike peered down into the well. “I’m okay guys. I’m alright.” He placed the remaining ammunition on the well’s edge. The weight shifted, and the precious bullets tumbled into the darkness below. “Shoot!” Mike yelled in frustration as their meager defense vanished. Stanley, his face pale with terror, retreated further into a side tunnel, distancing himself from the unfolding chaos.
“Stanley.” Beverly’s voice, soft and alluring, drifted from the darkness. But it wasn’t Beverly. It was Pennywise the Dancing Clown, mimicking a familiar voice to lure his prey.
“Beverly? Is that you?” Stan’s voice trembled, hope and fear warring within him. A sinister giggle echoed back, not Beverly’s gentle laughter. The figure vanished, replaced by the horrifying visage of Pennywise the Dancing Clown. His yellow eyes bored into Stan, a silent, terrifying laugh. Stan gasped, whirling around, finding himself in a completely different section of the tunnels, utterly alone. “Guys?” he called out, his voice cracking. The clanging of metal echoed through the tunnels, and the flute lady, a manifestation of his deepest fears, lunged from the shadows, her skeletal fingers grasping at him.
“What?” Eddie asked, his voice tight with nerves. “Guys, where’s Stan?” another voice questioned, laced with growing panic. “Stanley!” Eddie and Richie’s voices joined the desperate calls. “Stan?!” The tunnel floor gave way beneath them, and they plunged into a pool of foul-smelling water. “Oh shit it’s greywater,” Eddie choked out, the stench rising around them. The rest of the group, minus Stan and the entranced Beverly, followed them into the murky depths.
A bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence. “Help!” Stanley’s desperate cry echoed through the tunnels. “Guys, this way!” a voice yelled, urgency propelling them forward.
“Shit, we’re coming Stanley!” They scrambled towards a heavy door, throwing their combined weight against it. “Fuck.” The door groaned open, and they stumbled into the chamber, finding themselves in the same space as Stanley, but to a scene far more horrific than they could have imagined.
“Stanley!” Two voices cried out in unison. They stared in disbelief at the gruesome tableau before them. Stanley’s greatest fear, the grotesque flute lady, had him pinned to the ground, her decaying mouth attempting to devour him. “Holy shit!” Richie screamed, his voice barely a whisper. They rushed towards Stanley, driving off the monstrous apparition. He lay trembling, covered in blood and the marks of inhuman teeth. He gasped for air, his eyes wide with terror. “You left me! You made me go into Neibolt! You’re not my friends!” he rambled, tears streaming down his face. “Stan we would never let anything happen to you!” a voice cried out. “Stanley I’m sorry!” Eddie sobbed. Richie and Eddie embraced him, their own fear giving way to compassion. They huddled together, attempting to soothe their traumatized friend.
Bill suddenly stood, his eyes fixed on something unseen. An image of Georgie, spectral and beckoning, flickered before him. He rose and began to run, drawn by the phantom of his lost brother. His absence registered with the others. “Bill!” someone yelled. “Ah shit, Bill!” Richie’s voice echoed through the tunnels. They scrambled to their feet, abandoning the fragile comfort they had found with Stanley, and followed Bill into the labyrinthine tunnels. Bill followed Georgie’s spectral form into the central chamber of the wellhouse. He looked up, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, illuminating the grotesque heap of discarded items and, suspended impossibly in the air above it all, Beverly, floating in a trance.
“Beverly!” He cried out, his voice filled with anguish. He ran towards her, jumping, reaching, but she was too high, too far removed from their earthly grasp. He stumbled towards the pile of debris, grabbing a rickety stool. Another fleeting glimpse of Georgie’s phantom, and then he was gone. Bill placed the stool beneath Beverly, his gaze fixed on her floating form. “I’ll come back for you, Bev.”
“Bill!” Stan’s voice echoed weakly. Eddie stumbled, his foot catching on something unseen, and he plunged into another pool of greywater. “Ugh, get out of there dude that’s greywater.” The water was deeper than it looked, swallowing Eddie’s flashlight. “Wait where’s my fucking flashlight?!” he yelled, panic rising in his voice. Decomposed heads, bloated and grotesque, bobbed to the surface right in front of him, and the screams erupted, raw and primal. “What the fuck?!” Two voices shrieked in unison. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Eddie’s terror-fueled command propelled them forward. They splashed through the greywater, their flashlights cutting through the darkness, desperately seeking escape, until they stumbled into the terrifying heart of the Neibolt wellhouse once more.
