Here Comes A Candle

by Anaphylaxis

Summary:

An AU where Bob Gray eventually becomes reincarnated into present day.

When faced with It, there was only ever one man to have not drowned in fear. Coincidentally, it was also this same man whose fear failed to quench It's hunger. It never wanted something as asinine as 'second chances', but when it's given, it is with all the cruelty of a belligerent, meddlesome creator.

In which It is forcefully acquainted with all the oddities of mankind, including their overabundant share of kindness despite the fragility of their mortal lives.

Notes:

I’m new to the fandom! This is a story about neutral/dubiously “good”!IT and how things came to be as such. Please be aware that I am taking massive creative liberties with the original story and timeline of It and Robert Gray. I’ve only seen the Muschietti movies, but from all the research I’ve done on the novel, it’s not even canonically well explained, and is left up for interpretation. Well, good—here’s one of the wilder ones. And hey; if a giant space turtle is supposedly canon, a little reincarnation isn’t too far fetched.

Please heed the tags. There will be future depictions of domestic violence, physical and sexual assault, but only occurs between fully-grown adults. While these topics cannot be avoided in dialogue/discussion, never ever in my stories will minors be depicted physically engaging in situations that are even remotely sexual in nature.

And of course, IT itself is its own warning.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Earthpeople were a strange bunch of creatures. It thought so, every time it awoke from its slumber in the dank caverns of its dwelling.

On this planet they called Earth, It’s cycle amounted to twenty seven rotations around its juvenile star. Humans called it years, which was composed of months, and weeks, and days. A mere fractional blip for It, who would count time with the rise and fall of entire galaxies. A human life was so short-lived, and yet they managed to build and destroy so many things in their wake. So as It bound itself to the physical laws and conformities of this world, It became more and more privy to the peculiar, contradictory ways of the species It designated as food.

That was all they were to It: a source of sustenance. The human brain was a rather primitive evolutionary product, but one thing it got right was the capacity for such colorful emotions. There was nothing more delicious than flesh saturated with what It grew to learn as something called ‘fear’. Especially fear of It was a true delicacy indeed; once It had a taste, it would never return to consuming anything less sublime. Prey without fear, though guaranteed, was bleak and flavorless meat. So why be satisfied with mediocrity when they all made it so easy?

As human communities moved beyond natural caverns, as settlements grew in complexity throughout the years, so did the complexity of their minds. Among them all, the fletchlings were easy pickings. Their tiny, underdeveloped heads were capable of such vast imaginations that impressed even the likings of It. The taller ones were generally less susceptible to its simpler tricks; they were too cautious, too wary, and too distracted by thoughts more disarrayed than stardust. But It enjoyed hunting both young and old all the same, for they all choked and spluttered under oceans of fear in the end.

It’s hunger was cosmic, ever expanding in the bottomless pit of its belly. It feasted on numerous subjects, all tasteful morsels of frightened flesh. It always took care to hide in the shadows, in part for its own protection, but also to operate in them. Such was the nature of man to fear the dark and what he cannot see. Their false bravado amused It, and oftentimes found enjoyment in tormenting its prey with projections and baleful sounds.

Having woven its existence throughout the bowels of what came to be known as Derry Township, few things escaped It’s notice. It knew of the dwellers’ living habits like clockwork. It adapted to novel environments with little problem. There was only one thing that remained stagnant, unchanging in a constantly changing world.

There was a strange pattern of contradiction found in the ways of many Earthfolk, It observed. They defied the instinctual expectations of all other living things on this planet. Going against urges that existed to keep them alive meant almost certain annihilation, and yet they had risen to become the dominant species. So strange, so very strange.

But what did any of that matter, for these things begat direct benefits for It. No man ought to look a given horse in the mouth, it had heard somewhere. Except It was no man, and the subtleties of human proverbs often escaped him. Nevertheless, It was content with things as they were and had no inclination to change that.

When It chose its form, a generic, land-dwelling beast the humans thought it wise to tame, the tunnels grew cold and wet under its touch. It was time to see what had become of its home after another twenty-seven years. With a great stretch of its sinewy limbs, It began its usual ascent out of Derry Township's underground labyrinth.

Notes:

Some timeline clarification: in terms of the events taking place in the olden days, I'm very loosely following the novel's cycle. According to the wiki, one of It's wakings happened upon the year 1851. I picked that one since plumbing is an integral part of It's story, and I hear that the system only started being developed around 1840s in America lol. Indoor plumbing apparently started getting installed in wealthy houses around 1850s, so good enough. Other than that, the rest of the events will happen around the 1980s, so that the Losers will be adults in the 21st century.

Chapter 2: Carnival

The humans had dug longer, wider, and rounder passages down below. Turbid water flooded the ground beneath its feet, draining out of narrow openings overhead at a near constant rate. The putrid smell of rotting waste dissipated upon reaching the town's surface, and the olfactory nerves of the beast It mimicked ceased burning incessantly from the stench.

Early summer evenings in Derry were bright and lively. Summers were often the time of year where schoolhouses released gaggles of children onto the roads. Perfect hunting weather, as one would say.

Curiously, no children were within easy range. It could sense the eager thrum of their hearts, tucked away behind illusions of safety they called walls and doors. This flavour was dubbed excitement, It came to learn. Seasoned, but bland. Not tasteless, but boring. It knew they were capable of much better things.

The ‘thrill of the hunt’ was a human custom It had learned during its extensive observations of its prey. It also learned how to save the best for last, so It turned its attention to a more accessible meal.

The Markson family was not discovered until much later that night, when an unfortunate soul decided to take a detour behind the decrepit alleyways after a long day of delivering papers. At the center of the scene, John Markson’s white mushroom smile was locked in rigor mortis as he lay in a puddle of his own bloody vomit.

---

Something was happening in town. It was an amalgamation of sounds and smells It had never experienced together before. Though the Marksons had satiated the worst of its hunger pangs for the time being, It decide to investigate all the same.

Derry was once again roosting in the blackness of the planet’s shadow, but its inhabitants weren’t. The streets were lit with orange flames and a cacophony of sounds shook the air in slow, playful patterns. It was organized chaos, a choreographed explosion of activity.

In the middle of the street, one of mankind’s tamed beasts were leaping through a hoop set ablaze. The tamer was speaking extremely fast to the mesmerized crowd, wiggling a slab of dripping meat between the animal’s eyes. Nearby, someone balanced precariously upon long stakes tied to his feet. Several others jumped round and round in gravity-defying circles, weaving in and out amongst each other.

It was no stranger to the peculiar ways humans entertained themselves, even if It didn’t understand.

At a longer distance away stood a man. No ordinary man, It observed, for this one stood tall with frilled fixings tied round his neck and wrists and ankles. The comical clothes expanded at his shoulders and breeches, and small bells jingled with every sweeping movement of his spindly limbs. His face was a white canvas, and each corner of his ruby red smile extended to his cheeks in a pair of equally red strokes. In front of him, all shuffling to get close instead of cowering away from the unnatural costume, was a collection of five or six children.

It shuddered violently in its own interpretation of excitement.

“Pennywise! Pennywise!” the children chimed. “Do us a dance!”

“Ouh, ouh,” whined the funny man. His voice hovered over pitched falsetto while his mouth drooped into a caricature of misery. “Ol’ Pennywise don’t dance no more. Ain’t got the spirit no more... oho!” He held out a bottle which seemingly came from nowhere to brandish it in front of the little faces. “By golly, the spirit! I snatched me the goodened spirit! Here, let ol’ mummy and daddy have a taste of the Pennywise cheer!” With a flourish, the man tossed the bottle into the crows of adults lingering just behind the younglings. A woman caught it with both hands, her powdered face nearly as white as Pennywise but grinning twice as widely at the prize.

“Ouh,” Pennywise whined again, this time doubling over a large wooden case. “Ouh, dingit! This is some pumpkins of a barrel! What could I fill ‘er with to make it as light as a balloon?”

“You’re fooling, Pennywise,” giggled one of the children, her pigtails bouncing along with the balls of her feet. “You can’t lighten by filling it with whatsits!”

“Wrong!” Pennywise cried, thrusting his fists inches from the girl’s nose and splaying his tinkling fingers in a wide array. “You’re wrong as whatsits! You fill ‘er with holes! Have a look-see, here—”

He yanked on a wire that was invisibly attached to the side of the barrel, circles that had been pre-carved in its sides fell away in strings of colorful paper. Pennywise then bent to sweep up the giant barrel into his arms with zero struggle. Upon doing so, the lid fell to the ground and out burst dozens upon dozens of small, red balloons.

The children shrieked with joy, springing as high as their stubby legs would allow them to reach for the balloons that began to drift away.

Hunger was a beat slowly rising in tempo, drumming against its gut and aching in its gums. It’s beastly snout grew slick with salivation but too many humans were congregated for its comfort. As tempting as it was, It refrained from snatching up a second feast, instead reluctantly watching the children scatter back towards the adults who all whisked them away to the next attraction. Very quickly, the clearing was empty save for some runtish balloons that couldn't quite make it up to the trees.

As It made to turn away, the man called Pennywise collapsed in an ungraceful heap of ruffles and limbs atop his now-empty barrel filled with holes. Gone were the frisky jigs and rambunctious smile, but he still very much looked the fool he played as he hunched over himself in that unnaturally painted mask.

Chapter 3: Loss

Derry, being the small town it was, never got much of the larger forms of entertainment It often heard the townspeople speak of. None of these experiences helped It in its quest to instill fear in their hearts, so It had never bothered to learn. This time around, the air was filled with talks of the circus that would supposedly last the duration of the summer season. It connected this to what it had witnessed the night prior.

The development of plumbing, while still very much a rudimentary invention, provided It a direct invitation into many family homes. The smell of their emotions drained directly into the main sewage lines, a constant reminder of all the delicious prey just waiting to be devoured at It’s own leisure.

For the first while, It took its time slithering formlessly in and out of the drains of people’s homes, listening. Humans enjoyed talking about the inanest things. They shared worthless secrets in hushed voices that were louder than thunder. Secrets that It mostly did not care for, except on the rare occasion It tasted fear in the words that were uttered from their throats.

Exactly one week had passed until It could smell the circus again. It seemed all of Derry had gathered in the main town square. Since the Marksons, it had only consumed one unlucky child who’d been deathly afraid of wolves. The funny man seemed to draw children near him with ease, It remembered. Perhaps children liked being around foolish adults because of the match in sub-par, underdeveloped intellect.

It found Pennywise in the same clearing as before, flinging his long limbs around in strange ways. The movements looked clumsy and awkward—and the adults seemed to agree, judging by their skeptical glances—but the young ones were having the time of their lives. Not soon after, Pennywise concluded his ridiculous dance with a spin, very nearly tripping over his shoes as he did so.

“Another one!” the children insisted. “Another, another!”

“I could, I would, I should!” exclaimed Pennywise. “But my feets! Oh, my poor clown feets! They gotten too big for dancing!”

“But you were dancing just spiffy last week,” snapped one of the mothers. “I dare say you’re getting lazy.”

“Too short,” added one of the fathers. “We paid good money to see this circus.”

“My good sir, brevity is the soul of wit,” Pennywise sang. “Good things come in good moderation, except for the goodest thing of them all. Know what that can be?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned around and dropped the drapes of the confection wagon behind him. Dozens of red balloons erupted out into the night air again, this time much more than the last.

Sensing the conclusion of his shortened act, It made haste to take on a physical form. The feline creatures of this town were generally ignored, especially when their pelts matched the color of the shadows. It made to slink after the reluctantly scattering children, rifling through their minds to pick apart their deepest fears.

As It passed the confection wagon, a waft of something unpleasant filled its nostrils. It was no ordinary smell detectable by humans, which was why the passing townsfolk continued merrily by, oblivious. But even to It, the smell was transient, gone in a blink.

The children were escaping. With each second It wasted frozen in its tracks, they grew farther away from its grasp.

The tip of one furballed shoe poked out from behind the wheel of the wagon. The ears of It’s physical form could pick up the slightest of noises, and there were quiet ones emanating from behind that wheel.

Pennywise the Dancing Clown sat on the bare ground, one hand clutching tufts of hair and smearing paint across his brow, while the other pressed gingerly at a spot up high on one extended leg. There was something there, by the looks of it, although what it could be, It could only fathom. Humans were prone to maladies of all sorts. It sampled the air, but the man’s essence was not tainted with disease.

Curious, It decided sift through his mind.

Simple, mundane things all humans occupied themselves with. And beneath it all, annoyance. Disappointment, frustration. All emotions with distinguishable flavours but none that It preferred. What did It care that he was angry at the kids who were not entertained? Their fates would all meet the same, sticky end sooner or later this season.

No, It realized. The anger was not directed at the children, but at himself. How peculiar of this man to harbour such a bold flavour of emotion at his own self. It had sensed the same phenomenon in others, but they had all been mild and short-lived.

The same, unpleasant smell again—it was a new emotion; or rather, a culmination of emotions It had never tasted in such large quantities from a single source. It would not consider it apt seasoning for its meals.

Something else was just beyond It’s reach, just beyond tangible thought. A human; another man it seemed, but only manifesting as a concept so vague that It could barely discern what he meant to Pennywise.

It should have stayed to dig deeper, ravage his mind, and turn it inside out until It found the things he feared the most, and feel the terror seep into the pores of his very bones.

A loss, It thought to itself. Eating this man would be a loss, for no other fool in costume could attract large groups of children in wide, open spaces during the night. Slowly, It turned back to the sewers from whence it came.

Chapter 4: Drain Hole

The circus in Derry was a travelling one, It learned. That explained why the numerous amenities were stored in wheeled carriages, and when not in use, were kept behind locked doors inside the town hall. By now, It had familiarized itself with the emanations of all current Derry citizens. Most were the offspring and other blood kin of those from the previous generation. Some were new additions, such as those of the performing troupe. The circus was a novel addition to its feeding grounds. It was willing to see how well the humans would inadvertently fall directly into It’s gaping maws; for now, It decided to withhold the curtains of psychological influence from the town.

Every once in a while, the carcass of a deflated, red balloon would come floating down into It’s underground dwelling. It remembered how their round, shining bodies rode the air in their prime. They seemed to delight the children and bring even the slightest of smiles on the faces of adults. Perhaps it had to do with the humans’ immortal desire for flight. Perhaps it was the color.

It stared at the dirty, wrinkled sack in the frothy wastewater until it was just as round and red and shiny as Pennywise’s new balloons again. The size of the thing grew and grew until the pressure inside was too much. A deafening pop bounced around the sewer tunnels.

---

It hadn’t taken It long to discover that Pennywise the Clown resided in one of the builds that was connected to the sewers. Plumbing was not yet a feature in all Derry houses, and oftentimes there would only be a single drain. This was one of the few residences that sported two. While lurking the tunnels beneath a less populated sector of the town, It had picked up the same scent that belonged to only one human It had encountered so far. Though not as dominating as the night It had found him sitting behind his wagon, the smell still permeated down the narrow pipe in diluted forms.

Spilling itself through the tiny opening, It climbed up the slimy tube in formless silence.

At the end of its ascent, a small aperture provided a window into what was happening in the room just above. Deep, rhythmic breaths accompanied the movement of pale, unclothed arms that passed back and forth across the drain hole.

These supple limbs belonged to a man who, in that moment, leaned forward so that part of his features slid into It’s limited field of view. He had youthful bearings—someone whose first venture into adulthood occurred less than a decade ago. He was staring resentfully at something directly ahead.

“Dammit,” mouthed the man, so quietly it would have been near impossible for human ears to discern. A long finger crept up to push around the meager flesh around his left eye. “Don’t wander from me.”

It was unsure whom the man was speaking to. He couldn’t have sensed It’s presence. No, not until It made it so.

“Dammit,” he whispered again. One of his front incisors sank into the fragile skin of his lip. The smell grew slightly bolder.

A door slammed shut, presumably nearby. It felt more so than heard the impact through the leaden walls of the drain. The man remained oblivious, still engrossed in his current task.

Fifteen seconds had slipped by when the silence was filled with a muffled, bellowing cry.

“Bobby!”

As if frozen in time, all signs of movement ceased over the drain hole.

“Bobby!” The male voice shouted again, sounding like charred gravel, but also very angry. It could taste it now, clashing like oil and water with the young man’s own peculiar cocktail of emotions. “Where are you?”

“Here, William,” the man—‘Bobby’—called. “In the bath.”

Another door was forcefully swung open, clattering against the walls.

“Good evening,” Bobby greeted. His face, presumably turned to face the newcomer, no longer lined up with the drain.

“Won’t be no good evening for you,” said the stranger, who was now very close, “till you confess what the blazes you been doing down my cellar.”

“Just cleaning,” replied Bobby, whose tone epitomized calmness despite the overwhelming stench of his unique essence which threatened to smother It’s senses. “It’s a Thursday, so I had some free time.”

“Bull-shit.” William’s words were like melted wax: half-formed, lazily slurred. The sharp tang of alcohol was filling the room very quickly, and It needed no otherworldly advantages to pick up on that. “No less than half a dozen gone in a week. Last week, it were upwards no less than a dozen and a half. I do my counting, you hear?”

“It’s only you, I’m sure,” Bobby replied. “You drink it, and then it’s gone. It’s usually how things work.”

An air-splitting crack resonated throughout the room, across the walls, and down the drain.

“What'd I tell you bout being smart with me?”

Bobby remained silent.

“You know what I think? I think you been pawing through my thingamabobs. You been donating my collection to the ingrates of this town so you could stay off the dancing and keep lazy.”

The echoes had long since dissipated, but for some reason they remained in It’s periphery like an auditory apparition.

Meanwhile, having interpreted Bobby’s continued muteness as confirmation to his theories, William scoffed.

“Whatever. I’m dog-tired so you’re off the hook today. But when I catch you thieving the next time round, you’ll be mighty sorry.” And just as violently as he entered, William exited with the slam of a door.

Bobby stayed rooted in his position for the stretch of several minutes. It remained hidden, counting the seconds to see what the limit was before restlessness drove the human brain into action. The intensity of his unidentifiable emotions was returning to its normal, trickling levels.

When Bobby leaned back over into view, it was as if the incident just prior had never happened. He continued to stare intently at something just beyond the drain. The side of his face which he had prodded at before was now glowing a pinkish hue.

Only when he slid from view again, only when the slow, dragging tempo of Bobby’s footsteps led away from this room and somewhere into the depths of the house did It decide to return as well.

Humans were a source of food, and the way they lived their lives were of no significance to It. And yet, at some point during the two men’s exchange, a small seedling of intrigue had planted itself into It’s perceptions.

The very idea was a dubious concept, indeed, but to deny such a fact would have been a disservice to Itself.

This was an academic opportunity, It decided. After all, to study their social habits was to manifest a better, more intimate fear. And of course, this planet had nothing else to give but that: the single most delicious meal of all.

Notes:

Thank you for reading so far!

Chapter 5: Ghosts

Except to hunt, It did not find it necessary to venture out of the sewers. The whole town was at It’s proverbial fingertips. Every man, woman, and child possessed a life force which It felt as a collective hive of simple-minded insects.

Among them all was, of course, the man they called both Pennywise and Bobby. It knew some humans liked to be called more than one name. It had found it difficult to discern which one he preferred; no emotional reaction from the man seemed to indicate a strong preference for one over the other. In fact, there had been a brief but very distinct sliver of fear when William had called his name. So heavily tainted with other flavours that moment had been, however, that there was little room to attract It’s hunger.

But all that was of no matter. Pennywise was a tool It would exploit to attract groups of easy prey. And when the circus concluded with the last light of summer, It would devour Pennywise too.

On the early dawn of Friday, It feasted on the milk delivery boy, cornering him in the form of a festering woman’s corpse behind the stables. The equine creatures squealed and thrashed in their pens, but by the time their caretaker arrived to soothe them, It had already become one with the morning dew scattered across the grass.

Today was a successful hunt, but the real feast would come tomorrow. It would be ready, lying in wait behind Pennywise’s wagon.

That evening, It found itself in the house with two drains again, propelled only by the desire to be well prepared. There was no other reasoning behind the visit.

The room containing first drain It had hidden inside of was devoid of occupants tonight. But Bobby was here, undoubtedly. Transferring to the other pipe, It could taste the man’s presence in bolder dosages.

It could feel that this room was larger than the other. The pungent aroma of tea was something It recognized immediately, having witnessed humans drink it for centuries prior. The fragile rustling of paper cut through the relative silence in even intervals. Bobby’s mind was rapidly constructing a foreign narrative with the help of some written words.

It was then that It decided to try something it had never done before on this planet: engage in conversation, for a purpose beyond that of hunting.

Bobby, It whispered, using only the slightest vibrations of the air to vocalize its words. Hey-ho, Bobby.

The paper stopped in mid-rustle; Bobby ceased breathing from wherever he was in that room. His heartbeat spiked in tempo within his breast.

Encouraged, It peeked into his mind again. Confusion and doubt were garnishing old recollections that flashed in and out of existence, mostly disjointed and lacking context. Curiously, the man called William was featured in most of these snippets.

Don’t ignore me, Bobby, It chastised, inspired by William’s words out of one particular memory. It’s mighty rude when a man’s being polite.

“Huh-hello?” Bobby’s voice was rough with disuse. Waves of anxiety radiated from his pores in waves.

Hello, Bobby-boy, It said.

“Who is that?”

Who would you like me to be?

Like a candle snuffed into darkness, the pretty flare of panic was gone with only a single rush of air passed through Bobby's lungs. He had... laughed.

“I’m off my rocker,” he murmured. The book fell shut on a large surface somewhere. “Finally got done and lost all my marbles.”

You haven’t, It assured. You are just as fit as the others.

“You’re not real,” Bobby said crossly. “You’re just made-up in my loony brain.”

I am in your brain, It agreed. But I am realer than you could ever hope to be.

“Sure fact.” Judging by the lack of strong emotions in the air, the man was entirely unconvinced. “Whatever.”

What are you doing, Bobby?

“Reading,” came Bobby’s impatient answer. “Lend me an hour to finish it.”

That’s no fun. Come down the drain and play, will you?

A long-suffering sigh and the light thud of a head hitting the table. “There are make-believe ghosts in the pipe, and I am talking at them.”

Is that what you are afraid of, Bobby? Insanity and ghosts?

“Don’t believe in no ghosts,” he muttered. “Won’t be scared of those.”

You can believe in me, It promised. Come here and I’ll show you how real I am.

“Shut up in there,” Bobby snapped. He continued to bounce his skull against the varnished wood. “You shut that brain of yours, Robert Gray. Shut up.”

All It had to do was emerge from the drain hole and shift corporeal forms. Perhaps it could even show him the lights, a mere fractional second of that would be enough. But...

Why are you sad, Bobby?

Somehow, Robert “Bobby” Gray had become something more akin to a personal challenge than a feeding tool. And It's usual methods would be easy. All too easy. In a way that made no logical sense, it would feel like It was losing.

“I am not sad.” Bobby had risen from his seat, and It heard his shoes approach the sink. His gait was broken in rhythm, as if his weight was unevenly distributed across his feet. When he reached the edge of the sink, he brought down his palms against the rim with force. One eye was glowering straight into the drain hole.

“I am not sad,” Bobby repeated. And indeed he was not—not any more. Plumes of anger billowed out of his orifices and melded into the lamp light glimmering in his eye. “I’m just dandy. As happy as could ever be.”

It is very easy to be other things. You know how quick it is. You know how EASY it is.

“So is happiness. Been so my whole life. No question there. No doubt.”

Liar, liar, lick spit, It taunted, echoing the voice of Pennywise the Clown. Turn about the candlestick.

"I'm—"

A liar. You're lying, Bobby.

Weakened, Bobby sank further, resting most of his weight upon the hard edges of the sink.

The expelled air from his mouth smelled like herbal tea, and the remnants of the same, distinct alcohol that clung to William. But neither could have been worse than the unforgiving stench that roiled unpleasantly in It’s belly. The source of it was sadness: the very thing It had mocked Bobby for merely a handful of minutes ago. It was shaken and nauseated, and It did not know why. This was a different kind of sorrow to what It sensed from afar when looking into the minds of those close to the ones It ate.

That could be the only possible explanation. It was not familiar to the flavor of such undiluted sadness in proximity.

Lies may deceive all the things you surround yourself with. But not me, It said. Happy tastes awful, and there is no awfulness in you.

Bobby laughed again, but the resemblance of the noise was more akin to that of a sob. Two fat droplets of water hit the sink well in rapid succession, tumbling down the drain hole. It caught them both in its maws before they were assimilated into the sewage torrent below. They tasted like the oceans, brined with Bobby’s miseries.

Chapter 6: Bottles

Evening drew close upon Derry Township on Saturday. Wagons rolled into the main square and wooden stakes were fixed to the ground that held up white flags and canopies. It waited for the sky to dim and the stars to reveal themselves behind a thin blanket of clouds. The circus troupe milled about in various states of attire. To them, nothing was out of the ordinary. As it was to It.

Until it wasn’t. A colorful fanfare announced the initiation of the events and soon everything was set in motion. Everything except for Pennywise the Dancing Clown, who was nowhere to be found.

Deprived of the feast It had so direly anticipated, It felt the hungry ache in its gut slough into something more sinister. The air vibrated dangerously in its wake, and if at that moment all the townsfolk of Derry felt a shiver tingle up their spines, it most definitely wasn’t from the nightly chill.

There were two children separated from their families, crouched under a tree and drawing lines in the dust. The boy was afraid of large spiders, but the girl’s fears took form of something more intangible, the experiences fresh in her conscious thoughts. Every time she touched her braided pigtails, tied with ribbons given to her by her late mother, her eyes would shine bright with grief.

The terrible stench of sweat, defecation, and decay filled their noses. It stumbled out of the shrubs and collapsed before the boy and girl, gasping and retching for breath. It sank into a puddle of its own septic puddle, emaciated flesh decaying before the children’s very eyes.

“... my baby ...” It managed to stutter out between heaving breaths. The girl was frozen in her spot, watching the dysenteric entity writhe and thrash in terrible pain.

A single wet cough signaled tidal waves of tiny black spiders to erupt from the festering gaps in the dying form’s skin. Their terror-laden bodies were a treat both delicious and filling, like caramelized apples to a sweet-toothed enthusiast. Screams readied in their throats, both boy and girl opened their mouths, but so did It. And when it came to the swiftness of unhinging jaws, It had always won.

---

It revisited Robert Gray’s drainpipes in the middle of the following week. While the last circus hunt did not amount to a complete failure, It was still smarting from the fact that It remained ignorant as to why Pennywise was absent from that night. The man had directly refused to believe in It’s existence, and therefore his consciousness was difficult to navigate from afar. This knowledge was rather unsettling; It never had troubles getting the humans to believe what they saw. The beauty of emotions was that all forms of skepticism were eradicated in the face of fear.

It simply must have been the fact that It had yet to show Itself to him. When the moment arrives, there would be no room for doubt.

Even before It began its ascent up the pipe, It could hear them. Two people were speaking to one another, volumes raised. The sound of the argument filled the hollow space of the tunnels, filtering through the pipe It was climbing. When It reached the top, the sounds were contained and cohesive.

“... do nothing for tonight,” Bobby was saying from somewhere in the room. Already the place was a toxic wasteland of emotions that sickened and repulsed It. “Not in my state.”

“It’s cause you’re getting lazy,” William retorted in his gravel voice, who still carried himself in an alcoholic haze, though not one as strong as before. “Ain’t falling for your old trickery again. I’ve had it.”

“Lazy is far from what I am,” Bobby said. “I slaved away in every other show we did across the country. I’m asking for one week.”

“You're keeping busy then? That why you were with ol’ druggist Jackson back near the pub?” William asked, ignoring the request. “Wilkins says he saw you on his grub break this morning.”

“Ointment,” Bobby replied. “Don’t worry, I used my own allowance for the smallest jar. And don’t be rude like that; he runs the Derry pharmacy. That’s near the pub.”

“So you're fucking him?” William growled, barely letting Bobby finish. “That why you were there behind my back? Grabbing ointments and a nooner?”

“Why won’t you listen to me? You tore me up. And your damned claws in my legs, digging till I can’t use them proper!”

“Shoulda said something, then! You never say nothing. I can’t be mind-reading like the gypsies.”

“I did, dammit. I told you to slow it down. Again and again, William—I was begging you,” Bobby cried. "But you are always no ears, aren’t you?”

“That weren’t no different than usual,” William spat. “You always beg like a bitch in heat.”

Humiliation, anger, and frustration were irradiating the room and affecting Bobby’s physical state. But most troubling of all was the nauseating cocktail of emotions now back with full force. And with those latest words out of William’s mouth, they had peaked to unprecedented levels. Just like they had affected It so, It’s senses were being clogged up by them at an alarming rate.

“Maybe you enjoy that. Who knows with a zany like you. Think you’re all tip-top with your books and big words, do you? It won’t be long till this town sees you for the common whore that you are. You can’t hide your true nature just like you can’t hide your freak-eye.”

The room shuddered ominously. Dust and chips of paint crackled from the ceiling as the wooden foundations quaked from an unknown influence. Items hit the ground from high shelves. One of the cabinets flew open, and out flew six glass bottles that exploded into a pool of shards and beer across the flooring and counter space.

The house grew still as It collected its bearings. The room was deathly silent, save for the heavy breaths of the two men still frozen in position. And then...

“You been stealing from me again, Bobby?” asked William, deceptively calm.

“N-no. Don’t know why those are there, promise. I haven’t touched—”

Bobby crashed to the ground in a heap of limbs when the fist collided with his face, but William wasn’t finished. The sound of tearing fabric was drowned out by Bobby’s pained wail when he was forced to sit up, pressing his weight upon the tender places he claimed to purchase ointment for.

“I was wrong,” William roared, shaking the other man by the handful of shirt he held him up by. “You ain’t a common whore. You’re a good-for-nothing, slandering, thieving whore. I goddam knew it!”

“You’re hurting me—p-please—”

Bobby was answered with another fist that sent him sprawling.

“After all I done for you,” seethed William. “When you was wandering with all but fourteen goddam dollars to your name, I found and fed you, gave you a roof over your head.”

Straining to drag himself off the floor, Bobby clutched the sink for support. When he leaned over the well, It was faced with the same shimmering eye that belonged to Robert Gray. Only this time, it was surrounded by a ring of blacks and purples that was swelling rapidly by the minute.

“I put my life into running this circus. I bought this house with my cash. That means it ain’t none of yours. You owe me! I let you live free of charge, up till now.”

“I know,” said Bobby, broken. His voice was wet with tears, Or blood, or perhaps both; it was difficult to tell. He was straining to drag himself off the floor, clutching the sink for support. “But you said then it was fine. Me being with you was enough, you said. You did those things because you wanted to, you said! Course I wanted to help. I wanted to help us earn. For you I’d have done anything, even if it meant painting myself a fool every day till the rest of my years.”

That undiluted sadness again. That terrible, terrible grief that spun circles in It's consciousness and discombobulated its bearings.

“Then stop carping and act on it. Clowning and bedwarming is all you are good for.” William took the first steps to leave, then paused. “Ain’t nothing a bit of that paint can’t hide,” he observed snappishly. “Be good to cover it all up, don’t want no rascals babbling to the mamas and papas.” More footsteps, then his signature door slam that spoke of his abrupt departure. The echoes of his boots were leading down a deeper level, presumably to the cellars where he stored more alcohol.

Left alone, Bobby's chin trembled; he sniffed once, and then once more. Through the tight hole, It watched him press his sleeve to the corners of his eyes, taking extra care around the bruise. The hairs that fell at a disarray over his brow gave away the faint, bodily tremors that wracked his frame. But not once did he cry.

There were still many things It had yet to decipher about the uniqueness of Robert Gray. Most pressing of the matters was that there would never come a time where It could devour Bobby. Not only were most of his emotions unpalatable, his proximity to It would often cause the closest thing to somatic sensation as it got. 'Uncomfortable', 'uneasy', 'unsettled'. More words that began with 'un', to describe the opposite effects of something positive.

Nonetheless, It could not simply let it be. There had to be changes, for these novel sensations were anything but beneficial to It's absolute control. But at the same time, It hesitated to eliminate Bobby entirely. Novelties were to be studied, not ignored. This was an opportunity for growth and evolution.

For now, It would retreat. Before It learned how to stomach the terrible mystery concoction that was Bobby's flurry of emotions, It would stay cautious.